Sheriff Perry gave them occasional updates, but didn’t line the reports with too much hope. It had been so long now, they knew without a doubt that Colleen was dead. There wasn’t any hope of finding her alive, so the presence of the paramedics at this point was more a formality than a necessity.
“Warmed up?” the sheriff asked.
Lance nodded. There was a swollen lump in his throat making it hard to say anything without crying. He took a sip of the coffee.
“Might want to slip inside, get on some dry clothes.”
Lance looked at the house. “She didn’t even have a chance to go inside,” he said tremulously. Earlier, during questioning, he’d told the sheriff about the inheritance. Sheriff Perry told him that he and Ballard had been friends, and that he knew “a little history of the place.” The land had once belonged to the sheriff’s father, many years ago.
“Maybe now would be a good time to have a look around the cabin,” the sheriff said. “Go up, lie down and rest a bit.”
Lance shook his head. “I’ll wait here until they bring her up.”
The sheriff nodded and walked away, lighting a cigarette. The big man went to consult with the search and rescue team leader.
As night gave way to dawn, fatigue visibly overcame the team. The divers came shivering from the water, heading to the SUV, whispering among themselves, deliberately avoiding Lance’s gaze. They toweled off, looking defeated. By the time the skies lightened from dark gray to blue, it was evident they were losing hope.
Lance had slipped inside the nearby SUV, feigning sleep to assuage Perry’s wishes. Jeremy sat in the seat next to him, head resting on his dad’s shoulder as he slept. Lance looked at his son. A black hole opened in his heart, sucking the joy from him at the realization that he’d lost his unborn child and the woman he loved. But Jeremy didn’t love her and the boy’s comment about the hand came back to him, a black, gooey hand that came from the pool.
A flash of the argument in the car—she’s not my mother! In his mind, he heard the quiet voice of the sheriff repeat as Perry broke the news to him that the department hadn’t determined if Colleen’s case was going to be investigated as a homicide or an accident, but as long as they remained close, he was sure they’d wrap it up without any problems. Homicide, Lance thought. Good grief, could Jeremy have pushed her in?
No, no, he wouldn’t even entertain the thought. It was utterly ridiculous. Though, he thought with a shudder, more plausible than a black gooey hand that reached up and—
—Cripes, no, she slipped, damn it. And it was his fault for not paying attention, for letting her go near the water, for letting her walk on those unstable rocks. Jeremy just saw a stick, or a snake or something…a reflection in the water. Lance shook the thoughts from his head. He had to stop the revolving litany of guilt and blame. It was killing him on the inside just to think about it.
After a short conversation with members of the team at the edge of the water, Sheriff Perry headed toward the vehicles. He walked with deliberate steps, head bowed. Behind him, a member of the crew killed the generator while the rest of them began packing up and disassembling the light poles.
Lance rolled down the window. He tried not to move and awaken Jeremy.
The sheriff cast a sympathetic glance at Jeremy. The older man’s eyes—rife with empathy, not wanting to say what he had to say—met Lance’s bloodshot gaze. “We’re gonna have to call it off, Mr. Evans.”
There was a moment of silence between them. They could hear the distant discussion of the EMTs and the S&R guys. The sound of the ambulance starting and backing out. The slamming of doors.
“I’m sorry.”
“So, that’s it? Damn it, sheriff, she can’t have gone far…she’s got to be down there somewhere.”
“Mr. Evans,” the sheriff said, resting a hand on Lance’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
Lance nodded. He gently nudged Jeremy, who stirred and awoke. Jeremy wore a questioning expression as he blinked sleepily at his father. They climbed out of the SUV. One of the search and rescue volunteers glanced at Lance, making a face that said he was sorry, too.
And Lance knew that he was. But it didn’t make anything any fucking better.
