“Well the names they gave me, at least their names in life, are Joseph and Jonathan Tillwater. Twins I believe.”
“Jonathan and Joseph? How did they get in here? They are not our most model citizens. In fact, they are a violent couple of siblings. Are you hurt?”
“They could not hurt me, but thank you for asking.”
Josiah turned sober eyes to Kenneth. “They are dead.”
“That's the stupidest things I've ever heard.” She turned to Ken. “I saw them walking by my grandma's home, heads together, conspiring something horrible I'm sure, as we were going to get her for church.”
“They are dead, I assure you. They were sent to threaten me, no doubt, by their leader, named Iconoclast.”
“What did you say?” Kenneth and Kat spoke at the same time.
“Iconoclast. Do you know that name?”
Kat felt the hair rising on the back of her neck and goose bumps rising on her arms. Her grandmother had just shared that name with Kenneth a few hours ago. Many, many knew the legend; but she held that name close, as had her grandmother and mother before her. The unease in Kat's stomach was growing.
“Iconoclast. The demon sent to destroy this town and anyone who resides in it. Anyway, you will find their bodies at the top of Ravens Ravine, just as you did the others.
“Go see for yourself. But make sure the sheriff is with you, along with a third member of the town, I would suggest Pastor Lucas. The power is growing and it is growing in and from what resides in that ravine.”
“I can't take a pastor to a crime scene!”
“Suit yourself; but you'd be far better off with him than without him. Come back to see me when you're finished. I'll be her.” Josiah smiled. It was the first look of mirth that crossed his eyes in the time they had known him.
“I'll do just that.”
As they were leaving, Kenneth wrenched his cell phone from his pocket and hit speed dial. Sheriff Bart had been more than happy to give him the home phone in case of emergency. Bart picked up on the third ring.
“Williams says there are more bodies. Something about being visited by ghost twins.”
“Where are you? And how did you talk to Williams?”
Kat heard “How” and “Williams” and took the phone. She would need to head off the anger that her cousin was going to feel when he realized she had let Kenneth into the station without his knowledge.
“Hey, Bart.” She hurried into her explanation. “Funny thing about this Williams, Bart, he knew the name of that thing that only grandma knows.” No one, but no one, said that word in Ravens Cove. They might not believe in the legend, but better safe than sorry. Anyone who resided in Ravens Cove had abided by that rule, if, that is, they had ever been privy to the name.
“And he told us that the Tillwater twins are dead. Said they had been to visit him tonight.” She rolled her eyes at Ken— what a crazy man they had locked up.
“I told him I had just seen them this afternoon but he insisted they are dead, lying at the top of the ravine just like the other two victims.”
“This had better not be one of your infamous jokes, Kat!”
“I would never joke about a suspected murder or anything else so horrible!” Kat was offended that her cousin would question her motives, especially in light of the situation.
“Right, well, I'm warning you just in case.”
“I'll meet you at the office. Go inside, and get comfortable. I'm on my way now.” If this was true, that man had to have an accomplice. It would have been easy enough to get the info to Williams via the glass and barred window above the cell. A written note would have done the trick. But how would he have known the twins’ names? No one in Ravens Cove carried much ID. Why bother? No one drove much; everyone knew everyone and everyone pretty much paid cash, except the tourists.
“I don't know how, but I'm going to find out!” Bart muttered. He grabbed his gun belt, cinching it in place. He took his weapon, holstered it and headed for the door.
What met Bart stopped him in his tracks. Bart's ruddy complexion drained to pale white.
“Sheriff.” A toothless chasm of a mouth gurgled his name. John Doe bowed. “Thanks for nothin.’ I came to this town to find a job, get a life, and maybe get visitation rights with my kids again. And, here I is, life lost no thanks to you!”
The guilt and shame of not protecting his town poured in on Bart. He felt the guilt and despair boil to the surface.
