by Brett McKay
The Other Side of Elsewhere
Brett McKay
The Other Side of Elsewhere
Red Adept Publishing, LLC
104 Bugenfield Court
Garner, NC 27529
http://RedAdeptPublishing.com/
Copyright © 2018 by Brett McKay. All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: August 2018
Cover Art by Streetlight Graphics
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE | Dead Man’s Hill
CHAPTER TWO | The Black Widows
CHAPTER THREE | The Dare
CHAPTER FOUR | Water Weenies
CHAPTER FIVE | The New Guest
CHAPTER SIX | Lester
CHAPTER SEVEN | Mr. Beaumont
CHAPTER EIGHT | Missing
CHAPTER NINE | Strange Happenings
CHAPTER TEN | Fireworks
CHAPTER ELEVEN | Rosco
CHAPTER TWELVE | The Discovery
CHAPTER THIRTEEN | The Funeral
CHAPTER FOURTEEN | History 101
CHAPTER FIFTEEN | Spy Games
CHAPTER SIXTEEN | A Good Friend
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN | The Death of Todd Harrison
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN | Another Vanishing
CHAPTER NINETEEN | The Black Widows Reunite
CHAPTER TWENTY | Fear from Beyond
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE | Out in the Open
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO | Public Enemy Number One
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE | Escape Plan
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR | Alone
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX | Aftermath
EPILOGUE | An Abrupt Departure
About the Author
About the Publisher
This book is dedicated to the friends I grew up with in Riverton. We had some great adventures, and I wish my departure from you had gone differently.
CHAPTER ONE
Dead Man’s Hill
I stared down the steep slope of Dead Man’s Hill, gripping the handlebars of my BMX bike until my knuckles turned white. At the bottom of the hill was a bump in the dirt, a natural ramp kids used to jump over the small creek. I’d never attempted the treacherous hill before. My two buddies, Gary Mass and Jax Goodman, were egging me on—they had dared me to go down. Jax and Gary hadn’t tried the hill, either, which gave them more incentive to coax me into it.
I was twelve years old, and I’d just finished sixth grade. It was the summer of 1982, and I was transitioning into my teen years. We lived in a small rural town called Riverton, the first place in a long time I could call my home. For most of my life, my family had moved every year. It’d almost become a joke. But we’d been in Riverton, Utah, for three years, and I felt settled. I had good friends, I liked my teachers at school, and the whole town was my playground.
My friends and I were daredevils. We rode our dirt bikes everywhere—and so often that our butts were practically glued to the seats. We didn’t go anywhere, short of dinner, without those bikes, and we never wore helmets.
My favorite spot was the Moguls, rolling dirt hills where developers had prepped to build new homes but stopped for lack of money. My older brothers, who were skiers, called them moguls, and the name had stuck. We would hit them hard and fast, catch good air, and fly over jumps.
On occasion, we crossed the field behind my house to Dead Man’s Hill. I didn’t know who’d named it, but the title was appropriate. The daunting slope at the end of the field was tall, fierce, and filled with stories of broken bones and wrecked bikes. The hill called to us, saying, “Yeah, go ahead and ride me. See if you make it out alive!”
On the other side of Dead Man’s Hill, another trail led downward, curved at the bottom, and went back up, but it was much tamer than Dead Man’s Hill. We always rode down the opposite side first, to get up our nerve. Then at the crest of Dead Man’s Hill, we froze.
“Just do it. It’s not that scary,” Gary shouted. It was easy for him to say that since his bike wasn’t sitting on the edge. “Just go down and turn before you hit the jump.”
“Yeah, you don’t have to do the jump. Not at first.” Jax’s nasally voice had a distinct croak, as if he plugged his nose while he talked.
Gary smiled. “Just do it. Get it over with. You’ve been up there for an hour.”
It hadn’t been an hour. Ten minutes, tops. My nose itched from the scent of sage brush in the hot air.
The steep hill didn’t look too bad from a distance, but on the edge, it was terrifying. The hill went straight down.
“I just don’t want to wreck my bike,” I lied, trying to pretend my nerves weren’t getting the best of me.
“Come ooon,” Jax groaned. “We gotta get home for dinner. My mom’s gonna be pissed.”
I took a deep breath and flew down the hill. The pedals spun out of control, so I had to lift my feet off them. The bike bumped and jerked from left to right, but I held it steady, my heart in my throat, my bladder ready to explode. I couldn’t breathe.
The jump came at me fast. I had a choice to make: stay on course and jump the tiny creek at the bottom or turn my wheels and try to stop. If I turned, I would have no choice but to crash, but a controlled skid would be enough to prevent damage to me and my bike.
I wanted to stop, but I was frozen in position. Feet still out at my sides, I hit the jump and shot off into the air. Heart still in my throat, I hit the ground on the other side of the creek, and my bike bounced and threatened to fall, but I held the handlebars straight, planted my feet on the pedals, and skidded to a perfect stop. Completely unscathed, I looked back at the conquered hill, and my two friends jumped up and down, howling.
