The Festering Ones

by S H Cooper

  But my sympathy ended where my need for answers began.

  If there was even the tiniest chance that she knew something, that she could tell me something, I had to take it.

  After a few moments of deep breathing to calm the growing flutter in my stomach, I dialed Josie’s number.

  Almost immediately, I received an automated message that it was no longer in service. It wasn’t surprisingly, really, given how old the note it came from was, and after a brief stab of disappointment, I turned to my laptop. A quick search online turned up a couple of Greers still living in the town at the base of the mountain, but the only phone number I could find was linked to a Janice, not Josie.

  As I sat there, debating whether I wanted to reach out to someone who could be entirely unrelated to Josie, an anxious energy began to creep up my spine until I was flipping my cell restlessly between my hands. What would I say to her if I were to get ahold of her? What could I say that Mom hadn’t already? If she had been so unwilling to talk about her sister nineteen years ago, why would it be any different now? Familiar, whispered doubts slipped in between the questions, telling me I was crazy, that I made Mom crazy, that we were looking for answers that weren’t there.

  Two decades of having it drilled into me that I hadn’t seen what I thought I had and all the coping mechanisms to deal with my “unhealthy fixation on false memories” that had been forced on me in therapy almost made me shut the web browser and shove all of Mom’s research back into the box. I even started to reach for the laptop lid.

  But my dad’s screams, as clear and real then as they’d been that day in the woods, stopped me.

  I clenched my jaw and punched Janice’s number into my phone and put it against my ear. The sound of it ringing helped to quiet my tumultuous thoughts and I focused instead on what I was going to say if someone picked up.

  “Hello?” A woman, Janice, I assumed, answered on the third ring and, for a moment, I found myself tongue-tied, too nervous to respond.

  “Hello?” she said again.

  “Uh, hi,” I finally managed, “I’m calling for Josie?”

  “Can I ask who’s calling?” Her tone, while still polite enough, had become guarded.

  “She doesn’t know me, but she’d spoken to my mom before. My name’s Faith. I wanted to...I wanted to talk to her about what happened to her sister.”

  There was a long pause before I heard the woman sigh. “Are you a reporter or something? Because we’ve told all of you several times that she’s not going to talk to yo-”

  “No, I’m not,” I said quickly, unintentionally cutting her off. “I need to talk to her because I think what happened to Delilah could be related to my dad’s death.”

  Janice warmed up a bit after that. She confirmed that she was Josie’s daughter and that she had vague recollections of her mom mentioning mine a few times when she was growing up. She also said there was no way she’d speak to me. After almost fifty years of harassment from media and “occult experts” and people who were simply fascinated by all the gory details of Delilah’s case, Josie had shut herself off from much of the world and refused to talk about what had happened to her sister in 1968.

  She must have felt sorry for me, though, or perhaps she sensed my desperation, because Janice agreed to meet me at a diner for dinner that night and said she would tell me what she knew.

  It was a long drive to the mountain town where Janice lived, one I never thought I’d make again. It felt almost dreamlike, seeing all the old landmarks and signs leading me back. I remembered the last time I’d taken it, how Dad and I had stopped at the tiny gas station in the middle of nowhere for sodas and snacks, how excited I’d been to point out all the cows along the way, the amount of times I’d asked him, “How much longer?”. I’d thought it was going to be the first trip of many.

  Now, my fingers tightened around the steering wheel and I pressed down on my rental car’s accelerator, trying to outrun the memories.

  Janice was already waiting for me in a booth when I arrived. I knew her by the bright pink shirt she’d said she’d be wearing. When I introduced myself, she smiled a bit shyly and we shook hands and made small talk for a while, the kind that happens when you’re avoiding a more serious topic. She was a little younger than me, newly engaged with a small son. He was with Josie, who thought Janice had gone out for a girl’s night with some friends. If she knew the truth, she’d have been furious.

