Today, I wanted to post a little behind-the-scenes work I am doing. It will give you some insight into the research work I do to develop my characters and my storylines.
I usually start with a vague idea or an impression in my mind then I build upon that spark by asking myself questions and finding information online.
For this story (which will be in the sequel anthology for Weatherly Lane), it will revolve around the true-life serial killer known as The Axeman of New Orleans.
Very little is known of the infamous murderer. He was rarely seen and few who survived his attacks to give any credible accounting to the investigators. His reign of terror focused on the city of New Orleans from May, 1918 to October, 1919. Overall, the Axeman is accredited with twelve victims of which six people died.
Like the modern-day serial killer, The Zodiac Killer, the Axeman grew notorious as he sent a taunting letter to the investigators and mocked their efforts at capturing him. He made an odd request: if everyone in the city on March 19th would play jazz music, he would spare them another murder. It was reported on that night, many bars and nightclubs only played jazz. There were no more murders until August of 1919. To this day, on March 19th, some establishments still play only jazz. His last murder was in October of 1919. And like the Zodiac, he disappeared into obscurity, no more attacks occurred, and he was never captured.
Here is a sample of the letter he wrote to the police:
Hell, March 13, 1919
Esteemed Mortal:
They have never caught me, and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether surrounding your earth. I am not a human being but a spirit and a demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.
When I see fit, I shall come and claim other victims. I alone know whom they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with blood and brains of he whom I have sent below to keep me company.
If you wish, you may tell the police to be careful not to rile me. Of course, I am a reasonable spirit. I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigations in the past. In fact, they have been so utterly stupid as to not only amuse me but His Satanic Majesty, Francis Josef, etc. But tell them to beware. Let them not try to discover what I am, for it was better that they were never born than to incur the wrath of the Axeman...
Often I like to delve into the backstory of my main character to better get to know him or her. If I know the character well, then I can write their dialogue or their decisions with better clarity and authenticity. Sometimes I include some of the backstory in my main story, sometimes I leave it out maybe for future work.
My story is of course fictional. The information I provide here is completely conjecture and invented for story purposes. In other words, I have not done any real investigation work or propose that I know who he really was.
Here are some interview questions I pulled from Chatgpt:
1. What is the character’s name? Where was the character born?
Victor Daniel Perrone (his mother’s surname) was born in New Orleans, LA.
2. What is the character’s family background?
He’s half-black, half-Italian. He and his mother, Luanne, and half-sister, Sherry, lived in the squalor of the French Quarter. His father, Francis “Frank” Basso, owned a small grocery and was the landlord of the apartment building which they lived in. His mother worked for a dry cleaner shop.
3. What is the character’s earliest memory?
His earliest memory was of his father beating his mother and his sister over a broken glass picture frame. His father was a violent alcoholic.
4. What was the character’s childhood like?
Terrible and abusive. The nightmare abuse stopped finally after Francis drowned his sister in the bathtub while in a drunken rage. He escaped into the night and was never punished.
5. Did the character have any siblings? If so, what was their relationship like?
They were very close due to the severity of their situation. They were poor and their mother was too weak to stand up to the man. Due to his age, he was spared most of the beatings, but he witnessed the attacks.
6. What significant events shaped the character’s early years?
He grew up bitter and angry toward Italians like his father. When he was only fourteen, he left his mother to pursue his father. He managed to get a position on a Mississippi river ferry. There he learned about jazz and became a decent musician.
7. What was the character’s education like?
He was intelligent, talented as a trumpet player, but limited since he didn’t finish school. While he did obtain a modest career as a jazz player, he never got fame due to his quick temper and bitterness. He was still driven to get justice against his father and kept up his search in his free time.
8. What were the character’s hobbies and interests as a child?
He enjoyed music and had an interest in dark poetry. While he didn’t finish school, he did self-teach himself literature and read a lot of the classics. He was fairly well-spoken and could be eloquent. This sometimes made him seem condescending and pompous.
9. Did the character have any close friends growing up?
No. He didn’t make friends. He grew up poor, dirty, and standoffish. Plus, it was easier to hide bruises and injuries if you didn’t get close to people.
10. Did the character experience any traumatic events in childhood?
The day he learned he was a child of rape really impacted him. His sister’s father had just died at sea working on a fishing vessel. His father who was their landlord immediately attacked and raped his mother when he learned of the father’s death. Authorities didn’t put much effort in the case against him as Francis was a “creditable” white business man and she was a poor black woman.
11. What was the character’s relationship with their parents like?
Of course, he loved his mother but grew disgusted with her lack of strength to stand up for herself or the children. He hated his father. After Francis killed his sister and escaped justice, he began having fantasies about killing him. It led to his homicidal desires.
12. What are the character’s cultural and religious beliefs?
He has a shallow belief in God and Hell. He feels he is an avenging spirit for God, but doesn’t have any real morality. As an instrument of God, Victor targets Italian males especially ones he feels are irredeemable sinners.
13. How did the character’s upbringing influence their values and beliefs?
He hides behind his musician persona and religion in order to enact his murders. He still keeps aloof and doesn’t have any romantic relationships or lasting friendships.
14. What were the character’s dreams and aspirations as a child?
He had dreams of taking his mother and sister away. Living in the country on a simple farm. Anywhere really to keep his family safe from Francis.
15. Did the character face any challenges or obstacles in their youth?
He ran away at the age of fourteen after his sister’s death. First, he wanted to find his father, but then ended up on the street. Life turned around for him when he gained a post on the ferry. But his nagging need to find his father kept him tied to his tragic past. This broke his soul and eventually his mental status.
16. Has the character experienced loss or grief in their life?
Only his sister’s murder affected him. When his mother died alone ten years after he left, he didn’t even bother to attend her funeral.
17. What are the character’s strengths and weaknesses based on their past experiences?
He’s very critical of himself and others. Doesn’t always say his true thoughts, but he doesn’t hide his negativity well either.
18. How did the character’s past shape their personality?
His anger, his pursuit, and his homicidal rage him led down many dark paths. In the story, Victor will be an easy target for the evil of Hasthra. When the two meet in early 1918, Hasthra will easily manipulate and mold him into a killer.
19. What is the character’s relationship with authority figures like?
He is quick to mock or think ill of the police as they never caught his father or brought him justice. This also makes him more brazen and even reckless when he begins his own slaughters. His confidence in their ineptitude proves accurate.
20. Has the character experienced any discrimination or prejudice?
He has faced some due to his mixed heritage, but he has more Italian features than black. He is quite handsome and his career as a jazz musician has kept that limited to a degree.
21. What is the character’s relationship with money and material possessions?
He has modest needs. Most of his money has gone toward his goal of finding and killing his father. He will return from Kingston and live upon the river ferry and doesn’t have need for much else. The constant relocation of the Mariah Lee, the river ferry, gives him a perfect way to keep eluding the police.
22. Has the character experienced any form of addiction or mental health issues?
Other than his obsession with punishing Italian men, he has no other addictions. He will become mainly one of many weapons wielded by Hasthra from its lair in Kingston.
23. What are the character’s fears and insecurities based on their past?
He isn’t too worried about the police and being caught. He has honed his craft well and knows how to remain a step ahead. His arrogance will trip him up eventually. He is haunted by nightmares from his childhood. They spark his rage or send him into a delusional panic as his mental state breaks down further and further.
24. Has the character ever been in trouble with the law?
Caught a couple of times as a teen stealing but nothing around his darker deeds. He was never on their radar or been a person-of-interest in any case.
25. What is the character’s relationship with their hometown or place of origin?
He haunts New Orleans because he vows that his father is still out there somewhere. He will keep killing him over and over.
As you can see, these questions and others help me delve into the mind of the character, even the mind of one so sick and broken. It also helps me tie historical facts with my fictional content. I already have a strong sense of the evil entity, Hasthra, and now when the two intersect I will be able to have an in depth dialogue with the two. This meeting will alter many lives and set in motion a domino effect of death and mayhem.
Which is just what Hasthra feeds upon and gathers into its power…
I hope that this has been interesting for you and gives you a sneak peek into the upcoming sequel to my short story in the horror anthology, Weatherly Lane 2! (The inside word is that the sequel will be released sometime in the first half of 2025!)
So here is more of my origin short story for the Weatherly Lane Anthology. Thank you to those who gave me their feedback on the first part. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.
I am posting this next section which is a build up to the story’s climax and conclusion. THIS DOESN’T CONCLUDE ON HERE (…the anthology is set to print in the coming months! Don’t miss out! It’s an exciting ending!! And the beginning to a great collection of short stories from upcoming indie authors!!)
Pastor Matthew Albright hesitated before he knocked on the door of Mayor Little’s large white ranch house. In his late thirties, he was a tall man with a slender build, pale complexion and thick salt-and-pepper hair. He wore casual clothes but sported the small white collar at his neck as custom to his position.
It was late and well past supper time. Yet he couldn’t hold off talking with her.
His knock prompted several dogs to bark upon the property and more lanterns were lit inside. A tall black man, Jeffrey, unlocked and answered the door. He was even taller than Matthew and dressed in a black uniform jacket and cotton pants.
“Yes? What do you need, Pastor?” Jeffrey asked. He knew Matthew as he had been coming to hear sermons for a few weeks now.
“I need to speak with Madam Little. Is she available? It is important or I wouldn’t be bothering her.”
Jeffrey frowned but nodded. “It…it’s not the best time for a visit.”
“I know but it’s urgent and cannot wait for morning. Please?”
He sighed, stepped aside, and allowed the pastor step in.
“One moment.” He walked down a hallway on the right and then ascended some steps to the next floor.
Moments later, Matthew was led to a parlor office. It was elaborate and decorated befitting her role. Last summer, she had actually gained her position after her husband Mayor Shannon Little had been struck down by a heart attack. The morning after a terrible tornado had destroyed several buildings along the main streets of Kingston.
Her resilience and her ingenuity amid the tragedy proved her leadership. She simply took on the responsibility and duties of her late husband and no one refuted it. Two weeks ago, she ran officially and obtained the title unopposed.
Candace Little was short and broad. She sat behind a wide oak desk littered with books and papers. She had a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. Her thinning red hair was gathered in a ponytail. Her sharp brown eyes above her red cheeks studied the pastor as he entered and stood before her desk.
“Good evening, Pastor Albright.” It wasn’t the warmest of welcomes.
“Candace, thank you for seeing me.” He sat down in one of two straight-back chairs before the desk.
She took a sip of her coffee but didn’t comment or offer him any of the drink. A thick journal sat open on her desk next to an open crystal decanter filled with dark whiskey. The smell of alcohol and coffee filled the room.
“I wanted to come and see if you had heard the news about what they found in the mine today. Do you have any contacts at Farbrynn in Minneapolis? Have they given you any indication of what they intend to do with the remains?”
She took a moment to gather her thoughts, sat back in her own dark burgundy, leather chair, and took another sip of the hot coffee. “I appreciate your interest, but I’m not sure why this is a church matter.” She was straightforward and always tactful, but Matthew got the distinct impression she did not like him or the church.
“It isn’t. I am here more on a task of personal interest, I guess. You see, I was told there are Indian artifacts and probably Chippewa remains found. I have studied the Chippewa culture through the Church. I could certainly lend my expertise to any negotiations you will have with the local tribe representatives.”
“I see,” she said. Candace abruptly stood and offered her hand out for him to shake. “I’m afraid you have wasted your time, pastor. The decisions of the mine leadership is beyond my purview and yours. And it has not been proven there are any injun items there—“
“But…”
“Again, I’m sorry but this is the mine’s business, not yours or the church’s. Keep in mind that the success of the mining operation benefits all of us greatly. I and the town support them completely. Now, Jeffrey will guide you back to the door. Good night, pastor.” She had thoroughly dismissed him and had reopened the large journal on her desk and took up her pencil.
“I am not trying to interfere or overstep you. I am just trying to prevent any hostilities arising should those burial remains get moved or damaged. The preservation of their ancestors are very important in the Indian religions. Any mistake could greatly effect this town as well.”
“All right, Pastor Albright. Your opinions have been clearly stated. Should any actual savage remains surface and be reported to me by Farbrynn, I may call upon your expertise. As of—“
“Candace. Why do you have such disdain for me?” Matthew asked in frustration.
In response, she slapped shut the journal. She was suddenly seething. Her face grew even more red. “Sir! You will address me as my role requires as Madam Mayor or Madam Little. You dare to march over here at this time of night and then assume I will give you full access to any private town business I have.” She stood in her fury and set her cup down hard, splashing its contents on the pages of the work journal. “First off, you are new here! An outsider still needing to prove your worth to this town. Second, I hang no trust in the church, it’s servants and this all mighty absent deity you bow down to so easily!”
Matthew gasped at her blasphemy and crossed himself with the holy sign.
“When this town needed God, he took my husband and abandoned us to the piles of buildings he left behind in his wake! I don’t need him, you or anyone!” Tears of rage and obvious pent up grief streamed down her cheeks.
Mathew bowed and gave her a brief nod. “I am sorry, Madam Mayor to disturb you with my presumptions. I’ll pray on your behalf.”
“Screw your prayers!” She screamed at his back.
He cut off the rest of her drunken rage by closing the parlor door.
****
Sheriff Johnathan Benson twisted at one end of his golden brown mustache in his fingers as he knelt over the corpse. A peculiar smell, sour and fetid like rotting vegetables wafted from the dead man. He brought up a red handkerchief and covered his mouth and nose. “And no one has seen the head?” he asked.
