The Torment

by Anthony Hains

  “No, Daddy.”

  Lacey turned around to look at Laz. He looked pensive.

  “Laz?” Aaron stumbled through the snow to get closer to his son.

  “That way.” Laz was pointing straight ahead. “Only fifty yards.”

  Lacey looked from Laz to Aaron.

  Aaron stared at his son and then nodded as if he’d made an internal decision. “Okay, I stand corrected. Let’s go this way.”

  Laz was correct. The cabin was about fifty yards in front of the group. The structure was as Aaron described it: old and falling apart. Lacey was surprised that it survived the storm. As they entered, she was immediately taken with the notion that this would not be a good place to go drinking during a storm. Snow had been blown through cracks and crevices in the wooden planks that served as walls. The interior was bitter cold. Pass out drunk in this setting and a person would freeze to death.

  There were no bodies, thank God. But there were bloodstains on the far wall. Torn clothes lay in a corner.

  “Okay, crime scene.” Lacey had the deputies secure the area, and she got Aaron and Laz away from the front door. Lacey called in the crime scene folks to see what they could find.

  “Tormenters got them.” This from Laz, who said it to no one in particular, while the three of them were walking back to the SUV.

  Lacey offered him a smile, which she knew appeared disingenuous. “It’s okay, Laz. We’ll find out what happened to everyone.”

  4

  LACEY AND MARTIN

  AFTER LEAVING JARED’S PLACE, LACEY took a small detour to check out a newer housing development. When Lacey first moved into the region, it hadn’t existed. In fact, there was only one house in the area, an ancient place built decades before. She had visited the place multiple times with Martin to visit an old family friend of his.

  The new suburban dwellings couldn’t hold a candle to the old place. As she drove through the neighborhood, Lacey felt a familiar bittersweet ache in her heart. The house had a realtor sign posted in the front with the words “For Sale.”

  Lacey sighed. After all these years, she still missed Sadie.

  “Martin always found that little bit of history fascinating. It must be a man thing.”

  Lacey remembered Sadie Merchant making this comment with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. Sadie feigned a disgust-with-men expression but couldn’t maintain it for longer than a second or two before giggling like a child.

  “There’s something about boys and their like of gruesome tales,” she added after her mirth subsided.

  Lacey didn’t know what to make of Sadie. She and Martin had been married about a year and were trying to settle down. They were still young, in their twenties, maybe a little older than Jared and Daphne. She was a brand-spanking-new teacher and he was a deputy. No kids yet, so they could enjoy all the outside activities the mountains provided over the rotation of the seasons without being tied down.

  If her memory was accurate, Sadie called her early in the week and invited them for Sunday brunch after church.

  “I’ve known Marty since he was a little boy. He would often come by my cabin at the base of the mountain as he went exploring or hiking. He was such an interesting child, finding all kinds of things fascinating. Other kids would get bored. Not him. He loved my stories.”

  Sadie had a wonderful front porch with wicker furniture. Her view of the mountain and the valley were delightful. The Sunday they went for brunch was early spring, but the weather had turned warm. Sitting on the porch with their coffee was comfortable. Martin almost dozed off in his chair.

  Blooming dogwood and magnolia trees along with shrubs of mountain laurel christened the landscape. Their fragrances had the vibrancy and clarity of crystal—and pulled her attention to the grounds surrounding the cabin. Lacey had to remind herself to stay focused on Sadie for fear of being rude.

  “Yes, I know,” Lacey replied. “He’s fond of all the folklore from the area. He’s starting to keep a journal.”

  “Oh, Marty,” Sadie said, “that’s wonderful. I’m so happy that a young person develops an interest in our tales. Typically, it’s just us old folk.”

  Martin shrugged as if it were no big deal, but Lacey could tell he was pleased.

  “Well, he certainly liked all those old ghost stories. He scared the daylights out of me when he mentioned that story about the Torment, or whatever it’s called around here.”

