In Dark Places

by Darryl J Keck

  “87 minutes could have been just a number she randomly chose. I have a roast beef recipe that requires the meat to cook at 325° for 87 minutes. Is that also connected? It’s just a number, Mr. Delaney. So much in your mind apparently is trying to get on paper. Think about your day so far. Your writing goals were sidetracked by this girl’s tale of altering the past.”

  “And do you think my priorities shifted after being sucked in by a far-fetched story?”

  “You are here going over parts of her testimony,” she points out. “When you awoke this morning, did having a session with me cross your mind? I bet not. Your attention is too divided. There comes a time when someone can’t effectively perform the tasks of their job. A professional pitcher can only throw fastballs for a set number of seasons before retiring. You lack focus. You’ve longed to be a writer for far more years than ever wanting to be a police officer. You had said that it all began with an episode of the Twilight Zone.”

  “Yeah, it was the one with the creepy kid that wished people into the cornfield. I saw it back when I was eight or nine.”

  “After all these years, you still have the same passion. After a while, those repressed creative thoughts will begin to feel a bit like aspirations that were tossed away. Do you know what keeps us from achieving our goals?”

  “I would think laziness and procrastination are major factors,” I say.

  “They contribute, I admit, but it’s being in the wrong profession. Imagine spending your entire workday creating stories rather than cramming it in when you find little blocks of time. It’s natural to get captivated by this girl’s situation. She throws a penny in the wishing well and then tries to convince you that everything has changed. I should take a drive over to that wishing well, drop a few pennies, and see what happens.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” I advise. “I’m certain the wishing well in Wilkinson Creek is cursed.”

  “You believe that because you are creative and want to put confidence in scenarios that you could put in a novel. My feeling is that the girl was cooking up a good alibi that you bought hook, line, and sinker. I’ve been doing this for years, and I can tell when someone is in a desperate situation. Just think about it.”

  I have no idea what Mandi might be involved in, but I can’t rule out that there may be more to the story than she admitted.

  “Why do you keep suggesting that I change my career?”

  “You were meant for something much larger,” she says. “Being an author is your calling. You would receive a severance package, affording you plenty of time to venture into this area.”

  “Writing is a tough business to earn a paycheck.”

  “Not if you are disciplined and have a lot of original ideas to offer. When I was a child, books meant everything. I didn’t exactly fit in and was borderline misanthropic until I was introduced to certain authors.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t get along with others.”

  “Yep, there was a time when the other kids wouldn’t play with me. During that time, I discovered books and they changed my attitude. Authors gave me a fresh outlook about the world. From what I have gathered, you see the world in shades that others dismiss, chewing heavily on the imponderables. Your writing will create premises that no one has come close to discovering by seeing the truth where others only see questions.”

  “If that’s true, why can’t I presently come up with an original concept that is nothing like anything else I’ve ever read?”

  “You are searching,” she says. “I have no doubt that this ‘grand’ concept may just be around the corner. Life has a way of working out when we’re not looking for the obvious. You will potentially make more money than you’d ever see in a pension. Just think, the next time a bullet flies in your direction, you may not be so lucky. Consider that while you are pondering.”

  She stops her sentence to look at her phone. “Sorry about that. I thought a client was sending a text, but it was only a news notification. According to the alert, your old buddy, Agnew McAllister, is holding a group of television executives hostage in Chicago.”

  “At this moment?”

  “Yes, as we speak. It’s probably on every news outlet.”

  “Bridget, I should probably get going,” I say, overwhelmed. “It has been a while since Agnew has been active. I should keep my eyes on this.”

  “Derek, I can understand your interest in following what is happening in Chicago, but you need to let go of this other thing involving the girl. The last thing you need is to waste more precious time looking for someone in Wilkinson Creek.”

  “I understand what you’re telling me, but I suddenly have an overpowering inkling to get her the hell out of that little town.”

  Chapter 22

  Mandi

  Some of us aren’t built for heroics—I’m certainly one of them. Fear can reach out with its frigid grip and paralyze you from taking that critical first step. At the moment, the trepidation of being in that dank abyss prevents me from getting within 50 feet of the wishing well. I hope to shut down the agonizing rollercoaster of emotions by mustering up some untapped bravery.

  I was lucky to find a bottle of Xanax in Clancy’s medicine cabinet, so I swallowed two tablets before leaving his house. Just in case I lose my shit down there, I still have one little white pill on reserve in my pocket. I have enough calmative drugs flowing through my veins to knock a professional wrestler on their duff. So far, it only seems to be keeping me from running in the opposite direction. Since it’s not even 5:30, plenty of daylight remains to get in and out of the wishing well before the sun begins slumping behind the buildings in front of Town Square.

  For fuck’s sake, you infiltrated Willie’s pitch-black basement last night. How different is this really? If you get injured down in the hole, at least you’ll be able to scream for help. Last night, your own uncle could have murdered you before your departing shrieks even reached anyone’s ears.

  Sometimes, all it takes is a significant push from your inner voice to get you off your ass. It’s time to quit stalling and walk over to the opening.