A younger man, nineteen and only a couple years older than Joshua Brown and Richie Albright, stood behind him. He held a small vanilla notepad with pencil in hand and had taken down a few facts about the scene along with a rudimentary sketch. Deputy Cory Owens answered, “No, sir. Both of us searched the entire chamber after he was reported to us.”
“Where is Deputy Redmond anyway?”
“He rushed over to Dana’s. He didn’t think it was proper she hear of her brother’s murder through town gossip.”
The sheriff looked up at Cory. He nodded. It was likely best. This was new ground for him. He never had to investigate a murder or as they like to say in those fancy detective tales, a homicide. Nor did he have any training. In fact, he could only recall maybe two deaths from bar brawls in Kingston’s entire history. He was over his head and out of his element.
He shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t understand…Look at the condition of the body. His skin is dried and crusted terribly. It’s almost curled up on itself as if sucked inward! What does that? Can’t be just because his body was here in the mine all night.” He stood up and walked around to the other side of the body. “Almost all of his blood has left and pooled around him, hardly any looks like it remained inside.”
Cory nodded, his face pale and gray. The deputy was becoming very nauseous. He extended his hand and pointed at the shoulders and bloody neck stump. “What do you think did that? A bear? A wolf?”
“I haven’t heard of any sightings. Maybe though.” He stopped then took the notes from the young man’s hands. “Go get some fresh air. Then track down Tommy. You two will have to guard the mine entrance tonight. See if the Miller brothers will help or get volunteers and deputize them. I need to secure the crime scene and preserve any evidence. Tell Doc Overton to have Walters’ remains guarded at his place too. It’s important we do this right. We don’t want his killer to get away with this because we were sloppy. Can I count on you, Deputy Owens?”
Cory nodded. He was barely holding his breakfast back. He spun and bolted down the mine tunnel.
Ten minutes later, Deputy Cory and Deputy Tommy ran back together into the cave, sweaty and breathless.
“Sheriff! Sh-Sheriff Benson, you bet-better come q-quick!” stuttered Cory.
“Yeah, you got to come see this!” Tommy insisted. He was heavier than Cory and had a patchy beard that matched his black, curly hair.
The two younger men led the sheriff along the tunnels till they arrived at the mine entrance. Cory pointed at the horizon. Sitting tall in his saddle upon a roan mare, was a dark figure, silhouetted against the sunset. It was a male Chippewa Indian.
“Damnations,” cursed the lawman. “Stay here! Oh, and do not let anyone else approach him or the mines.” Several miners and townsfolk had already gathered and were watching the lone native upon the hill as well.
Sheriff Benson then walked slowly up the hill surrounding the mine entrance. The two talked for a brief, few minutes. When he returned, he refused to answer their questions or to discuss the matter further. “I need you two to go to town and gather as many of the resident families as possible. We will have a Townhall Meeting at 6 this evening at Albright’s Church. I will advise everyone of the situation in the mine and this afternoon’s injun visitation. We need to take immediate control of this before it gets out of hand.”
****
The night was humid and very musky. It was as if the night air had reacted and fed off the volatile townhall meeting. A thunderhead grew and spread along the horizon. Flashes of lightning flared and angry thunderclaps rolled over the fields.
Nothing at all was resolved nor made clear in the meeting. Mayor Little verified a bit of news and rumors as Sheriff Benson stood silently behind her. The mine had stopped for an undetermined time. Also, the mine had possibly discovered a new vein of gold. There had been some kind of accident and Foreman Chauncey Walters was found dead. She would not confirm or even discuss the possibility of injun presence in the mine or live representatives outside the mine.
Before she could dismiss the meeting, Pastor Albright stood up and insisted on making a statement. “With the obvious witness accounts of the Chippewa Indians seen this afternoon, I think it is irresponsible to not have your involvement in the handling of the remains found in the mine. If you leave it up to them, you are only inviting a conflict with the Indian tribes. I have an extensive amount of education on their culture. Their fundamental beliefs are imperative that they protect the dead and—”
“Sit down and be quiet, Pastor!” shouted Geof Brown. He stood among a large group of miners. His face was red and sweaty. In his hand was a mug, slopping over with beer. “You stick to the good lord and preach his word. None else concerns you. No one cares what these savages think and what they want. Only thing that matters is how this town will benefit from that gold!”
Cheers went all around him. The mayor shot Matthew a knowing and wry smile.
“As we already have talked over last night, the mine is owned and ruled over by Aaron Farbrynn. It is in his hands, not god’s or our’s,” she called out over the noise of the crowd.
The pastor sat down once again defeated.
“This meeting is over. Sheriff Benson asks that everyone head home tonight. There is a storm coming and it would be best you are not caught in it,” the mayor said.
As the crowd began to disperse, the group of miners with Geof stood up but did not drift toward the door. The cloud of alcohol wafted in the air around them.
They moved and surrounded the pastor’s seat.
“No, boys! Come on, let’s go home,” Sheriff Benson called out as he tried to cross the room and get through the crowd of townsfolk.
“What gives you this right to talk down to us, Pastor?” said Carter Thompson. He was a squat man, bearded and scruffy. His balding head was shiny and grimy with mine dust. He wavered on his feet and his eyes were bloodshot.
“Yeah! You some kind of injun lover?” another miner chimed in.
The pastor shook his head. “No. I was just offering to help so we don’t have any kind of violence or retaliation from the—”
“You aren’t from here so you just mind your church and shut the hell—”
Sheriff Benson had finally navigated over to Matthew’s side. “Boys. You need to go home and sleep it off. The pastor didn’t mean any harm.”
“I can’t believe you are sticking up for him and those savages!” Geoff roared.
“He isn’t.” the sheriff put his hand on his holster but didn’t draw the pistol. “The meeting is over. You need to think of your actions here, fellas. Attacking a man of the cloth in his own church is certainly a ticket to eternal damnation, don’t you think?”
Like a divine sign, the storm broke and thunder erupted over their heads.
That set several of the drunk miners back on their heels. Grunts and murmured curses followed the men as they had had enough and walked toward the main church entrance. Several still showed their anger by throwing wooden chairs out of their way.
Sheriff Bensen leaned down and spoke in the pastor’s ear. “Next time, Father, read the room. I understand your points, but you stirring the pot, only made my job that much harder. You and your son stay in tonight. Lock your doors and windows this evening. Everything will blow over in a few days. Until then, let me worry about the mine and the injun burial site.”
****
The flash lightning storm raged all night, however, only the grain mill suffered some damage and a small fire.
Sheriff Benson sent his two deputies to escort Pastor Albright to the mine.
Word of this spread like wildfire in the town.
The pastor kept his eyes ahead and did not meet anyone eyes along the walk to the mine. He could feel their stares and the heat from high emotions. He had made himself a temporary target for their anxiety. The town had faced a long winter ahead. The crops had not produced well and many were relying on the mine to secure their homes. Now with the possibility of newfound wealth, the townsfolk were not letting up this hope. It remained in their hands as tight as a vice grip.
“Thank you, Pastor Albright for coming out this morning,” the sheriff greeted him with a genuine smile.
“Of course.”
“Listen, last night was a bad combination of alcohol and greed. Don’t take it to heart and don’t let it spoil your view of these people.”
The pastor nodded but remained quiet.
‘Anyway, I figured it was important for you to look at the site and give me your guess on what we are dealing with. No one is here to interrupt you or condemn you. I need to understand what is here that’s all.”
He led Matthew into the dark chamber. The thick cloud of dust and smoke remained clinging to the cavern ceiling. Both men stooped to keep out of it.
Matthew was awestruck at the boulder and the bleached skulls. He ran his fingertips along the carved symbols and letters that circled each of the nooks.
“I have never seen anything like this. Sheriff, this is remarkable! The Church maintains a large collection in its holdings in New York. They gather everything and preserve every bit they can. The common motto is ‘it is better to know your enemy than to hide in ignorance and underestimate them’. I understand that the miners don’t understand my position and see it as interfering, but if I could get them to see that—”
“Pastor Albright,” he said and held his hand up before him. “Stop. I am a religious man and try to be a fair man. However, I lost my father and an older sister in a savages attack when I was three years old. I have no love them but I do not hold grudges or remain fixated on the past. Let’s stick to what you see and explain anything you can, but let’s leave out any sermons on how all men are equal to God, alright?”
Matthew’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He turned then walked a circle around the boulder. He knelt down and studied the four clay monoliths. “Was this broken before or after the miners found the chamber?”
“I was told that it was accidentally dropped. What are they and do you know what the symbols and words mean?”
“My guess is that they represent the four key elements of nature: water, fire, earth and air. Air is on the broken one. But I have not seen these in a burial site or in any documents of the texts. Most tombs or burial mounds are complete. I am not sure that this really was a burial site.”
The sheriff clapped his hands together. “That’s excellent news!”
Now it was Matthew’s time to raise a hand. “The fact that it is not a burial doesn’t mean that the tribe won’t be upset at the mishandling of the artifacts.”
“I get that. I do. However, right now my only concern can be on who killed old Chauncey.”
Both men paused unsure how to proceed with their arguments.
Finally, Matthew said, “Did the visitors yesterday give you an indication where they are camped? I might be able to get better information straight from the source. If they’ll talk to me that is.”
“Head due south, they’re camped at the base of the cliffs,” he replied. “Said they’re waiting there till morning for us to change our minds…”
****
“I don’t feel right about this, Joshua,” Richie said, kneeling in the shadows between two large broken-down mining carts.
They were hunched down together, outside the mine entrance. Ahead of them were two miners, sitting on stools with a gas lantern hooked on a pole above their heads. The miners were bored, restless, and drinking from a tall bottle of whiskey they shared.
“Look. I get it, but you and you dad don’t understand how bad this town needs the mine right now. That twister last summer storm took out any surplus harvest we had. Hell, we might not have enough to sustain us through this winter. So we go in—”
“You’re doing this for you! Not the town. Stop trying to bullshit me.”
Joshua grimaced at the accusation but looked down at his shoes. “Yes. Some of it works out well for me. My dad is hot about this gold. If I can ensure that the mine will resume uninterrupted and they start on that gold, it will really be something. Something that will impress him, you know?”
The boys grew quiet. The awkward silence was very palpable.
Joshua looked up. “And, if you get those artifacts for your father, then he can preserve them like he wants. It will mean a lot to him. We both win out. If we don’t do this, you know the mine or the miners will destroy them before they give in to the injun demands.”
“Alright. I guess.” Richie did not look convinced. He had been more outreasoned than converted to the idea. “Do you have them?”
The young miner held out the pair of small firework sticks in his hand.
Moments later, the pair ran full speed down the mine shaft. Joshua led the way more by memory than by sight. Most of the lanterns were put out since the operations were still on hold.
Finally, at the mouth of the Indian chamber, they stopped and caught their breaths.
Richie yanked the leather backpack off and sat with his back to the tunnel wall. “I don’t think they saw us. Do you hear anyone?”
The other boy only shook his head, still too winded to speak.
“We take it all. The miners will think the injuns took it all. My Pop told me that the sheriff tell them to not even think of making one step near the town or the mine. The injuns will never know what happened. Your father can either send the items to his church or drop them off secretly to the injuns. Everything safe and secure, you know.”
“All right. Give me a minute before we go in.”
****
Matthew brought the horse to a slow trot. A campfire was burning ahead. Several Indians were sitting around it, enjoying a late meal. Three small teepees were erected behind them.
He eased off the saddle and tied the horse to a nearby tree. He didn’t want to surprise or alarm them by riding up unannounced. He swallowed hard. The entire trip there he debated on what to say or what to ask. Now that he was right in front of them, he was shaking and completely tongue-tied. He wondered if he should have asked the sheriff to escort him. Being all alone now seemed foolish.
Yet if I don’t speak with them, the situation within the mines will undoubtedly get worse. I have to learn more to help everyone out of this mess, he thought.
Shrugging his shoulders and craning his head to the left and right, he tried to work out some of the stiffness. The moon beamed high over head. The night was getting late.
Sighing with anxiety, he began to walk toward the camp.
“Hello? Hello there. I am not—” A thin, young warrior stepped out of the shadows on his right, an arrow already knocked in his bow.
“Stop!” the warrior ordered with a very thick accent. Then he cried out several words over his shoulder. Quickly others ran to them.
The pastor was grabbed by both arms and swiftly taken within the light of the campfire.
Matthew immediately recognized the Indian, the only one to remain sitting at the fire. It was the lone warrior who had appeared at the mines.
“It is late for you to come out. Did something happen in the mines or did the sheriff send you?” the older man asked. He was heavier than the others, with some gray at his temples. One of his ears was missing and a long scar ran through it and down to his neckline. His accent was not as bad as the other’s had been.
“I am not here for the sheriff directly. I am Pastor Matthew Albright. I wanted to speak with you right away. I’m sorry to disturb you.”
The Indian nodded, then gestured for the pastor to sit across from him. “I am Harva Giiwedin, a voice for our people, the Chippewa.”
A lone wolf howled then several others joined. They were distant but his horse and the tribe’s horses all whinnied and pranced about. The night grew still again.
“I know you spoke earlier with the sheriff and I’m sure you are aware that the miners stumbled across one of your burial sites. I wanted to ask you about it. In my time at the Church, I learned a lot about the Chippewa and other tribe cultures. And in the books and pictures, I never seen a burial site quite like this.”
“You were not meant to see it. No man, white or red, was meant to. You must understand that this is not a burial site.”
“What do you mean? I saw remains. Skulls. Is it an altar or for another religious purpose?”