  “Ah, yes. One of our favorites. Not just his and mine, mind you. It has a grip on the entire region.”

  “He said you tell it best.”

  “Did he really?” Sadie slapped Martin’s knee. “Now I have to go ahead and tell it. The pressure is on.”

  Martin sipped his coffee and smirked. “Stop it. You know that you enjoy this.”

  The Scotch-Irish settled the mountain areas all along here back in the late 1700s to early 1800s. Getting to the Blue Ridge Mountains and staying there was a trial. The roads were muddy and the landscape was steep and rocky. The eastern part of the state held all the purse strings, so improvements were tough to come by. The Europeans who did move to the mountains brought some of their traditions, but they picked up some, too, from the Cherokee—though the Cherokee were forced out by the 1830s. Farming was hard in the mountains, but they did it.

  Most people in the area were Presbyterian. They built their own churches. There were some exceptions, though. One was a mysterious preacher by the name of Shaw Grahame. I don’t know where he received his education; maybe he was self-ordained. Reverend Grahame came with a good-sized flock—about fifty people. They settled on Somers Mountain and planned their community.

  Grahame’s sermons . . . people had never heard anything like them before. He scoffed at the organized religions. He especially didn’t like the Catholics and their bishops and archbishops. Idolaters, he called them. He was not very charitable in his descriptions. Of course, there weren’t many Catholic people around here, so they didn’t care. What really struck people was his message: By accepting his sermons an entire congregation could become eternal. Never die. They would see things on the same plane as God. Well, that got some folks’ blood boiling. Others just scoffed.

  Now, the community built a log church—the forest had abundant trees—and talk in the town was that things were quite splendid up there. In fact, the church and surrounding cabins were only a short mile or two up the road from where we’re sitting. Which, as you could imagine, was just a dirt path. Still, townsfolk were curious, and every now and again someone would visit. They’d find that the community was overhyped in terms of its splendidness. True, the views were beautiful—everything is beautiful in the mountains. The real draw, however, was something else: the rumors about the promise of everlasting life, not in the Christian sense, but in the very worldly sense.

  Word got out. A gold rush was starting around that time, right here in our neck of the woods, so we had visitors who wanted to see for themselves. One day a fancy lady from Charlotte arrived. At least some say she was from Charlotte. Others say Richmond or Charleston. It doesn’t matter. She was quite elegant, more so than what people in these parts were used to. Her name was Rhona McEwan. She had hair so blond that it reminded the men of spun gold. Her eyes were the green of early spring. People were surprised when she wanted to visit the Kingdom of the Brighter Day. That’s what the Reverend Grahame was calling his community and church. The Kingdom of the Brighter Day. Now, isn’t that a name to behold?

  Miss McEwan paid a man generously to take her and her luggage up Somers Mountain in a wagon. Many of the townsfolk started betting among one another how long she’d stay. No real gambling—just amused wagers among friends. The general consensus was a week. The biggest estimate was a month. People assumed that pampered folks like her couldn’t make it in the rugged terrain.

  A week went by and nothing happened. No one saw her. After the second week, Miss McEwan appeared on horseback, as if she’d been riding all her life. Who knows? Maybe she had been.
The long and short of it was that she looked radiant. She positively glowed with health and enthusiasm. She came down for some supplies and arranged for them to accompany her back up to the Kingdom. The same fellow who brought her up the mountain two weeks prior helped her. When he returned the next day, the man was at a loss for words at what he had seen. The community was taking shape, people looked robust, and there were more folks than he had expected.

  Over the next few years, Rhona McEwan came back every few weeks for supplies. The timing fluctuated, of course, depending the weather. Heavy rain and snow would wreak havoc with the roads, just as it does now. Except these were dirt roads.

  I’m not sure how long it took, but eventually accounts started becoming, well, dark. The everlasting-life talk continued, not with a sense of wonder, but with a sense of fear. When townsfolk visited for whatever reason, they tended to come back with damning tales. Things from the depths of the earth. Glimpses of people with expressions of something awful. You’d see them out of the corner of your eye, but when you turned they’d be gone. That kind of thing. Visitors swore though that people living in the Kingdom looked tortured.