  For more encouragement, I whisper, “Just remember, you are doing this to rid the world of a psychopath that you let loose on the world. It’s worth twenty minutes of absolute terror to put a stop to the fucker’s killing spree.”

  I stand at the opening of the well, peering inside. My heart is pounding like a jackhammer. As Clancy promised, metal rungs are hammered into the right side of the concrete. From where I’m standing, all I can see is a bottomless pit swallowing up the darkness. Aside from an accumulation of coins and the submerged gun, I have no idea what might be lurking down there. The scurvy bitch from The Ring might have taken up residence in the blackness below, waiting to eat my soul.

  Yeah, this is going to be a picnic!

  If I could quit hyperventilating, I’d be able to climb down the makeshift ladder. Upon locating the leather case, this entire ordeal may finally be over. Let’s hope! No matter how often it is said that claustrophobia is a state of mind, I’ll never be able to acclimate to closed-in spaces without devolving into a state of panic. Even the sturdy rungs of the ladder offer no comfort.

  Move your ass already!

  Getting into the well is going to be the first challenge. When I was a kid, it was always more difficult to get out of a tree fort than it was to climb into it. I have to get my leather boots onto the rungs without slipping into the hole and breaking my neck. At least the soles of my boots aren’t worn down and slippery.

  No one can take this plunge for me. According to Clancy, it won’t count unless I physically remove the gun. It’s challenging to develop the guts when it’s demanded. It’s time to procrastinate procrastination and get on with it.

  “Here goes nothing and everything,” I whisper.

  I lean over the concrete base, gripping tightly to the metal post that connects to the roof. I swivel my body and turn onto my stomach. My flittering legs are searching for one of the metal
rungs pounded into the concrete. I want to scream because my foot is swinging around as if the bars have disappeared. Within a few seconds of extreme panic, I finally get a boot on the rung. I exhale the most violent breath of my entire life. I remove my right hand from the post and place it on the top metal bar.

  Okay, I can do this. Just don’t think about where you’re going. Don’t forget that you are in possession of two flashlights with fresh batteries. I didn’t have this much going for me last night when I was “mostly” operating in the dark down in Willie’s basement.

  I let go of the post with my other hand and get a death grip on the bar. After sucking down the last breath of surface oxygen, I begin my reluctant descent into the damp emptiness below. I’m trying to put all claustrophobic thoughts out of my mind as I climb down this provisional ladder. Overthinking continues to be one of my defects, so I’m trying to concentrate only on each rung as I drop further into the pit. 44 feet! As far as I know, just a few inches of water will be at the bottom. Below the foundation may be a passageway leading directly to the mouth of Hell. For all the anguish this wish has caused to the victims in Agnew’s path, I’d deserve it too.

  Chapter 23

  Derek

  Regardless of Bridget’s opinions, I no longer feel that I am merely chasing a figment of Mandi’s overactive imagination. While Bridget was offering her viewpoint, I worked out the fine details of Mandi’s testimony; I’m able to multitask while others are talking at me. I was on the fence that a motivated doppelganger may have thumped Mandi on the head and snatched her identity, but an imposter would have studied her mannerisms, habits, and penmanship. Most people involved in confidence schemes work out all the fine details before ever putting a scam in motion—and most would not blow their cover by committing a physical assault.

  My head and my gut often have conflicting views. I’d much rather discover that Mandi has been playing me for a chump than ignoring my intuition that she may be telling the truth—at least whatever version of the truth she truly believes.

  I’m struggling with the vision I had while under hypnosis. It certainly did not feel like anything my subconscious conjured up as a result of those pages Carmen showed me. It felt authentic. I wasn’t about to dismiss the likelihood that the vision was channeled in by Abellina. The strange shit that has been happening all seems to point at the mythical witch. I need to trust my instincts, no matter what anyone else tries to convince me to be true.

  I’m about seven miles outside of Wilkinson Creek, and the static in the air has grown thicker . . . this I also cannot ignore! It is too coincidental that the buzzing suddenly showed up on the day Mandi claims to have returned from her 87-minute adjustment to 1994. On this same day, Carmen “just happened” to find documents validating the existence of a witch that survived for 87 minutes in the womb—a baby that may possibly be Abellina. This is also the same day that a comic book landed in my folder that led me back to talk with Carmen. Less than an hour ago, I had a hypnotic episode through the eyes of an imprisoned girl. This afternoon is a world away from where it began for me less than ten hours ago.

  I decide to take a slight detour down Route 27. I must have passed that marker 30 times and never realized the road was even off to the right. I should be heading straight to Wilkinson Creek, but I need to ascertain whether or not that the rural highway in the recurring dream is nothing more than a freaky coincidence.

  Route 27 is quite narrow and dull. The faded centerline needs a severe coat of yellow paint. With all the deep potholes, this stretch of road would be a real bitch to navigate during a thunderstorm. According to the voice on the GPS, I only have six miles until I’m back on 173. The dream always takes place at night, so I realize the road will look much different during the daylight—if what I’ve visualized is even palpable. I pride myself on walking against the wind rather than with it. Let’s say if what I’m hoping to find turns out to be a complete washout, I’m still enjoying the pursuit!

