So I rounded upon a solution I hadn’t thought about in years, after the remains of Ellen Dodge turned up. She had been young, full of life, with promising talent in music. But those promises were left unfulfilled, the monstrous beast having ripped his way into the tiny, fragile life before she had time to become a woman. It was that moment that I decided, with a hollow certainty, that my hand would be the one to remove my father from this planet. No reasonable force could have been employed to halt my father’s rampant perversion, and I was filled with an intense passion so deep that all other emotions were put on hold, right up until I pulled the blade across his throat and spilled his blood into the pond at Riverdell’s favorite park.
I didn’t feel it at first—drowning in that kind of adrenaline does that to a person—but at that moment, my father’s body in my arms, a crack appeared in my emotional dam, one which deepened and widened until, at his funeral, the dam broke and I became something close to human—an encompassing metamorphosis facilitated by Beth and Todd.
In order to overcome my new adversary, Jeremy Keroth, I had to open up to them about my past—both the molesty part and the killy part. It took little convincing to get either of them to see that I did what was necessary. To my surprise, they took to the news rather well. Of course, any revelation like that warrants worse than any reaction they’ve given me over time, and my gratitude for that (and for them) runs deeper than they know, with an equally substantial abundance.
In my hurried search for a place to lie low, I stumbled into Ghost Fork and read up on it. According to its website, it was one of the most common rendezvous points during the nineteenth century trapping rush. It was centric to the northern states’ trade routes, often dipping just below the Canadian border, and for a few years, it showed quite a lot of promise and growth. That was up until the late 1800s, when the Industrial Revolution blazed a trail through the nation on tracks of iron and steel and copper. These tracks were ill-suited for the twisting and careening paths through Wyoming, and any venture to Ghost Fork thus became a detour, an accident, demoted from its former role as a destination.
In that era, it was called Thunder Fork, not for the less-than-copious thunderstorms but for the roar of the waterfalls to the north and south. They aren’t audible from town, but the article asserted that they once were. My thought, at first, was that ‘Ghost’ was to symbolize the town’s economic death, but as the piece later reveals, it’s an allusion to a legend that was popularized in 1905, that the downfall of the town was an act of penance, that the natives that were slaughtered en masse as a means to realize the American Dream had given birth to a collective vendetta so powerful that it was able to influence the fate of the town.
Why Thunder Fork, though? Why not San Francisco or a more alluring frontier from the gold rush? If the legend is to be believed, as most of the city’s population seem to, it’s because the ‘spiritual magnitude’ of Thunder Falls, the roaring waterfall west of town, was the only one strong enough for the natives’ spirits to influence enough to make a difference through the barriers between worlds.
Although I consider myself quite a skeptic, I find myself intrigued by the myth. In addition to the blurry photos, the city website has a link to a paranormal forum and, more specifically, to a thread dedicated exclusively to Ghost Fork’s legend. I clicked the link out of curiosity when I first settled in and, to my surprise, the thread had been active and rife with conversation since its creation eight years ago. So now, in my near limitless time to kill, I spend more time browsing the thread than I care to acknowledge. Many of the posts are speculative pieces by people who have never been to Ghost Fork. They often claim to be planning a trip here, but further investigation, apparently, leads them to canceling those trips. There are a few people who comment and post the most, but aside from undead_chaplain and xXDeathHunterXx, there’s a healthy, diverse group breathing life into the page.
My natural, habitual impulse now, is to open my phone’s web browser to read the new comments, but my mind is trying to kick into gear after a month of blatant neglect and operation in survival mode. If brains can atrophy, I’m certain I pulled it off. I can almost smell the rusty cogs of my mind trying to lock into patterns and mesh together, like turning on the heat for the first time of the winter.
Before, I had one person texting me, one force of influence outside my own mind. But now, another, only slightly less credible force jumps in to disrupt everything, to toss a layer of complex ambiguity onto the life I’ve worked so hard to make simple, easy, accessible to myself and no one else. A force trying to discredit the other.
I feel sick. I need Todd.
I have no clue how much time I spend with those received text messages displayed on my screen, occasionally tapping the text entry field to compose a message, only to delete the whole thing and back out. My first question of import isn’t even how to play it, but rather, whether to play it. If I engage, become an active piece of the game, a moving part, another piece to keep track of, and though my movements will be, to me, far easier to keep track of, I also have to bear in mind how those movements will affect the other pieces. In those terms, the fewer moving parts the better.
So I close out of my text messages and resume my routine of scrolling through page after page of logically skewed recaps of definitely-for-real ghost encounters, a map of Ghost Fork that updates in real time to display the locations of the numerous paranormal visits in the area, color coded to indicate the type of encounter—red for a sighting with interaction, yellow for a sighting with no interaction, green for disturbances without manifestation such as rattling plates, knocking picture frames down, or whispered threats of scalping or dismemberment.
