October's Children: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller

by Dallas Mullican

  “Paige hasn’t responded to treatments, I’m afraid,” said Dr. Fisher. “She is near catatonic. Spends most of her time standing at the window, looking out, but doesn’t appear to focus on anything. She’ll hold toys or objects in her hands, but will not engage with them. I’m hoping your presence might jar her out of this state. Honestly, I’m at a loss. This could last another week, or years, or she may never snap out of it. What she suffered… Well, you are aware of how traumatic it was for you. For a child, the effects are different, more difficult to determine and treat. Please, try to manage your expectations.”

  Manage your expectations. The simple sentence punched Marlowe in the gut, bile rising into his mouth. He swiped the back of his hand across his lips, gave a noncommittal nod, and stepped in to see his daughter.

  Back and forth—the chair’s runners sounded off click click. Marlowe turned Paige to face him. Her vacant eyes showed no recognition. Only the fractional dilation of the pupils suggested she could see at all.

  “Paige? It’s me, honey. It’s Daddy. I’ve got you, sweetie.”

  Nothing. No response. A blank stare.

  “Please, baby, don’t do this. Come back to me. I need you.” Marlowe pulled her to him, holding on for dear life.

  * * *

  With his eyes shut tight, tears forced their way beneath his eyelids and trailed down his cheeks. Marlowe wiped them away with his sleeve and glanced around the evidence room to make sure no one saw this moment of weakness. He noticed the pony in his hands and gently placed it on the table.

  A torrent of questions tore through Marlowe’s mind. He had stolen two years from Paige. He and this fucking job. Two years meant to be carefree and happy, the gifts of childhood. Memories lurked within her subconscious even now, creeping about the dark confines of her mind. How and when might those latent traumas manifest? They would never leave her, no matter how well she dealt with her past, no matter how he tried to shield her. Some trigger waited in the future to bring the monsters crawling forth.

  These thoughts would plague Marlowe for a very long time, perhaps forever, as he worried far more about Paige than himself. Even so, the question haunting him in this moment originated from a different kind of fear. One that wormed its way deeper into his heart each time he considered what his choices had cost. The question then—how could he convince Ginger of something he did not believe himself?

  CHAPTER

  21

  Alabama, 2014

  Dad died in his sleep. Doc said it was lung cancer, which surprised me since Pop hadn’t touched a cigarette in twenty years. Strange how you notice things after the fact, I remembered him coughing, though he hid it well, and how tired he looked, but I figured age and many years of hard work caught up to him. He never complained. Not once. Never hinted anything was wrong. I wish he had. Wish he would’ve talked to me.

  I buried him next to mom up on Stonewall Hill. Story went Stonewall Jackson pitched his command tent there once, his army in the valley below, back during the war. No idea if it was true or not, but the name stuck. The highest point on the property, it overlooked the entire spread, all four hundred and eighty acres of it. Green pastures, browned fields (nothing planted at the time), surrounded by dense woods. On a clear day, the Mulberry Fork River glinted in the sun far to the east. A beautiful spot. Daisies and clover carpeted the ascent, and a dozen dogwood trees lined one side. But all paled next to the center piece, a gigantic oak perched at the hill’s apex, thick limbs shading everything. Dad loved it up there. After mom passed, he trekked to the top of the hill about every day to sit with her.

  I didn’t handle his passing so well. Grief and depression, I guess. Seemed so fucking unfair. I just get home from that Middle Eastern hellhole, and dad goes and checks out on me. But I guess I should know better than most, life’s rarely fair. Worse still, the damn headaches came back. Brutal bastards, too, had me seeing shit again. The smoke creatures, or whatever my imagination conjured up in the woods that day, popped up a few times. More often though, like the shadow of a shadow, a wisp of smoke in a doorway or a puff outside a window. I knew it was only in my head, my mind playing tricks. Well, most times I knew. I did think the house caught fire once and scared the shit out of everyone.

  The headaches subsided after a couple of weeks, and I settled into proper self-pity. I sat in my recliner drinking beer and half-watching nature shows on National Geographic. I wouldn’t chance watching much else, afraid a shootout or murder scene might make me lose it, flashbacks or whatever. Life continued around me, but registered only as white noise. Funny how losing something can blind you to everything you still have.

