Roanoke Ridge

by J. J. Dupuis

  “You know this isn’t your fault, right? None of this is your fault,” Saad says.

  “We have to go back to that house.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I have to know if the film my father shot was a hoax perpetrated by him and Rick Driver.”

  “Does that matter right now?”

  “It does, Saad. I need to know if what happened here today is really my dad’s fault.”

  SIXTEEN

  What does the evidence tell us, where does it lead us, and is there something behind this phenomenon in western North America?

  — Dr. Jeff Meldrum, Author Interviews,

  NPR, November 10, 2006

  THE JOHANSSON HOUSE IS INVISIBLE IN THE starlight, a charcoal smudge in a sea of shadows. Saad shines his flashlight on the broken porch steps while I climb up. I return the favour. The boards creak as we walk, the door squeals on its hinges.

  “This is like Evil Dead,” Saad says.

  “That’s the last thing I want to hear.”

  Entering the house, I hold my empty hand up defensively as my beam zeroes in on the light switch. When I flick it, nothing happens. It is the same with the light switch in the dining room, and the cord dangling from the light in the stairwell.

  “Let’s get to the attic, then get out of here,” Saad says.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I say.

  He shines his beam on the wood planks that make up each step to the second floor, and I shine mine straight ahead, as we climb to the upstairs hallway. There’s a window at the end, and I thank the god I’m not sure I believe in that there’s no silhouette there, lurking, waiting to lunge at us. I pull the cord hanging from the ceiling and get the ladder down, but Saad insists on going first, like he has something to prove.

  The attic seems bigger in the darkness, each corner composed of limitless shadow. The only depth, the only dimension that I can measure is what is directly within the glow of my flashlight. We both move slowly, knowing that we’re in a minefield of tripping hazards.

  “Where do we even start?” I say, shining my beam over every box in my orbit.

  “I’ll check the trunk,” Saad says.

  “Good idea.” As he does, I crouch down and begin to read the sides of the boxes. Sliding boxes left and right, I survey half the contents of the attic without finding anything useful until, against the sloping roof, tucked tight into the rafter, I find a cardboard box labelled, in faded marker, Nate’s crap. Nate for Nate Reagan. My dad.

  “Look at this,” Saad says.

  I shine my flashlight over in his direction. Saad, with his flashlight tucked under his left arm, is holding up a costume. Not the gorilla costume from the first time we were here — that hangs over the side of the trunk, its mask on the floor, empty eyeholes staring at me. The costume Saad holds is almost like a rain slicker made of fur. There are little elastic loops, one on each limb, to hold it in place. The suit is small, a good fit for a child.

  “What do you think it is?” Saad asks.

  “I have an idea, but I don’t want to say.”

  Something bangs outside, harder and closer than a car door slamming. I shut my light off and Saad follows suit. He turns and looks out the window.

  “Do you see anything?” I whisper.

  “Nothing.”

  I crawl over to the ladder and lean down through the opening. The front door squeals again, then I hear soft footprints on the old floorboards. Taking my cellphone out of my pocket, I call Ted.

  “Yello?” he says, his voice audible only through the phone and not, as I had hoped, from downstairs.

  “Where are you?” I whisper.

  “I’m at the Paul.”

  “Shit.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “We’re at Driver’s house, in the attic. Someone just came in.”

  “Shit,” he says. “I’m on my way.”

  “Call me when you’re here.”

  I switch my phone to vibrate and slip it back in my pocket. Then, reaching down, I grab as low a rung as I can reach and pull. The telescoping ladder folds back within itself. I pull it shut and give it an extra tug to be sure. Saad puts the fur suit down and gingerly walks back toward me.

  “What are we going to do?” he whispers.

  “I don’t know what we can do. Our rental car is parked out front. It’s obvious that we’re in here.”

  “What if it’s the same person who broke in to our motel room?”

  “Then we hide out for as long as possible, and if someone tries to climb up here we rain boxes down on them like Donkey Kong.”