  Then there was the thing about everlasting life, and it seemed true. No one appeared to age. If anything people looked vigorous. These were hard times, you have to remember, but it wasn’t showing. And—and this was the clincher. No one saw any cemetery or signs of burial. In all these years, no one had passed—or didn’t seem to.

  Finally, on one particular trip to town, Miss McEwan returned with her supplies carried in the wagon by the same man. Instead of spending the night in the Kingdom like he had done in the past, he came barreling back into town after dark at high speed. He was nearly speechless. Petrified. Could only communicate that the preacher was evil. How did he know? Unbeknownst to the Kingdom residents, he watched one of their evening services from a window. What he saw drove him mad—something about collecting the souls of the dead and being in communion with the devil. He escaped down the mountain a changed man.

  Other townsfolk got together and talked about what to do. Should they ignore what was happening up on Somers Mountain? Could they allow evil goings-on in their midst? Everyone was speaking at once, sharing stories they’d heard, or even accounts of strange things that they had seen on the mountain. They talked themselves into a frenzy. They wanted to ambush the Kingdom of the Brighter Day.

  After marching up the mountain, the makeshift vigilante group encountered a Kingdom that was unearthly quiet. There were numerous structures made out of hewn logs. Most were homes, and smoke rose eerily from chimneys. A female figure appeared in the middle of the structures. Some said she was the elegant lady who came into town for supplies. Others insisted it was a girl in her teens—possibly even a younger version of Miss McEwan. Whoever it was stared at the marauding menfolk for a few beats and then ran off. The men ran after her, and later they reported a lust for blood—a heightened sense of fury. They couldn’t explain it, but she infuriated them.

  A heavy rain the night before muddied the paths among the cabins. A few men slipped in the chase and fell into the muck, interfering with the progress of others. They lost sight of the girl but sensed she was running for the church, a log structure that was larger than the surrounding cabins. The church gasped as if it were alive when she pushed open the door. Muffled shrieks erupted from inside, and their pitch exploded when two doors slammed open and the inhabitants swarmed outside. The sudden burst of the Kingdom’s residents and the confused wailing of women and children only agitated the angry men from town. They charged the group, some shooting with their hunting rifles, others swinging weapons that had previously served as farm implements. Being god-fearing souls, the men only targeted male residents, but if women or children tried to defend their husbands or fathers, they too were taken down.

  The group from town had the advantage of surprise. All of the men of the Kingdom were killed, as were a handful of women and children. The survivors hid or escaped into the forest. Then some went to surrounding villages, others eventually came to town and were treated fairly. Some of the descendants live here today. Who knows how many of us have their blood flowing in our veins.

  What was going on in the Kingdom? There were some horrifying revelations. Were the people capable of everlasting life? Obviously not, since many died in the attack. It was true that there were no graveyards, however. They weren’t needed.

  The residents of the Kingdom ate their own—and any unfortunate soul who happened to wander in their midst. The men from town found human skulls within the church, adorning the front place of worship. Other skeletal remains were used as hunting and fishing instruments, farming implements, and cooking utensils. Most horrifying of all was the dried remains of a flayed body—an older woman, it looked like. Nothing was wasted.

  Then there were the drawings and books found in many cabins. Pictures of hell and winged demons. Words praising the devil. The men burned every structure to the ground.

  The wagon driver who’d assisted Miss McEwan didn’t accompany the raiding party because he was such a wreck. He died in his sleep two nights later. There was no warning.

