The House on Hayden Pond

by Jessica Monks

  The House on

  Hayden Pond

  https://www.facebook.com/thehouseonhaydenpond/

  JESSICA MONKS

  Dedicated to my son Hayden.

  I love you to my moon.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  The Beginning of the End

  Sheriff Jon Bolton eased his cruiser up the long steep driveway to the white house at the edge of Hayden Pond. He had been to the Hollick place once before, when the original owners had reported a possible break-in. Nearing the top of the driveway, he pulled over a short distance from his deputies’ car, which was parked, dark and unattended, near the front door. The moon was full and bright, with no clouds to hinder its silvery light.

  Jon had sent his deputies—his own son, Thomas, with another young officer named Brian—to alert Roman Hollick, the home’s new owner, that a child was missing. The young daughter of Bob and Ellen Stuart had been gone for almost two hours. Jon had a bad feeling the incident was something serious. While most missing children in Sheffield were kids who’d gotten lost playing in the woods or had wandered off to the local grocery store, this somehow seemed different. More alarming.

  Jon had been so busy organizing and calling the search party members he hadn’t noticed Brian and Thomas hadn’t recently checked in.

  As he sat in his idling cruiser, Jon picked up his radio. “Denise, would you call Henry Parker and put him through?”

  The radio let out a quick burst of white noise as Jon waited for her response.

  “Henry’s on the line,” replied Denise. “I’ve contacted the Westchester Police Department. They’re on alert.”

  “Thank you, Denise. Start calling the other towns that border everyone you called. We need to get this under control quickly.”

  “Sure thing,” responded Denise. “I’m on it.”

  “Henry, you there?” asked Jon.

  “Yeah, what’s going on?” replied Henry.

  “The Stuarts’ daughter, Molly, has gone missing. There were footprints outside her bedroom window—large footprints that trailed off into the woods.”

  “Let me get Sebastian and I’ll head over there as quick as I can,” said Henry.

  “I’m up here at the Hollick residence,” continued Jon. “Going to check on the boys. They haven’t checked in for a while…and Henry, I don’t feel good about this at all.”

  “We’ll find her, Jon,” said Henry.

  Jon hung up his radio and sat in the car for a moment. This case was the first time he felt the situation was more than his department could handle. The details raced over and over again in his mind. He reviewed his case notes, making sure to think through every detail. Ellen Stuart had put her daughter Molly to bed at 8:15 pm. She then went to check on her eight-month-old baby, Glenn. About fifteen minutes later, she returned to make sure Molly was asleep. The child had vanished. The window next to the bed was open. Outside the window, muddy tracks from a pair of large boots crossed the back yard before disappearing into the dense leaves at the edge of the woods.

  The father, Bob Stuart, was out of town. He had been notified and was flying home.

  The info had gone out to all the deputies: Molly Stuart—ten years old, medium height, last seen wearing a long white nightgown—presumed abducted by a mysterious intruder who had brazenly broken in through her bedroom window as she slept.

  Focused on finding her, Jon had over twenty people en route to the Stuarts’ house. Henry’s prize bloodhound Sebastian had been trained in tracking. He would be their best asset.

  Jon believed it was his duty as sheriff to know as much as possible about the residents of Sheffield. Jon had been to nearly every house at least once, and he took comfort in knowing almost every person who called the town home. The house on Hayden Pond, where he was now, had been sold to a man by the name of Roman Hollick. He must be a very private sort of fella, thought Jon. It had been over a year since Hollick had moved to Sheffield, and Jon had not yet had the pleasure of meeting him.

  With a feeling of irritation, Jon thought that while his deputies had only been on the force for a year, there was no excuse not to check in with dispatch. Enforcing protocol was important to Jon, and always setting a good example was what made a good sheriff. Jon lived by the rules. Those boys probably got to talking and lost track of time. His optimistic thoughts always brought him comfort.

  Getting out of his car, he walked towards his deputies’ cruiser. Strange they would leave it unattended. The cold air gave him goose bumps and he could see his breath. Early fall had brought a chill to the air. Almost time for jackets, he thought.

  From inside the house came a dull light glowing eerily in the cold moonlight.

  He stopped. Something caught his eye. It moved in the darkness—a shape scraping against the ground. Pulling his flashlight from the holster on his belt, he flashed its bright beam on the driveway. First confused by what he saw, pausing, he popped the button off his holster and placed a hand on his gun. It looked like legs sticking out from underneath the front of his deputy’s cruiser. He started running, suddenly recognizing the familiar blue uniform pressed and neat with the sturdy black shoes. As Jon breathed deeply the cold fall air seemed to freeze in his throat. His panic increased with every step. As he drew nearer he could see that the pants were stained red and soaked in blood. The red pool branched out, creating small rivers on the pavement.

  As Jon came around to the front of the cruiser Brian, his youngest deputy, was holding his neck. Jon dropped down to his knees next to him. Not here not in my town! These things don’t ever happen here! Can’t be real! His mind raced, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

  With every heartbeat the gaping wound on Brian’s neck gushed.

