The Revenant: A Horror in Dodsville

by Brian L. Blank

  The Country Kitchen was only about a twenty minute walk from the motel, but I decided to take the long way and have a daylight gaze at Dodsville.

  In many ways, at least from what I remembered, Dodsville was a typical small town. Everybody knew most everybody else, and rumors were, thus, quick to spread. The people, however, were friendly--at least most of them were. Of course, every town has its vagrants who sit in a tavern every night, to the armed robbers, who, in Dodsville, stick more to old ladies’ homes than to robbing banks. And everything in between. Not many murders, though. During the year I was born, I was told, two kid brothers turned up missing and were never found. And I remembered reading in the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel a few years back that a couple of young lovers from Dodsville were discovered shot to death in the forest outside of town. Other than that, I knew of nothing else in that category.

  Before realizing where my feet were subconsciously carrying me, I found myself walking down the street where I used to live with my parents. As I approached my old house, I noticed a girl playing in the front yard. The weather had changed drastically from the day before, with the sun shining brightly and no threat of rain on the horizon. The girl, who appeared to be about four or five years old, played in my old sandbox. She used Barbie dolls as her entertainment, where I, on the other hand, had the indestructible GI Joe and companions. She smiled at me when she noticed I was watching her. I smiled back. Hard to believe so many years had passed. I almost wished I were the one playing in that sandbox again, with no worries other than what was for dessert that evening.

  The trees on the front lawn loomed, of course, much taller and wider than I remembered them. I, myself, had planted a seedling maple tree when I was eight years old. Now it towered above the rooftops of the houses, giving shade to the girl below. The house itself wasn’t green anymore; it was a gaudy orange.

  The front door opened and the mother stuck her head out. “Angie,” she called to the little girl. “Time to come in and clean up.”

  Feeling a bit embarrassed standing there with my hands in my pockets, probably appearing to them like some sort of pervert on patrol in search for his latest prospective victim, I decided to walk on. My stomach growled, reminding me it hadn’t yet been fed. I turned down an alley and sped up my pace to The County Kitchen. Depression washed over me again, this time from the memories of my childhood.

  Dodsville, at least from what I saw, really hadn’t changed much. A few establishments had changed their names, and more than a few front yards had “For Sale” signs planted in them, but as far as actual progress went, I couldn’t find any. It was almost as if the city had been frozen in time--just the citizens themselves changing. Aging. Yet, somehow I was glad about what I saw around me. I hated progress.

  I reached the diner just before noon and proceeded inside. According to a sign above the menu board, five minutes later and I wouldn’t have been able to order breakfast. I sat at the counter again. The new edition of the morning paper lay a few seats down from me, and I asked the lady situated in front of it to pass it down. The headline immediately caught my attention:

  REED PRICE DROWNING UNDER INVESTIGATION

  A rather short article followed. The coroner was quoted as claiming that an investigation was routine in any drowning without witnesses. However, an autopsy proved he had indeed died from drowning. There were a few scratches on his body around the chest; but, they could have gotten there by any number of ways. I knew small town newspapers were quick to blow small incidents out of proportion to sell copies, yet I still carried around that feeling in my gut that there was more to Reed’s death than a “routine” accident. Old Charlie had left his mark, whether or not he intended to. I decided that after finishing brunch I would pay the Price family a visit, and put this doubt to rest once and for all.

  While enjoying my eggs and toast, the same annoying man I had the unfortunate pleasure of conversing with last night while having my midnight snack came in, immediately noticed me, and sat next to me. I tried to ignore him.

  But he wouldn’t let me.

  “Eating breakfast kind of late, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a late riser,” I replied, immediately feeling like I was on trial again. What was with this guy, anyway?

  “Must have gotten in quite late last night, huh?”

  “I don’t see where that it is any of your business.” I put the last piece of toast in my mouth, finished off my orange juice, and got up. I wasn’t in the mood this morning for whatever problem this guy had.

  “Oh, but it is my business, you see,” he replied, and turned away to order, as the waitress appeared in front of him with her pad.

  “And just what do you mean by that, exactly?” I said, a bit perplexed now. “What do my evening habits have to do with your business? You a cop or something?”

  “I’ll talk to you later, O’Neal,” he replied without turning to face me. “You can count on that.” Then he took a drink of his coffee and acted like I was no longer there.

  I sighed in disgust, threw down a dollar bill, and started for the exit. Once outside I immediately felt better. The early afternoon sun warmed my face. The miserable weather of the previous day had moved east somewhere; yet a haze hung around the sun divulging a hot, humid day ahead. I didn’t mind, however, as hot days were far better than cold, wet ones. They weren’t nearly as depressing, for one thing.

  Main Street, Dodsville was completely alive at the noon hour as I sauntered down it. “Man, it hasn’t changed a bit,” I thought out loud. Of course, that wasn’t completely the truth. Most of the stores had new paint jobs, changing their colors, and more than a few of them had names I didn’t recognize. But Main Street today sure reminded me of Main Street of thirteen years ago.