7
They let themselves into Uncle Ballard’s cabin. Immediately when the door was opened, they were beset by the scent of undisturbed rooms and the odor of a man who’d gone too long without the attention of a woman. An aroma of wet bark and laundry needing to be washed, and a rusty smell emanating from the large basin iron sink in the corner of the small kitchen. Nonetheless, the place was in decent shape, and the rustic kitchen fairly well stocked. They rummaged around to see if anything was still good. He’d only passed away a week ago, so most of the food was salvageable. For dinner, they scrounged up some eggs, bacon, and toast. Lance was quiet while he cooked, vaguely aware that Jeremy was beside him, laying strips of bacon into a sizzling pan.
The aroma of cooking food made their stomachs leap with anticipation, but the meal was morose at best. They sat at a table near the kitchen—the brightest room in the house. Above the space of counter occupied by a drain board, a crude window looked out through a mesh of chicken wire and screen into a rock garden built into the mountain slope out back. The window had a shutter to close it but, judging from its stiff hinges, it spent most of its time open, admitting a biting cold after dark. At least, it seemed cold to their Texan blood. In fact, everything here seemed fundamentally different. The best way Lance could describe it was that everything seemed very much “of the earth.” The natural log cabin, the fragrance of the forest that had permeated the walls of this place and every thing inside of it, the towering evergreens and the gentle valley that held them to nature’s breast. Even inside, all of the appliances were at least forty years old, the kitchen floor was pebbled concrete, the walls like the interior walls of a log cabin, giving them the impression they’d slipped back in time. Except for the television in the living room, they might have.
Lance swallowed the last bite of his meal, washing it down with the cold dregs of a percolated cup of coffee. “We’re going to stay here for a while.”
Jeremy looked at him, trembling. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he said, his voice a wreck. “I’m so sorry.” His shoulders sagged with defeat and his back hunched. He took a deep breath before a sob escaped. He sniffled and shuddered. Then the boy was overcome with grief, covering his own face.
Lance went to him, wrapping him in his arms, pulling him close. The boy’s sobs peeled away the layers of Lance’s numbness, speaking to the pain in his own heart. “It’s not your fault, son. It was an accident. It’s not your fault.”
“I was always such a jerk to her.”
They hugged. Jeremy’s sobs abated after a while, leaving him with a snotty nose that he wiped with the back of his hand.
They cleaned up the dinner mess. They took showers and changed clothes, and Jeremy fell asleep while they sat together in the living room on a wicker sofa draped with blankets in front of the television. Lance discovered a bottle of bourbon, found a glass, and took both to the recliner in the living room where he proceeded to work on downing as much of it as he could before sleep took him, too.
* * *
Jeremy stirred on the couch. He heard something. A woman’s voice.
Had it been a dream? The TV?
“Jeremy.”
The cabin was dark. The surroundings were foreign and unfamiliar. His dad snored in the recliner. The light from the TV cast ghostly blue shadows over hunched shapes in the house.
Jeremy kicked off the blanket his father had tossed over him. Had he really heard his name? He looked furtively toward the windows. He could hear the roar of the falls and the sounds of cicada chirping, but nothing else. Damn, he thought, I could’ve sworn that I’d heard—
And then he heard it again, distant but unmistakable: “Jeremy.”
He sucked in a quick breath and held it. The voice was coming from outside. And the voice was Co
lleen’s.
“Dad,” Jeremy whispered. “Dad!”
He shook his father, at first gently, then violently. Lance gave a loud snort, his head lolling to the other side, still out cold. His hand flinched. It knocked over the remains of a glass of whiskey on a chair-side table.
Jeremy didn’t move. “Just the TV.” But the TV was murmuring, barely audible. And the voice he’d heard came from outside one of the kitchen windows. Someone was out there all right.
Jeremy looked around for a weapon. There wasn’t much to choose from, but he had no intention of taking one step out that door without something to defend himself. He crept into the kitchen. He was tempted to turn on the light, but felt safer in the dark, not wanting to let anything—anyone, he corrected himself—know that he was up and around in here.
Yeah, well, whatever it is…it already knows.
Jeremy found a meat cleaver hanging from the back of the counter above the sink. He took it firmly in his hand. A planked wood door led from the kitchen to a cobbled walk beside the cabin. He put his hand on the knob and set his ear against the door. He listened for footsteps on the other side. Stirring. Anything.
