Dark Halls - A Horror Novel

by Jeff Menapace

  “Did she pass away too? His sister?”

  “As far as I know, she’s still alive. My mom and I haven’t seen her in years. I think she went a little loopy after my dad died. She’s kind of a recluse now.”

  “Does she still live in the area?”

  “No idea. Their family had a house they shared for generations in the area, but I’m not sure what the status of that is today. To be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was committed to an asylum by now. At least that’s what my mother says. Again, she kinda went loopy after my dad died.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Samantha Lawrence.”

  “Your mom ever consider changing back to her maiden name?”

  “Doubt it. I think she keeps the name out of respect for my dad. Plus, she told me she was never fond of her maiden name.”

  “Which is?”

  “Moyer.”

  (Even the remaining members of the Tarver family moved far, far away and changed their name to Moyer. And can you blame them? Having a whacko like that in their family?)

  Trish’s words coming back to him, as though she was next to him now, whispering them in his ear.

  “Hello? Ryan, are you still there?”

  Ryan’s mind was on fire with discovery. He went to answer, but doubted his own tongue.

  “I’m here,” he managed. “I’ve got to go now, Rebecca.”

  So, that’s it? You’re just gonna let her go?

  Yes… His previous thought—You can win her back later, but not if you’re dead—now had a firm ally that was, …for now. Can’t necessarily try to win her back when I’m in the middle of trying to expose her crazy fucking mother, can I?

  “Are you all right?” Rebecca asked.

  Such a loaded question. He knew she was referring to the breakup, but oh, if she only knew.

  “Fine,” he lied. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

  Ryan hung up just as she went to respond.

  What was she going to say?

  Does it matter right now?

  He turned off his phone in case she decided to call back. And that was okay, he supposed. Better to think he was sulking rather than playing Scooby Doo with Stew and Karl.

  “Well?” Stew said.

  Ryan faced them. “We need to go find a woman by the name of Samantha Lawrence right now.”

  “A relative?” Stew said.

  Ryan nodded. Then: “Speaking of relatives, it appears that Carol Lawrence is related to one Miss Helen Tarver after all.”

  57

  Finding Samantha Lawrence was no easy task. Even excessive digging on the internet revealed very little. Ryan’s solution? Trish’s uncle.

  Ryan had met the man briefly at Trish’s funeral, a fortunate thing as no introduction was needed over the phone, just a reminder as to who Ryan was.

  Trish’s uncle was happy to help; he too simply could not believe Trish had taken her life on her own accord. Ryan did not bog the man down with specifics as to why they were looking for Samantha Lawrence—Carol; black magic; the works—for fear of scaring the man away (although Trish had told Ryan that her uncle was into all kinds of conspiracy theories and would have likely digested such outlandish claims). Ryan had just stated that they needed to find the woman to help bring closure to Trish’s death and to please take his word for it. And again, Trish’s uncle was happy to help, on the condition that Ryan would keep him in the loop with whatever they found.

  Ryan of course promised, and before long, Samantha Lawrence had an address. The name tied to that address, however, was not Samantha Lawrence (which came as no great surprise to any of them), but to one Karen Webster. And they were headed east on Route 76 towards Philadelphia now, to pay “Karen Webster” a visit.

  “God bless the man,” Stew said, referring to Trish’s uncle. Stew was driving. Ryan rode shotgun. Karl was in back.

  “Don’t get too excited just yet,” Ryan said. “Just because we found out where she lives doesn’t mean she’s still there, or that she’s going to even talk to us.”

  “She’ll talk to us,” Stew said. “If it’s about her brother and the woman who murdered him?”

  “Rebecca said she was a little loopy,” Ryan said. “She might not have a clue what we’re talking about, or even what planet she’s on.”

  “What we need to do is get back to the school as soon as possible and put an end to all of this,” Karl said.

  “How, Karl?” Ryan said mockingly. “Please tell me how.”