Halva shook his head. He stopped, lifted up a small cup and drank from it. This was the moment, Matthew spotted the fact that the man was trembling and sweating. He was terrified.
“It is not for prayer. It is a prison!”
“A prison?”
“Yes, but not for our world. It is a prison to hold the evil spirit within. I asked the sheriff if the miners had disturbed the grounds. Was he honest with me? He said that they had not entered the area only looked in.”
It was the pastor’s turn to be anxious. “I will not lie to you. They did not mean any disrespect or mean to cause any offence but the miners did go in—”
“Did you see the area? Were there four long…statutes?”
“Yes, the clay monoliths? They were marked with the elements Air, Earth, Fire and Water, Except…” he paused then looked down at his hands and he finished with trepidation. “The Air one was damaged at the base. I’m not sure how or when.”
Halva moaned. “This is very bad. I was afraid of this. Oh curse you white men! Hasthra has been released!”
He motioned for one of his companions then gave some heated instructions. The other raced off and began rummaging inside of their teepees.
“Again, I do apologize for the miners. They were not trying to cause any issues. Who is Hasthra?”
Halva had regained some composure. He ignored the pastor’s question and asked his own. “Has anyone been hurt or gone missing?”
“Yes. A foreman was killed. The sheriff is looking into it.”
The other younger warrior returned carrying a deer hide bag. He gave it to Halva.
“You are a religious man you said. A Christian pastor? Then I trust I can give you this to protect yourselves and your people.” He handed over the bag.
Matthew opened it and saw a slender engraved wooden rod with a large rock mallet tied to the end. It was a war club, he had seen a few in drawings. This one, however, had a highly polished and engraved quartz stone in the center. Painted symbols decorated the face of the stone. Laying next to the wooden club was a rolled-up parchment.
“This is the iŋyaŋ iŋjátʾe, a powerful weapon to ward off the evil spirit. It will attract the spirit but then if beaten with the iŋyaŋ iŋjátʾe it can be contained till you restore the prison.”
“Wait. What evil spirit? You are going too fast. Tell me what is this all about?”
Sighing out loud, Halva spoke slowly but sternly. “Your people have broken one of the four guardians to a spiritual prison. Hasthra is a dangerous entity that came alive through a powerful curse of murder and vengeance. It will not ever stop devouring souls. I do not know all the words to explain or to convince you of this. I can only give you a weapon—”
“Why me? Why aren’t you going in there since you know how to stop it? You know what this thing is.”
“The sheriff made it clear that we could not enter the mines under any circumstance. He said the miners would attack to protect the property. It would be the same if the townsfolk, spotted us in the borders of town. He said the only way to preserve peace is if we let him handle it. We thought it would be safe since he swore no one entered the prison ground. We were heading back to report to the elders. I was a fool to accept his word!”
“I see. But will this thing,” Matthew pointed to the bag. “Will it restore the prison or can the spirit be destroyed?”
“No, the iŋyaŋ iŋjátʾe will keep Hasthra at bay for a while, but a new prison must be made along with the skulls of any of its victims. The papers there will show you the symbols you must surround Hasthra and its victims. The symbols will hold it inside the quartz. Most important step: you must keep anyone from disturbing the ground ever again.”
Shaking his head, Matthew said, “How? The mine company, the town, they will never accept that. They own that land and want to mine it!”
“Only death can be found there now.” His words were whispered low.
“I am not a warrior though, Halva… I am a man of God. I am not sure I am right for this.”
“You have to be. If I or my men go there, then you will have more bodies and bloodshed. The Chippewa do not wish to curse the white man with Hasthra, but we will not lose lives and souls for them either. Your people trespassed on sacred grounds. And lied to us as well as spurned our efforts to aid. Now they will have to resolve this themselves.”
I would love to hear from you again on this. Are you excited to find out what happens to the wild west town of Kingston? You’ll never believe the ending and the horrific curse that befalls the land of 1417 Weatherly Lane, Kingston, MN 80954…
Here is a sneak peek at my upcoming submission for an anthology scheduled to come out this year. It’s a partnership of a great group of up-and-coming new stars in the horror field. I am honored to participate!
The main theme of the anthology is an antique Ouija Board which finds its way handed down generation by generation and all the mayhem it causes!
My contribution will be the origin story to the evil that taints the land of 1417 Weatherly Lane, Kingston, MN where all the stories will take place.
Here is the beginning of the evil legacy…
Kingston, MN 7/5/1911
Geof Brown wiped the oily dark grease from his forehead as a wide grin bared his yellowing teeth. He removed a small rock hammer from his leather belt and chipped at a section of the tunnel wall in front of him.
As the chips fell, small patches of sparkling metal were revealed. “You’re seeing this, ain’t ya?”
Another man, clad in matching, dark burlap overalls and a yellow hard hat with a small lantern gave him an incredulous look. “By God. You don’t suppose it is…”
“I do indeed! Back in the late nineties, maybe 1896 this whole region was once mined for gold. Hell, I bet Farbrynn Foundation was first a gold mine, not an iron mine like it is today!”
Both quieted down to stare in reverence at the vein of gold weaving a crooked path across the wall.
The pair of miners had been detonating and expanding the dig site all week. They now stood at the end of it and had begun clearing the piles of debris when Geoff called out for the other miner to join him.
“We going to report this?” Memphis asked.
“You think it would go unnoticed?” he chuckled. “Us working away at the middle of this tunnel versus us extending the wing to the east as our orders show. We’d be locked up before dusk in Sheriff Benson’s hold for theft!”
“Wait,” Memphis mumbled and laid his palm flat on the stone then his ear. “Did you hear something?”
Before Geoff could reply, he tapped his knuckles along the surface. An empty thud answered his rappings. “I think it’s hollow behind this wall.”
Geoff drew closer and also knocked on the wall making his own hollow thuds. “You’re right. About here, it gets solid again.” He had walked back and forth about eight feet of the tunnel.
“Let’s put one charge there and open it up. Maybe the vein is bigger in there.” Greed flooded his anxious eyes.
Geoff nodded and went back to their tool cart for his chisel and hammer.
“Get only a half of a stick. We don’t want to knock the roof down, just punch a hole here.” He indicated a spot with his fingers. “About here should do.”
Fifteen minutes later, they crouched under a thick cloud of dust and smoke that hovered near the ceiling. The thump and ring from the explosion still rang in their ears. Slowly Geoff and Memphis approached the new entry. After a detonation, one never knew exactly how well the chamber walls would hold. It was best never to rush right in. Besides the normal precautions, they both felt the sudden tension or unease in the air. It was an odd sensation like the electricity you felt before a powerful thunderstorm broke. Stale, musty air wafted out toward them.
“Look at that!” exclaimed Memphis as his lantern highlighted the hollow chamber. It was about thirty feet across and the ceiling arched from seven to a dozen feet high. It appeared to be cut out of the rock by hand. No normal tool marks were visible.
Otherwise, empty, its walls had the normal striations of iron ore. Fortunately, the new thin line of gold continued as they had hoped for along the eastern section.
In the center of the room stood a massive boulder. It was easily a ton in weight and over five feet long. Carved by hand were deep pockets in the rock’s surface. Inside these nooks were six, sun-bleached white skulls. Surrounding the skulls were strings of letters and symbols. On top, a large egg-shaped glass globe sat. It was dark purple, smooth and opaque.
From the ceiling were long lines of colored beads and polished stones. Clay vases with flower remnants and old feathers, crusty and dried, decorated the ground at the base of the boulder.
Forming a square about the boulder were four thin clay monoliths. These too were intricately engraved with symbols.
“Ain’t this sumthin’! God knows it’s Injun! You think this is a burial site?” He pulled one of the monoliths from the ground and held it in his arms to get a closer look at the engravings upon it.
Geoff frowned and snapped, “Best hope not. You know how angry they get when their stuff is messed with.”
Memphis blanched at the statement and fumbled with the piece. It dropped and landed hard on one corner. It shattered upon impact. Immediately a gust of brownish powder blew out and an odd echo of water dripping filled the room. It faded fast.
“What the hell, man! Be careful!” Geoff scolded.
“I’m sorry, it just jumped—” Memphis was cut off as a gale of icy wind swept over them. The cavern darkened unnaturally and a low hum and vibration could be felt through their boots. They both sprinted in terror out of the chamber and ran back to the tool cart.
“We got to get the foreman anyway. Come on!” Geoff grabbed the older miner by the forearm and directed him back down the tunnel where they had arrived. Both men kept glancing back, sure they were being followed. Only the mine’s eternal darkness filled the tunnels behind them.
****
Chauncey Walters stood at the entrance to the chamber as Geoff and Memphis had created an hour ago. His hands were in tight fists buried into his hips. He stared intently at the items within the room but hadn’t stepped foot inside. The rest of the B Wing crew were gathered in a group behind him. No one dared a whisper. Finally coughing into his hand, he turned and focused on the original pair. Geoff took a short drink of water from a canteen while Memphis studied his work boots.
“So, you two thought it wise to blast this wall here, huh? Weaken the tunnel capacity. Jeopardize the entire region here… because of this hollow pocket, am I understanding this situation, right?”
“Well, it was more—” Geoff began.
Chauncey lunged forward and stood in his face. “When did you start getting paid to think down here? Didn’t I write down exactly what your orders were for this week?”
Both miners remained silent.
“Now because you took it upon yourselves to act, I have this mess,” he spun and gestured wildly at the piles of debris and the native artifacts. He rotated back to them. “I am in charge here, Mister Brown! Me! You do get that? I’m the one who has to explain this. Or do you want to go ahead and jump in here too?”
Geoff and Memphis shook their heads no and kept their silence.
“You wasted resources, company time, damaged whatever that injun garbage is, and put the wing at risk! The only way I can justify keeping you two idiots is you stumbled across this possible gold vein. Hopefully we can recoup the costs and maybe even save this quarter for Farbrynn. So, all of you, hear this now and be sure you fully understand what I am saying. Until I say otherwise no one utters a word of this outside this mine. It’ll be in Leadership’s hands on how we go forward with this dig. Am I clear?”
Grunts and nodding heads quickly answered. They turned all together and as one marched away into the darkness.
“Do not think I won’t fire anyone right on the spot for breaking the silence,” he shouted. “Keep this in confidence. This gold may be the windfall Kingston has been hoping for. We just have to plan this out perfectly. Until then we don’t want any mistakes or…” He paused and looked over at the boulder with the native remains. “We can’t have any delays due to conflicts and ‘improper handling of sacred remains’ if you get my intention. Today we will close the mine operations early while I send for direction by Leadership. Not a word fellas! Now go.” He stopped to spit cave dust into one corner.
****
“Hey, man, come have a drink with me at Baron’s,” Joshua Brown called out. He was standing in the open doorway to the only town saloon and waving at a group of other young men who were emerging from the Tanner’s Inn stables. Joshua was shorter than most for his age, but he had powerful arms from his years of work in the mines with his father. His long, brown hair stuck out from under his wool cap. His green eyes were bright with excitement.
Among the men he had waved over was his newest friend, Richie Albright. He was the son of the new pastor. Months before, they had moved into the farm lot on the edge of town and converted their small house into a Methodist Church. Richie’s face was freckled and pale under his wispy blonde hair. He also wore thin wire glasses and was a little taller than most of the other men.
When he and Joshua walked together their differences were quite striking. However, they had bonded fast over their love of automobiles. Neither of them had actually owned one, but Richie had seen an actual first-model Ford T back in Chicago. He also had a growing collection of books on the subject. Most of their afternoons had been dedicated to discussing everything related to cars.
“You seem pretty happy. The mines are down early today?” Richie asked as he and the other men caught up with Joshua at the steps.
“Yep! Got some news, but…” he paused and did a quick look around. The other men went ahead and walked into the Baron Vance Saloon. “We’ll talk inside.”
Inside the small saloon, it was dark and smelled of stale beers. A few lanterns were turned on near the bar, but the overhead lights were not yet lit. In the large room were six drinking tables, three larger game tables along the right, and a bar piano in the back corner. In the opposite corner in the back was a stairwell leading up to the sleeping rooms. A few townsfolk sat at the bar, but the drinking tables were filling up fast with the miners. The room grew loud with laughter and talk of the gold vein.
Before they wound their way to their own table, always near the back and the piano, Richie spun around and exclaimed, “They found gold in the mine?”
Joshua laughed, “Yep! We’re supposed to keep quiet about it, but that’s not happening!”
“Where?” he asked as they sat down.
“My father and old Memphis were expanding the tunnels in the east wing when they found this small line. Oh! And get this, there is an injun burial ground right in the middle of the gold deposit!”
“Really? It has to be the Chippewa,” Richie said. He and his father had studied the history of Minnesota before they had trekked out to make a new start. Both had discovered in the process that they were avid Indian history buffs. However, they did not broadcast this to the local residents.
Joshua scrunched up his face in disgust and confusion. “How would I know? Injuns is injuns is all I know. And they were too dumb to mine out the gold!”
He then turned to wave down a saloon serving girl as she passed and asked for two mugs of ale.
“Wait! Did you say it’s a burial site?”
Joshua took a long gulp from his beer, then said, “Yep! Well, at least, there were several skulls in it.”
Richie pushed his spectacles further up his nose. He was fascinated. The automobile chats had gone a bit dry for him. This was new and exciting. His father would be ecstatic too.
“What did you see at the site?”
“Well… it’s a small chamber about thirty feet or so and just a few feet taller than a man. Inside was this big boulder where they carved out holes to put the heads in. There were feathers hanging from the ceiling and clay pottery stuff all around too. You could see the gold twinkling in the walls! Thad Williams thinks this is going to put Kingston on the map. Going to make us all rich!”
