My father wrote: “Clive began weeping before us all. We did nothing more than watch. It was clearly his sister’s dress, which caused us to wonder how we would feel if it had been one of our sisters or brothers instead.” While the Bidwell boy cried and the three of them stood in silence, the giant returned home. “I cannot recall which surprised us more,” my father wrote, “the fact that he had come home or that he truly was a giant.” The enormous size of the man did not stop Clive Bidwell, however; without hesitation he charged the giant with his knife. The giant, perhaps confused by the strangers in his home, was not prepared for the attack. Clive stabbed him repeatedly in the gut.
The rest, Christopher, I cannot tell without creating a fiction of my own. Up until that point my father’s narrative was precise, but after that it became jumbled into what I can only speculate was caused by his emotions overtaking him. What I can gather is that despite being stabbed, the giant managed to throw Clive Bidwell back and attempted to advance. But someone else—my father did not say who; perhaps he was too guilty to name himself—took aim and fired, striking the giant in the throat. When he fell to the ground all four of the boys attacked at once. They were impetuous. Using whatever weapons they had on their persons, they butchered the giant like a pack of dogs.
How long it took before they went back into town I do not know. But when they did return, they returned heroes. The constable was not happy with the way the four had handled themselves, but everyone was so relieved the horror was over that in the end it did not matter. The stone house was open for anyone to see. It reeked of death and blood and was full of flies because my father and his three friends had strung up the giant’s body from the ceiling. The constable wanted to take it down, but this was quickly met with disapproval, as everyone wanted a chance to see the monster.
The body did not hang there for long, however. The day before it was to be taken down all four of the boys returned to the stone house. They wanted to admire what they had accomplished together, how they had stopped the evil that had plagued their town. Except when they arrived the giant’s body was not alone.
From my father’s journal: “There is no denying that it was a man. He wore a long dark robe and had medium-length auburn hair. His back was to us when we arrived, but as he stood in the doorway he turned around to face us. He appeared to be middle aged and was quite striking, yet his face was cold and his eyes were blacker than even the night itself.
“Dan inquired of the man who he was, as none of us recognized him. He gave us only a cold stare, without a word of response. He made us all uneasy. I suggested we leave and come back later, when the man finally did speak. Very slowly, and in a voice that did not sound quite natural, he said, ‘This was my only follower and you have killed him. Not only will each of you pay for what you have done, but your blood as well, for as long as it exists.’ ”
And then, Christopher, my father writes that both the man and the strung-up giant disappeared. One second they were both there, the next my father blinked and they were gone. The four of them had no idea what to think, though they all admitted to being scared. They promised themselves to never speak of what happened and went back into town, to their families, to their friends, and to their lives. When the constable came and asked what happened to the body, they each denied knowing, because in truth they had no clue.
Thirty years passed. My father and his friends still lived in Bridgton, as none of them ever found any reason to leave. They had watched the town grow just as they had watched themselves grow, and had decided to call the place home. It was peaceful where they were, and they took pleasure in the lives they had made. They all had wives, children, a happy and content life. Their past was something that only haunted them in their sleep. The idea of that strange experience back in the stone house—which is still standing, mind you, no one ever found the courage to tear it down—was far from their minds.
I was sixteen at the time, my sister Katherine twelve. We lived in a house near the highway that is now called Route 13. Sometimes in the winter you could go out in the backyard and see the center of Bridgton through the trees. Everything was fine, almost perfect. Except then a young interim reverend named Devin Beckett went insane. There were rumors that it had something to do with a young girl who he was involved with, but no one really knew for certain and it was probably nothing more than mere gossip anyway. But one night he went to the houses of four families, murdered the parents and took the youngest children. He left the firstborns—who all happened to be males—alive in bed. On each of their bedroom doors he left a cross, painted in the blood of their parents. He took the youngest back to the stone house where the giant once lived before four brave boys killed him. It was there Devin Beckett kept the children, completely bound, as he went to the next house to kill the parents and kidnap the youngest. It was terrible, something that haunts me even now. How could anyone possibly sleep through such a thing?
My father and his three friends: Clive Bidwell, Paul Alcott, and Daniel Weiss. They were the fathers of the families who were slaughtered that night. Their youngest children taken to the house where Beckett kept them until the police arrived. The house was burned and they all died, every single one of them. By then the only survivors of the terror were the four firstborn sons, who during all this time were at home, either still asleep or awakened by county deputies. I was one of the sons who was awakened.
I wish I could describe to you everything that took place days after the Massacre as the old locals probably still call it, but I neither have the time nor the energy. In fact, it took more out of me telling you this than I planned, as I have had to step away and come back to it four times already. But I hope you understand the reason I did so, why I felt the need to let you know, especially if something awful has happened to your parents.
Since the Massacre, I and the three other survivors went our separate ways. Our fathers had been friends, though we as boys only knew each other fairly well. The only survivor I was close to was Gerald Alcott. He was two years younger and went to live with some nearby neighbors since he had no other family left of his own.