“You're a loser, always been a loser, always will be a loser, Bartholomew Andersen. And, Loser…” the ghost held up dripping, decaying fingers in the L so well known to Bart. It had been the town bully's, Mickie Colmbs, signal that the harassment was ending, at least that session of the harassment.
“Your town is ours and you can't do anything to stop it! Back off, loser, or you'll wish you were dead before you ever meet your new boss!” John Doe sped forward at a lightning pace and bit down on Bart's arm.
Bart's mouth opened wide in a silent, terrified scream. He couldn't move or speak. John Doe sped into the air, going for his next victim.
Bart found the presence of mind to slam the door. He slid down behind it, legs unable to hold him. He hid his eyes behind the palms of his hand and began to cry. “I am a loser, the biggest of them all.” The childhood horror of Mikie Colmbs and his band of hooligans flooded Bart and he remembered all the physical punches, all the name calling, and the sniggering.
Bart began fingering his gun. He snapped it free from the holster, playing with the hilt. It was comforting. He pulled the gun from the holster, staring down the barrel.
—
“You must go now, Katrina and Kenneth. Go now!” Kat and Kenneth heard Josiah, as plain as if he were in the room with them, not closed in behind the door that led to his tiny cell.
They both jumped up and ran back to the cell. Josiah was holding onto the bars, so tight his knuckles were white.
“Go where?”
“To the sheriff's home. He's in danger.”
Neither of them thought to question Josiah. Both of them knew the sheriff was late. They rushed from the jail, Kat leading the way up the street to a house kitty-corner from Pastor Lucas’ residence that sat behind his church.
The lights were on. The door was shut. Kat jogged up the old wooden steps on the narrow, wood-planked porch, long ago painted grey. She slipped on something and started falling. Before she could even think to be scared, her head was going for a hard, concussion-producing, hit. She felt her arm yank upward right before her head met the wood.
“That hurt!” She was sure her arm was dislocated. She was relieved to find it moved without pain.
Ken had grabbed her and pulled her forward against him, somehow managing to get in front of her and the slick, purple and black, sulfuric-smelling liquid oozing from the welcome mat at the front door. He held her closer. Kat let him.
She smelled like vanilla and musk. The combination was heady. He wanted her. For a moment, he forgot where they were. In that moment, she was the only thing that existed. He fought for focus.
He looked down at the ooze standing atop the mat and his mood changed. He grabbed latex gloves from his jacket pocket along with a cotton-tipped swab and a jar.
“What else you got in that jacket, an autopsy kit?” Kat couldn't believe what she had just seen. Talk about prepared.
“Bet you were a boy scout, huh?”
Ken was crouching over the pungent, sweet-smelling gel. He looked up.
“Eagle Scout.”
“Well that answers that.” Kat watched as he went to work on the goo that she wouldn't have gone near with a ten-foot pole, as her grandmother was fond of saying.
She knocked on Bart's door, then tried the handle. The door was unlocked, but it wouldn't budge.
“Bart? BART?” Kat's voice rose in alarm.
Ken tried the door. Something, or someone was blocking it. Not a good sign.
“Is there another way in?”
“Back doo
r.” She started running. Kenneth overtook her. If Bart was injured or worse, dead, he wanted to get there before Kat could get inside.
He made it to the back door, opened it and entered. What he saw sent a cold chill up his spine.
Bart was staring down the barrel of his prized .357 Magnum, almost in awe. Transfixed by it. Ken heard him muttering. “Loser. Always was, always am, always will be a loser,” over and over again. The hair on the back of Ken's neck rose to attention.
“Bart,” Ken whispered, taking a step forward.
Kat slid in behind Ken, stopped just short of knocking him over and then looked to the right of Ken's bulk. Her cousin, her beloved macho cousin, sat in a heap on the floor, staring at a gun.
Kat gasped, a sob escaping her mouth. She retreated behind Ken, trying to gather her thoughts, leaning on him. A refreshing strength came out of nowhere. She was sure she would have gone to her knees an instant before.