“So why did they stop the mining operations?”
“They have to get some direction on what to do with the gold and what to do with the burial site. Foreman Walters was all up in arms and shouting for everyone to be hush-hush on this. Threatened to fire anyone who talked.” He looked all around him with a big wry grin. “Sure looks like we are all scared of that!”
“My father has some education on Indian Cultures. The Church wanted him to have it so he could help with any crisis negotiations. Anyway, do you think they’ll let him look at it?”
Joshua shrugged. He was paying more attention to the brunette serving girl working the left side of the room.
****
A thick cloud of dust and smoke clung to the ceiling inside the chamber. Light from his lantern barely illuminated the gloom of the chamber. Chauncey moved in closer to the wall and pulled out his small knife. “Let’s see just what we are dealing with, shall we?”
He scraped at the rock and dirty grime that obscured the vein of gold. It flaked into his open palm. Holding it inches from his eyes he could see the twinkling metal. A broad grin crossed his face.
A subtle shift in the gravel sounded behind him. He snapped a glance behind him. No one else remained from the crew. Squinting, he peered into the dark entrance of the chamber. “Hello?”
Nothing.
He shrugged and turned his attention back to the wall.
Chauncey stood still trying to calculate how long he could delay his dispatch to the management at Aaron Farbrynn Mining Foundation. He planned to mine a patch or two that night when the mine was empty. He would skip town in a couple of weeks.
How long before anyone grew suspicious of the delays? Maybe four days at best he decided. With the new telegraph stations, communication was spotty. Then it would take some time for them to plan–
Another sound of shifting sand inside the mine. It was more distinctive this time and it was followed up with falling pebbles.
“Alright. Who’s there? Come out!” he bellowed before spinning around. Someone had defied his orders and stayed behind. Someone was going to be his example and get fired!
Nothing again.
He marched over to the entrance of the hollow chamber and leaned in. “Just come on out and let’s get this over with. You can’t hide in there for long and it will just go worse on you if I am forced to find you. I’m not playing hide-and-seek today!”
“Nish..tiggg…waan”
The words floated out from the gloom of the chamber. Chauncey could not find their source. They were drawn out and said with a deep, rolling rumble.
“Who is that?” he demanded and took several steps inside. Keeping his head low out of the dust and smoke cloud, he crept closer to the center of the room where the boulder sat. If anyone was hiding in there, that would be the most logical spot.
“You not only disobeyed a direct order to leave, but you are messing with this…injun stuff which is going to cause me even more grief. Come out now! Let’s get out of here.”
“Niiii toon,” the words were whispered, the faint wind of them brushed his left ear as an ebony mist descended from the cloud and settled over his head. Immediately an intense pressure swelled Chauncey’s skull.
His hands flew up and his finger nails dug into his temples. A gurgled scream stuck in his throat. He coughed hard and choked on the stale air of the cavern as he spun about his legs kicking madly. The foreman’s body acted reflexively versus any thought or direction from him.
Blood bubbled from his ears and out his nose. Somehow he had gnashed upon his tongue and more blood drooled out from his lips.
“Niiitoooon!” the voice shrieked inside Chauncey’s head. It was still a deep bass sound, but it was filled with an intense emotion of rage.
He was barely aware of the voice as he felt rather than heard the popping and sharp crack at the base of his shoulders. Bones snapped as his neck twisted abruptly to the left then yanked back hard to the right. A building scream of sheer raw agony started then was cut off brutally as his scalp split and peeled away to the sides. Chauncey’s eyes blazed to life with an unholy ivory-white light.
More skin tore away, and tendons snapped free from the shoulders as the foreman’s head ripped from the mooring of his body. The severed spine dangled obscenely from the neck. A thick fountain of gore and scarlet blood showered the boulder as his spasming body dropped hard to the dirt.
The skull continued to hover in the air. A flowing black body of bristling hair wavered behind the skull. The creature now appeared part Chauncey Walters and part writhing specter. It swam through the air and coasted beneath the bank of smoke. It descended and dropped down to the boulder. It hovered before each of the skulls in their respective nooks.
“Aashayaan,” The voice came out between the bloody jaws of Chauncey’s mouth. The tongue hung limply to the side and protruded between the lips.
The specter cascaded down to the prone body. A light gray steam rose from the man’s back and bathed the creature. It shook and trembled in delight as it had been eons since it had fed.
It was hungry for more.
I hope you enjoyed my story so far. We even have plans already for a sequel edition scheduled later in the year. Would love to hear your thoughts on the story… Leave me a comment. Till then, happy reading!
I decided to go back to this story written back in 2020 and give it an update and add a fresh spin. Hope you enjoy them as much as I did writing them! Here’s my December 2 Dismember Gifts to you!
IT GROWLS FROM THE CORNER
My eyes open instantly to pitch darkness. My heart races, pumped with an instinctual fear. I clutch the sheets of the bed, my breath caught tight in my throat.
I wait. Listening. There was something. A sound. A noise.
Nothing.
It takes me a moment to even realize where I am. Then it comes back slowly in bits. I was in my late cousin Richard’s farmhouse. He left it to me and several days before, I had moved in, with hopes of renovating the small ranch house.
Two days into the renovations.
The lights were off, the windows shuttered. The dead farmland was blanketed with its night shawl. The only light source came from a light pole next to the battered barn in the back of the house. A ring of ash trees encircled most of the property.
Air was stale and still filled the room. Soft light rays filtered down from one partially open window in the living room and dust floated aimlessly in its illumination.
“Hello?” I whisper, my lips dry, my cotton tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth.
“Hello?” I venture once more, praying I don’t get a response.
Seconds bleed into minutes, minutes grow into moments. Nothing responds. Time lapses.
One bizarre note caught my attention. I don’t hear anything. No crickets, no late-night songbirds, no distant cars on the I-77 highway. Even the wind is holding its breath. What the hell?
However, I do ease my grip on the sheets and sigh in relief. Maybe it was a nightmare with the last fragments waking me. I can’t quite yet laugh at myself and the fear that seized me.
New place, new sounds. Just a case of heebie-jeebies.
I raise onto my elbows.
Hissssss.
The sound pierces me. It came straight out of the corner, draped in deep shadows. A low rumbling growl follows the hiss. A distinct scrape of claws on the wood floorboards makes the hair on the back of my neck rise.
I freeze up all over again, my breath locked in my chest.
My eyes strain to make out a form in the dark. Nothing. It’s like a gaping hole torn into the bedroom space, swallowing up the entire corner.
It’s close. I should be able to see whatever the thing is! Dammit, why can’t I see it? I can’t run. The corner is near the doorway.
What is it? A mountain lion? A rabid wolf? A feral stray dog? What is in my house?
No more noises, no more clues to what it is.
I don’t try to speak again to it. It’s obvious it isn’t human so there’s no real point. My mind floods with bad ideas, desperate ploys, nothing that will get me away.
Moments again drag out. I pull my legs slowly up, curling my form into a better-shielded form. Another growl, deep in its chest protests my movement.
Eyes, silvery and large open up. The space between the eyes at least five inches apart. Then heat and a bitter stench of foul breath wafts over me. Whatever is staring at me, just opened its jaws. I think I can hear the bare sounds of panting.
I brace my hands at my sides against the bed and raise with my back pressed to the wall. Standing seems like my only viable option. It gives me half a chance if this thing rushes me.
Again, from inside the shadows, the unseen beast doesn’t like my movement and it hisses violently, pawing aggressively at the floor. I hear its claws, I see its eyes, smell its breath, but yet there’s no form, nothing in the corner!
At the end of the bed, I left another window open for the summer breezes. A thin metal screen is the only thing on the window. Do I dare plunge through it before this thing is upon me?
It somehow senses my thoughts, and it shifts subtly, the shadows moving with it. Now a couple feet closer to the end of the bed, it sits midway between the door, the end of the bed, and the window.
This tells me one thing. It’s intelligent, but it is also waiting on me to make my move. Yet I feel I have already lost this game of strategy before I even woke up.
I try to summon my dwindling courage. Sweat streams down my neck and chest. I bend slightly, coiling my leg muscles.
The beast stands! I still can’t make out any form, but the shadow grows taller and towers over me, the “head” touching the dusty ceiling. Oh god!
It makes no other move. The ball has come back into my court. My plan for the open window has been shattered.
“Wh- What are you? What do you want?” My voice shakes as violently as my body.
s h e l t e r
The voice carries across to me but speeds through me like a gunshot. It gores my senses and I reel in sudden dizziness and nausea. My legs give out and I collapse in a heap by the pillows.
Shelter? What does that mean?
“I don’t understand.” I moan. “You want to stay in the house?”
It’s useless to try and escape. My fate is in this thing’s claws. There’s no choice but to listen to its demands.
I watch in pure terror as it slowly strides across the room, the floorboards creaking under its weight. Shadows stretching and wrapping around my neck and over my screaming mouth.
Lifted in the air as a smothering sensation wracks me, a burning agony doubles me over in its grasp, and a lightning icy claw rakes across my back.
Tumbling from its hold, I hit the bed, and then tumble to the floor with the words,
w e s h e l t e r h e r e
searing into my brain.
Hours later, as sunlight drifts in and warms my exposed legs and feet. My eyes open and stare up at the room’s dust-covered ceiling fan. A hunger, a need, a blood-thirsty craving howls inside me. My head rises and I study the far wall.
s e r v e
Etched into the faded green wallpaper are symbols, plans, and demands. None that I understand or want to comprehend.
Inside, it reads the words. It knows its purpose.
s h e l t e r a n d s e r v e
It growls again from the dark corners of my tattered soul.
Here is the second victim’s story. Keep in mind, these people are not connected. The demons…well, maybe.
IT GROWLS FROM THE CORNER II
I leaned over and slowly turned the faucet, watching the tepid water pouring into the tub. I sat for a moment absorbed in my thoughts. My world had taken a major hit and nosedived. It all happened right here. Somehow, he turned my own home into a nightmare!
Unable to stop myself, I focused on the cuts and bruises on my hands and arms. A nasty laceration on the top of my left wrist was especially worrisome. It was jagged and deep, held together by twenty-some stitches. A jarring flash image of Jeff’s knife crossed my mind. It had been serrated. One of those hunting knives he collected.
I gasped despite myself as an ugly thought bubbled up. What if it was the knife that I bought him for Christmas two years ago? Would he have done that? I couldn’t recall what the gift had looked like. Before that night, I would have never thought he could be that cruel. Now, I couldn’t honestly profess that I really knew Jeff Huntington.
My hand hesitated as I reached for the shower control lever. First, I glanced at the floor and then stood, pulled off two long white towels from the rack, and laid them out on the gray linoleum. I would never shower behind a curtain again. The bloody and torn-up shower liner from before remained untouched from where it had been wadded up and thrown into the corner by the sink.
Son-of-a-bitch has robbed me of that too. I once cherished long hot showers. Never again. That was exactly how that night had started.
I had driven home after 3 pm from my waitress job at the truck stop, dropped everything, and jumped right into the shower. My uniform always reeked of Anthony’s greasy food and the hated smell coated my skin. It was a habit, the first thing I did every night.
Jeff knew that.
I never heard him come into the bathroom. He must have hidden somewhere in the house. When we broke up three weeks ago, I had demanded the key back, but he obviously made a copy.
Right after the lights went out in the bathroom, he started swinging his aluminum baseball bat. He caught me square on the right side with his first swing. It broke two ribs. However, he didn’t stop with one swing. I was soaking wet, bleeding, screaming, and crying as he carried me out and into the bedroom. There he had already fastened nylon rope to the bed frame. More beating rendered me semi-conscious. I was barely aware when Jeff bound my hands and feet.
Up to that point, Jeff had not said a single word. He shook me to a somewhat lucid state. “You did all this,” he said with a sneer. His voice was terse, his jaw clenched. “You brought all of this on, you understand? It isn’t up for debate. No arguing. You just don’t have the right to call it quits. I am the man! Okay? You are the woman! I will say when and if you can leave. Got that? And Teresa, you aren’t leaving ME!”
He brutally raped me for hours in between breaks to pound his fists into my stomach or cut my body with his blade.
If my two co-workers, Barbara and Shawn, hadn’t come by to take me out dancing as usual on Friday nights, he probably would have killed me. The police believed the coward fled unseen out the backdoor. I was completely knocked out at that point and bleeding badly. It was early in the morning when I woke up days later in the hospital ICU bed.
Unable to realistically stall any longer, I forced myself to take my first shower since his assault. Maybe baths will be more to my taste in the future? I gingerly stepped into the hot water and rotated the shower lever. The water did feel good as I had only had sponge baths for most of my hospital stay. But it was still too fresh. An open wound not scabbed over. Even with the curtain missing I felt my heart race. I grew anxious, too frightened to close my eyes. Every door and window was locked and secured. I made sure every light in the house was on and all the drapes pulled tightly closed.
He was still out there hiding somewhere in the city. They hadn’t found him yet. Hell, he could still be hiding here waiting to finish his baseball practice and end my life once and for all.
I stopped the shower and grabbed another towel to dry off. Right then I craved – needed – a strong drink. I will never feel safe again.
As I entered the doorway, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror above the sink. My right eye remained puffed up like a large plum. Three lines of stitches marred my left cheek and the bridge of my nose. My bare skin was exposed in patches where he cut chunks of my red hair from my scalp. Two of my front teeth were missing. Now I knew why they refused to let me go to the hospital floor bathroom. My personal unit’s room’s mirror had been removed. I hadn’t even noticed.