I went away and joined the army. I spent a few years in the service before returning to Bridgton. Time had changed the town and the people who lived there (there was a new diner on Mizner Road, and Bud Keller opened a fishing store), but some things were still the same. Gerald still lived in town. The house where I once lived was still standing, though now it was taken over by a new family. They were not local, instead a couple from New England, and I sometimes wonder if they even knew what happened inside its walls years before. The few belongings I had taken from the house were still with the young woman I had been courting before I left. And it was this woman whom I had returned to Bridgton for, and who had waited for me all this time. That woman, Christopher, was Lily Thorsen, your grandmother.
We married soon after and continued living in town. Despite its terrible history, this was where I had grown up and, like my own father, I had come to call it home. Your grandmother got pregnant and we had your father. Four years later we had your uncle. My past seemed to no longer matter, as I began a family of my own. Gerald kept in touch, but the other two boys, James Bidwell and Richard Weiss, moved on. I heard rumors that James moved out to Oklahoma, where he got a respectable job and made a family. Then supposedly he went crazy and killed his family before killing himself. I did not believe it until I saw the article with my own eyes. A note he left claimed he saw his father.
It was difficult to believe. I had known the man when he was young and he seemed peaceful enough, quite sane. It made no sense to me, until a month later when I started going through the boxes left over from before I went into the army. It was in one of those boxes that I found my father’s journals, and it was in one of those journals that I began to understand just what happened to my parents and sister, and the rest of the families, and why.
What I can tell you and what you have probably already inferred is that it began with my father
and his three friends killing the giant. Though it was agreed upon that the missing children had been sacrificed, none could say to whom, except maybe the Devil himself. And I believe that is who the man was the day my father and his three friends returned to see the dead giant, though the man claiming that the giant was his only follower does not make sense. At least it did not then. But it would help explain how he and the giant’s body disappeared, and make a connection between the four murdered families. And it would explain why almost sixty years after my birth, my dead father came to visit me one early evening when I had finished mowing the lawn.
We were living in the house you visited once before during Christmas. If I remember correctly you were five, maybe six years old. One minute I was putting the John Deere away, the next I turned around to find my father standing directly behind me. He appeared just as I remembered him, wearing the same pajamas he had had on the night he was murdered. Only something was different about him. His eyes were completely black and immediately I remembered what my father had written in his journal. I stayed completely still; I did not even blink. I had no idea what to say or do. It was as if time had ceased all motion at that moment. Everything became silent and went still and the only people left in the world were my father and myself. When he spoke, his voice was not his own.
“Hello, Stephen. How have you been, my son?” I did not answer him. I knew this was not my father and was instead the Devil, who had promised revenge long ago. He said, “You must love your son and his wife very much. And your grandchild. What is his name?” I refused to answer. “It doesn’t matter, really. In the end, they will all suffer.” Finally I did find the courage to speak; I asked him if he was the Devil. His already grim face seemed to grow even grimmer, and he said, “I am not. My name is Samael.” When I asked him what he wanted he said, “What I want makes no difference and does not concern you. What concerns you, however, is the choice I am willing to offer. Something will happen to your son and his family, something that will kill them all. But I am willing to offer you a choice.” Hesitantly, I asked what the choice was. “Simply to spare the living from the dead. You can choose your son and his wife’s lives and sacrifice your grandchild’s. Or you can choose your grandchild’s life to live instead.” I took a deep breath and asked Samael if this was the same choice he gave James Bidwell. He actually looked both surprised and pleased. He told me, “That is none of your concern. Your only concern now is the choice I have given you.” I asked what would happen if I made no choice and was told that then all three lives—your father, your mother, and you—would perish painfully.
Since I have been in this place I have done much reading, much more than I would ever have thought possible. I have read the great classics—Homer, Virgil, Chaucer, Milton, Shakespeare, Dickens—and I have dipped into reading works by many great philosophers, such as Aristotle, Voltaire, Descartes, and Kant. There is one work in particular written by an English philosopher named Charles Westis who dealt much with life and death and the idea of the human will. He said, “In every man’s life there comes a time when churchyards yawn and his fate becomes dependent upon a single choice.” If that were true, I would have thought marrying Lily Thorsen would decide my fate. But that evening with Samael posing as my dead father, I knew that this choice right then was it, when churchyards yawned so to speak.
I have done research on Samael. According to Jewish mythology, he is one of the angels of death. I did not know this then, but what would it matter even if I did? I suppose now that if you are indeed reading this, Christopher, then what Samael told me came true. It was a difficult decision to make, one that haunts me even now, but in the back of my mind I kept seeing you at the house when you visited, the innocence in your eyes not yet infected by the world. In a way, it probably would have been better to make the other choice, but I simply could not, because deep down inside I knew you had to live.