“What do we do?” she whispered to Ken's back. Ken reached behind and touched her right arm. It was going to be okay she felt him saying to her in that one gesture.
A loud knock on the door. To their relief, it didn't faze Bart. If he had jumped, Ken thought, that would be the end. Ken was sure that the safety was off.
“Go find out who that is, Kat.” She wanted to protest but thought better of it. Kat slipped out the back, around the side of the house and looked over the porch banister.
“Pastor Lucas?”
Paul turned to the voice.
“What are you doing here? If you need the sheriff, I'll get him to you as soon as I can. He's, um, not feeling too well right now.”
“I believe the sheriff needs me, Ms. Tovslosky.”
She stared at the pastor, not understanding.
“I know you don't agree with my beliefs but right now, all I can tell you is that I was on my way to bed when I felt an overwhelming urge to come here. He is in imminent danger and, well, not to mince words, he is under oppression, if not a possession. He is going to kill himself if we don't help him.”
Kat stared at Paul. What was going on in this town? People knew things they shouldn't. It was like the whole place was bugged and the information was getting to two of the most unbelievable, if not just plain fanatical, people in Ravens Cove.
“Come with me.” She motioned Paul to the back of the house.
“Has that sticky-stuff on the porch been there long?” he asked.
“No.”
That was all the answer Paul needed. He knew what he was up against. He had seen that liquid and its source in a vision. He removed the Bible from his coat, began praying and trusted in the armor of God that he felt surrounding him. The battle had begun.
Ken stood right where Kat had left him. “He's not aware of us,” was all he said as Kat tiptoed up beside him. Tears filled her eyes to see her tough, strong, protector in this unrecognizable lump on the floor.
Pastor Lucas walked up beside Kat. “Peace to this house,” he said in a firm voice.
Bart stopped muttering, but continued to examine the barrel of his .357 Magnum.
The three of them created a human wall that filled the large open doorway that led from Bart's kitchen to his living room.
Ken shot a questioning look at the new arrival. He knew he should be surprised but there had been so many strange events in the last two days, he didn't give Lucas’ appearance more than a second thought.
Pastor Lucas opened a well-worn, leather-bound Bible and began to read.
Ken gave a resigned shrug. It couldn't hurt.
Paul closed the Bible with a snap. He straightened, resolute in a decision and walked forward before Ken could pull him back. Ken considered tackling the pastor, safety being his main concern. But something held his arms and he felt helpless as he watched the pastor stride over to Bart.
“Bartholomew Andersen, look at me.” Bart sat motionless. “In the name of Jesus, Bartholomew, look at me.” Bart raised hollow, unseeing eyes in the direction of the voice.
Paul noticed a red stain on Bart's flannel shirt. The stain was enlarging at an alarming rate.
“Do you want help, Bartholomew? Do you want me to help you?”
Bart's eyes focused for a moment. He nodded before the glaze returned.
Paul motioned the others forward. They didn't move.
“Come here, we must do this in agreement. If any of us is unwilling to call upon God to help him, we will fail. Please come forward.”
Ken started forward and that's when he noticed that Bart's grip had loosened on the gun. He took a chance.
He jumped forward, grabbed for the gun. Bart tightened his grip. Ken pushed Bart's hands up with one arm, stretched for the gun with the other. Bart held tight.
“Jesus, in your name, help him.”
Ken felt a surge of strength. He pulled upward again. Bart's finger had been on the trigger and his grip loosened but not before he pulled the trigger. The gun turned toward the wall as it fired, just missing Ken's face and grazing Bart's. It bounced and a second shot tore through the living room window before the firearm skidded to a halt half beneath Bart's old brown couch.
“That was too close for comfort,” was all Ken could bring himself to say, voice shaking, adrenaline and a strength that was beyond Ken's understanding still coursing through him.
Kat ran over, grabbed the gun. She snapped the safety in place and tucked the gun behind her back. She handled the gun as well as anyone on the police force.
Kat sauntered back to her position beside Kenneth, relaxing for the first time since they had arrived. That's when she saw Bart's arm, the blood had turned to a nasty brown; the arm was swelling.