“All right, guys!” I hollered. “Now it’s your turn!”
They looked at each other hesitantly, and I thought for sure they were about to turn away, but to my surprise, Jax approached the hill and drove his bike over the edge. His bike bumped and flailed so much that I thought he would go flying, and I wondered if that was what I’d looked like—eyes bulged with fear and a face so white, it would glow in the dark.
“Oh, shiiit!” Jax hit the jump at an angle and flew off the side of it. His front tire hit the ground, and he toppled over the handlebars. So as not to lose face, Jax hopped up and kicked the bike. “Stupid piece of shit!” Swear words made Jax feel tough. Our parents would have killed us if they’d heard our mouths, but when I was alone with my friends, we cursed from time to time.
Gary pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and sailed down the hill. We watched him bump left to right along the rough terrain. When his front tire hit a rock and popped his butt off the seat, I was afraid he would wreck, but he gained control and skidded to a stop before the jump. Relief and excitement hit me, and we high-fived each other.
We headed back to our houses for dinner, but because we couldn’t carry our bikes over the chain-link fence that separated my house from the field, we had to cross the field to get to Beck Street. At the north corner of the field, east of Beck Street, stood Farmer Joe’s giant red barn. We didn’t know his real name, so we called him Farmer Joe. He was a
mean, wiry old man who scowled all the time and always shouted at us for trespassing.
“Better hurry past Farmer Joe’s!” Jax yelled. “I just saw him! I think he’s got his shotgun!”
Farmer Joe was known for shooting at kids who crossed his property and stopped to mess with his cows or hang out to smoke in his barn. He filled the shotgun shells with rock salt. It wouldn’t wound them, but it certainly hurt like hell.
The previous summer, a group of teenagers had snuck into his barn at night and left a cigarette burning. A stack of hay bales thirty feet high had caught on fire quickly. The local fire department hadn’t been able to save the barn. It burned down to a black skeleton in minutes. The insurance had kicked in and built him a new one, and Farmer Joe had started carrying the shotgun full of salt pellets.
Stories floated around about how Johnny Gray had taken his girlfriend to Farmer Joe’s barn to mess around, and Farmer Joe shot Johnny’s right butt cheek full of salt. I didn’t know Johnny well because he was an older kid in high school, but he did go to our church, and he had walked with a heavy limp for two weeks. That was enough evidence to solidify the story for me.
So we took the rough trail through the field of tall grass and weeds, riding over bumps and around large boulders until we hit Beck Street. The trail led us past an old abandoned house. With its steep-gabled roof, it stood alone, weathered and cracked by years of neglect. As the sun set, it glowed crimson through the scattered clouds along the horizon, silhouetting the steep roof.
I stopped in the middle of Beck Street and looked at the old house.
“Hey, what’re you doing?” Gary screeched to a halt, and so did Jax.
Instead of answering, I stared, mesmerized by the gray two-story home. We called it the Crooked House because it was crooked. The southern portion of its foundation had sunk into the soft, swampy earth several years ago, and that was why developers hadn’t built any more houses around it, or so everyone said. The house conjured stories and speculation in the neighborhood, especially among the kids. Some said it was haunted by ghosts. Others said murders had happened inside, and a few said it was the devil’s home. The claims made for good campfire yarns, but I didn’t know what was true and what was not. I did know that looking at the house made my skin crawl, but it didn’t stop me from riding my bike toward it.
“Ret, where’re you going? Stop!” Gary’s voice went higher.
“I gotta eat! I can’t be late,” Jax complained but followed me anyway, along with Gary.
I stopped twenty feet from the house and stared at it. Its tall, narrow face looked down on me, mocking me much worse than Dead Man’s Hill ever did. The yard was a forest of dead weeds, rocks, and one blackened, deceased walnut tree dangling its branches toward the house. The sidewalk leading up to the front porch steps was cracked and buckled, and all the windows had been knocked out from years of kids throwing stones. In those empty spaces, raggedy drapes blew in and out with the soft breeze.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Gary muttered.
“Yeah, what gives, man?” Jax brought out his tough bravado voice, like he did whenever he was scared.
“Well...” I turned to them. “We’ve never seen inside. If we can beat Dead Man’s Hill, we can do this too.”
“Do what?” Gary asked.
“A sleepover inside.”
“Are you crazy?” Jax exclaimed. “People have died in that house!”
“I guess if you’re too chickenshit...”
“Chickenshit? I’m not being chickenshit! You’re being stupid shit!”
“Other kids have done it,” I said.
“Yeah, older kids. Doesn’t mean they’re smart.”
“I’m with Jax on this one,” Gary said.
So was I, in all honesty. My body trembled just being so close. A dark energy radiated from the house, and it shook me. “I’m just kiddin’, guys. I wouldn’t step one foot into that house if you paid me.”
Gary and Jax each took a deep breath of relief. If I had forced it—if any of us had forced it—we would have done it because not one of us could let the others upstage us.
“Come on, guys.” Gary turned his bike around. “I got macaroni and cheese waiting for me at home.”