  Jon pulled his radio and called dispatch. “I have an officer down. Three Hayden Pond Road. Need immediate medical attention and backup to location.” He looked around to make sure the area was secure. Knowing the nearest hospital was twenty-five minutes away, his mind flooded with worry. The words seemed to flow steadily until he reached the end and began to choke. “Please advise time to location,” said Jon, almost afraid to ask. The young deputy’s eyes screamed with the story of what had happened but he was choking and couldn’t manage the words.

  “Shh, it’s ok,” said Jon. “Hold on son, try not to talk.”

  Brian started slipping into shock. Jon held pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding. The blood felt warm running over his hands. It was all he could do until help arrived. The memories Jon held of Brian’s life came rushing back. Brian was like a son to him, and best friends with his own boy since kindergarten. With no father around, Jon had basically raised him. Jon was the reason Brian had gone to the police academy and joined the Sheffield Police Department. Brian’s eyes were unfocused and his body twitched with every last effort to survive.

  Then there was nothing a blank stare.

  He was gone.

  “Sheriff, this is dispatch,” crackled the radio. “Eighteen minutes to location. Backup and ambulance en route.”

  Jon’s eyes filled with rage. He knew there was nothing he could do—the boy was gone. Then a rush of reality came over him. He remembered they were patrolling together that night, and whispered “Thomas.” Picking up his gun, he turned to the house and rose to his feet. Stop
ping for a brief second to click the safety off his weapon, he prepared himself for what lay ahead. He moved up the steps to the front door, barely making a sound. Pushing aside all procedures and protocols, ignoring his training and teachings, he was not waiting for backup this time. He kicked open the front door with such force it slammed against the wall with a loud bang. The love for his boy pushed him to abandon the rules. His heart filled with an aching pain and time seemed to freeze.

  There in front of him was Thomas, hanging by a rope around his neck attached to the top banister of the second floor. Across his legs just under the knee was a deep laceration. The house was silent. All Jon could hear was the creaking wood supporting the slightly shifting weight of the rope and noise of the dripping blood hitting the wooden boards like a heartbeat bump bump… bump bump… bump bump. Aiming high at the banister, he breathed deep. Focusing intently, he squeezed the trigger four times. The banister shattered and Thomas’s lifeless body fell into Jon’s arms. He pulled the rope off, saying his name over and over again—“Thomas... Thomas, it’s Dad… Thomas, I’m here now… Thomas?”

  Lowering his son’s limp body to the floor, he performed CPR, knowing in the back of his mind it held little hope. He had to try! There could be a chance—he had to try. He had to save him. How could he live without his son—his boy—his beloved Thomas?

  For six long minutes he tried to revive him. Nothing—not a gasp, no movement, no heartbeat. He held his boy, hugging him tightly. How could this be real? How could this happen? Thomas had only graduated from the academy twelve months ago, and now he was gone. Jon hugged his son’s body, tightly rocking him back and forth. It didn’t matter how old Thomas was, that was his baby boy. He sobbed with devastation.

  Barely having a moment to grieve Jon heard a scream. Loud and piercing, echoing through the kitchen from the basement, came the blood-curdling cry of a girl, distinctly a child—“Help me!”

  Jon gently placed his son’s body on the floor. Caressing Thomas’s cheek, Jon nodded, acknowledging his loss. Then he picked up his gun from the pool of blood. His hand shook a little with the realization his gun was stained with his son’s blood. Clenching his teeth and fists, rage again filled his body and took away every ounce of fear. He had lost so much! He must save her! Moving with purpose and precision, he again refocused.

  Walking through the dining room into the kitchen, he could see the basement door was open. Then he heard it again—the high-pitched shriek was not just a scream but a plea for life. Approaching the open basement door, his flashlight pierced the gloom. The bright beam revealed a light switch at the bottom of the stairs. He swiftly made his way down, walking with his flashlight over his gun, leading the way into the darkness. On both sides of the stairs the cement walls were damp and moldy, and stepping off the last rickety wooden tread he noticed the floor was mud. He leaned his back against the wall, sweeping his flashlight beam around the corners of a dark basement that stank like rotting, festering death. It made Jon breathe through his mouth—his nose could not stand the putrid stench.

  The bright beam fell on a large pair of work boots. Raising his flashlight, he saw a large man drenched in blood sitting on the edge of what looked like a round well. Jon used his elbow to flick on the light switch. The light in front of him turned on first, then one after another seven more lights came to life, each delayed a few seconds. They made a sharp snapping noise as they lit and hummed loudly to stay illuminated. The lights revealed blood covering the man’s face, hands, and clothes. He was a gleaming maroon mess with dark eyes and white teeth.

  The man laughed slowly with a deep haunting voice that sent a cold shiver up Jon’s back and raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

  The man grinned sadistically, as if he were impressed with something he had done. “We have been waiting for you,” he sneered. Sitting on the man’s knee was a little girl. Jon recognized her immediately—she was little Molly Stuart. Blood streaked her long hair and tears trickled down her cheeks. The man’s bloodstained hand covered her mouth while his other hand held a long sharp blade pressed against her throat. He smiled again, exposing those gleaming white teeth.