Not a sound.
What if the voice is Colleen’s? What if she crawled out of the pool and she was hurt? Shouldn’t he go help her?
She’d call for Dad, said a voice of reason. That made sense. And yet, his guts were coiled in anticipation, in the hope that he might find her alive. To be able to wake Dad and say: she’s alive!
Ear pressed against the door, all he heard was the sound of the falling water and the chirping of those damn cicadas. His heart managed to work its way from his throat and back into his chest. It was still drumming like crazy though. He was about to go lie down, convinced it’d been something imagined, when he heard the voice a third time, clearer now, coming from the woods beyond the door.
“Jeremy.”
This time the voice sounded different. It sounded like Mom.
No…it’s Colleen. And she’s hurt.
Jeremy’s hand clasped the cool metal of the door handle, twisting it to open the door. In his right hand he gripped the hilt of the meat cleaver, prepared to wield it at any foreign menace. His breath came in shallow gasps. His pulse throbbed at his temples, blood rushing in his ears.
He stepped outside.
The cool blackness of the night enveloped him, wrapping him in its damp embrace. The scent of pine filled his nostrils. Moonlight shone in broken beams through the trees, illuminating the path leading to the pool at the base of the falls.
He took a few steps. Pine needles crunched beneath his feet. Shadows shifted around him. The immensity of the open forest, of the wilderness, was frightening. Fear clutched him, and yet the hope of finding Colleen alive pushed him on.
The path went a few yards before it emerged from the trees, opening onto the shoreline of the pool at the base of Mercy Falls. Moonlight shimmered like quicksilver on the tumultuous surface of the water. The white water of the falls roared. Tendrils of mist drifted like creeping phantoms. That was when he saw them: shapes materializing from shadows, translucent black silhouettes that drifted toward him. Dark children of the night with mist for feet that hovered over the solid ground.
Jeremy.
Jeremy—Jeremy.
J-jer-jeremy-meee …
Multiple whispers merged like a phased digital effect, echoing through the dark. More of the ghostly shapes rose like evil jinn from the water, gray with glowing yellow eyes.
He pissed himself, felt the warmth trickle down his leg. He was gripping the handle of the cleaver so tightly his knuckles were fit to snap, fingernails digging into the meat of his palm. Inhaling a shuddering breath, he turned, only to see more of the shadow children emerging from the pool and circling behind him. He was surrounded. What the hell? He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and looked again. They were still there: a semi-circle of shadow creatures three to five feet tall coming toward him.
“Jeremy,” they whispered in unison.
He opened his mouth to scream, but only managed to suck in a gasping breath. He swiped defensively at the things around him, a nightmare gathering with glowing yellow eyes. Humanoid shapes, horribly deformed, twisted infantile forms. He stepped backwards, realizing too late that he was at the edge of the pool.
He fell and plunged backward into the water.
A moment later he surfaced, cold and shocked. Jeremy thrashed in the churning waves. The moonlight was bright on the water, but not bright enough to see beyond the next wave that smashed him under. Scrambling, half-swimming, trying to back away from the hovering forms that rippled over the water like rolling mist, he realized that as the cold waves swirled around him, the diabolical children were following him, driving him farther into the pool, deeper still…until they merged to become a dark, palpable force that pushed him down, thrashing, holding him under the cold black water.
8
Something akin to the pain of an ice pick jabbed through Lance’s brain as his eyes fluttered against the sunshine in the room. He held a hand to his throbbing temple, and then rubbed the morning stubble on his chin. Saliva was gluey in the corners of his mouth. His hands reeked with the pungent odor of whiskey.
“Damn.” He surveyed the mess of the toppled glass and near-empty bottle.
He used the lever on the chair’s side to lower the footrest. Heaving himself stiffly to a standing position, he rubbed his lower back and staggered into the kitchen to look for aspirin.
The smell of last night’s fried bacon lingered in the kitchen, turning his stomach. They hadn’t washed the dishes, just rinsed them. He grimaced as he rifled through the cabinets in search of pain reliever. The thought of food reminded him of his parental obligations, and he wondered if Jeremy had fixed himself something to eat.
