by James Hunt
“The last what, Dennis?” Dell asked, matching Dennis’s intensity as he invaded the groundskeeper’s personal space. “The last what?”
“Sacrifice!” Dennis answered. “But she will come back.” He smiled and produced another giddy laugh. “It is her destiny.”
After that outburst, the only words that Dell was able to get out of Dennis were: the last sacrifice. It was like something in the man’s mind had finally snapped, and he just paced back and forth, repeatedly muttering the same phrase over and over.
Finally, Dell stepped out of the room and stared at Dennis through the viewing window.
It was almost too fantastical for Dell to imagine that the family he’d grown up with had been killing people right beneath his nose. But if he was going to make any kind of charges stick, he needed an official statement from Sarah, and that meant convincing her to go on the record. And judging from their last encounter, he wasn’t confident he could be successful.
Dell removed Maggie’s ID from his pocket. If they had killed her or any of the other people that they had employed at the house, then he was willing to bet there was a mass grave somewhere on the property. But getting a survey team up here from Bangor could take a while.
“Faye!” Dell returned to the reception desk, head down as he walked, thinking. “Get Sheriff Nettles on the phone for me.”
Faye sat behind the desk with her nose buried in one of those fashion and glamour magazines. “You sure you want to do that?” She peeled her eyes away from the text. “He’s not going to be happy about it.”
“He’ll be even less happy when he finds out what I have to tell him.” Dell grabbed his jacket from the coatrack and put it on. “I’m running to the hospital real quick. Keep an eye on Dennis for me.”
“You’re leaving me here with that weirdo?” Faye asked. “What happens if he breaks out?”
Dell buttoned his jacket and then reached for the door. “I still have him in his cuffs, and the door’s locked. If he starts to give you any trouble, just radio. And let me know when you’ve got the sheriff.”
The drive from the station to the hospital was short. While Redford was bigger than Bell, it was still small. He pulled into the parking lot and then marched up to Sarah’s room, riding the elevator with a pair of nurses.
One of them smiled at him, and Dell blushed in return. The elevator dinged, and the doors opened for his floor. “Excuse me.” He stepped between them, and then caught their giggles before the doors closed again.
At the end of the hall, Dell spied George down at the nurse’s station, chatting it up with Margaret instead of manning his post. “Don’t forget you’re on the clock, Deputy.”
George spun around, and gave a friendly wave before returning to his conversation.
“Well, Sarah, I think you might have been on to something at the house—” Dell stopped in the doorway, finding the bed empty. “Shit.” He spun around, finding only a stack of papers on the table near the door. He picked them up, frowning as he flipped through the brittle pages, then stepped back out into the hall and marched down to George, overhearing his conversation with Margaret.
“So, this guy is swerving all over the place,” George was saying, leaning in closer as the nurse did the same. “Finally, he stops, the car still halfway on the road, and I tell him to get out of the car and place his hands on the hood, which he does… and he’s completely naked.”
“Oh my god, no,” Margaret said, covering her mouth with excited surprise then breaking out into a fit of giggles.
“And let’s just say it was quite a cold night to be out and driving around—”
“George.” Dell pulled on the deputy’s shoulder. “Where is she?”
“Who?” George asked.
Dell pointed down to the room. “Sarah! The woman you’re supposed to be watching.” He shoved George in the chest a little too hard to be considered playful.
“Whoa, hey, I dunno. She was just in there.”
Dell groaned and reached for his radio. “Faye, this is Dell. Have you gotten ahold of the sheriff yet?”
“No, but I did just get a call for you,” Faye answered. “It’s Pat.”
“Tell him I don’t have time to deal with any of his drunks right now.” Dell returned to the room, and saw that Sarah had taken her backpack too. But he walked over to the table, finding a cluster of papers.
“He says he has Sarah over at his place and they need to talk to you. And to bring… letters? I don’t know what that means.”
Dell rotated the old pieces of paper in his hand. “Tell him I’m on my way.”
Dell remained standing while Sarah told him about the bodies, the ghosts, the visions, the icy scales that had spread when she tried to leave, everything. And all the while unable to gauge from his stoic expression whether he believed her or not.
“And that’s all I know,” Sarah said, keeping her seat on the edge of the bed. “I should have told you about the body sooner.”
“Yeah,” Dell said, his tone irritated. “You should have.”
“It’s a lot for anyone to take in,” Pat said, trying to be the voice of reason.
“We’ll have to get a warrant to search the grounds,” Dell said. “We might be able to wake up Judge Warner, but it’s a long shot.” He grunted in a long sigh. “In the meantime I want you to come back to the station in Redford.”
Sarah frowned. “Didn’t you hear what I just said?”
“Yeah, and the safest place for you to be is back in the station,” Dell answered.
“Dell, you heard her, if she tried to leave the town that stuff gets worse,” Pat replied.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Sarah said, shaking her head in defiance.
“You just told me there is a dirty cop trying to hunt you down. If he’s been watching the DMV databases, and he’s as well-connected as you say, then there’s no reason why he couldn’t follow you here.” Dell pointed to the floor. “This isn’t up for discussion.”