Interestingly, the town rests on a fault, and every influx of green dots, chronologically, coincides with an influx of seismic activity, as is revealed by another Internet search. I don’t bring this point up, though. I am only an observer, and their enthusiasm for the lore and history is harmless; no need to burst that bubble. It’s amusing to watch, too, and I keep being tempted to go and explore these places myself. I’m confident that I won’t have a ghost encounter of my own, but abandoned buildings are a guilty pleasure of mine. The outskirts of the town are abandoned entirely, their former occupants having fled to greener pastures during the upswing of the Industrial Revolution: the town’s center. The former tenants couldn’t actually afford to leave town, but when their wealthier neighbors left their houses empty and unsold in favor of a profitable, accessible endeavor on the West Coast, they were able to move into the nicer homes at no cost. What a time it must have been.
I do my best to ignore the insistent goings-on of my life and my text messages, but they ache and wrap and strangle like a weed, and the garden of my mind is no longer of the zen variety.
For just a moment, I become almost angry about the fact, like it’s a personal and intentional attack on the tiny, quiet life I’ve created. But alas, at least one of these messengers is not, unless the two are colluding, which seems unlikely. In the end, I circle back to my first plan: to ignore and observe until one or the other makes a decisive move. Though my will is strong, it will take quite a lot of effort to ignore them as I must, with so much time and energy unclaimed in my system these days. Perhaps I can find an outlet for it all.
I pull the map back up on my phone and study it. The most prominent cluster of dots is in the woods to the northwest, where some cabins’ remains sit on a hill overlooking Ghost Falls.
Two
Ghost Falls is the only substantial economic asset of Ghost Fork. It’s a behavioral treatment center that serves high-risk teen boys with various histories and diagnoses: abuse, substance abuse, alcoholism, suicide and self-harm, aggression, etc. It became a boarding school in 1972, but as the demand for higher security schooling grew in the ’80s, the owner, Randy Thunderhorn, saw the opportunity and took it. Hiring and retaining therapists and administrators proved difficult, but in time, the facility found itself with a handful of dedicated,
competent therapists, as well as some recreational therapists, administrators, and several dozen staff from within the town. The teachers, culinary staff, and maintenance crew also live in town. In fact, the only Ghost Falls worker who did not live within a five minutes’ drive was Mr. Thunderhorn himself.
When the town was still a booming, prolific beacon, Randy’s grandfather, Timothy, built an extra cabin near his house to take in a couple of homeless kids. Over time, he found that he loved it so much, he kept adding and adding. Sometime later, the kids he initially took in had grown, gone off to college, and returned full of ideas about how to make the facility more suitable both to Timothy and to a larger number of kids. At that point, the school was named Thunder Falls Academy; Timothy had liked Thunder Falls better than Thunder Fork, and besides, why should he name it after the town, anyway?
So Thunder Falls Academy grew and, mostly by word of mouth, came to be known as one of the best, most accommodating schools in the country. Thunderhorn’s students, according to reports, had a ninety-two percent graduation rate, and of those graduates, nearly all of them had gone on to college, and aside from a tiny percentage, the others were successful in their own trades. After some time, a sister school came to be, damn near identical to the first one but for girls instead of boys, and many of those went on to graduate as well.
However, the sister school got shut down when one of the staff was caught making sexual advances toward one of the girls, who then hung herself in the bathroom with a length of bedsheet. The schools both came under heat, but mostly they were only scrutinized. In the end, the girls’ facility closed (despite the facility itself not receiving any punishment) due to nobody wanting to send their daughter to a school where a girl killed herself in response to the sexual advances of people who were supposed to keep them safe.
The boys’ campus suffered in business for a while, closed for a week, then reopened and donned its current name: Ghost Falls. Randy Thunderhorn was reluctant to change the name, but the title of Thunder Falls had become associated with too much notoriety to retain.
Ironically, the town had been one of the few places untouched by the economic roller coaster that was the 1900s, as it was fairly small and independent. In its immunity, it was able to laugh in the faces of the throngs who left to pursue riches in California, only to be met with the impoverished nightmare versions of their dreams.
The growth of Ghost Falls as a treatment facility was much more gradual than when it was a boarding school, but business was steady—a nation in crisis produces a lot of troubled youth.
So now, the former girls’ campus sits abandoned and, as I study the map, I find that none of the dots are actually in the school. They’re all around it, on the lawn, in the woods, but none inside. Perhaps I can put one there. It’ll be a nice way for me to get out and get my mind off of things without being seen, at least.
Beyond that, I have my curiosity about the case that ended up closing the school. A desperate part of my mind tells me not to get involved, reminding me of the horrors that occurred in Wometzia as soon as I started getting involved in their local law enforcement. But I’m not going to be associating with the actual police force in this town. Neither my name nor my address will go into their records (or any other, for that matter), so with a little extra caution, my investigation into this case will go unnoticed.
The debate in my mind about whether or not I should go lasts only a minute or so, then I’m packing a backpack with an extra pair of clothes, a water bottle, a flashlight, some spare batteries, a couple of snacks, a paperback, and a pocket knife. As I pack, I can’t help but reflect on a couple of instances of my childhood, in which I was so stoically determined to run away, to leave that spectacular mess of a household in my figurative rearview mirror and let it sink beyond the horizon. Each time, I fled to the same spot, set on making it my new home. It was a nice little cave, cut into the rock behind one of the many small waterfalls that punctuate the streams and creeks of Riverdell. As a child, the area was quite spacious, but having used the same cave as a hiding place ten months ago, I could more accurately assess that that waterfall would, as a living space, accommodate no one.