  His body disappeared within twelve hours after his wife and mother prepared him for burial. They’d left the death room for a rest, and when they returned, he was just gone. The poor women were frantic. The sheriff was called and the immediate area searched, but the dead man was not found. That night there were rumors that he was seen walking toward Somers Mountain accompanied by Miss McEwan. Two days later, one of the raiding party was found dead in his barn. No apparent cause. His body disappeared. Then another man died—another who had gone to the mountain. His body disappeared. Oh, yes, they were seen headed to the mountain in the company of someone from the Kingdom. What made it more terrifying, if that was possible, was that some of the newly dead were walking with someone who’d been killed on the mountain. The dead leading the dead, if you will.

  It didn’t stop until all the men who raided Somers Mountain were dead and taken up. One or two tried to escape before they died. They never made it very far.

  As for everyone in town, no one dared go up the mountain. It was cursed, some said. Others said Grahame was an evil presence, hell-bent on getting his revenge. Over time it came to be known as the Torment. I’m not sure why—just one of those things, I guess.

  Years went by, then decades. Every now and again, when someone died unexpectedly, people would think the Torment was happening again. There would be talk of seeing the dead walking toward the mountain. There have been some very credible eyewitnesses, I do believe.

  Here we are, nearly two hundred years later, and the story persists. I guess you could call it folklore now. Many regard it is a campfire tale, a ghost story that people take pride in. I must admit to feeling the same way at times.

  Do the mountain or the specters from that horrid day so long ago seek revenge from those who are hurtful in some way? Who knows? It makes a devilishly good story, though.

  “See, I told you,” Martin said.

  “I’ll say. Look at this.” Lacey showed Sadie and Martin the goose bumps on her left arm. “I’m chilled to the bone.”

  Sadie smiled sheepishly. “I know. I can’t help telling it to people for the first time. It is delightful, in a trick-or-treat kind of way. Martin loves it, and so do I. There’s a local flavor to the whole thing. Some don’t see the fascination in it.”

  Lacey could see why. She wasn’t big on scary stories.

  “Now, how about some more coffee, dear, to warm you up?”

  Lacey sat at her kitchen booth with a copy of a preliminary autopsy report in front of her.

  Darrin Collete had died of drowning. His lungs were full of water—in a jail cell with no water anywhere. For whatever reason, he’d thought he could bring himself peace by driving his family into the lake and exiting the car as it sank. It just hadn’t occurred to him that his little boy would want to come back and collect his daddy.

  Lacey trembled sl
ightly.

  The remnants of a seasoned chicken breast, rice, and salad remained on her plate. No longer a member of the clean plate club, she thought she could pack the rest into one of those plastic containers for lunch tomorrow. She put some water in the kettle to make herself some herbal tea. Waiting for the water to boil, she selected a lemon-ginger tea and prepared her cup with a single teaspoon of sugar. Before the kettle started whistling, she was able to wipe down the table and counter.

  Lacey massaged her temples, wishing Martin were at her side so she could pick his brain about this Collete autopsy—and the immediate aftermath. He’d certainly be open to all kinds of explorations.

  Suddenly she remembered a conversation they’d had two days before he died. He always recognized her despite his disorientation and pain, but his sporadic utterances usually involved things like instructions on how to complete tasks from twenty years ago, or how to teach long division to their oldest daughter, Susanna. This was different.

  “Lace, on Somers Mountain. I’ll be watching the entrance, I think.”

  Lacey was puzzled. She took a warm washcloth and gently stroked his cheeks. He was so gaunt, and his stare was miles away from her face. What should she say? “The entrance? Sure, Marty, that’s fine.”

  Martin’s pained expression eased as he focused on Lacey. He grinned, and lifted his arm off the bed as if he wanted to clasp her hand, but he was too weak. Lacey retuned the washcloth to the night table and took his hand in hers.

  “Now, don’t patronize me, you don’t think I know what I’m talking about.” His grin broadened.

  Martin’s lucidity surprised her. “Okay, then, smarty, what entrance?” Lacey tried to make it light.

  His eyes became shadowed again, and his gaze studied a horizon that couldn’t be seen from the room. “The entrance . . . the entrance. Guarding . . .” He fell back into the depths of his illness again.