“Ohhh. Ohhhh. God, what did you do to me?” I barely recognized myself.
I spent hours weeping into my pillows before I passed out from exhaustion and the meds the hospital had given me.
***
Someone said something. Calling me?
I rolled over onto my back, wincing from sudden sharp pain. The broken ribs were not letting me off that easily and punished me for forgetting them. My breath came out shaky and plumed in the frigid air of the bedroom.
Huh?It’s summer!
I shot a look at the window in the southern corner of the bedroom. It was dark outside, and only the streetlights glowed through the beige curtains. The room was pitch black. The hall light was off as well. My hands gripped the sheets in a surge of panic.
Is he back?
A low growl wafted through the room. An ominous patch of pure darkness occupied the corner opposite the window. The patch completely blotted all of the room’s features. Something inside it smelled almost like rotting garbage or old meat. It was truly rank, and I couldn’t help but gag. Yet, I couldn’t compel myself to move. A pair of silvery eyes opened slowly inside the black patch in the corner. They didn’t move, only stared intently and deliberately.
Oh god, what do I do now? I can’t fight him off… Wait! Is that Jeff? What is that?
My frantic thoughts raced, but my body remained locked and rigid under the sheets.
“Wh-wh-who?” The words slipped out from chapped and split lips.
No reply. No movement. Nothing.
I waited several long and drawn-out minutes.
“I see you,” I stated. This time with no stammer, but the fright still had its grip on my heart. “What do you want?”
The patch grew larger. I heard sharp claws scrape against the tiles of the bedroom floor. It made a full exhale of fetid breath before it leaped into the air and landed deftly upon my chest. This shadow beast pinned me to the bed. Razor-sharp points of its claws poking into the pajama top I wore. It was heavy but not unbearable. The patch was now child-size and perched on my trembling body. A dark, blurry face, lean and elongated like a goat with two big watery eyes peered down at me. The creature tilted its head to one side. Wide, black antlers clicked against the wall.
“Are you tired, Teresa?” it asked. The voice was slightly nasal but had a smooth humanlike tone and resonance.
“Wh-what?” I replied, again stammering uncontrollably.
“Tired of always being beaten, put upon. Broken. Your whole life you have lived under someone’s thumb. First Daddy. Then Uncle Ron after your parents died. Later, you let one loser after another take piece after piece of Teresa Rianne Baylor. Did Jeff take the last bit of you? Are you dead after all?”
The haunting words dug deep, shredding my spirit and soul. Tears poured down my sliced cheeks.
“Are you there?” It inquired.
“Yes. Yes to all your questions.”
“Good. Yes. There you are.” It leaned down between furry haunches that I briefly glimpsed in the shadowy patch. The goat face was merely inches from mine. Wisps of black fur on its chin tickled my neck. “Is there enough of you left to finally make a stand? Make them pay. Make them know who they really are dealing with?”
I didn’t know how to respond.
“You will never be powerless again. You don’t have to feel pain like that.”
I nodded. Then whispered, “How?”
“Give me shelter.”
“You want to stay here?” I was lost in the direction of the conversation.
A low rumbling growl from deep within the beast’s chest evolved into a chuckle. “No, no, not this shit hole.” A bony, pale gray index finger came down and pointed to my forehead. “Shelter.” There was a tangible electricity to the spoken word. I could almost feel the weight of it drop onto my chest from its mouth.
Is this a nightmare? It can’t be real!
Oh, girl, I am very real. Its voice rang out inside my skull.
“Please! Please don’t hurt me,” I wailed. This was all too much, too sudden after the terror that Jeff had put me through.
STOP! It demanded. Its dead-cold finger with a nail, black as oil and crusted with gore, pressed into my skin.
My words stopped short, my mouth closed, and I gazed in awestruck wonder up at the demonic face.
“Shelter me and you will never walk alone again. Never be weak again. You will face the world fearlessly. SHELTER ME. SERVE ME NOW. I WILL THEN STOP HIM AND THE OTHERS…FOREVER…
A simple smile formed on my busted lips. I felt a part of myself return. A flicker of life was restored.
A dark calm passed through my ravaged body as my master smiled a toothy, frothy grin.
***
A loud series of snores vibrated through the trailer, even shaking the walls with their powerful volume. I found the fat pig passed out, slouched onto his left side in a broken recliner. Beer cans were crumpled at his feet, a discarded bag of Doritos lay on the floor and only a muted television set on a crate lit up the room.
Jeff was back home, carefree with all charges dropped. The investigation died since they couldn’t find me. Some even suspected Jeff had found me first and I was rotting somewhere in a shallow grave. Or some think it was a ploy by me to get attention or a smear campaign because Jeff is such an upright citizen. Either way, there was no one to testify and no one to accuse him. The police apologized and sent him on his way scot-free. Without a doubt, they were fearing he was going to sue their asses for false arrest.
That was all fine. I didn’t want the police to keep Jeff. He was all alone now.
The air thickened as the temperature dropped. Jeff’s snores subsided some when he hugged his arms across his wide chest and shivered. All but the light from the television darkened, snuffed out under a blanket of silence. A rotating fan standing next to the doorway cruised to a stop.
Jeff didn’t hear the soft whine coming from Cooper, his aged beagle, as he slinked out of the room. His tail was tucked between his legs in resignation and fear.
An infinite patch of darkness swallowed even more light from the room and the shadow expanded above the television set.
Jeff woke up with a start. Tangled fragments of a nightmare drifted away as he blinked himself awake. I plagued his dreams.
His eyes focused on an old rerun of the Password game show. The colors from the screen had bled away, now only stark blacks and whites were visible. The people were also distorted, their heads elongated as their arms stretched in odd angles. My visit was distorting reality, bending the rules.
“What the Hell?” he murmured, fascinated yet seemingly repulsed by the surreal sight.
I let out a soft hiss that broke his concentration, and he noticed then the patch of utter darkness above the set for the first time. The patch had settled and now appeared crouching on top of his television. It was time for me to enter.
I showed my two slender hands and altered them to an abnormal length. His eyes bulged at the sight. Then my thin fingers slowly inched their way down. My new blood red nails made tiny clicking sounds on the glass of the screen until they reached the crate. My hands were still pale and feminine, but I kept the cuts and bruises he made. They crisscrossed and wrapped about my limbs. That long laceration that twisted around the wrist especially caught his attention.
Jeff reflexively sat up and pulled his legs away from the crate. He trembled now with fear more than from the chill.
My soft laughter at the sight of him drowned out his disbelief. “Oh, God. Teresa?”
“Mmm-hmmm. Baby, I’m home. I’m hurt. It doesn’t look like you missed me.” My distorted voice was high-pitched and purposefully mocking
His hands scrambled and plucked a long knife that was sheathed at his belt. He waved it before him. “I will mess you up! Don’t get near me!”
I laughed even louder at his silly show of being a threat. He was about to see who he really was up against. I expanded the patch more and manifested. I was taller and slender than I was before. A lot of me had changed!
I slid down and flowed out toward him like watery smoke as the television blinked dead without a sound. His entire trailer was dark and dense as a tomb.
“You did all this,” I said. “You brought all of this on, you understand? It isn’t up for debate. No arguing. You just don’t have the right to call it quits tonight. I am in control now, little man. You are my bitch! I will say when and if you live. Got that? And Jeff, you will never be leaving me!”
I erupted in more malicious gales of laughter as my hand slashed out impossibly fast. The strike flayed open his right cheek. The skin and flesh slipped down and folded over exposing teeth and upper jawbone.
It was the first of Jeff’s bloodcurdling screams, but not the last he was going to give to me.
The last screams came when I squeezed my fingers into his skull and plucked out his eyes one by one and then laid them perfectly on top of the television facing the door.
I left him alive for now. When the police found him he was blind, castrated, amputated, and mute. Lying in a pool of his own blood. I did leave him with his hearing intact so that he could hear the whispers of pity and the placating lies that they told him and all would be okay as he was rushed to the hospital.
Chuck Broward carefully loaded the last bag of garden fertilizer into the bed of his white pickup truck. Then placed a fifteen-foot roll of hexagonal chicken wire on the passenger seat.
9:08 PM
It was a humid, muggy evening and far too late for him to be starting this errand. It was way too late for a man of his sixty-two years of age to be out shopping. But he had made a promise to Emmaline, his lovely granddaughter. Last Spring, he said they would build a garden together in the backyard before Fall came to Dermott.
Earlier, on their weekly phone call, she had admonished him. “It’s already mid-August! Are we going to have to buy snow shovels before we start?” Her voice rose in pitch whenever she complained. It was cute. And this little eight-year-old knew the exact buttons to push.
So…this was the weekend, Sunday, he would make good on his word.
He wiped at his sweaty brow and cursed his aching hips. “God! Don’t let me have a heart attack in the middle of setting this up.”
He turned the key and started the old Chevy. Traffic on the surface streets was docile but when he merged onto the I-18 freeway, it was busy. Most were young people heading out for a night of dancing and drinking, he supposed. His days of carousing were long ago and his wife Marcy has also long since passed.
He smiled to himself at the sudden memory of her. Not a day had gone by that he hadn’t thought of her and missed her laughter. He was good at making her giggle or even cackle like an old-timey witch. It was such an endearing trait of hers. Was…
He shook his head to clear away the emotions building inside, leaned over and fished around inside his glove compartment for his pack of cigs. His twenty-eight-year-old doctor had demanded he quit. Easy for him to say but this dirty habit had been going on longer than that little pissant had been alive!
A rusty van coated in splotchy flat black paint roared by him and cut across his lane nearly clipping Chuck’s front end. It careened into the fast lane then tailgated a semi-tractor-trailer.
“You idiot! Learn to drive before you kill someone!” He screamed. Nothing was more evident to him that the country was going to Hell than the way young people drove nowadays. Always in a frenzied rush, careless and completely unaware of the other drivers on the road.
His sudden temper boiled and he rolled down his window and stuck out his arm to flip the van’s driver off.
The van’s brake lights flashed for a second. As if the vehicle itself has taken notice of Chuck’s derisive slight.
Traffic began to slow further as luck would have it due to a minor fender-bender somewhere ahead. Chuck was still in the slow lane but only two cars behind the van. The ugly van’s passenger window was up and tinted very black. He could identify the make now. It was a late model GMC Savana with balding tires, sagging shocks on the back driver side, and two cracked and painted-over rear windows.
Somehow Chuck felt eyes crawling all over him as if he was being studied as well. “Oh yeah?” he yelled. “That’s right! You can go fuck yourself if you won’t drive right!” He flipped them off again.
There was no reply and the lanes restarted their progress. Yet when the traffic opened up, the van crept along and stayed parallel with his pickup.
A mile passed then two with the pair of vehicles remaining even in the lanes.
You don’t frighten me, pal, Chuck thought. He glanced subconsciously at the passenger seat. There, hidden underneath, was a small, silver aluminum baseball bat. From his past experience as an outside salesman for an office furniture company, he always carried some form of protection. You never knew who you might encounter. He shied away from guns as it required a lot of paperwork and government bullshit regulation. Yet a knife, sap, blackjack stick or bat was easy and still as effective.
Ahead he spotted the 209A exit ramp, his stop. He veered away. The van slowed then cut back to follow behind him. One of the van’s headlights was oddly dimmed, angled to the side. It reminded him of Chester Conklen, a kid in his childhood neighborhood who had a crooked smile and a lazy eye. Talking with Chester was always awkward and off-putting. His lazy eye gave you the impression he wasn’t really listening and he was more interested in something else behind you. This GMC van was kind of the same. It was watching you, but it was also angling to see what else was out there to the side. Hunting?…
The exit ramp circled back on itself and then marched up to a red stop light at a busy four-lane street called Adams Avenue.
Chuck waited on edge, the traffic light taking infinitely long. In his rearview mirror, he watched the van pull up directly behind him. All he could see were a pair of white hands gripping a steering wheel. The interior was pitch black and hid the driver’s features.
“What’s your play here?” he asked aloud. The audacity of the driver was fanning the fires to his anger. ”Didn’t like me cussing at ya? Well, go sit down with the other bitches waiting to see if I give a shit!”
The light turned green, but Chuck paused and sat at the stop. The van revved its engine in irritation but didn’t honk the horn. Finally, he accelerated and made a right turn down the street. The GMC followed. He sighed out loud, feeling put out. He wasn’t looking for a confrontation. He only expressed his irritation about how the other driver was driving. Yet now he couldn’t avoid the guy nor could he even proceed home.
As he approached another traffic light, he decided to go left versus right. The van roared forward and blasted ahead in a sudden burst of speed. It then pitched to the left, cutting off Chuck again in the same manner he had on the freeway. This time a small, brown paper sack was vaulted out from the passenger’s window. When it hit Chuck’s windshield, a thin orange liquid splashed and coated the glass.
Immediately Chuck had to brake and park. He cursed vehemently as he switched on the wipers. A broad, half-circle smear followed the wipers. It was a cheap paint of some kind!
Check stepped out from the truck and dug around in the collected trash inside the truck bed. He found a pair of red rags. “You son-of-a-bitch! I’m going to call the cops. No screw that! If I see you again, I’m going to go to third base on your head with my bat!” His words and rage flowed profusely from his mouth. “You went too far. Now I have the right to bash your freaking head in! Goddamn—“ his ranting faded away, his attempts to mop at the paint stopped. The black, intimidating van sat idle along the street facing him. Watching and waiting…Hunting?