“Then I’m not signing any official statement,” Sarah said.
“What?” Dell asked, his tone in disbelief. “Why the hell not?”
Sarah frowned, agitated at having been put on the defensive. “You don’t know those people, Dell. They kill anyone they want, whenever they want. It’s like they’re judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one. And it’s not just cops he has in his pocket. I’ve seen him meet with judges and district attorneys. Whatever shit he’s involved in has some serious power behind it, so you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t have much faith in your criminal justice system!” She shot up from the chair and paced to room’s back wall, opposite Dell.
“And what does that mean for the person you watched that cop murder?” Dell asked. “What does it mean to all the other people he’s probably hurt? You know this is bigger than just you, Sarah.”
“Easy for you to say when your head isn’t the one on the chopping block,” Sarah muttered.
Dell remained quiet for a minute, but Sarah noticed the twitch of his left nostril. “Murder is a crime, and the fact that it was done by a cop makes it even worse.” He tapped the badge on his chest and stepped toward the middle of the room. “This means something to me, and anyone that disrespects it or takes advantage of the power that it wields doesn’t deserve to wear it.”
Sarah walked toward him, arms still crossed, meeting him in the middle, their faces so close that their noses nearly touched. “And where were those badges when I was getting the shit beat out of me when I was seven years old at a foster home? Where were those badges when I was thirteen and was felt up by my foster father? Or how about when I was sixteen and I had to fend off a rape from three older boys that were in the same orphanage as me? You wear that badge, and it makes you what?” Sarah shrugged, laughing sadly as her eyes watered. “You’re some kind of hero? That all cops are heroes and people will always do the right thing, because if they don’t there are consequences?” She bared her teeth like a rabid dog. “Those fuckers
that hurt me, beat me, abused me in those homes never saw jail time. Hell, the system gave them even more kids! I don’t give a shit about your badge, I don’t give a shit about some woman that got herself killed by some crooked cops, and I don’t give a shit about how it makes you feel. You want to help?” She stepped back, the laughter rolling off her tongue angry and forced. “You really want to be the hero in this story? Then track that dirty cop down and put a fucking bullet in his head, because that’s the only justice that he’ll ever get, and it’s the only justice he deserves.”
Sarah retreated to the rear wall, no longer caring about the tears streaming down her face and whether he saw.
It was quiet for a while, neither Sarah or Dell speaking, and it wasn’t until Pat walked over and stood directly between them that he broke the silence.
“We can point fingers all day long,” Pat said. “But the bottom line is we don’t fully understand what’s happening.” He walked over to the table where Dell had dropped the letters. “But these might give us some insight. Plus—” Pat held up his finger and hurried toward his bed.
Both Sarah and Dell frowned as Pat dropped to a knee and reached beneath his bed. “I’ve been collecting history on this town ever since I was little.” A harsh scraping sounded, and Pat removed an old, worn chest from underneath. “There was a newspaper that operated out of Redford back when Allister Bell founded this town, and they documented a lot of what happened after he died.” He flipped the latches of the chest, opened the top, and then reached inside. “And being the amateur sleuth I am, I started collecting the articles.” He pulled a thick notebook out and then held it up for Sarah and Dell to see. “Between this, and those letters over there, I think we’ve got something we can work with.”
Dell was quiet for a minute and then shook his head. “I still think the best thing for us to do is take you back to the station. But—” He sighed, and then looked at Sarah. “It’s your life that’s on the line.”
Sarah nodded, thankful for Dell’s acknowledgement. “I want to help you, Dell. But I’m with Pat on this one. We need to learn more about the house and what is happening to me. And if you help me do this, then I will go on record with telling you everything.”
“Perfect.” Pat walked between them and dropped the heavy notebook on his table, then spun around to face them. “I’ll start the coffee.”
Empty Styrofoam cups were littered at feet twitching from the buzz of coffee. Pat, Dell, and Sarah all sat in different areas of Pat’s tiny studio shack. Sarah managed to snag the bed, Pat sat cross-legged on the floor, and Dell resigned himself to the tiny table, which teetered to the right.
The letters provided a variety of challenges, not the least of which was the difficulty in trying to read them. Time and faded ink had transformed the letters among the Bell family members into a mundane version of wheel of fortune.
“I’d like to buy a vowel,” Pat said, grinning.
“It stopped being funny after the seventh time, Pat,” Dell said.
Any letters that were considered completely illegible were discarded into a separate pile over in the far back left corner of the room. The rest were divvied up between the three of them, each taking notes on what they read.
Sarah shook the cramp in her hand, finishing up her last letter. “I haven’t done this much writing since high school.”
“How are we looking, guys?” Pat asked, finishing a scribble, and then tossed his pencil on the floor. “I’m all done.”
“Nearly there,” Dell answered, his focus on the papers.
Sarah had watched him for a little bit, and smiled every time he furrowed his brow in concentration, which was often. She returned to her last letter, and she and Dell finished at the same time.
“So,” Pat asked. “What do we have?”