After I told Samael my decision he simply vanished, leaving me with the knowledge of what I had done. Later that week the pressure and guilt became too much. I couldn’t stand it anymore, knowing that I had damned my son and daughter-in-law. That was why I came to Pennsylvania. That was why I took you out of school and tried to get away. Why the gun? Because if Samael came back I intended to stop him whichever way I could, even though a part of me knew bullets would prove useless. Truthfully, I did not know what I was doing. I did not know when the time would come for your parents to die and you to be left all alone. The only thing I knew was that no matter what happened, since I was your grandfather, and since my father was your great-grandfather, it would happen to you someday too. The more I thought about that the more I questioned whether I had done the right thing. Because putting death on one side and making an irrevocable choice like the one I had on the other, I was not sure which was the lesser of two evils.
The state police ended up stopping me. I doubt you can even remember what happened. It does not matter anyhow. There was much confusion, much shouting, and you had begun crying. I did my best to comfort you. Naturally I did not tell them the truth about why I took you away. I did not tell them how I made a deal with the Devil for your life. Nor did I tell them that I wanted to somehow make you understand.
I hope you do not think me crazy, Christopher. I am sure to everyone else I am nothing more than a madman. Even your father refuses to speak with me, for I have tried many times to contact him letting him know about Samael. I cannot say I blame him though, especially with my own knowledge that I am responsible for his eventual death. But perhaps I am crazy; perhaps what happened was all in my mind. Then if this is so, how can you explain what happened to James Bidwell and Richard Weiss? Just last year in my research I found that Richard went into a daycare and killed thirteen children and employees before taking his own life. I can only imagine Samael coming to him as his dead father. I am not certain of his choices, but I have a good idea which he made. His wife and two sons, at this present moment, are still alive.
I wish I could tell you this in person. I wish I could see how you have grown up, what kind of man you have become. I am certain I would be proud of whoever you are. At this moment as I write you are in your eleventh year, and I wonder just how many more you will have left. Not before you die, but instead before the time comes when churchyards yawn and you will have to make that choice. So why did I want you to see this and know? Because when the time comes I want you to be prepared and not taken aback like the others before you.
Again, I do not know the entire story, or else I would do my best to tell you. I only know as much as I do and I hope that is enough. If you decide to disbelieve me, that is your decision. But I want you to understand at least one thing: I did what I did because I love you. I made that choice without hesitation because I knew you were special and worth it. So please, do what you think is best. Again, I love you.
Chapter 21
The crematorium was located in the far corner of Elmira Cemetery. Hidden by pine trees and bushes, the red brick building had only two long windows facing front, with a steel door between them. Its tall narrow chimney—located behind the building—was coughing dark smoke when we first arrived, and for an instant I wondered if that was from Joey.
Moses went inside alone. By then the smoke had stopped its ascent to the clear afternoon sky.
I stood leaning against the parked Metro and stared out across the cemetery. I couldn’t help but remember the day my parents were buried, how I’d looked out over the vast array of tombstones and thought about how meaningless life really was. People lived their entire lives, working nearly every day, and when they died what else did they have to show for it but a stone tablet with their name engraved six feet above their decomposing bodies? It was sad, the revelation that crept into my mind during my parents’ funeral, and while I knew it was mostly true I also realized what else my parents had left behind, and it saddened me even more.
The door opened and closed behind me. Footsteps approached. When I turned I saw Moses walking slowly wi
th his head down. In his hands was a silver box.
I opened my mouth to speak—maybe ask him if he was okay—but decided not to say anything. We just stood there on either side of the car, silent. Finally he cradled the box in the crook of his arm, reached into his pocket, and tossed me his keys.
“You’re going to have to drive,” he said, not looking at me. “I don’t think I can right now.”
Once inside the car, I asked, “Where to?”
“I don’t care. Just drive.”
Not familiar at all with the area, I figured just driving wouldn’t be a problem. I maneuvered us out of Elmira Cemetery and then onto the main road.
After a couple minutes of silence, of Moses just sitting there staring down at the silver box in his lap, I cleared my throat.
“Aren’t you going to ask me?”
His eyes still downcast, he said, “Ask you what?”
“If I read it. What my grandfather wrote.”
“Did you?”
“You know I did.”
“Do you believe it?”
I kept my eyes on the cars ahead of me, unsure whether I wanted to answer him.
“Well?”
“Yes,” I said. “I ... I think so.”
Silence was his only reply. It was all I needed to know that my answer was good enough for him.
“So now what?”
“Hmm?”
“The thirty-four people. How do we save them?”
“Oh,” Moses said, and I knew he was off in a world of his own, probably trying to keep memories of him and Joey away from one of those doors in his mind. “Well, thirty-four is a relatively big number. Our best bet is to try to find a place where that many people or more are going to be.”
“But that could be anywhere. In a store, in a movie theater, at a park. Even in a McDonald’s.”
The Calling: A Supernatural Thriller Page 16