  My girls snapped me out of it. Hard to stay down in the dumps with little munchkin’s face staring up at me. Once my head cleared, and I stopped moping around, I realized the farm belonged to me. I knew dad prepared a will with a lawyer in town. I’d need to stop by, have the deed changed over into my name, and get his bank account transferred to me as well. Should have a nice little nest egg waiting, twenty grand at least.

  Farming was an unpredictable venture at best. One season would see a good yield on crops and livestock, the next insects got everything, and the cows decided to play hard to get, not giving up a calf in the bunch, so dad always set aside profits from the bounty seasons to prepare for the next lean one. He’d be furious to know I planned to spend the whole wad getting the place back up to snuff, but a farm needed to produce or it wasn’t a farm. Plus, I’d make it all back and then some.

  I started out with our existing supplies on the projects dad always put off with one excuse or another. Made sense now, he didn’t feel up to it and didn’t want me doing all the work myself. He was right about that, too much work for one person. Dad didn’t go in for checks, debit or credit cards—old school, like Little House on the Prairie old school. He kept a decent stash in a safe at the house. Seemed a pain in the ass to me, travel into town every month to pay the bills one by one.

  I used some of the money to hire a couple of teenage boys looking for summer work. We repaired a stretch of fencing on the west side of the property and put new siding on the barn with a fresh coat of tar on the roof. Next, I planned to fence in another forty acres up near the north woodline, but for that I needed more barbed wire and posts. Looked like time for a trip into town.

  “Don’t you bring that kid a bunch of toys. She has more than she can ever play with, and besides, there’s not an inch of space left in her room.” Daisy placed a clothespin on the sleeve of one of my shirts.

  Always irked me, her putting out the laundry to dry. We owned a perfectly good washer and dryer, but she insisted on hanging out the clothes when the sun shone bright. I think she just enjoyed any excuse to get out of the house. At the mention of toys, Munchkin perked up from where she played nearby.

  “Come on. I always bring her something when I go into town. She’ll be disappointed.” I eased up beside Daisy and gave her my best puppy dog eyes. “Just one toy. Something small.”

  She turned, hands on hips, eyes boring through me with an expression scarier than facing those Afghan towelheads. “One. One toy. And small.”

  “Yes mam.” I leaned in, pecked her on the cheek, and winked at Munchkin, who grinned ear to ear. “You’re a peach.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Get gone you.” She snapped a shirt at me. Stung, too.

  I headed out the gate and down to the barn where we parked Ol’ Betsy, a ’74 Chevy Pickup. She wasn’t much to look at, only a few flecks of green paint remained on the hood and bumper, but still ran like a deer and could haul anything. On the drive to town, a grin stretched across my face. For the first time in a long time, hope didn’t feel so elusive, a turn of good luck for a change. Things with Daisy and me got strained for a while. She never felt comfortable living with dad, and my depression after his death put distance between us, but if I got the farm going, everything would be different. We’d have a real life.

  Dad, a creature of habit and loyalty, wouldn’t shop anywhere b
ut Harvey and Sons Farm Supply. Jonah Harvey, Sr. opened the business back in the fifties. Jonah, Jr., just Jonah now, took over when Senior died and now ran the store with his wife and two sons.

  “Lord boy, I haven’t seen you in forever and a day.” Mr. Harvey never met a stranger and treated everyone like family.

  “Yeah, it’s been awhile. How are you Mr. Harvey?” We shook hands. He still could ‘bout crush my fingers.

  “Oh, can’t complain. Well, I could, but no one would give a shit.” He laughed at his own joke, and then turned serious. “I was really sorry to hear about your pop. I reckon we went back forty years or more. A good man. No doubt about it.”

  “Thanks.” I still wasn’t comfortable talking about dad, or even thinking about him. Every time I tried, guilt for things unsaid and grief for my loss drowned out the good memories, my mind wandering to two graves up on Stonewall Hill.

  “What can I do you for?” asked Mr. Harvey.