  “What do you mean how?”

  “Even if we go back to the school and I take you to the precise spot in the boiler room where I found her altar, what then?”

  “We call the police is ‘what then.’ We have her ass arrested.”

  “Are you honestly going to tell me that the police can help us in a situation like this? Whatever the hell Carol Lawrence or Moyer or whatever the fuck her name is has started, how can the police stop it? They can arrest her, sure, but that won’t change what she’s done to me. Her psycho fucking wheels involving yours truly are already well in motion, and we need to find a way to reverse the fuckers before you guys are attending my funeral next.”

  “No need for such language, Ryan,” Stew said.

  Ryan said nothing.

  Stew then said: “So your hope is that Samantha Lawrence can somehow help us with all that? Reverse what’s been done to you?”

  “No, Stew, we’re just dropping by to say hello.”

  58

  Rebecca sat on the edge of her bed, cell phone in hand. She had tried calling Ryan back a number of times but got his voicemail immediately, no ring. He’d clearly turned it off.

  Her mind raced. She couldn’t make sense of his earlier questioning. Why did he want to know about her father? Was this the odd behavior her mother was referring to? Was Ryan mentally ill? She definitely felt something for him. Damn the risk of entering the world of cheese—she had felt a “spark” between them. But spark or no spark, wasn’t it all ultimately irrelevant? If the guy was mentally unstable…

  “Hi, Becks.” Her mother stood in the doorway. Rebecca wondered whether she’d listened to their conversation. “Everything okay?”

  Rebecca looked down at her phone and then back up at her mother. “I spoke to Ryan. I told him it was over.”

  Carol took a seat next to her daughter on the bed. “I’m sorry, sweetheart; I know that must have been hard.” A pause and then: “How did he take it?”

  “He was upset, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “He seemed upset at first—” She sighed. “But then he got weird again.”

  “You see? You made the right choice.” She began rubbing Rebecca’s back.

  “Yeah…”

  Another pause. Carol then asked: “What did he do that was so weird this time?” “He started asking me questions about Dad.”

  Carol stopped rubbing her daughter’s back. “Your father? Why was he asking questions about your father?”

  Rebecca shrugged, her head down, turning her phone over and over in her hand. “No idea. Who knows why he does any of the things he does.”

  “What kind of questions did he ask?”

  “How he died. What he was like. He even asked about Aunt Samantha.”

  Carol’s posture changed, her back stiffening. “Samantha? Why would he ask about her? How would he even know about her?”

  “I told him Dad had become born again, and that Aunt Samantha might have been an influence.”

  “I see.”

  Rebecca lifted her head and looked at her mother. “Why do you think he would ask all those things? It was all so random.”

  Carol placed a hand on her daughter’s knee and patted it five times—one; one, two, three; one. “I wouldn’t worry about it, sweetheart. Like I said, the boy is unstable. You did the right thing ending it when you did. You’ve got a huge day ahead of you tomorrow—kids arriving and all. This is the last thing you need to worry about.”


  Rebecca nodded and leaned into her mother for a hug.

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too, Becks.”

  59

  “Yeesh,” Ryan said as the three men pulled up to the home of Samantha Lawrence—aka Karen Webster. “You think Lurch will answer when we ring the bell?”

  “Apparently not a Better Homes and Gardens subscriber,” Karl said.

  The house, detached and located in a quiet town on the outskirts of the city, was a picture of neglect. The surrounding lawn and foliage, or lack thereof, had Ryan concerned that while they may have located the home, it would be as he feared: unoccupied. Unless it was all by design.

  Ryan led the way to the front door, countless shin-high weeds and thick grass predominating the stones underfoot that once made a path.

  Stew voiced Ryan’s fear. “Can anyone actually live here?”

  And Ryan voiced the logic he hoped countered such a notion: “Maybe it’s like this on purpose.”

  Stew looked at Ryan.

  “Well, would you voluntarily drop in a place like this?” Ryan said.