“Ah!” he said, finding aspirin. He grabbed the bottle and returned to the living room, struggling with the childproof cap. He stopped suddenly. The couch where Jeremy had slept was devoid of a boy. Only a crumpled blanket and indented cushion remained as evidence of the kid’s slumber. “Jeremy?”
No reply. He must be outside.
He popped off the lid and stuck two aspirin into his mouth. He gagged them down dry, looking out the window. Certainly he wouldn’t have wandered too far.
Lance went onto the porch. He shouted toward the forest, “Jeremy?”
Jeremy wasn’t familiar with these woods. There could be unstable rocky ledges, wild animals, even traps set by hunters. With mounting concern, Lance hurried toward the pool. He called his son’s name as he made his way over the path toward the falls.
Near the pool, wedged between two rocks, was a wood-handled meat cleaver. It wasn’t rusted or old, and he didn’t remember seeing it there before, so it couldn’t have been there long. Lance frowned, yanking the cleaver from the stones. He looked back toward the cabin. Why was the kitchen cleaver out here? Concern was replaced by a feeling of dread.
“Jeremy?” he shouted again. “Jeremy! Come in and eat!” Only the roar of the falls answered. He ran to the edge of the forest, scampered up some loose rocks, and shouted again: “Jeremy! Come inside this house right now!”
A bird sang on a distant branch. A few rocks crumbled, sliding around his feet. Lance hurried in the other direction, toward the pool. He studied the jagged shoreline. Panic gripping him, he stared at the cleaver in his hands again. If the cleaver was Uncle Ballard’s, and wasn’t there yesterday, then the only way it got next to the pool was if Jeremy was here. If that was so, why had Jeremy found it necessary to bring the meat cleaver with him? What if Jeremy went in to find Colleen? What if he blamed himself for her death and tried to redeem himself by finding her? Lance looked across the choppy surface at the base of the falls for signs of his son. The water.
“Oh, God.”
Lance leapt into the pool. A sucking undertow whooshed around him. He kicked, but the water restrained his legs. Bursting upward, he gasped for breath amidst pummeling waves. Arm
s flailing, he tread water frantically before being sucked beneath again.
* * *
Sheriff Perry navigated the forested hollow, driving over the road through the woods toward Ballard’s cabin and Mercy Falls. He rolled slowly over the last bit of driveway and parked his Jeep next to the cabin. He had just stepped out and was lighting his cigarette, eyes skimming the pool, when he saw a head burst from the waves, and then go under again.
“Shit!” He dropped his cigarette, and scrambled back into his vehicle. He jammed the key into the ignition and drove the Jeep as close to the pool’s edge as he dared. Leaping from the seat, he unfurled the heavy rope around the winch on the front bumper and ran to the shore.
Lance’s head resurfaced.
“Catch!” Sheriff Perry yelled, tossing the rope to the struggling man.
Lance reached out a desperate hand, and caught the rope. The sheriff reeled him in choking and gagging.
“What the hell happened?” Perry asked, after he helped haul Lance onto the rocks.
“I think Jeremy went into the pool to find Colleen.” Lance coughed again.
“What?” The sheriff looked over the bubbling waters. “What makes you think that?”
“I found that cleaver wedged in between the rocks. It was in the kitchen last night.” Lance pointed to the cleaver that lay on the rocks. “He must’ve gone out sometime during the night.”
“Well that’s the stupidest damn thing I’ve ever heard. What was he doing out here at night? Place is dangerous!”
“That’s what I was thinking, but he’s a kid. Kids do stupid things.” Lance stood, bending over, catching his breath. “I know my boy. He went after Colleen. He was feeling guilty; he was right here when it happened and he froze with fear when he could’ve reached down to help her. He feels like this is his fault.”
“Damn it.” The sheriff grabbed his police radio. The reception was poor. Static broke up the operator’s voice on the other end. “Dispatch, this is Perry. I’m gonna need that rescue team out here at the Falls again.”
Black Mercy Falls Page 4