  I handed him my list, and he looked it over, nodding his head and murmuring hmm umm. “Yep, got all this in stock. Can get it right out to you. Just let me pull up your account.” As he stared at the computer, his expression turned to one resembling a man who caught a whiff of a skunk nearby.

  “Something wrong?” I asked.

  “Huh, well, looks like the account’s a bit behind. Guess your dad wasn’t feeling up to worrying with bills. I’ve never been one to pester folks. Figured he’d settle up when he could.” He shrugged and waved a dismissive hand.

  “How much do I owe you.”

  He hesitated. “Uh, $1,700.” Harvey seemed to hold his breath as if he told me my dog died.

  I chuckled. “No problem. I need to stop by the lawyer’s and get the deed transferred, then I’ll head down to the bank, grab some cash, and come straight back here.”

  Mr. Harvey exhaled and relaxed with a grin on his face. “Oh, okay, sounds good. Me and Alex’ll get this stuff ready and have it waiting on you.”

  Things went quick and smooth at the lawyer’s office. He had everything prepared, I just needed to sign a few hundred documents, or felt that way. My wrist and fingers hurt afterwards.

  At the bank, a teller who reminded me of Reese Witherspoon, an actress I always liked, greeted me at the window. I handed her the death certificate and letter from the attorney, and she darted off to retrieve the proper forms. When she returned, she wore the same ‘your dog died’ expression Mr. Harvey had.

  “This account was closed over a year ago,” she said.

  “What? That can’t be right.” I leaned over the counter, trying to see the computer screen. An older lady with a big, blue beehive hairdo, counting receipts at a small desk, gave me the stink-eye, and I backed away a step.

  “Let see what’s in the notes.” The teller clicked away on the keypad, flicking long blond bangs from her eyes every few seconds with thin, delicate fingers. “Yes. Any time a customer closes an account, we like to do a little exit review. See if there is anything we could do to make your experience with us better. It says here your father withdrew the funds and closed the account for ‘medical expenses’.”

  Made sense and part of me was proud of the old man. He didn’t take it lying down, but put up a fight. Another part of me, the selfish part, panicked. I counted on the money not only to restore the farm, but also to live on—pay bills and fucking eat.

  I mumbled a thank you to the teller. As I walked toward the exit, disappointment and frustration following for the ride, not to mention more than a touch of desperation, the mother of all headaches hit me like a railroad spike hammered into the base of my skull. I stumbled out onto the sidewalk, struggling for balance. A strong hand grabbed my forearm and held me on my feet. After a moment, I steadied and glanced up to thank my Good Samaritan.

  His eyes. They glistened inky black across the entire surfaces, a thick ichor leaking down his cheeks. He smiled then, his teeth coated in the same substance, gurgling and bubbling at the corners of his mouth. I fell on my ass, fear dulling the pain, and backpedaled crab-like away from the man…the thing. He didn’t pursue, only stared, grinning his black-toothed grin.

  After putting some distance between us, I pushed to my feet, and stood with hands on knees, gasping for breath. My thundering heartbeat matched the pounding behind my eyes. I took deep breaths, forcing myself to calm.

  All in my mind. It’s not real.

  A world set spinning slowed, and my equilibrium gradually returned. I refused to look at the man-thing. If I didn’t acknowledge it, it didn’t exist.

  Everything’s fine. I’m fine.

  The headache blunted to bearable, and my pulse ticked down near normal. I glanced up the street, searching for where I parked Ol’ Betsy, frantic to get the hell out of there. Main Street’s business district covered eight blocks, both sides lined with fast food joints, mom and pop stores, restaurants, and franchise businesses. At lunchtime, during the week, like now, scores of shoppers, people on break from work looking to grab a bite to eat, bustled up and down the sidewalks. For a moment, everything seemed so ordinary. A clear blue sky, everyone going about their business, like any other day…

  Then the real nightmare began.

  The first tracer erupted from a crack in the asphalt. Twenty feet long and pitch black, thick gray smoke billowed off its entire length. It darted back and forth across the street, swirling amidst oblivious pedestrians. An elderly woman wearing a flower print dress exited Stay Beautiful Salon. The streamer swooped in and circled her head like an inky halo. A sudden shift, the thing transformed and took a new shape…a smoke man. Shimmering, phasing in and out of sight, blinks in almost instant snatches of time, it drifted ghostly near the woman and appeared to smell her, taste her, a silvery tongue of smoldering light lashing out to lick up and down the side of her face and neck.