  Stew nodded. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  Ryan knocked lightly. Nothing. He knocked again. Still nothing.

  Stew nudged Ryan aside and rapped his meaty fist on the wood hard enough to make Ryan flinch.

  “You’re gonna knock the damn door down, Hercules,” Ryan muttered.

  The blinds to the windows adjacent to the front door were drawn, but they too suffered from neglect, and Ryan saw a shadow of movement through a gap in one set.

  “I see someone,” he said.

  Eyes on them now through that slit, vanishing as quickly as they’d arrived.

  “Hello?” Ryan called to the window, and then moving back towards the front door, louder now: “Hello? Samantha Lawrence?”

  “No one here by that name,” a female voice behind the door replied.

  “Karen Webster then,” Ryan said.

  “I don’t want to be bothered.”

  Ryan raised his voice more so. “Please, Karen—we need to talk to you.”

  “I don’t want to be bothered,” the voice said again.

  “It’s about your brother—”

  “Please leave—”

  “—and his wife, Carol Lawrence. We know all about her, Karen. All about her.”

  A pause and a click, the door then opening as far as the security chain would allow. A sliver of a woman’s face appeared, her wary eye dominating it.

  “What do you know about Carol?” she asked.

  “We know she murdered your brother,” Ryan said. “Along with countless others.”

  “I don’t want to get involved.”

  “Please,” Stew spoke up. “Children are dying. More will die…”

  Her wary eye fixed on Stew, looked him up and down. Then on Karl. “Who are you people?”

  “Desperate,” Stew said. “Please.”

  The door closed. Sound of the chain sliding, and then the door opened completely. There stood the woman they all hoped was indeed Samantha Lawrence, looking exceptionally tired and unkempt. “If you’re here on Carol’s behalf, I only ask that you do it quickly,” she said.

  “I promise you,” Stew said, “we’re here to do no such thing.”

  ***

  Samantha Lawrence’s living room reminded Ryan of a museum that had long been closed to the public. It smelled of old wood and mold. Dust swirled in what few beams of sunlight she allowed from the outside world. Sheets covered most of the furniture.

  She encouraged Ryan, Stew, and Karl to take a seat on the sofa, it too covered in a large white sheet. She took her seat next to them in a battered green armchair, no sheet for the chair. A crossword puzzle book lay on the arm, a pencil holding her spot.

  “How did you find me?” she asked.

  Ryan told her about Trish’s uncle. About Trish herself.

  She seemed to accept this answer. “Well, I guess we can stop with the whole Karen Webster thing, then. You can call me Samantha.”

  “Samantha,” Stew began, “what can you tell us about your brother’s wife?”

  Samantha looked away, as though considering her words. She then did something unexpected so soon into the visit. She started to cry.

  “We were all into it,” she said. “All of us. It was like a drug. You have no idea the power it can hold over you. The power it can give you.”

  She appeared to be asking for forgiveness. They were not, however, there to put her conscience at ease. Stew’s questioning was firm.

  “Samantha, are you aware of all the lives that have been lost?” he said. “The lives of children?”

  Samantha only cried harder. “Of course I am. Mike and I never wanted to harm children. To harm anyone. We only wanted the…advantages it could give us.”

  “Advantages?”

  “To attain things in life that seemed unattainable to us by conventional means. Money, status, you get the idea. Like I said, it was like a drug. My brother and I just wanted a few hits. And then a few hits more, but never at the expense of lives.”

  “But not Carol,” Stew said.

  “No—not Carol. Her goals were…different than ours.”

  “And they were?”

  “I honestly don’t know. Something that goes beyond my level of comprehension. Likely beyond all our levels of comprehension. Evil operates in ways that only evil understands.”

  “Does any of this really matter?” Ryan asked Stew sharply. “The whys?”