  Once the pleasantries had dried up into somewhat awkward fidgeting, I decided it was time to cut the bullshit and get down to business. I pulled my phone out and put it between us.

  “Is it ok if I record this?” I asked.

  Janice nodded.

  I only had one question to start.

  “What happened to Delilah?”

  Janice began by making it clear that the only reason she knew much of anything about her aunt was because of her grandparents. While Josie was tight lipped, they had been very open with anyone who asked about their experience with The Gathered.

  Delilah had been a bright, friendly girl who loved going outside and spending time with whatever neighbor happened to be around. Back then, her parents hadn’t thought anything of it. They knew everyone, everyone knew them, and they all felt safe. That didn’t change when Eleanor Pratt moved in in 1966. She was just shy of middle-aged, but already a widow. Everyone felt sorry for her and, at first, no one noticed anything odd about her; she simply seemed like a lovely, if lonely, woman.

  It seemed only natural that the childless woman, who could often be found working out in her yard, would be drawn to adorable little Delilah and welcome her over whenever she got the chance. Eleanor became like an extension of the Greer family. She babysat the girls, frequently ate dinner at their home, and would join them for day trips to the city. For two years, they treated her like one of their own, even after the disappearances started. Whispers of a cult with secret members situated in the community began to circulate and a commune on the mountainside was drawing suspicion. People claimed they were sending down members, that they were responsible, but the Greers weren't concerned.

  After all, no one had any reason to believe a sweet woman like Eleanor Pratt had anything to do with such nasty business.

  Not until Delilah, by then seven years old, started having strange, horrible nightmares. She would wake, screaming, in the night and beg her parents not to let them have her. She didn't want to go, she was afraid of him. When they asked what she meant, she said the word, “Gorrorum”, but was too frightened to say more.

  It was ten-year-old Josie who finally broke down.

  She revealed to their parents that Eleanor had been changing. She didn’t play with them anymore, she just wanted to tell them scary things about “the Lightless Place”, where great and terrible beings lived. She kept saying the time was finally right; she was going to give the girls as a gift to Gorrorum. Their flesh and blood would open the doorway and free the ungodly.

  Horrified, the Greers barred their daughters from ever speaking to Eleanor again and Mr. Greer went so far as to threaten her. Mr. Greer said later that Eleanor had just smiled at him, polite and sweet as ever, and wished him a pleasant afternoon.

  “Don’t you pay any mind to that woman anymore,” Mrs. Greer told her girls. “She spits venom from her neck; don’t you listen to any of it.”

  But their precautions came too little, too late.

  Delilah’s empty bed was discovered by her mother just two mornings later.

  Every able-bodied man in the town joined in on the search for that little girl, and it wasn’t long before all the cult rumors and suspicions built up into an explosive frenzy. They headed almost immediately up the mountain armed with hunting dogs and rifles, but they needn’t have bothered. By the time they arrived, every present member of the group who called themselves The Gathered was already dead. Throats and wrists had been slit, some had sliced open their bellies, others had driven knives deep into their own hearts.

  In th
e middle of it all, Eleanor Pratt was sitting up against a post, her neck oozing deep red down her front, and in her arms, she'd lovingly cradled Delilah’s head.

  “My mom never forgave herself,” Janice said. “She hid the night Eleanor came; she was too scared to say or do anything and blames herself for her sister’s death.”

  “That’s awful,” I replied, and I meant it. Being frozen in fear was something I could relate well to.

  “Yeah. Even worse is all the weird stuff people said happened after, with all the sightings and people going missing. She says she doesn't believe any of it, but I have a feeling she thinks that's her fault, too.”

  She sounded dismissive when it came to the “weird stuff”, but I didn't remind her that my dad was one of those who had gone missing because of just that. I didn’t need her to believe me; I just needed as much information as she could give me.

  “What was even the point?” I asked. I had hoped she'd be able to offer some insight, but all I'd gotten was a strange name and a depressing tale. “I know they were trying to open some kind of door, but to what? What's Gorrorum?”