  A second tracer exploded from an alley three blocks up, a third from a rooftop, and soon a dozen whirled along the street, a tornado of smoke and vile blackness. Each took vaguely human form, apparitions weaving through the crowd. The smoke men flashed in and out of sight, one minute here, then the next several yards distant, stalking the shoppers and bystanders, people unaware of the supernatural manifestation going on around them.

  I’m the only one who can see them.

  The realization scared the hell out of me. I wanted to run, but paralyzed by fear, I could not will my legs to move. Transfixed, I stood and watched as these macabre shapes violated their victims, one by one. After each creature selected their mark, they hovered close, morphed again into streamer form, one end splintering into a multitude of thin, wormy tentacles, and thrust upward into the eyes, ears, noses, and mouths of people who rocked and shuddered from the force of the possession then quickly settled. Each stared with black eyes, crying wet soot down their faces. Sinister grins dripped the same corrosive bile over upturned lips.

  They all stared at me.

  The Samaritan glared along with his brothers and sisters, none moving toward me, but the threat in their stances and glowers urged my feet into a sprint. I pushed and shoved anyone and everything aside in a headlong rush to get away.

  “Hey, watch it asshole.”

  A rack of women’s sweaters teetered and collapsed backward into a pane glass window reading Charlotte’s Hut and Stuff.

  “What’s the hurry, dickhead?”

  I ignored the insults and warnings, bolting along the sidewalk, head down, fearing to look around me. Ol’ Betsy waited at the corner of Fifth and Main, right where I left her. I leapt in, barely slamming the door shut before cranking the engine and stomping the accelerator to the floor. I almost clipped a late model Lexus in my hasty U-turn. The driver blared the horn and mouthed ‘fuck you’ at a rolled up window, one middle finger extended.

  The whole ride home, my mind warred with itself. One part-It’s the PTSD. Has to be. Something triggers it, then the headaches, and you see shit. Not the first time. Get a grip. A second part-You saw those things. They were real. Maybe something over ther
e in that goddamn desert fucked you up. Flipped some switch. Now you can see them. I desperately wanted to side with my pragmatic self, the one who knew smoke creatures and possessions were bullshit, horror movie nonsense, but so far, it failed to convince and the anxiety slithered deep.

  I turned onto the dirt road leading up to the house, my hands shaking, sweat beaded on my forehead. I squeezed the steering wheel, knuckles bright white, and repeated my mantra—it’s not real, it’s in your head, all in your fucking head. I couldn’t let my girls see me like this. I had to get ahold of myself and appear strong, for them.

  The drive, a good quarter mile up to the house, ran between yellowed, dying corn stalks lining each side. Ever since I was a kid, making the stroll from the highway after the bus dropped me off from school, rounding the last of the stalks, seeing the giant oak watching over the farm from high on Stonewall Hill, enveloped me with a sense of safety. This place was my sanctuary, a place where monsters neither real nor imagined could get me. I breathed a sigh of relief and tried to allow the tension to release from tightened muscles.

  Two cars parked at the end of the driveway—a shiny, expensive looking Lincoln, and a county sheriff’s patrol cruiser. A man in a tailored charcoal suit waited near the Lincoln; a large, intimidating deputy leaned against the police car. I exited the truck as casually as possible, trying not to appear worried. Funny how the presence of a cop makes you feel guilty even when you know you’ve done nothing wrong.

  A spike of panic, my knees and fingers again tingled with nervous energy. The guy in the suit looked important, maybe FBI or some other kind of government agent, and along with the police officer—could they be here about what happened in town?

  Suit Man stepped forward, his arm extended. I unconsciously shook his hand, moving on little more than autopilot.

  “My name is Nathan Benjamin. I represent First Community Credit Union.” He glanced down to the ground with a reddening to his cheeks as if embarrassed, seemed to shake a thought away, and straightened his shoulders. “I’m terribly sorry to do this now, after your father…” He nodded to the cop.