  “He cried out for you,” the man gloated.

  The words stabbed Jon in the deepest part of his heart and echoed in his mind. Tears ran down his cheeks and his gun was shaking. In that moment, before Jon had his chance to negotiate his chance to save her, the man clenched his teeth and effortlessly cut through the little girl’s neck.

  Jon’s face became a blank stare with shock. It was a deep hopeless wound; Molly’s eyes became still as stone. The blood poured out onto her white nightgown like a red waterfall.

  “No!” Jon yelled as the man threw her backwards into the well behind him. Jon gripped his gun tightly. “AAAAAHHHHHHHH,” he screamed unloading the clip.

  The man raised his hands, laughing loudly as the bullets hit their marks. He closed his eyes and fell backwards into the well.

  Jon ran over to the well. It was about twenty feet deep. He could see the man’s body floating in a deep pool of bloody water, with the demonic smile still pasted on his face. The sweat dripped off Jon’s forehead, landing in the blood at the bottom of the well. The faint sound echoed back. The man’s body slowly disappeared beneath the surface.

  Jon could hear the sirens pulling down the road into the driveway and the deep bay of a hound nearing the house. He stared down into the well. It was like staring straight into hell.

  Chapter Two

  Thirty-Three Years Later

  A battered blue work truck struggled up the long steep driveway to the old house with its grimy windows and broken shutters. Time had eaten away at its once-brilliant white paint, now covered in dirty mold. The only apparent life on the property consisted of the overgrown plants attempting to reclaim their land.

  Two men stepped out of the truck. The deep blue eyes of Paul Bolton looked upon the old home with hope and promise. His cousin Ray walked toward the house, his hands held high. “Would you look at that!” said Ray. “Would you just look at it! Can you believe we never knew this place existed?”

  Paul stared up at the house. He knew this could be something great. This could be his second chance. “Needs a lot of work, maybe a new roof,” he said. “Nothing I wouldn’t be able to handle.”

  They stepped carefully up the creaky stairs to the front door. Ray fumbled around with the keys. Paul grabbed the handle and pushed. “It’s open,” he said, smiling. They entered with wide-eyed wonder. As they walked into the house, the floorboards creaked with age.

  “What’s that smell?” said Paul covering his nose with his sleeve.

  “The house has been shut up for a while. Probably just needs to be aired out,” said Ray, trying to put a positive spin on his newfound inheritance. “I’ll crack some windows. That should do the trick.”

  Paul stared up at the second floor banister. The wood was cracked and had protruding splinters. How strange that the banister had been damaged on that side of the railing, he thought.

  Ray made his way through the dining room into the kitchen, opening up windows as he went along. The kitchen was full of light from the large window over the sink overlooking the back yard. There were three other doors leading from the kitchen—one each to the back yard, the garage, and the basement. He noticed the opened the pantry door hanging off its hinges. “It’s got a nice size pantry for dry goods and what not,” he said. He moved over to the basement door. When he opened it he came face to face with a large spider web. Startled, out of spite he pulled down the web. Staring into the darkness he thought he heard a strange sound, like a whisper. Pausing for a moment he listened.

  Ray’s attention turned to Paul and he shut the door as Paul entered the room. The floorboard Paul stepped on creaked loudly.

  “What did you say?” asked Paul.

  “Ummm, oh, the pantry,” answered Ray. “Take a look—it’s full of space, nice and roomy, just needs a coat of paint.”

  Paul grasped th
e pantry door, wiggling it open. “You’re right, it’s going to need some paint and maybe some shelves. Sam’s going to love it.” Opening the door leading to the garage to see his new work area, he was excited to see rows of shelving at the end of the garage and a workbench for his projects.

  Ray started back towards the entryway. “Let’s go upstairs and see if there’s anything we can sell.” Passing the dining room table, Ray picked up the checkerboard, sending the checkers across the table and onto the floor. “Kids probably use this place for a hangout,” he said, tossing the board back onto the table. They walked up the stairs, both looking at the broken banister as they passed it. Paul ran his fingers over the splintered wood.

  “Must have broken it while moving stuff out,” said Ray.

  Looking around upstairs, they found a bathroom and four bedrooms. “The girls can each have their own rooms,” said Ray. “Even the baby can have his own room. Lots of space and windows. It’s perfect for a growing family.”

  “How again did you just happen to get this house?” asked Paul shaking his head in disbelief.

  “It wasn’t in dad’s will,” replied Ray. “He must have forgotten all about it. The town found it in the deed listings and contacted me. We owed a couple thousand in taxes, but it was well worth it.”

  “I am truly in debt to you for this,” said Paul. “I don’t know what I would have done. Sam and the girls wouldn’t have been happy living in a small city apartment. It would have broken their hearts having to give up our animals,” he said, placing his hand on Ray’s shoulder.

  “We all fall on hard times,” said Ray, looking around the room. “The lousy economy has touched everyone. You’ll find some work, and in the mean time you got a hell of a project.”