  I crawl across the floor carefully, like it’s an ice sheet that might crack, toward the box with my dad’s name on it. Pulling open the cardboard flaps, I tense up a little at the sound they make as they scrape against each other. I rest my flashlight inside the box with the LEDs pointed toward the bottom, to contain the light, and turn it on. At the top of the box is an old flannel shirt. It still smells like my dad’s aftershave. At least I think it does — I don’t see how it can after all these years. Under the shirt is a pair of blue-and-yellow plastic Fisher Price binoculars. I used to take them on our camping trips; I was never sure what happened to them. I slip my hand to the bottom of the box and feel around the perimeter. Against the side of the box is a plastic square or rectangle. I lift it and hold it near the light. It’s a tape, too small for VHS, more the kind of cassette that fits into an old Handycam. The label reads RR 05/10-93.

  The cassette fits perfectly into my back pocket. I army crawl back to Saad, and we both stay still and listen as, beneath us, footsteps creep along slowly. They stop just under the door leading to the attic. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, enough to see Saad looking back at me. I nod, because it seems like the only thing to do.

  It’s quiet below us for a while. There are no more footsteps, no voices. Part of me anticipates the ladder to be yanked down violently and for light to flood the attic — but there’s nothing, until, finally, the floorboards creak again, the sound growing fainter as the person walks back toward the stairs. I can hear each thud as the person goes down the stairs to the main floor, then the squeal of the door opening and the slap of it closing. We wait, looking down at the floor as if we have X-ray vision, then back at each other. A wind kicks up outside, wheezes through the cracks around the window.

  Saad and I are both startled by my phone vibrating. I pull it out and recognize Ted’s number.

  “I’m in the driveway,” he says. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “There’s no electricity. Make sure you have your flashlight,” I whisper.

  “I’m covered. I brought the floodlight from my trunk.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I will,” he says. “I’m at the front porch now. Still no sign of anyone.”

  “There might be someone else in the house,” I say.

  “I’m armed.”

  “You brought a gun?”

  “Bear spray. More effective in a bear attack than a gun.”

  The door creaks open again.

  “Better get off the phone,” Ted says. “Just in case.”

  Saad looks at me, waiting for a cue. The house is quiet.

  Ted’s still not here. If I have to guess, I’d say it’s seven seconds from the door to the stairs, four seconds to climb them, then another five to get to the ladder that leads to the attic. Even if you double that time to account for the darkness and the unfamiliarity, then double it again, Ted should be right below us. What’s taking him so long?

  I call his phone and hear, faintly, his ringtone: “Sweet Child O’ Mine” by Guns N’ Roses. It’s far away, but I can’t tell how far. I let it ring, and the song echoes through the hall.

  If whoever we heard before is still down there, I can’t let them have the tape. I take my shoe off, then my sock, and put the cassette in the sock. Then I crawl to the window. It’s a long way down. I see an orange extension cord in the corner, and tie it to the sock. Then I lift the w
indow up just enough to lower the sock and cord down to the ground.

  Saad turns on his flashlight again and looks around for weapons. There is an ugly shadeless and bulbless lamp that is a good size for him. I pick up what looks like an old kerosene jug made out of tin. There isn’t much else that would be of any use.

  I call Ted again. More “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” all the way to Ted’s voice mail.

  If Ted’s in trouble, we can’t wait any longer. I lean on the ladder until the hatch opens and the ladder lowers to the floor, holding it all the way down so it won’t make a loud thud, but every noise is like a gunshot in such a quiet place. I climb down first, before Saad can object.

  We don’t turn our lights on; we go by feel. My shoulder brushes against the wall as I slowly walk down the hallway. When we reach the stairs, we have no choice but to turn a flashlight on. We take each step together, him against the railing on my right, me against the wall.

  At the bottom of the stairs we turn in opposite directions and shine our beams through the empty house, looking for any sign of Ted. My flashlight reflects off a dusty mirror and shines on some old cobalt-blue and amber bottles sitting in a row on the windowsill. I call Ted one more time and hear “Sweet Child O’ Mine” from the next room.