I consider packing my gun, but the idea of being approached by a random cop on patrol and having to explain why I have a firearm on me while I trespass in an abandoned section of town douses that notion. It would be fairly easy to explain it away as having gotten lost in new, unfamiliar territory on an attempted camping trip, but in the interest of invisibility, having a weapon is a detriment; eyebrows raised means that I’ll be recognized, remembered. I stow my weapon in the old nightstand by my bed and double-check my pack one more time. I screenshot the map so as to retain access to it even if I lose my mobile Internet reception, as well as to expedite its accessibility.
And with that, I’m off into the night.
My affinity for the hours of darkness is one that was born and nourished of a mind perpetually trying to tame the chaos around it. At night, much of the sensory stimulation dies down. The noise of the day—both visual and auditory—boils down to a much more stomachable whisper, allowing room for conscious thought of a caliber that daylight simply doesn’t permit.
As such, my moonlit walk to the new city boundaries (implemented after the mass exodus and the school’s shutdown), is easy and enjoyable. The crisp wind carries with it the RSVP of the coming autumn, cool and sweet with just the smallest hint of a bite.
After some time that feels like none, I stand at the town’s edge, an abrupt collision between two worlds: behind me, the world of man, architecture, evolution, and civilization. In front of me, a remnant, a memory, an imprint of the world behind me, the Salvador Dalí version, dilapidated and a visible victim of the passage of time. The greenery, once neatly trimmed to man’s liking, grows thick, unchecked, and unrestrained, now with a furious vigor known only by those who’ve been oppressed then freed. Whether in my imagination or in reality, an owl hoots. I continue walking.
A dirt road lies ahead of me, glowing in a pale blue light, a slave unto the night. I suppose that even the rejuvenated fervor of the plant life hasn’t yet permeated the packed dirt of the past’s traffic.
The moon is almost full, but not quite. I’m not terribly familiar with the lunar calendar, but it seems that another day or two of waxing will yield a full moon. Another few cycles and my good friend Orion will return to the sky to shepherd me through the winter.
It dawns on me that I never told Todd about my affection for Orion. The part of my heart that belongs to him throbs in ache before I can will my mind away from that intrusive, painful thought.
A minute longer of walking lands me closer to one of the famous waterfalls, evident by the low, steady roar I hear in the distance, growing just a bit louder with every step.
The ground beneath my feet is dirt and rock, in a ratio that might make footfalls loud under normal circumstances, but whether because of the recent rain or from the humidity of being within the proximity of the waterfall, the soil is damp and thus accommodating to one who wishes to be silent, like me. In fact, in a matter of time, I can’t even hear my own steps over the waterfall’s growing whrrr.
The earth has a tendency to release the most intoxicating aromas when it’s damp, and tonight is no exception. I breathe in for a moment, and bask in the natural odors: the moist dirt, the rocks, and the plants smelling of a sweetness that reminds me of camping in Oregon.
I have only been camping once, officially. I was nine, and fear set in when we were told to pack our bags. My imagination went to all sorts of wild places—was my father really just…taking us camping? Like a Normal Family? Surely he had some kind of ulterior motive. My incredulity didn’t waver until we reached the campsite. There was nobody we knew around, so it couldn’t have been for show, but there were strangers in nearby sites, so he also wasn’t planning to murder us, probably.
Then he actually taught my sister, Trina, and me how to fish. He didn’t yell or threaten or by any other m
eans attempt to intimidate us. Trina and I were allowed to run around and explore the forest on our own, and when we returned, Mom and Dad were waiting with hot food. Mom seemed to be in good spirits, and didn’t have any new bruises—at least, any visible ones.
We ate fish for dinner every night on that trip, as they were abundant. As it turned out, Trina was better at fishing than Dad, and caught even more than him.
For a glorious few days, it seemed like maybe that was the end, like the demon possessing my father had gotten bored and retired. Was my father changing? Turning over a new leaf, as they say? Was he even capable of such a change?
As it turned out, no. To this day, I have no clue what inspired that trip, nor do I know what got him to behave like a human for an entire week, but from then on, that was a memory I could escape to whenever I needed an out.
Hell, maybe that was the motive: to try to convince us that he had remnants of humanity in him, just buried under the steaming mounds of manure with which he normally manifested. Or so that when teachers asked what our favorite summer memory was, we could answer honestly with something other than, “My dad was out of town for a weekend and I didn’t get hit once.”
Whatever the case was, it didn’t last long; when we got home, my mom forgot to put the remaining beers into the fridge. He beat the hell out of her that night. There were times I used to think of trust as malleable, flexing, expanding and shrinking over time. Since then, I’ve reflected on that memory and acquired a certainty that trust is not only rigid beyond belief, but just about impossible to repair, like a pane of glass.
However, when imbued with the beauty of a trusting relationship, it takes on a magnificence, and becomes the most lovingly crafted stained glass you’ll ever see.
Thunder Falls Page 2