“YOU ARE GONNA PAY!” Chuck screamed as he bolted back into the truck. He slammed his foot on the pedal and his Chevy jumped forward as it gunned toward the van. The truck’s door swung closed with a bang. He hadn’t even shut it before taking off. He only saw red. His fury controlled his actions.
The black van raced off going past Chuck who had to do an awkward, ugly u-turn in the middle of the street. Now with the orange paint spread all over, he only had a tiny circle of window to see through where his rag had cleaned off some of the coating. He didn’t care. He sped up until he was nearly crashing into the other vehicle’s back bumper. There was an Ohio license plate swinging back and forth as it was held on by one bolt. He didn’t bother with memorizing the numbers. This guy was not getting away from him now.
Together the pair of vehicles raced at dangerous speeds through a residential neighborhood. Chuck was panting, sweat dripping down his temples. However, he was grinning. A big, toothy smile that promised pain and punishment.
The van abruptly took a hard right that he couldn’t anticipate or copy. His truck went straight and plowed into a chain link fence and exploded through someone’s mailbox. Letters, advertisements, and junk newspapers went everywhere and somersaulted in the air. He had the presence of mind now to stop and catch his breath. If that had been a car or a house he would have careened right through them. Could have even died or killed someone in the process.
“Aw shit,” he moaned. “What the hell am I doing?”
At that moment bright lights lit up his truck’s interior. Two headlights on full bright, one lamp still skewed to the left, came straight on. Oh god! He’s going to ram me! Chuck screamed inside.
Again with supernatural agility, the van twisted to the side narrowly missing the Chevy. A soda bottle arched high into the air. It came again from the passenger side window. The plastic container hit and lodged in the hood between the wiper blades spilling its contents. A putrid, acidic odor of urine filled Chuck’s nose. It burned as if the bottle was poured directly into his nostrils.
HE JUST PISSED ON YOU! His brain screamed in outrage, stunned again by the audacity of this bastard. HE JUST PISSED ON YOU! HE PISSED ALL OVER YOUR TRUCK. PISSED ON–
He saw the man at the same time he shot his arm inside and put a dirty, white t-shirt against Chuck’s face. It reeked of strong chemicals. The other driver was young, in his late twenties and had long, choppy black hair obscuring his eyes.
His vision blurred. He didn’t get a chance to mutter even a word before he fell away into nothingness.
Hours later maybe, it could’ve been days. Chuck didn’t know, but he finally woke up. The night was still very dark and without wind. Stars peeked down at him from behind wisps of clouds as if curious as to what he was doing. His whole body ached and protested at the strain it was under. His head was held back by layers of duct tape, exposing his neck. HIs arms were tied together behind a tall telephone pole with a lamp that hung over him. A long rope of Christmas lights was wound around his chest and down his legs. The wood of the pole poked into his back through the thin material of his gray and blue t-shirt.
Standing and smoking a cigarette was the young man who had attacked him. He wore faded blue jeans, a dingy green shirt and a cheap black leather jacket. The kid faced away and hadn’t noticed Chuck was awake yet.
In his limited field of vision, he saw an old dark barn, the black GMC Savana was parked there. A dozen or so yards behind it, he saw his Chevy Tahoe parked and abandoned with other neglected cars and trucks in an overgrown field. Beyond the small parking lot of vehicles were mounds of trash. They encircled the area. The smell of rot and discarded refuse hung heavy in the air like pollution. Chuck guessed it was a local junkyard.
“Mister?” Chuck mumbled. His throat and his lips were sandpaper dry. “Mister? I’m–I’m sorry.”
The lanky young man turned slowly around. His face was pasty white, tattoos blanketed his neck, silver skull earrings dangled from wide, gauged earlobes. “What?” he asked.
“I said, I am sorry. So very sorry. Can we forget all this happened?” Chuck pleaded. Moisture gathered at the corners of his eyes. He had never had this type of intense experience. Never been so afraid of what could happen next.
“Sorry? For what? I don’t understand.” He seemed genuinely confused.
A raspy, high-pitched voice called out. “Is he awake? Is he awake now?” The words were frantic and rushed, tumbling over each other in their urgency.
“Please, man. Let me go. I have a family. I…I have a beautiful granddaughter I very much want to see again. Please!”
The youth laughed. “We all have family. All have someone we need.” A shadow seemed to pass over his features. The mirth was stolen from his smile. “I have a sister, man. Well…they have, I mean.”.
“What?” It was Chuck’s turn to be lost in the conversation.
“He’s awake! He’s awake! Hey! He is awake!” The other voice crooned. Laughter followed after it. Then other sources of laughter joined in from the dark gloom. The laughter surrounded them.
“What’s going on? What do you want, sir? I apologize for cursing you. You upset me when you came close to my truck. I am sorry!” He was earnest. Just want to go home.
“Don’t worry. I’m not mad. It’s all part of the deal. I’m Neal by the way. You are?” he asked.
“Chuck Broward.”
“Ooooo Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!” The other voices filled the air.
“Hey, Chuck. You see, man, you chose the wrong night. You chose the wrong person to vent on, that’s all. I mean, shit, lucky for me, but, yeah, shit deal for you.” He stopped, turned toward the dark building and whistled.
At first, only the reflection of a pair of eyes could be seen. They were an odd faint blue. Then another pair opened, followed by two more behind it. Chuck gasped in terror when a small, thin gray creature crept out of the gloom of the barn. It had a tiny, softball-sized skull, the whitish skin stretched very tight over it. It didn’t have a nose but a wide maw that crossed over the entire skull. The mouth was filled with tubular teeth, translucent and very pointed. A pair of gray and pink tongues flashed snakelike in and out. Their eyes were solid, white buttons in the light. They were surrounded by triangular patches of red flesh that pulsated in obscure rhythms. The wolf-size beasts crawled on two legs but had three sets of arms, the smallest near to the face, obviously meant for feeding scraps to the mouth.
“What the fuck is that?” Chuck cried out.
“Dinner guests! Dinner guests! Dinner guests!” One of the monsters bleated out.
Another one climbed out of the passenger side window of the GMC. It was broader than the others. Its back had two rows of small, ebony spikes sticking up from its skin. It said, “We accept! We accept! We accept your donation, Neal!”
Glumly, Neal took one last long pull from his cigarette and snuffed it out under his boot. He glanced again at Chuck who was trembling and gasping for air. “I am really sorry, too. Like you said, man, I have family and I want to see her again too. Sorry.”
“Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!” they taunted. “Bad driver! Bad driver! Bad temper! But is he sweet? He he he!”
He walked past the streaming horde of beasts as they crept out of the shadows and the barn. From his jacket, he retrieved some earbuds and settled in behind the wheel of his van.
Holly Gibney, one of Stephen King’s most compelling and ingeniously resourceful characters, returns in this thrilling novel to solve the gruesome truth behind multiple disappearances in a midwestern town.
“Sometimes the universe throws you a rope.” —BILL HODGES
Stephen King’s Holly marks the triumphant return of beloved King character Holly Gibney. Readers have witnessed Holly’s gradual transformation from a shy (but also brave and ethical) recluse in Mr. Mercedes to Bill Hodges’s partner in Finders Keepers to a full-fledged, smart, and occasionally tough private detective in The Outsider. In King’s new novel, Holly is on her own, and up against a pair of unimaginably depraved and brilliantly disguised adversaries.
When Penny Dahl calls the Finders Keepers detective agency hoping for help locating her missing daughter, Holly is reluctant to accept the case. Her partner, Pete, has Covid. Her (very complicated) mother has just died. And Holly is meant to be on leave. But something in Penny Dahl’s desperate voice makes it impossible for Holly to turn her down.
Mere blocks from where Bonnie Dahl disappeared live Professors Rodney and Emily Harris. They are the picture of bourgeois respectability: married octogenarians, devoted to each other, and semi-retired lifelong academics. But they are harboring an unholy secret in the basement of their well-kept, book-lined home, one that may be related to Bonnie’s disappearance. And it will prove nearly impossible to discover what they are up to: they are savvy, they are patient, and they are ruthless.
Holly must summon all her formidable talents to outthink and outmaneuver the shockingly twisted professors in this chilling new masterwork from Stephen King.
“I could never let Holly Gibney go. She was supposed to be a walk-on character in Mr. Mercedes and she just kind of stole the book and stole my heart. Holly is all her.” —STEPHEN KING
The Review:
Like Stephen King who professes his love for this character, I too find her to be an intriguing and endearing character. Holly Gibney has certainly gone the “hero’s journey” from a mousy, obsessive woman, easily controlled and beaten down by her own mother to a growing powerhouse detective with uncanny instincts and nerve. She attributes most of her growth due to the kindness of the Detective Bill Hodges from the Mr. Mercedes series who took her under his wing and brought her out of her shell.
I can relate a lot to this character and often to many of King’s underdog heroes. Bullying in school and throughout childhood is common with them. I share that experience and I find it hard not to get engaged in their battles.
This particular story is gruesome and dark. King dug deep and plumbed into a very horrific theme in the novel. Cannibalism is not a subject for the faint of heart. Be warned. The mystery and the path Holly must take to uncover what has been happening is well told and realistic. I enjoyed the story, but it’s the character development that steals the spotlight.
The Rating:
It is good to see the master of raw terror work his magic again and dig out another tale to haunt your thoughts with. The ease of how these murders could happen is the most frightening aspect.
HIGHLY RECOMMENDED! For rating purposes, I score this 4.5 of 5.
Here’s another short story. The special theme to this one is “bittersweet”. This tale is a bit different than my norm. Little less horror and more engaging aspect — pulling on your heartstrings. Hope you enjoy it!
TENTH
10/28/19 – The Day Of
“When do I get tippy-toes?” Mattie asked from the backseat as they pulled into the parking lot of Graham Park.
“Oh! I want some! Me too. Me too,” cried his five-year-old sister, Lilly.
From behind her SUV steering wheel, Kelli muttered, “What are you talking about, bud?”
“I heard on TV, the man said, you can reach the box if you stand on your tippy-toes. I am ten now. I want my tippy-toes. I’m grown-up and deserve to have them!” Mattie said proudly, puffing his chest out. The day before was his tenth birthday. His mother, Melissa Brandon had thrown an early Halloween/Birthday party for him and all his little classmates.
Kelli Jarvis, his exasperated nanny barely into her nineteenth year, was exhausted. She had assisted with the party and the late-hour clean-up. “That’s not how it works. It’s only a saying.”
“No,” insisted Lilly, shaking her head. “Mattie is right. We deserve tippies!” She began to drum her hands upon the armrests of her child seat.
“Yeah! We want tippies! We want tippies!” he laughed and chanted with her.
“Settle down, now. Or we can just go back home?” Kelli grumbled.
The siblings dropped the matter immediately. They had been dying to go to the park all day. It had been constantly drizzling and they had been stuck inside, festering with “Bore-dumb Syndrome”.
The public park was decked out with four sets of slides, twin rows of swings and several wooden obstacle structures to play tag around.
They scrambled out of the car and bolted away in a frenzy. Kelli glanced at her phone for the fifteenth time. Jessie still wasn’t answering her texts. She opened up her door and followed the kids into the busy park.
Since the sun was shining for the first time that Saturday, many families were out including two family birthday parties.
Kelli removed her jacket. She tied it around her waist and sat down near the yellow slides. Mattie left his sister and found an empty swing.
Lilly was decked out in a baggy, red onesie. She was still chubby with baby fat and waddled slightly like a duck. Kelli couldn’t help but grin at the cute toddler. Lilly spied her looking at her and waved from the top of the slide.
Her phone buzzed. It was a text.
No. I am going with Brett to the Derby at the Lewiston Fair. Stop asking. I told you this.
Jessie could be so rude. It was their six-month anniversary after all!
Before she could respond, Lilly’s scream cut through the air. The little girl was on her stomach and blood was oozing out from a swollen lip.
Kelli rushed over to assist the wailing child.
Mattie left the swings and walked alone into the Men’s Restroom.
***
Two hours had passed.
First, Kelli strolled about, scanning the park. Then, twenty minutes later, she began calling his name. Her voice was strained and catching people’s attention. Then she was frantic, dragging a sobbing Lilly behind her as she screamed for Mattie. Other parents by this time joined in the search. Matthew Joshua Brandon was nowhere.
“I am sorry, sweetie, it’s time. You have to call his mother. She deserves to know. The police are on the way.” One middle-aged mother advised her.
***
A slender, athletic man walked across the park, holding a clipboard and a walkie-talkie. A gold badge adorned his shoulder. He was young with black hair and a thin babyface.
“Miss Brandon?” he asked, extending his hand. She was sitting on a bench.
She wiped tears away with the back of her hand instead of shaking his. “Yes.”
“Uh… Well, I am Detective Dax Roberts, ma’am. I am lead on your son’s disappearance.”
“Okay,” she mumbled, distracted as a roaring helicopter passed overhead. A brilliant light swept the grounds beneath it.
“We are doing everything—”
“Stop! Stop! I don’t want your placating words, things you were taught in the academy. I just want to know you know how to bring back my little boy!” Her rant melted into a wail. She couldn’t continue.
He squatted low to look into Melissa’s face. He took her hands in his. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to give the impression I wasn’t seriously involved or dedicated to you. I want you to know, I won’t stop. I won’t back off till we get Mattie back to you.”
8/15/20 – Day of Discovery
Chuck and Daniel were similar in age, appearance and even build. Good old hard-working fellas with some skills and reliable reputations as handymen. They had been hired by the city and on that morning were off in their white work pickup heading to Tandam Pond.