  Janice shrugged. “The cult leader guy left a note, but they've kept a lot of it under wraps to prevent copycats from popping up. I've heard it talked about opening a door, but I guess you'd need to talk to one of the crazy assholes who killed my aunt to really find out more.”

  “Too bad they all offed themselves.” It felt callous to say it aloud, but I figured if ever a group was worthy of derision, it was The Gathered.

  Janice opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. She was giving me a long side eye, as if trying to decide something, and finally, she leaned forward.

  “Look, I’ve seen this shit eat up my family, I know that not knowing why bad things happen is sometimes worse than the alternative. Closure and all that, whatever. But my grandparents spent their life following leads and jumping down rabbit holes and let me tell you, it’s no way to live.” She held up a hand to stop me from refuting her. “But, I’m not going to stop you if that’s what you want to do.”

  She hesitated again, but when I nodded encouragingly, she sighed and reluctantly continued.

  “There’s a lady my grandma knew, she’s, like, obsessed with cults and stuff. I think she’s still around, but she’d be pretty old now. If you can find her, maybe she’d be able to tell you more. Her name’s Edna Boltson, but that’s all I’ve got. Just...don’t get stupid over this stuff, ok?”

  We said our goodbyes over promises of not getting stupid and I left the diner, mumbling Edna Boltson’s name under my breath.

  It wasn’t exactly what I had hoped for from Janice, but it was a start, and now I had my next step.

  The Festering Father of Ibsilyth

  It turned out that tracking Edna Boltson down wasn't quite the chore I'd been expecting. A quick online search of her name the next morning turned up an official website (and a few fan-made ones), social media accounts, published works, and links to interviews and articles detailing her work.

  The photos on her site showed her to be very...yellow. Her hair, cut into a short, smart bob, was dyed yellow, her clothes were yellow, the rims of her glasses, her handbags, and shoes, all the same, bright shade of sunshine. Not exactly the kind of person I'd had in mind when I'd first heard the word “occultist”.

  There was no doubt I had the right woman, though.

  Her bio described her as a retired professor of the occult and an expert on “fringe religious groups and practices”, which I took to mean cults, and she had at least a dozen books to her name with titles like “Modern Day Mysticism: A Study of Pagan Worship In The 21st Century” and “Under Our Noses: Uncovering America’s Secret Societies”. I watched a couple of talk show clips and, even when discussing such macabre topics as Jonestown, I found her to be as bright and cheerful as her chosen color.

  The site’s contact page didn't list any of Dr. Boltson’s personal information, but it did have a number for her agent, Ken Maknamara.

  The secretary who answered the phone had all the polite, disinterested airs of someone too busy to be dealing with the likes of me and, when I asked if I could speak to Mr. Maknamara, she made a point of asking where I was calling from.

  “I'm interested in getting ahold of one of his clients, Dr. Boltson?” I said.

  “Ok, are you a booking agent, a publisher…?”

  “Well, no, but-”

  “Mr. Maknamara and Dr. Boltson are both extremely busy. If you're a fan looking to get in touch, I can provide the PO box address and you can send in a letter. Dr. Boltson tries very hard to respond to every one she gets in a timely manner.”

  It was the most perfectly rehearsed and professional “Fuck off” I'd ever heard.

  “Wait, wait,” I said, afraid she might hang up, “can you just pass on a message? Can you just tell Dr. Boltson that Janice Greer referred me to her and that I need to talk to her about The Gathered. I’m not looking to waste her time, I just really need to talk to her.”

  After a short pause, the secretary sighed. “What’s your name?”

  “Faith York.”

  There was no masking the relief that filled my voice. I left my number, along with repeated “Thank yous”, but she didn’t waste any more pleasantries on me and hung up.

  Patience had never been my strong suit and I paced restlessly round my hotel room. I had no way of knowing when, or even if, Dr. Boltson would return my call and it made me anxious. To quiet the frustrated slither in my stomach, I plopped back down on the bed and opened a new browser window.