  The glow of an LCD screen lights up the kitchen floor. Next to the phone, on the curling linoleum floor, is Ted, eyes closed with a trickle of blood running down his forehead.

  “Shut your lights off,” a voice growls from the corner, behind the wood stove.

  A floodlight, maybe Ted’s, turns on and blinds us.

  “Shut those lights off,” he says again. “And put those antiques down.”

  Saad and I do as we’re told, letting the lamp and the kerosene can fall to the floor. The figure of a man, barely visible in the backsplash of the floodlight, shifts slightly. There’s a clicking sound, like the hammer being drawn back on a pistol. There’s something in his hand, but I can’t confirm it’s a gun.

  “Empty your pockets,” he says.

  Saad and I lay our flashlights on the kitchen table, followed by keys, wallets, phones, lip balm.

  “Show me your beltlines,” he says.

  Saad and I lift our shirt fronts and the figure shines his flashlight on our bare stomachs.

  “Now turn around. Pick up your things, then carry your friend out of here.”

  There’s a smell in the air that I didn’t notice until now. Gasoline. The man sets the floodlight on the table and takes a step back into the darkest corner. He pulls out a lighter. The clicks, the sparks, give it away before the flame. Saad grabs one of Ted’s arms, I take the other, and we drag him toward the door.

  The man holds the light far from his face, but it’s clear he’s wearing a ski mask. “Keep moving,” he says. “Faster.” When we get out on the porch, he tosses the lighter inside. Flames snake through the kitchen, into the dining room and den. The gossamer curtains turn orange in the glow, as the entire ground floor is quickly engulfed. The masked man passes us quickly, hopping down the broken staircase, onto the grass.

  Saad hops down to the grass and opens his arms wide. “Hurry, slide Ted down to me,” he says. Half rolling Ted, we get him down the steps and into Saad’s arms. I jump down and we both pull him clear.

  A car door slams somewhere in the distance. An engine starts.

  “Look after him,” I say to Saad.

  Having left my flashlight inside, I use my phone’s flashlight function to scour the grass near the attic window. When I see the orange of the extension cord, I follow it to my sock. I untie the sock as I walk, coming around the corner of the house to see that Ted is waking up.

  “What happened?” he asks, dabbing his forehead with his fingertips and looking at the blood.

  “You lost your bear spray,” I say, pointing to the flames. I can feel the heat coming out of the house.

  “Got more in the trunk,” he says.

  “We need to get Ted to a hospital,” I tell Saad.

  “I’m fine,” Ted says.

  “You need to have that looked at,” I say.

  “No doctors. I’ll make the call.”

  Moira knocks quietly on our motel room door. She smiles without showing any teeth, bows her head, and walks right over to Ted, who sits in the powder-blue armchair against the west wall. He sucks his teeth as she cleans his wound with rubbing alcohol.

  I sit on the edge of my bed, turning the cassette over and over in my hands. Headlights shine through the curtains and I glance up at the door to make sure it’s locked and that the chain is across.

  Saad sits down next to me. “What do you think is on the tape?” he asks quietly.

  “I’m hoping I’m wrong, but I think it’s evidence that the Roanoke Ridge film was a hoax. What else could it be?”

  “You said the sheriff was trying hard to find Driver’s residence? Do you think it’s because he’s after these videos?”

  “Maybe. He’s been tearing this town apart looking for Rick Driver’s stuff. He knew Rick, he knew my father. Maybe he was in on the hoax,” I say. “And he milked it for all it was worth, made a cottage industry out of Bigfoot around here. Keeping this town prosperous while presiding over it like a medieval lord.”

  “We have no proof,” Saad says.

  “What we need right now is a way to play this tape.”

  I take a business card off the table, where I tossed it the other day, and dial the number.

  “Hello,” Danny LeDoux answers.

  “Hi, Danny. It’s Laura Reagan.”

  “Hello, Laura. Is this call business or personal?”