“Investigators are estimating last night’s thunderstorms cost the county over $7 million in property damage. Only minor injuries were reported stemming from a collapsed construction scaffolding. The rest of the week’s weather is expected to be clear.”
“Sounds like we are going to be busy,” Daniel said.
“Sounds good to me. That’s money I can use.”
“You still planning that Chicago trip?”
He nodded as he drove them to the edge of the pond. Three wooden piers had been built here but only one was untouched. Another was completely submerged, the last listing to one side with broken boards sticking up like broken teeth.
Daniel whistled at the site.
***
As Daniel wiggled into his plastic waders, he spotted something floating under the partial pier. It was black and maybe two to three feet long.
“What do you think that is?” he pointed at the debris.
Chuck, who was already at the pond’s edge, shrugged and made his way carefully into the pond.
The water was murky from the silt stirred up from the storm. The object was a duffle bag. Chuck spotted one end was tied with a moss-covered nylon rope. Another piece of the rope was partially secured on the other end but rotted through.
He lifted the black bag out of the water. A sickening stench filled the air around them. Immediately, he lurched backward and thrust the bag away. He bent over and retched his breakfast into the churning water.
“Oh God! Call 911!”
***
Detective Dax Roberts left his car. His heart was beating like a jackhammer. He saw the two handymen who had called the find in. They were noticeably shaken up. Officers were mulling around the pair.
“Detective, we haven’t cut it loose yet. We can–” said a young rookie officer.
“No, I want a pro diver in there. Make sure there’s nothing hidden by the water. I don’t want any mistakes here.” Dax waved him away.
An hour later, the diver rose from the depths of the pond, the bag held in his arms. The outline of a small body in a tight fetal position was clearly evident. A tuft of brown hair stuck out from a zipper on top. The sight would haunt his nightmares for years.
Dax didn’t need DNA or an autopsy to know who was inside the bag.
10/28/29 – The Day to Remember
The detective angled his car into a spot near the main building of Humbolt Cemetery. The day was unusually hot for the time of the year. Dax removed a couple of plain manilla folders from underneath his jacket on the bench seat.
He sat for a few seconds to collect his thoughts. He glanced at the rearview mirror. Quite a few wrinkles had gathered around the edges of his eyes. He had lost his babyface years ago. He rubbed at the black and gray stubble on his chin.
He asked his reflection, “She’s not going to be easy on you. You must know that.” He nodded to himself and shot a look at the folders on his lap. Sighing in resignation, he opened the door.
At the east side of the building, paths were laid out with white gravel. They wound their way over to different plots. He took the path that ascended a small grassy hill with some towering oaks on top. When he crested the hill and stood in the shade of the trees, he spotted Melissa Brandon in a shady section at the bottom. She faced away from him, looking down on a silvery blue headstone.
Dax ran his hand through his hair, smoothing it out as best he could. The detective didn’t say anything as he joined her before Mattie’s final resting place. For several minutes, they remained silent.
Finally, she said, “Thank you, Detective Roberts for agreeing to meet me here. It’s rather nice, isn’t it?” She was looking up, scanning the woody area ahead of them. A short, black iron fence ran along the northside and continued along the west border of the cemetery. A lazy stream cut through diagonally and meandered further east to skirt the grass hill.
“Yes. That it is, Miss—”
“Oh please, call me Melissa,” she interrupted him.
“Okay, Melissa. You found him a very proper lot with a beautiful view,” he said awkwardly. He was uncomfortable and fumbled for his words. This meeting was highly unusual and technically, he could face some repercussions for allowing it.
Yet, she deserved something, didn’t she? He thought to himself.
“I know you expect I am here to chew you out or throw a fit or such. But I’m not,” she said and looked at him with a genuine smile. “I wouldn’t do that here. And there’s not much good that would do.”
“The case is still open. The investigation has grown cold, but you never know. Sometimes it just takes one thing to break…” His words faded off as she shook her head slowly, a tear trailing down.
“I already know that. I became a true crime junkie after all that happened. Hell, I became a lot after your call that night to let me know, the identification was positive.”
He still had no words, had no way to relate to the profound loss she had as a mother. He waited for her to continue.
She returned to studying his headstone. “I lost myself in booze, lost my job, nearly lost my girls. My sponsor finally hit home with me. Said that someone stole my child and took the wonderful years he had ahead of him. A life that was meant for great things. I could let him keep that or I could take it back, live my life in honor of him. Find a positive way to move forward. Not ‘move on’ but ‘move forward’. I liked that!
“I work again, but now from home. I do tax work for six months then the other six I spend with my girls and my grandson, Marcus. I also volunteer at a non-profit organization that focuses on other grieving parents like me. We are a resource to offer therapy, provide networking and even assist in funding for investigations. My life before Mattie was taken was so different… so selfish. I could’ve been there at the park that day. I thought it was more important for me to finalize a product presentation—”
“No, don’t do that, ma’am. I mean, Melissa. Don’t put that guilt on yourself. Mattie was targeted. Your good intentions of providing for your family didn’t make your son vulnerable to what happened.”
“I realize that. It took a lot of soul-searching to find a way to forgive myself for what I had no control of. Anyway, I was a mess, but things have come together after all this time.”
She spotted the folders in his hand. “Will those get you in serious trouble, Dax?”
He shrugged. “Nothing I can’t really handle. In a few years, I am due for a promotion or retirement. Either way, it’s not more important than the promise I made to you ten years ago.”
Dax handed the copies of the case files over to her. They had his preliminary findings and the police reports of the day her son was taken. Everything he had done then and every step he took after the Feds stepped in.
“What isn’t in there is something I cannot give to you in documentation. After his remains were found, the CSI labs found trace amounts of red paint chips on his clothing. The FBI immediately took the case from me going forward.”
“Oh, I know. That FBI Task force is a black hole. They suck all the information in, any progress, any evidence, everything. Suck it all in and refuse to share any insight with us. Nine years of stonewall silence.”
“I have kept tabs with a contact in the Bureau. I can tell you there are no suspects, but there are plenty of rumors and opinions. Seems your son matched with a string of other murders. The red chips of paint, the gender and the age. Even the Tenth month of the year. It all –”
“Was he… messed with? Raped?” she asked, her lips quivering.
“They don’t think he was. He and the others showed no signs of it.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“The task force will not release anything to anyone because should this guy make a mistake. They need the details to be sure they have the right person, you understand? They can’t find him yet and they cannot be sure of how many other boys. I am only telling you this as I want you to know I haven’t forgotten. Your son still matters to me and a lot of people.”
“I didn’t doubt your words and your dedication. Yet, after all this time, I really don’t need justice. It won’t change what happened. My boy was returned to me. I have met parents who have never had their answers, never had closure. I buried my little angel. Do I want the man caught? Of course! But I refuse to let this end my life. I have my girls and I owe it to them to be there for them too.”
She goes quiet, continues to quietly weep. That is when he spots an odd engraving cut into the left corner of the gravestone. Dax stoops then squats down to get a better look at it. It was a QR Code.
“That links to a website I have as memoriam for Mattie. The site has a video we took of him on his last night. He’s in his little Frankenstein costume pretending to be scared of the candles on his birthday cake. ‘Ooo fire! Fire bad, mommy.’ He was so funny and so curious about everything.” She went silent again.
“You see, Detective, while that bastard took and killed my son, his spirit remains here in my chest. Living on in my heart where no one can dare ever take him again. Mattie is forever.”
Dax rubbed his fingers over the engraving and nodded in agreement.
This has been a very productive year for me! I have already this year produced two novels, The Flight of The Dirithi and The Lineage of Prophecy: Pawns & Pieces as well as the first magazine edition of With Malice back in February! I am pleased to announce that the highly anticipated sequel The Lineage of Prophecy: The Deity Staff will be out in a matter of weeks! I am just finalizing the last wave of editing and personally working with the cover artist to get the best cover possible.
The other big news I have is that I have compiled and re-edited the Elude novels. The Elude: Complete Series will also be out in a week or two at the most. It will have a brand new cover (I did the original covers but felt it would be nice for something new and exciting!). It will also have a bonus chapter not included before.
For the first quarter of next year, I plan on doing the same compilation into one larger novel for the Evade Series! It will also have a new cover.
Besides working on the final book for The Lineage of Prophecy: Beyond The Barrier of Storms, I will be focusing on publishing short stories for magazines. I plan on writing one horror short story each month if possible like The Wheels On The Bus, Victim One or Echoes (now called Vicious Cycle). I will give you guys advance screening on here so don’t worry! I hope with publishing on a more national platform, I can grow my readership.
And just saying… but if you guys wanted to help, putting simple reviews and posts on Facebook with a copy of a book would be awesome and also help me out immensely. For anyone who does, I am currently working to get some unique, collectable metal bookmarks made for all of my works. I will send a free one of your choice if you send me or #tag me on a post! They will be similar to these:
Once I have tackled and bested the beast that Beyond The Barrier of Storms will be and have completed the Wyvernshield Series, I hope to delve further into the horror story lines I Still Burn and the sequel to the Elude Series. By the end of 2024, I hope to return and start exploring the world of Akkei Maliss from my Dirithi series.
Thank you all for your continued support and patience as I write in both of these fun, thrilling genres. I hope to continue to satisfy your hunger for epic fantasy and dark horror!
It was the beginning of the hard hours. The hours of 2:00 to 4:00 AM where the ghosts in my head shouted. Sometimes they screamed at me. Sometimes at each other. Or hell, sometimes the ghosts just wanted to scream. I guess in eternity, you have that luxury. What else are you going to do?
The pull was always there. Even in the good years after AA saved my life. It started at an early age for me. I was 8 and found the key to the liquor cabinet. The taste wasn’t good at all at first. I couldn’t believe that the adults drank what had to be part gasoline. However, when the buzz hit me, the lightheadedness was awesome. I never felt anything like it. It was almost like that thrilling, out-of-control feeling you get when you are on a tall slide. Wind blowing by you, the ground approaching fast. You are helpless but at the same time you are having an amazing experience knowing you’ll be safe. This felt even better as I was plopped down in the center of the kitchen floor. My head spun, my heart raced, and a great sense of joy spread over me. I continued to down the clear vodka bottle.
Anyway, I have been a bad drunk, a recovering alcoholic, a neglectful dad, and finally a hit-rock-bottom survivor in my illustrious forty-eight years of life.
I guide the puttering moped over the curb and up to the bar’s entrance. Janie’s Tavern has been home for a couple of months now. Her arms are always spread wide to welcome her wayward son.
The burly kid bouncer at the door gives me a nod and holds the door open for me. The music is obnoxious and loud but that’s okay. It helps to cover the screaming mimies in my brain some.
“Brett, slide me over a Miller and a Wild Eagle bourbon chaser. It’s gonna be a long night,” I proclaim.
His eyebrows shoot up and he gives me a questioning look.
“Yeah, I’m sure. It’s a night of a bad anniversary and I need a little support. So, hook a fella up!”
I sit at the counter, the stools are all empty. A few tables have other patrons, but in the corner, one man in a jean jacket glances over in my direction. He is scruffy, long straggly beard and greasy brown hair. He is shy of 270 pounds, but I guess the majority of it are in his beefy arms. Maybe at one point he had been in football or was a bodybuilder of some sort.
I nod in his direction and raise my shot glass in a friendly salute to him.
He smiles and lifts up his own tall glass of beer.
I take a deep breath. For the most part I haven’t been on the wagon for nearly five years, but the last three months I tried to keep it at a beer here and there. Mostly. I was throwing out that rule tonight.
I threw back the shot and felt its fiery contents delightfully burn as they went down.
“And let’s not let the poor fella be lonely down there, Brett. Another shot, please!”
“Whoa, easy man. Are you celebrating tonight?” Said the man in the jean jacket. He stood behind me. Must’ve walked up as I drank and was still nursing his own drink.
“No. Not celebrating, but tonight is five years to the day of… to the day of a morning that no one could ever believe.”
I got quiet. The shouting eased back but it left the stage open for the child whispers that were far worse for me.
When are we going to get there, Mister Donner?
What time is it? Are we running late, sir?
Can we go back? I left my homework for Miss Janda’s class.
I have to go potty, Mister Donner. Are we there yet?
What’s that? Is someone in the road…
That last one. That voice in particular was little Susie. Her tiny, high-pitched but sweet voice calling out. The last question she ever said. I hear it over and over in my nightmares. A simple, innocent question.
By gods, where was she? Where were they?
“You okay there, pal?” The man asked as he sat down on the stool next to me.
“Uh, yeah, sorry. Lost in here,” I said as I poked my index finger into the side of my temple.
He extended his hand. “Gary. Yours?”
“Charlie.” I lied.
“Sounds like you have a doozy of a story. Can you spill it? Or are you a secret agent on a classified mission?”
I laughed hard at his joke. Laughed too hard and too long, drawing stares, but the drinks were already affecting me.
“Sorry. Yeah, it’s a weird story.” I paused and stared at him. He was drinking his beer and now starting to light up a Maverick Cigarette. His finger had a white tan line where a possible wedding ring was missing.
“It’s not a happy ending. You sure you are in the right mood for it, Gary?”
“I love stories. Come on, quit stalling.”
I motioned to the bartender one more time. More liquid courage.
After I finished the shot and splashed more beer to follow it, I opened up and relived the worst morning of my life.
“It was… well, I am not going to say what town, but it was your typical small town. I was driving the #237 for this Elementary School. I just passed Munroe Street after grabbing that chubby Darryl Sampson kid. Brat always left wrappers in the backseat and chocolate smears on the seats. Anyway, it was the last of the loop. Now it was time to head to the school lot for the drop off.