  I noticed the sign to the Price Shoe Inn dangling out over the sidewalk but found the door locked when I reached it. A “Sorry, We’re Closed” sign glared back at me from inside the front entrance. I pressed my face to the glass and peered inside. Only a couple of days ago, Reed was probably working there, not knowing at all it was his last day on earth. Smiling, helping customers try on shoes, cracking jokes.

  Shaking my head, trying to drive thoughts of Reed out, I pulled back. The Price home rested just on the outskirts of town, if they hadn’t moved, and if I was to walk that distance I would be spending a good part of the day working on the tan on the back of my neck. If I was going to stay in Dodsville a while, I was going to have to rent a car. And there could be no questioning that logic. I certainly didn’t have the money to throw around for taxis.

  All the rent-a-car dealerships were out at the airport. I was about to walk down the street a bit to the nearest pay phone to call my first and last taxi when I noticed the door adjacent to the Price Shoe Inn. Reed and I had formed a small, exclusive (just him and me) club when we were ten years old. Our club meeting place was in the basement of his father's shoe store, and this door had led to it.

  It had taken us a few days and more than a few hours of rationalizing with his father, but we finally managed to talk him into allowing us to paint the title of our club on the door glass. And that title was still on the door. It was faded, of course, and a few chips of the original paint had flaked off and had disappeared to someplace where only God could know. But there was no difficulty in reading it:

  GHOST HUNTER’S, INC.

  Our club was precisely what our name suggested. We hunted ghosts, spirits, goblins, witches, and whatever other supernatural aberrations and entities we could get our hands on. It wasn’t a business attempt, like the title might suggest; we weren’t in it for any money. We just explored rumored haunted houses and graveyards. Other than one time, we ended each adventure into the unknown in nothing other than blatant disappointment. And the one time we actually did come across something unexplainable by science, we came away without the proof. The “Inc.” at the end of our club name was Reed’s idea. He thought it made our club sound more professional. I agreed with him and, since there were
only the two of us in the club, the motion carried unanimously.

  One time we even had a write-up in the local newspaper. The article made the front page of the “Accent on People” section. The townspeople got a kick out of us, but our classmates ribbed us a little. Yet, that didn’t bother us at all. We had too much fun on our excursions--except for that one time, that is.

  I wondered why Reed had left the name on the door after all these years, or why his father had even allowed it.

  There was a way, I recalled suddenly, of opening the door without the aid of the key. One just had to jerk up on the handle and hit the lock in a downward motion at the same time and the door would pop open. Curiosity got the better of me, and ignoring the adage about the cat, I decided to give it a try. The first time nothing happened. Realizing I may have been a little rusty after all these years, I tried again. This time the lock gave and the door opened with a squeak. I looked both ways down the sidewalk to make sure no one saw me and became suspicious of my motives, and satisfied no one took undue notice, I ducked through the doorway. I left the door cracked open a bit behind me; I didn’t want to get trapped down there. The police might just frown at my explanation of curiosity.

  I flicked on the light switch, right where I remembered it to be, and proceeded down the stairs. Beside the light over the stairway only one other light worked in the basement. But it provided me with adequate illumination, though barely. Anyway, I would only be down here for a minute or two.

  At the bottom of the steps I walked right into, and through, a spider web.

  “Ah, shit,” I said aloud as I pulled the sticky web from my face and hair, hoping the spider wasn’t at home. Obviously no one had been down here for at least a little while.

  Our desk that we planned our little excursions from still rested in its original position immediately to the right of the stairs. A thick layer of dust covered the otherwise bare top. I wiped my finger through it, leaving my greasy print behind as evidence that I had been there. In the back of the basement probably Mr. Price had stacked a pile of junk-shoe boxes that appeared to have been thrown into the pile at random, some old stuffed animals, discarded clothes, and other items only suitable for basement living. An old television set, a worn out couch, Reed’s now rusted bike, and other odds and ends were scattered about, as though a hurricane wind had briefly whipped everything around. The cement walls leaked in places, but the floor remained dry. Reed had tried to talk his father into putting in a sump pump, but Mr. Price remained adamant.

  “Well, here it is,” I thought out loud. “Nothing left but memories and dreams from a long lost archive.”

  Just then I heard the definite sound of the door creaking open upstairs. If it was the police I might be in trouble, so I hid behind the old couch that leaned upright against the farthest corner away from the stairway.

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice echoed down the stairs. “Is anyone down here?”

  I quickly exited my position from behind the couch, knowing I’d only look as guilty as hell if I happened to be discovered cowering there, like some rat frightened by someone suddenly turning on a light. Out in the open I at least had a plausible chance of explaining myself.

  “Sorry, we’re closed,” I yelled in reply. Maybe whoever it was would simply go away, realizing her mistake.

  But she either didn’t understand me or didn’t care to listen, as she started down the stairs; but stopping as soon as she saw me standing out here in the middle of nothing.

  “I don’t mean to bother you,” she said, contritely. “But it is important, I assure you.”

  I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, but said nothing.

  “If you would only hear me out.” Her voice now cracked a bit, as though she were on the verge of crying.

  It was that waver in her voice that caused me to believe she might actually need some kind of help. So I asked her what it was she needed to say. “But it’ll have to be fast,” I added. She had left the door open on the street above.