“The earliest letter I have was marked in 1898,” Dell answered, reading from his notes. “It was from a cousin of the Bells who had written to Allister’s children about their parent’s death.” He looked up. “That was a common theme in all the letters I read. Notifications of deceased family members.”
“Me too,” Sarah replied.
“And me three.” Pat scribbled another note on his pad. “So that’s a commonality. Anything else?”
“All of the letters were marked with the same three numbers,” Sarah answered. “Six-six-six.”
“Mine too,” Dell replied.
“Again, me three,” Pat said. “It’s a sign of the devil. And since all of these letters are dated after Allister’s death, then we could assume that was part of the witch’s curse.”
“She started killing anyone named Bell?” Sarah asked.
“Anyone with their bloodline, maybe,” Pat answered.
“But that doesn’t explain Sarah,” Dell replied, frowning. “Or the girl Sarah said she saw.”
“Wait.” Sarah reached for her stack of letters and then plucked one out from the pile. “I found one that was addressed to Iris.” She got up and walked toward Dell, Pat getting up off the floor to join them. Sarah flattened the letter on the table and let them read.
My dearest Iris,
Our situation in Bell has deteriorated. I’m afraid that we won’t last much longer without any aid from the outside world.
I know that you moved away because you no longer wanted to be a part of our family, but you should know that when I die here, it will be you who is held responsible, along with your family.
With no heirs of my own, your descendants will become the last of the Bell name, and while you may not have had a decision in departing our town, I can tell you that your distance from our home will have no impact on the effects our ancestor will have in reaching you.
There is nowhere else to hide, Iris. There is nowhere that you can run. If you choose that road, I sincerely wish you the best of luck. But if you want to give yourself and your family a fighting chance, then I beg you to come home. It is the only way.”
Jameson Bell
They all pulled back from the letter, Dell frowning and Pat scratching his head. Sarah tapped her finger against the brittle paper. “So Iris came back because she thought it would stop her family from dying?” She looked to Pat.
“But it didn’t,” Dell said. “Both of Kegan’s parents died.” Dell got up and paced the floor, following the thought. “And our theory only makes sense if they all died the same way, right?” He gestured to Sarah’s leg. “Maybe they all had the same condition like you?”
Pat gasped, drawing both of their attention toward him. “Disease.” Without another word he grabbed his notebook and slammed it on top of the letters on the table. “Here, look at this.”
Sarah and Dell walked over and stood on either side of Pat. The page he’d turned to all had the same headlines. “Plague” and “Cursed” and “Witch strikes again” were a few of their favorites. Most of the actual articles played up the sensationalism of what was occurring, no doubt using fear to sell more newspapers.
“The medical community described the physical symptoms as being similar to shingles or frostbite,” Pat said. “And all of the individuals that came down with the affliction were descendants of Allister Bell. And here, look, here.”
Sarah leaned closer to the line that Pat had highlighted and read aloud. “Any patient that was transported from Bell to Redford was immediately returned due to making the conditions worse. While most patients didn’t survive, one local doctor managed to save a woman’s life.”
Pat pounded his fist on the table. “It can be fixed!”
Hope swelled in Sarah’s chest.
“Who was the doctor?” Dell asked.
Pat turned a few more pages and then stopped on an article taped to the center of the page. “Dr. Henry Nash.”
“Oh my god, look at the patient that was cured,” Sarah said, reading farther down the article.
Dell leaned closer and read. “Iris Bell.”
“How old is this article?” Sarah asked, searching for the date.
“Thirty years,” Pat answered.
Dell raised his eyebrows. “The doctor might still might be alive. I can make a call to dispatch and look up his address.” He headed for the door, already on the radio.
Sarah watched him go. “Do you think that doctor is still alive?” Her voice was small and tired like that of a little girl grasping for a piece of hope she wasn’t sure she’d be able to obtain.
Pat’s expression softened, and he walked over and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “I do.”
“How can you be sure?” Sarah asked. “How do you know he hasn’t died or—”
Pat squeezed her shoulder. “We’ll find him.”
And when Pat smiled, despite Sarah’s reservations, she let herself believe him.
It had been a while since she’d had a friend to help her and even longer since she’d had someone she could trust. It was a feeling she missed. Foster homes and orphanages tended to kill trust at a very early age. Sarah remembered when it had broken for her.
She had been six, and she had just moved into a foster home that would be shut down three months later, social workers citing unlivable conditions and neglect. Sarah lived in a room with nine other kids, and between them they shared three pillows and two blankets and zero beds. The house had had no heat and hardly any insulation, so they would all huddle together in the middle of the floor like a pack of dogs.
When Sarah had first arrived at the house, her foster father had made a big deal about her birthday, and when asked if she’d ever gotten a cake and a present, she said no.
Chuck—foster parents always had the sleaziest names—told her that they’d get her a cake and whatever present she wanted.
Unsure of what to ask for, she decided to go with something simple. For food, she requested a strawberry cake because she remembered having one at a church event the previous Thanksgiving, and it had been the best food she’d ever tasted. And for a toy, she wanted a ballerina skirt. The few bits of television she’d seen had been a PBS special on the ballet. After watching those dancers float across the stage to music, it was all she wanted to do.