  Stew went to reply, but Ryan cut him off, turning his attention back to Samantha. “I don’t have much time left, Samantha. Carol has seen to that. And once she’s done with me, I would wager these guys I’m with are next—”

  Karl’s lack of eyebrows jumped.

  “—and then after them, more children will be next. So, I am only going to ask you one question. If you know, please tell me, otherwise don’t waste my time.” Ryan paused deliberately for effect. Then: “Do you know how to stop her?”

  Samantha Lawrence wiped away the last of her tears. “Yes,” she said. “Only I don’t know where she keeps it. She would never tell Mike and me.”

  “Keeps what?”

  “The heart of Helen Tarver.”

  60

  Carol Lawrence hummed the Jeopardy! theme song as she cut the photo of Karl the janitor out of an old Highland Elementary yearbook. She was in her bedroom with the door locked. Seconds later she had the photo of Karl at hand.

  “Good old Karl,” she said as she held the picture up to the light. “You had a good run.”

  She reached into the cardboard shoebox at her feet and pulled out a large white rat, wood chips sticking to its feet and fur. She plucked off the chips and stroked the rat gently before kissing it on the nose, its whiskers tickling her. “Such an appropriate offering for someone like you, eh, Karl? Though I suppose a snake would have been equally as appropriate. Perhaps for Stew.” She kissed the rat again and let the animal’s whiskers tickle her nose some more. She then reached into the shoebox at her feet again and withdrew a scalpel.

  Finished, she placed the blood-soaked photo of Karl aside and held the dead rat to her lips, whispering into its ear: “I’m sorry, little guy. But please take comfort in the fact that with your sacrifice comes great reward. Karl will soon become one of the very things you like to nosh: a vegetable.”

  She giggled faintly at her own wit, resumed humming the Jeopardy! song, and kissed the rat a final time before placing it back in the box.

  61

  “The heart of Helen Tarver?” Ryan asked. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Ryan…” Stew said.

  “What? It’s like something out of a stupid horror movie.” Back to Samantha: “How is that even possible? Someone’s heart still lying around after two hundred years?”

  “It was stolen and preserved by her family,” Samantha said.

  “Trish told me it was torn from her chest by locals and given to a priest.�
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  “Legend,” she replied.

  “What isn’t legend?” Stew asked.

  “Helen Tarver’s body was torn apart by locals. Apparently that part is true,” Samantha said. “Her remains were to be cremated in a ceremonial fire not long after her death, but of course her heart was taken before the ceremonial fire took place.”

  “Was the Tarver family as nuts as she was?” Ryan asked. “Is that why they stole her heart? To carry on her work, so to speak?”

  “On the contrary—the Tarver family changed their names to Moyer and left town soon after, wanting to abandon the bizarre religion, wanting to distance themselves from Helen’s memory as much as possible. They felt Helen had taken their beliefs and practices too far. Before long, the heart’s whereabouts—along with any surviving Tarvers, or Moyers, if you will—became a mystery.”

  “But Carol uncovered that mystery, didn’t she,” Stew said, more than asked.

  Samantha nodded. “She found the heart in the hands of an elder Moyer. Took the heart by force and began to study.”

  “Did you ever see this heart?” Stew asked.

  “No—she never let us see it.”

  “So it could all be BS.”

  “I suppose. But Mike and I never questioned it. After all, the things she was able to do for us, the power she wielded…we had no reason to doubt her.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Ryan broke in. “Why didn’t the elder Tarver, or Moyer, or whatever just destroy the heart? Why keep it?”

  “Fear. Superstition. For centuries, many cultures have valued the human heart as a religious artifact for its connections to the soul. The Moyers were no different. Only they also believed that if the heart were to be destroyed, then the soul of Helen Tarver would be set free to inhabit another. They didn’t want to take such a chance.”

  “But it’s okay for us to destroy it and let her soul inhabit one of us?” Ryan said.

  “That part’s just superstition,” Samantha said.

  “Oh, that part is? Oh, okay.”