  “The name on the door,” she said, walking the remainder of the way down the stairs. She stopped again when she reached the cement floor on my level. “It has to do with that.” She still sounded uncertain of herself.

  “You mean ‘Ghost Hunter’s Inc.’?” I asked, immediately trying to fathom what possible connection she could have to our old club. “What about it?” I knew I sounded more than a bit rude, but, then, I only wanted to get out of there.

  “Yes,” she replied. She hesitated, looking down at her feet, as if seeing some vile creature crawling on her. “I saw that same name written in the fog on my bathroom mirror after I got out of the shower, and I--”

  “May I ask what is going on down here?” someone interrupted from the top of the stairs. Whoever it was proceeded slowly down the steps until her face came into view. “Or do I have to call the police?”

  I recognized Tabitha Price, Reed’s little sister, immediately. She, on the other hand, obviously hadn’t recognized me. “Tabby,” I whispered under my breath, breaking out into a smile.

  She had definitely grown up from that scrawny little kid I remembered to the beautiful young woman standing before me. I recalled her hair being blonde, but now it was a light brown. She stood about five foot five and maybe five pounds overweight. Nothing, on the other hand, she couldn’t burn off in a few weeks.

  “Excuse me,” the woman who had wanted to talk to me about the club said. She ran past Tabby and up the stairs.

  Tabby allowed her to pass without even taking her eyes off me. I could tell she thought she knew me but couldn’t quite place me. “Well,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m still waiting for that explanation.”

  I felt my smile widen. “You sure turned out nice,” I said, meaning it, but teasing her for a second longer just the same.

  She hesitated, her brow furrowing for an instant, then replied, “Cut the crap and tell me who you are and why you’re down here. My father will be along shortly, and I don’t want him upset. He’s been through quite enough lately.”

  “It’s me, Tabby,” I said. “It’s Stephen O’Neal.”

  CHAPTER THREE:

  The Prices

  Somehow I expected Tabby to run up to me and give me a hug and tell me how glad she was to see me after all these years. But she just stood there, her arms still folded defensively in front of her, studying my face as if she wanted to do my portrait and needed to know every detail. Then she asked me for some identification.

  I laughed and reached into my back pocket for my wallet. She walked up and took my ID, still a bit damp from the previous night’s excursions, from my hand.

  “Satisfied?” I asked.

  “Well, I’ll be,” she replied, relaxing for the first time. “It really is you.”

  She returned my ID and this time I did get the expected, albeit delayed, hug. We parted and she looked at my face again, this time smiling. But that smile almost instantly turned into a frown of perplexity. “Why did you come down--”

  “Curiosity got the better of me,” I cut in, anticipating her question and confusion. “I saw the name of our old club on the door, and I got a little nostalgic. That’s all.”

  She relaxed a bit and for the first time in over thirteen years she kissed me on the cheek. “You shit,” she said. “You know how frightened I was? Why didn’t you tell me it was you right away?”

  “I couldn’t get over what a beautiful young woman you’ve become,” I replied. “It was a shock to my system. Still is. Last time I saw you, you had metal on your teeth and wore your hair in cute pigtails.”

  “Okay, guess I’ll have to forgive you after that compliment,” she replied. “But only if you apologize.”

  “I’m sorry.” I grabbed her by both hands with my own. “It was a fool thing to do. And I’m sure it won’t be my last.”

  “I still can’t believe you’re actually here,” she commented as we walked together up the stairs. “Julie said she wrote you and w
as sure you’d come. I, on the other hand, thought you forgot all about us small town folks.”

  She stopped and hit me on the shoulder. “And why didn’t you call us as soon as you got into town?”

  “Ow. I just got here late last night,” I replied, rubbing my shoulder. “And I did come by the store first thing today after breakfast to see if any of you were around. So you can’t accuse me of avoiding you.”

  “First thing after breakfast?” We stepped out onto the sidewalk and the sun and the humidity immediately bore down on us. The basement had been nice and cool---quite a contrast to the outside. The day was definitely going to be an old fashion Midwestern scorcher. “It’s already after one.”

  “Yea, well, you know me, never one to fret over the loss of a morning.” I almost asked Tabby how everything was going, but quickly stopped myself, remembering about the death of her sibling and realizing how imbecile it would have been to ask. “I’m sorry about Reed,” I said, instead, although more awkwardly than I had hoped. “You know I really am. We were brothers when we were kids.”

  The smile that had dominated Tabby’s face for the past few minutes quickly dissipated, and I was immediately regretful for bringing the subject up so soon.

  “Let’s go into the store,” she suggested, “and get out of this god-awful heat.” She unlocked the front door and we walked in. She turned the “Sorry, We’re Closed” sign around and proceeded to the cash register, where she opened it and began counting the cash.

  “By the way,” she said, looking up at me for the first time since my bringing up Reed, “who was that woman with you earlier?”

  I had forgotten about her. “Oh, yea,” I replied. “Her. I can’t say that I really know. She said something about seeing ‘Ghost Hunter’s Inc.’ scrawled in the fog on her bathroom mirror after getting out of the shower. Very strange, to say the least. Probably just someone playing a sick practical joke.”