“Well, you wouldn’t want to miss out on that,” I teased, and we rode off without a second glance back.
WHEN I WALKED INTO my house, I smelled my mom’s cooking and heard the sizzle and pop of the ground beef in the skillet. A portion of Mom’s blond hair fell out of place and bounced up and down as she hammered at the beef with a spatula, breaking it up into small pieces, and steam rose from the rice cooking in a pot on the stove. She was making my favorite, rice casserole.
Forehead glistening with sweat, she raised her heavy ringed eyes and managed to crack a smile despite her exhaustion. It was a nice attempt to mask the stress overwhelming her.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetie. How was your day?”
“Long and boring. We spent most of the day trying to find something to do. But then we went to Dead Man’s Hill, and guess what?”
“What?”
I started to answer, but she cut me off by yelling to my brother, who was in another room somewhere. “Jeff! Can you get in here and slice the cheese like I asked?”
She left the skillet of beef and turned her attention to the rice, and I waited to see if she was still in conversation with me, but I could tell her mind was on a thousand other things.
When I walked out of the kitchen, my mom called out to me, “Ret, you were telling me something. About Dead Man’s Hill?”
“Yeah, it was nothing.”
“No, tell me,” she said. “I want to hear.”
I turned back, excited to tell my news. “Jax, Gary, and I rode up to Dead Man’s, and I took my bike down it. I even jumped the creek.” Pride and excitement rose in me.
“You’re kidding.” Her mouth dropped, and her eyebrows furrowed. “That’s dangerous! You could have been hurt—or killed!”
I prepared myself for a scolding, but instead, my mom grinned.
“But, that was pretty brave. I’ve seen some of the tricks you do, and you continue to amaze me. I certainly couldn’t do it.” She winked at me, and it filled me with encouragement. “I just want you to be careful.”
“I will.”
I entered our family room, where my oldest brother, Tadd, was kicked back in our comfy chair, watching TV, and my younger brother, Scott, was on the floor, playing with a set of Star Wars toys. We’d both wanted The Empire Strikes Back toys, so we’d agreed to each ask for different items at Christmas and then share whatever we got.
“I just started,” Scott told me. “Do you want to play?”
I hesitated because I wondered if I was too old to play with toys. After all, I was in junior high. “Maybe later,” I said.
“Hey, Ret!” Tadd barked without turning from the TV. “Get me a glass of water.”
I sighed, shrugged, and headed back for the kitchen. Get your own drink of water, I thought to myself. Of course, I would never say such a thing because I didn’t want to get punched. Since turning seventeen, he’d acted like the king of the castle, always ordering everyone around. Everyone but Mom, of course.
Rolling her eyes, Mom wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “It’d be nice to get some help in here, boys. I’ve only been working all day!”
“I’m here now,” Jeff said, appearing in the doorway. “I’ll get the cheese.”
Jeff was my other older brother between myself and Tadd.
“I’ll be back in to help you, Mom. I gotta get Tadd his water,” I said.
“Tadd can get his own damn water,” she spat, and I agreed.
My dad wasn’t around much because he worked two jobs. He worked for the state during the day, inspecting pumps at gas stations, and at night, he worked as a butcher at the grocery store. My mom worked a full-time job as a bookkeeper and still had to take care of us when she got home.
My mom was everything. Sometimes she had to be both mom and dad. She was a mom when I was hurt or got sick. She was a dad when I needed help through my growing stages or needed advice on asking girls out. She was also my best friend when I needed someone to talk to. She worked hard and always kept food on the table, got us to church, and made sure we stayed on top of our schoolwork.
Of course, there we were, letting her make dinner for us after working all day, but once she pointed that out to us in no uncertain terms, we jumped in to help.
Scott and I set the table while Tadd and Jeff finished cooking the biscuits and green beans. Once she finally sat down to eat, her shoulders relaxed, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
She smiled at us. “Thank you, boys.”
CHAPTER TWO
The Black Widows
The next morning, Jax and Gary came over about ten thirty, and we sat down in my living room and spent nearly an hour pondering how to fill the boring day. Our color TV only had three channels, and we weren’t rich enough to own a VCR or video game console like Atari, so anything we did to pass the time involved an outdoor activity.
“You know what we should do?” I had what I thought was a brilliant idea.
“What?” Gary rolled his eyes and yawned.
“We need to start our own gang.”
My parents had recently taken me to see the Clint Eastwood movie Any Which Way You Can, a sequel to Every Which Way but Loose, and it had become one of my favorites. It had lots of action and laugh-out-loud funny moments, especially all of the parts that included a bumbling biker gang called the Black Widows.
“Do you guys have a white T-shirt?”
Gary and Jax nodded.
“Go home and get your T-shirts, and we’re going to make our own biker gang.”
They came back within the hour, rumpled white T-shirts in hand. Jax’s had yellowed with age, and Gary’s had a shoe store logo in the top right.
“It’s all I could find.” Gary shrugged.
We used black and red markers to draw a black widow with a red hourglass on its back and write the words Black Widows above them on each of our shirts.