  “All business,” I say. “Do you have any equipment that can read a Video8 cassette?”

  “You know it.”

  “How soon can you get it here?”

  “How soon can I get it there? Why would I want to do that?”

  “We have some tape that I think would be as much worth your while as it is mine.”

  “I’ve heard that before.” I can hear the suction of his lips parting into a smile.

  “Hurry up and get here before something happens to it.”

  I hang up. Saad looks at me with raised eyebrows.

  “He’ll be here,” I say.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Ted says from his chair behind us. “I’m fine.”

  “Is he fine?” I ask Moira.

  She shines a pocket flashlight into his eyes.

  “No signs of a concussion,” she says. “And he doesn’t need stitches.”

  We sit in silence for a while, until it’s broken by a gentle knocking. Parting the curtain, I see the NatureWorld van in the parking lot, its headlights still on and Chris behind the wheel. Danny stands at our door, adjusting his tie.

  “Still got the tape?” he asks as I open the door.

  “Yes.”

  I notice that his hands are empty.

  “Where’s the equipment?” I ask.

  Danny turns and waves to Chris. The headlights go dark and the engine shuts off. Chris gets out and goes around the side of the van, opens the sliding door, and leans in.

  “What’s so special about this tape?” Danny asks.

  “We’re about to find out,” I say. “We were almost killed getting a hold of it, so I hope there’s something of value.”

  “What? Killed? You’re going to have to explain that.”

  Chris comes between us cradling a camcorder in his arms, a bundle of cables hanging over his wrists. I lock the door behind him and put the chain across.

  “Good thing I keep this guy around,” Chris says, nodding at the camcorder. “This was my first camera starting out. I shot Hauntings in the ’Hood and Psychic Pets with this bad boy. Lucky for you it’s backward compatible.”

  Saad shifts the TV to the far left side of the dresser to make room for his laptop. Chris attaches all the cords to his camcorder, then connects them to the laptop before I hand him the cassette. It only takes a few minutes to bring this early nineties technology into
the twenty-first century. Chris moves in close to the keyboard and Saad steps to the side.

  Suddenly, the lights shut off, leaving the room awash in the blue glow of the monitor. We look around at each other and see only half faces and profiles. Nobody says a word.

  Danny opens his mouth, then a car alarm sounds from the parking lot. I look through the curtains and see that the NatureWorld van’s headlights are flashing.

  “It’s your van,” I say.

  “Chris,” Danny says. “Check it out.”

  I unlock the door to let him outside. There are no lights, no electricity anywhere around the motel. The headlights of the van are all that hold back the rabid darkness of night. Other doors open and other motel patrons look around outside. Chris walks around the van, checks the doors, and then shrugs. He shuts the alarm off and comes back inside.

  Closing the door behind him, I slide the chain across for what feels like the hundredth time, when a different alarm sounds. Saad beats me to the window and looks out, but I get there before he can tell me.

  It’s our vehicle this time. Saad shuts the alarm off remotely.

  “It’s safe to assume that somebody is messing with us,” LeDoux says. “Let’s watch this video while we can.”

  There’s a knock at the door. Saad walks back over to the curtains.

  “Be careful,” I say, remembering the gun that was pointed at us an hour earlier.

  “It’s the sheriff,” Saad says.

  Watkins knocks again. “Laura,” he calls through the door.

  “Saad,” I whisper. “You and Chris take the gear into the bathroom and copy it onto your hard drive.”

  When they go, Ted sits up straight and looks ready for action. Moira looks over at me like I’m in control of this situation. I wish that were true.

  That’s when I notice the glow of Saad’s laptop screen leaking out from under the bathroom door. I take the miniature Maglite out of my bag and switch it to candle mode. Its soft glow barely makes up for that of the laptop, so LeDoux and Moira both turn the lights on their phones on and I use my other flashlight. Soon the room is lit almost as though the electricity was back on.

  “Danny, please stand over by the bathroom door. We may need to stall the sheriff.”