“Traffic had been light. Even holiday light you might say, but it wasn’t a holiday. I went down Jefferson and made a left to take Lawson Avenue to the Torv Tunnel. I noticed right away that there were no lights inside, and it was unusually dark. When we entered and as I reached for my headlights, a stupid sedan, I think it was a Prius, nearly swiped my left wheel. It cut across and sped ahead. I had to brake hard and turn the bus into the gravel at the side. ‘Hold on kids. Hold on!’ I shouted as we bumped along and bounced.
“I was instantly hot. I hate bad drivers. Got a bit of that road rage bug, you know.
“I heard lots of screams and shouts at first from the kids as expected, but it was Susie Willey’s question that cut through all the chaos.
“What’s that? Is someone in the road…
“I saw only the thick curtain of darkness ahead and the patch of roadway lit before the bus. No one was there. Not even that damn sedan. That asshat must’ve kept driving and went further into the tunnel.
“I ground the bus to a stop. ‘It’s okay kids. Nothing to worry about. Everyone okay?’
“Not a sound.
“I shot a glance to the overhead rearview mirror. No one was back there. They were just…gone.”
I waited for Gary’s shout of ‘That’s bullshit!” but he only stared back at me. His mouth was open and slack jawed. His drink abandoned on the bar. His cigarette nearly done, smoldering in his hand.
“They were gone. What? What do you mean?”
I waited to see the building suspicion on his face. For five years now, I have seen it often. It goes from shock, disbelief, suspicion to outright anger. Sometimes it goes right to distrust and hate.
“I know how it sounds. But, yeah, no one was on the bus, but me. Their bags were still there, their little lunch pails, and water thermoses, but no kids. I couldn’t fathom what happened and where they went.
“I ran up the aisle in pure panic. I looked out the side windows, but the tunnel was dark and quiet.
“I pulled out my cell phone, but it took me a moment to figure out who to call. What do I even say? What would they understand? What would they believe? ‘All the kids just vanished. Poof!’” I shrugged and took another long sip from my fourth beer.
“The police arrived in seconds. A busload of children missing including the mayor’s own two sons, that gets you their immediate attention.
“As they scoured the bus for any signs of foul play, they took me back to headquarters. I spent the next 48 hours in constant interrogation rooms, explaining what I saw over and over. They refused to listen or to give me any credit.”
Gary cut in. “Did you really think they would buy that? You were the last adult with them.”
“I know. But, I have been a good driver for that school for six years, not a complaint or problem. I hadn’t drunk a sip of any beer or alcohol in all that time. I was good man, good. I told the truth—”
“That’s all that happened? You aren’t leaving anything out?”
He was starting to upset me.
“No! All they saw was some freak, psycho that abducted a lot of kids and did god knows what with them. Wouldn’t accept that I didn’t know. Finally, after the 48 hours, my public defender got me released without any charges. They had nothing, they knew nothing. I knew nothing. They wasted time on me when they should have just found those kids!”
Brett was at the other end of the bar and cleaning out the ice machine. “Wow. No charges?”
I nodded. “Didn’t stop the press, man. Didn’t stop their smear campaign. Suddenly, I was public enemy number one, raging lunatic, drunk dad and overall, must’ve been a ‘closet molester’. Every detail of my life was scrutinized, judged and blasted out for all to know. Would anyone look good after that?”
Gary continued to listen, smoke and soak in every word. He didn’t seem to be getting worked up, wasn’t passing judgment just yet.
“So what did you finally do? What happened?”
“Can I have one of those?” I pointed to the pack on the bar. He slipped one out, lit it and waited for my story to continue.
“I left town after only two weeks. I was getting death threat calls at night. People busted up my car and everything. I couldn’t take the looks more than anything. I left and started using my middle name. Then that didn’t work. I was found and got stalked by a reporter in the neighboring town. So, I packed up and went way West. They have never found me again, but…they never found the kids either. I hate that they never got an answer to that. And I’m sure it didn’t look good – the main suspect in a case with over a dozen kids missing, up and flees.
“But what could I tell them, the police, the parents. I didn’t do anything, I didn’t see anything, and I don’t know how to find those kids.”
“Man… so the police didn’t find anything?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. They wouldn’t share information with me, of course.” I took a large gulp of the beer. “Brett, get me two more shots. I have had 5 years of this shit and I have earned 5 shots.”
Gary laughed and lit up another cigarette as I hammered the shots. It was near closing and only the three of us remained.
He held out his hand. “Bud, I think you should let me take you home. Hand over your keys.”
“Shit, man, I only have a scooter. Lost my license long ago.”
“Oh,” he said and glanced at Brett, looking irritated. He then sighed loudly. Then looked at his glass. I wondered if that was the same beer all this time.
“Then I guess we should call it a night, Roy.”
I snapped a look at him. He knew my real name!
“You don’t recognize me, do you?”
I could only stare in silence.
He pointed at the bartender. “That is Brett Sampson, and I am his brother, Gary Sampson! Daryl Sampson’s uncle and father!” Brett pulled out a wooden bat from under the bar.
Vomit started to rise in my throat, but Gary’s meaty hands wrapped around it too fast. He slammed me to the floor, choking and crushing me. He screamed, “WHERE IS MY BOY, YOU BASTARD? GIVE HIM BACK! GIVE HIM BACK!”
My lungs burned. I gasped and gulped for air without success. He let them loose but plunged his thumb nails into my eyes. He wanted blood and he plumbed my skull for it. I felt sharp pangs of pain as the bat hammered into my rib cage. Gary then grabbed my head in his hands once more and lifted me up from the sticky floor to slam my head again into the floor.
“NO ONE BELIEVES YOUR STORY! WHERE ARE THEY? WHAT DID YOU DO, YOU PERVERT?” Brett cursed.
I heard Gary Sampson roar in pure anger and fury one last time as he blasted the back of my head into–
A brutal wind storm had blown up out of nowhere. The weatherman on the radio stated, “Tonight a severe thunderstorm has crossed into the valley. Please take shelter immediately. My personal opinion, folks, I haven’t seen a storm like this suddenly appear and has this much power in my fifteen years of broadcasting. I urge everyone off the streets! Take your Treaters home now. Candy can be bought at the store!” His rant was cut off by abrupt static, then the station began an oldie, Little Red Riding Hood by Sam the Sham and The Pharaohs.
Sheila looked in her rearview mirror and spotted Rascal, her red Doberman among her plastic bags. They were last minute supplies for Brayden’s Halloween costume. Some glue, white cotton, red ribbon spools, and a kit of creme paints. She bent down to turn on her cell phone. It read, “4:55 PM”.
Damn, she fretted, I only have an hour or so to put this together! Gary’s coming from work so maybe he’ll be late to pick him up.
“Even bad wolves can be good…” she sang along with the radio. “Is that true boy?” She laughed as Rascal only yawned in response.
As she crossed the center lane and turned onto I-18, large bullets of rain pelted her window. The storm picked up in its intensity. Crazy rolling thunderheads billowed and blew overhead. It grew prematurely dark outside.
Her fingers strummed along with the tune subconsciously. The air inside became humid and somewhat stale as she had the Camry’s heater turned off.
A high-pitched horn pierced her thoughts. She cranked the wheel to the right on instinct as a red pickup zoomed past narrowly missing her. The driver cursed and waved his fist at her. Sheila had obviously pulled out into his lane. Rascal barked from the back seat, scratching at the window.
“Sorry. So sorry!” she squealed out loud, but of course the truck had already gone down the highway. Shaking at his reaction and at the near collision, she pulled over into the breakdown lane to settle herself.
“It’s not my fault. Right, boy? The storm is clouding everything. And I have no time to delay!”
Not too close behind her, she spied a set of headlights pull into the breakdown lane and park.
“SEE! Other people are having a hard time too.” She whined in defense. Rascal whined in sympathy.
She stretched out her arms, one hand scratching him behind the ear, and she shook her whole frame one last time. She felt ready so she drove the car back onto the road.
On the I-18 the speed limit is 65 max, but no one but the elderly drove that limit. She quickly passed 65 to nudge it closer to 75. There were few other drivers on the road and the drive is smooth again. The radio began a new tune, Sitting On The Dock of The Bay.
She hummed again and began to enjoy the ride. Exit 78 passed by, marking the border to the small burg called Carterton. She smiled to herself in relief. Only 3 more exits then I’ll be inside. Maybe a cup of French Roast?
“How about a couple strips of maple bacon, Rascal? Would that make it up to you. Dragging you out in–“
Red and Blue lights splashed all over the interior of the Camry. Her eyes darted to the rearview. A police cruiser was behind her with its lights whirling. Her eyes darted next to the dashboard. It showed 79. Not too much over, not normally worth hassling me, she thought.
But it is raining pretty hard…
With no other cars near her, she had no issues getting the vehicle pulled over to the side. She parked, turned off the car and leaned over to dig in the glove department.
“DRIVER STOP MOVING. PLACE YOUR HANDS ON THE STEERING WHEEL IMMEDIATELY!” The booming voice came through the cruiser’s speakers.
She froze, shocked by the fierce tone of the voice.
“DRIVER STOP MOVING! SIT UP AND PLACE YOUR HANDS ON THE WHEEL! I AM NOT GOING TO GIVE YOU ANOTHER WARNING!” The voice was masculine, aggressive and agitated.
“Okay, okay!” she said out loud. Rascal pounced around the Halloween packages and whined again in excitement. She sat still behind the wheel with her hands at the 10 and 2 positions of the wheel.
A long minute went by and finally a shadowy figure emerged from the cruiser. It’s a man, all alone. Tall with broad shoulders, a hat and a gray rain poncho. He slowly advanced, checked the license plate, then lit up the backseat with his flashlight. Rascal went berserk until she yelled for him to stop.
Come on, come on. You’re killing me! I have to get Brayden’s costume done. For godsake, just right me up and let’s go already! Sheila’s thoughts cascade around and around.
He tapped at the window with the butt of the flashlight. She hit the button and rolled it down halfway. Rain splattered her immediately.
She looked up but could only see angular shadows and a faint outline of his face. Wide nose, far-spaced eyes, a bushy beard. She noted the fact his mouth was in a deep scowl.
“Sorry, Officer, to make you stand in the rain.” She muttered, trying to be charming and get on his good side. “And don’t worry about Rascal. He’s too old for a fight.”
“All part of the job. License and registration, please.” He ignored her attempt of charm.
As she leaned over, she noticed his hand slid over to his holster, resting down on the top of the gun inside.
It remained there as she handed him the paperwork.
Without glancing at the papers, he said, “All right, Mrs. Glenn, can you step out?”
“Are you serious? Is that really necessary?”
He took a large step back from her door. Rested his hand again on the leather holster on his belt. “Step out! I do not like to repeat my orders, Mrs. Glenn!”
She sighed softly, more to herself than as a protest. She didn’t like his tone and demeanor. She understood he wasn’t to be pushed.
More rain flooded the interior as she got out. Rascal whimpered then emitted a low growl. The storm itself took advantage of her appearance and increased in its fury.
He slipped a hand under her arm and led her to the back of her car in his grip.
“I am going to have to pat you down now. Any sharp items or weapons on you I need to be aware of?”
She shook her head no as his hands roughly went over her shoulders then down her sides. He removed her wallet and car keys from her jean’s pocket. She wasn’t wearing a jacket so she carried nothing else on her.
“What is this all about exactly?” She cried out over the storm’s cacophony.
He seized her left arm, yanked it painfully high between her shoulders. Her breath blasted from her lungs as he bent her over the hood. She heard the sound of the metal handcuffs as they clicked shut on her wrists. Then his heavy body laid on top of her. He was smothering her against her own car!
Leaning into her ear, he said, “Your husband, Gary says he is sick of you not being there for him or your son. Now, you will never be.”
He lifted off, threw a very heavy punch into her ribs, then kicked her hip with his boot to knock her to the ground. As she wheezed and writhed on the ground, he popped open the trunk of her car. Dimly, she heard furious dog barking.
Panic seized her but she couldn’t decide how to act. Her fight-or-flight instincts overwhelmed her, and he kept taking action before she could decide. He was calm, precise and calculated.
He scooped her into his arms and threw her in like a bag of trash into the trunk. The rain ramped up once again and even sounds were drowned out by the pounding flurry. He bent down close to her face. He had bright green eyes, one though was all bloody from a burst blood vessel. His breath smelled equal parts Scope Mint and Buffalo Trace Bourbon.
“A parting gift from me,” he said and showed her a long, black plastic zip tie. Sheila shrieked as he secured it around her neck.
Her final pleas “No, don’t do this, please!” was shut off as he tightened the zip tie. It bit into the skin and blood bubbled up around it as clawed at it frantically. Her eyes bulged and her tongue stuck out obscenely.
He muttered to himself, “I am doing it. I’m getting my first! I am doing it!”
It was over in seconds, but to Sheila it seemed endless before her vision faded, the colors blending then going gray and finally dissolving to an infinite black. The whole time the man bounced from one foot then the other. He continued his stream of words, “I am getting my first. I am getting my first. Yes! All I planned. Precise. So easy…”
Hours later, a group of teens “too old for Trick-or-Treatin'” found Shelia’s empty car. It was a minor inferno, smoke rising and bleeding into the clouds. It was abandoned along an isolated dirt road when the local fire department arrived.
Mysteriously, one backdoor was left open, facing the surrounding forest.
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