“We have to get him to the hospital.”
“A hospital won't help, unless we deal first with his soul. We must pray to bring him back. He might resist, but we must lay hands on him. Are you two willing to do that?”
Kat was uneasy with this holy roller stuff. Her grandma had tried to get her into it at a young age. She had given it a shot but ended up believing that the dancing in the aisles, laying on of hands, and speaking in tongues was a result of group hysteria. Group conscience could be powerful. Now, she was being asked to do something she believed to be fake. This was a difficult decision.
Kenneth had just plain given up. He wasn't sure what he was to do with this crazy town and the weird happenings. He was the first to put his hand on Bart. Bart didn't move.
Kat looked at Bart. She would do anything for him. She resigned herself and laid her right hand on Bart's head.
Paul followed suit, putting one hand on Bart's head and the other over the oozing wound.
“In the name of Jesus, Bartholomew Andersen, give us the name of who attacked you.”
“Corpse Lights,” he whispered. His eyes flew open in remembrance of something horrible.
Paul looked at Kat and Ken for an explanation. Ken shrugged.
The light of recognition had risen in Kat's eyes. Another legend. For Pete's sake, did they ever end? Look what superstition had done to her cousin. Well, the psychology of the human mind was complex. She'd play along.
“Corpse Light is an ethereal ball of light—ghost as some might say. In the story, it is described as a lost or wandering soul, denied entry into both heaven and hell. It wanders the night and tries to lure people to their destruction. I have no idea why he made it plural; and I have no idea why that came out of his mouth.” Kat's eyes fell on her beloved cousin. She fought back the tears that had threatened to fall since they had arrived.
“Who did you see, Bart? Who did this to you?” It had to be those stupid twins. She couldn't reconcile how they had gotten the better of him.
As if knowing her thoughts and feelings, Paul put a hand over hers. She calmed and was able to focus.
“Bart, you have been attacked; you have been attacked by a force that was not physical.”
Bart nodded in agreement.
“Bart, you are not crazy. Jesus is here to work through us to bring y
ou back.”
The name of Jesus brought a sudden flicker to Bart's empty eyes.
Paul took his hand off Kat's and placed it back on Bart's head. He closed his eyes and bent his head. Kat and Ken did the same.
“Spirit what is your name? In the name of Jesus, I command you answer.”
Bart lifted his head in defiance but stayed silent.
Paul stared into Bart's empty, black irises. “Again, I command you in the name of Jesus to answer!”
An eerie, malicious grin came to Bart's face. He tried to struggle, but couldn't move. The wound began to seep at an even faster pace.
“What does a name matter?” Bart's mouth opened but a foreign, high screech of a voice proceeded from his lips.
“Your name!”
“Trepaner,” it sneered. “Stupid man, I am Trepaner!” The hate seethed through Bart's teeth.
“The Lord Jesus Christ rebuke you, Trepaner. Come out of this man, in Jesus’ name.”
What happened next, neither Kat nor Kenneth could comprehend. An ebony mist, smelling of rotted flesh and excrement, rose from Bart. It was as real as if another person had entered the room.
“Be gone. Go back to your master and tell him the battle is lost. That Jesus will not allow him to take this man or this town.”
“We'll see, stupid mortal, we'll see. This is my master's town. It is not yours!”
“This earth was given to man, not to you and your master! God has written it and so it is true!”
Trepaner screeched and rocketed upward and out through the roof.
Bart's eyes focused on Kat, then Ken and Paul.
“What are you doing here?” he growled. He looked around and saw where he was. “What am I doing on the floor?”
Kat smiled, relief poured over her like a wave.
“Wipe the grin off your face, KittyKat.”
“You're a big bonehead, Bartholomew Nelson Andersen!” She knew how Bart hated his given name spoken in entirety, especially in front of strangers. Game, set, match! Bart's expression said it all.
“We need to get you to the hospital.”
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