  As I continue down the colorless rural back road, cornfields line each side with an occasional farmhouse or blue silo off on the horizon. I’d kill myself if I had to live in such seclusion. I round a sharp corner and pass a mailbox with “Woodbury” stenciled across the side. At least that’s what I think it said. That may be nothing more than a coincidence, but it’s optimistic seeing the last name of the boyfriend Mandi claimed I arrested on this road.

  Around the next corner, the cornfields suddenly end as dozens of white oaks are lining each side of the road. I slow the truck to a crawl, lean my chin on top of the steering wheel, and peer ahead.

  “This has to be it,” I mumble.

  I am so excited and nervous to see an area that bears a striking resemblance to the location from the dream. Since the road has a soft shoulder, I’m only able to park the truck in the right lane. I won’t be holding up traffic considering a single car hasn’t passed since pulling onto this road. I slide out of the driver’s seat to investigate.

  Once I step onto the hot pavement, I wince from the sharp pain in my head because the vibration in the air is much worse than what I felt back in Bluff Ridge. The sibilating of buzzing insects and the chirping of birds dramatically contributes to the pain. The cause of the vibration seems to be originating from over the tree line in the direction of Wilkinson Creek. It sure feels as if something ominous might be waiting a few miles down the road.

  Knowing that Agnew is surrounded by half of the Chicago PD, I’m not worried that the buzzing has anything to do with that wily asshole. From the helicopter’s view during the live feed, sharpshooters were on all sides of the structure. He won’t be sneaking out of that building so easily. Even so, I’m keeping my eye on the news.

  I shift my focus back to the road, staring down the centerline toward the horizon. I’m trying to judge the exact distance of those trees from what I saw in the dream. I slowly walk up the middle of the highway. After taking about thirty steps, I stop and glance down. The Kentucky-shaped crack is in the center of the concrete. It has been said that the hairs on your neck will stand up when you feel a ghostly presence, but those hairs also tingle when proof of a supernatural event is authenticated.

  “Son of a bitch,” I mumble.

  I know I’ve never been here before, yet I’m seeing the trees and the distinctive crack in the cement. I am confident that I’d remember standing in a spot like this. How often does anyone stand in the middle of a rural highway? This discovery may confirm that Mandi McAllister actually time traveled and caused all of us to live a different existence.

  The shit just got very “real.”

  Everything about saving Mandi in a parallel life appears to be true, or this is one fucking monster of a coincidence. There is no logical way I could have imagined a crack in the concrete in that shape. Unfortunately, I cannot tell anyone about such a finding.

  It’s difficult coming to terms that I saved Mandi’s life in an existence that was reconstituted. Over a quarter of a century was blotted out by a single act of a careless girl. More than anything, why was Mandi allowed to make such a monumental adjustment to her life that would impact so many other lives? Those seven murders were significant, but Agnew has slaughtered more than ten times as many people. Let us not forget that Willie got away with those violent crimes from her meddling. Was his arrest prevented as a way to bring Agnew into this world?

  I should be spiking the ball right now, but I cannot come up with a tangible reason that a woman or a witch would escort Mandi back to 1994 just to make her life even more chaotic upon returning. What would be the end game? I keep rebounding to the birth of Agnew as the primary objective to change the past. I find it a little peculiar that he is suddenly in the middle of a killing spree when I need to locate the young Ms. McAllister. It’s not as if there wasn’t enough to worry about!

  Chapter 24

  Melinda James

  This is such bullshit. I hate being surrounded by all these stiffs, but I hate being dissed even more. Although I should feel a
bit morbid for being able to function around this much death, these lifeless bodies are practically upstaging me.

  “In every standoff, you’ve always let one person walk away,” I say, hoping to appeal to his ‘media whore’ side. “Why did you just tell me to enjoy my last breaths?”

  “I usually do let one person live. Those people learn to savor life after the terror of being so close to having the curtains of their lives drawn forever.”

  “Well, that was poetic and colorful,” I mumble. Why am I trying to provoke this madman when only gratifying words are likely to spare my life?

  “Each new experience they have after surviving an ordeal is similar to the amazement of a young child tasting ice cream for the first time,” he adds, ignoring my derision. “Since you are an egocentric parasite, you would certainly spin this situation in your favor and tell further fabrications at my expense. Having said that, I’m abolishing my ‘one survivor’ policy on this occasion since nothing could be gained from letting you live. Upon ridding the world of Melinda James, not one person will shed a tear. I bet your own mother will think you had this coming. The honest press might commend me for removing another bottom feeder from the airwaves. We will know on the day of your funeral. I apologize you’ll be missing the festivities, in a matter of speaking.”

  “I’ve helped to turn you into a viral superstar,” I offer. I hope he can be reasoned with, but my panicky tone is beginning to show signs of wear. “You don’t get that type of notoriety simply by killing people. Lots of criminals become yesterday’s news until gutsy journalists, like me, spin it the right direction. The infamous always have a strong correspondent in their corner. By keeping me around, I can guarantee that you will always be the breaking story.”