  Looking up “The Gathered” got me a lot of hits, but none of them related to what I was looking for. I tacked the word “cult” on to my search and, while it did narrow the results down, it was just all the same stuff my mom had already found. I was almost laughably annoyed by how she'd beaten me to the punch.

  With the internet failing me, I turned to my phone and the recording I'd taken during my meeting with Janice Greer. I rewound it and played it from the beginning, listening for anything new she might have offered that I'd initially overlooked. Anything Mom might not have uncovered before me.

  I wandered the room in slow circles while I listened, my phone held loosely in one hand in front of me.

  “The only thing Delilah would say when they asked her for more was ‘Gorrorum',” Janice’s voice said.

  I paused in front of the single window overlooking the parking lot and expanse of woods beyond, where dark, angry looming clouds were brewing on the horizon, and I hit rewind again.

  “...more was ‘Gorrorum'.”

  “Gorrorum,” I repeated softly.

  Mom hadn't made any mention of that particular word. I let the rest of the interview play out, but it only came up once more, when Josie had said that they were meant as a gift to Gorrorum, which led me to believe that it was a name of some kind, but of what or who? I tapped my phone against my lower lip and looked outside while I turned Janice’s story over and over in my head.

  My gaze wandered idly over the trees, swaying in the growing wind. A growing certainty, one I couldn’t immediately put my finger on, began to prickle along the back of my neck. I was being watched. I scanned the parking lot, all of its cars, the woodland’s edge, but I didn’t see anyone staring back up at me.

  Still, the feeling persisted.

  I stepped back and lifted my arm to drag the curtain closed, but stopped halfway when I caught sight of a lump sitting on the hotel entryway’s concrete overhang three stories below my window. From that distance, it was hard to make out exactly what it was, just that it was small and fleshy colored, but when I saw it, that watched feeling only intensified. I leaned forward again until my forehead was pressed against the glass pane, my eyes narrowed, trying to figure out what exactly I was looking at.

  My phone erupted into the tinny, default ringtone that I’d never bothered changing.

  With a final glance down at the lump, which hadn’t moved at all, I answered.

&nbs
p; “I’m calling for Faith York?”

  I immediately recognized the voice from the clips I’d spent the morning watching.

  “Dr. Boltson?”

  “The same,” she said pleasantly. “Bernice told me that Janice Greer referred you.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” I replied, yanking the curtain all the way shut and turning away from the window, “she said you’d be able to tell me more about The Gathered.”

  “So I heard; an unusual group for such a young sounding person to be looking into. I can’t say I get many requests for it.”

  “I think they might have been involved in my father’s death. Or, well, something related to them.”

  “Ah, so you’re calling regarding the mountain sect,” she said knowingly.

  “There’s more than one of them?”

  “Oh yes, at least half a dozen spread out across the states, but thus far, only the one has claimed any measure of success.”

  “Success at what, exactly?” I didn’t notice that I was gripping the phone so tightly until my fingers began to ache.

  “Opening the door. The Gathered believe in a place they call Ibsilyth; it’s a ‘realm between’, kind of like a limbo that exists just on the edge of dimensions. They think if they can access it, they’ll free their god.”

  “Gorrorum,” I said, a piece finally snapping into place.

  “Yes. The Festering Father, pleasant sounding fellow, hmm?” I heard the hint of derision in her voice.

  “You don’t believe in him?”

  “No more than I do the Judeo-Christian God or Xenu or the Flying Spaghetti Monster,” she replied. “Cults serve a singular purpose, Miss York, and that is to give people a sense of belonging. Higher powers, rituals, worship, it’s all a fascinating look into the human need for something more. I’ve studied them all for a long time and I’ve found them all equally interesting and all equally fictitious.”

  “Is that what you told the Greers when they asked you to help them find out why their daughter was killed?”