Nephilim Genesis of Evil

by Renee Pawlish

  “Is there a mine near the cabin?”

  She scoffed. “There’s no mine and very little trace of any digging.”

  “But why build a cabin here?”

  “Wanted to protect his claim, I guess. Only no one ever saw him with gold, after that first time. But he built this cabin and supposedly was digging in a mine somewhere. Then that first winter arrived and it was hard on him.” Her face clouded over. “The story goes that he only came into the Crossing once for supplies, trekked over the frozen lake, and that when the ice finally did melt in the spring and he made it across in his boat, he looked like the grim reaper himself had come visiting during the snowstorms.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was like he’d been turned into another man, a crazy man. Folks say he was like a dead man, no essence to him. Like the hard season had sucked the life right out of him.”

  Rory tried to show no reaction, but his pulse quickened. Did something happen to the miner, something that related to what the townspeople had been discussing? Had the miner seen something like he had? “What happened to him?” he finally asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, but he felt like she was evading his question. “But I wouldn’t want to stay out here. The place gives me the creeps.”

  “You must’ve stayed here sometimes.”

  “Once. I didn’t like it and I told my husband if he wanted to stay here he could, but he’d be doing it alone. I washed my hands of this place.”

  “So you rent it out.”

  She shrugged. “Usually don’t, as a matter of fact. You’re the first tenant in more than ten years. People don’t like it out here.” She shrugged again. “Too far from town, I guess.”

  His sense of foreboding grew stronger. “So what became of the miner?” he asked.

  “He disappeared after that. No one knows what happened.”

  “They didn’t find a body?”

  She shook her head slowly. “They didn’t find anything. No notes, nothing to indicate he’d been trying to mine, certainly no gold,” she paused, “and no body. Ever. He was just…gone.”

  They sat in a brooding silence for a few moments. “Well,” Myrtle broke the quiet. “I best be going.” She stood up and went outside. “Let’s go, Boo,” she said, calling the dog to her. “I came out here earlier today and left a few staples in the kitchen, in case you don’t want to come back to town now, but eventually you’ll have to come in for more supplies.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Rory said as he walked with her down to the dock. “I’m a bit tired from the trip, so I’d rather just stay here for tonight.”

  “I hope you enjoy yourself,” she turned to face him. The sun was sinking behind the mountains, bathing them in deep shadows. She trembled slightly as she glanced back at the cabin. “Place gives me the creeps,” she said again. Then she laughed and patted Rory on the arm. “I’m just an old woman, so ignore my foolish talk.”

  She helped Boo into the boat and got in. She grabbed the briefcase. “Oh, it’s heavy. What’ve you got in here?”

  “Just some notes and my laptop,” Rory said. He jumped into the boat to retrieve the briefcase himself, stumbling over a small metal box in the bottom of the boat.

  “Careful with that,” Myrtle said, reorganizing the emergency supplies that had spilled out.

  “When’s the last time you used this?” he asked, handing her a flare gun.

  “Never, but you never know when you might need it,” she said, putting the flare gun and the other supplies back in the box. “At least that’s what my husband always said.”

  Rory took his suitcase and briefcase and climbed back out of the boat, nearly losing his balance.

  “Watch out, or you’ll end up in the lake.” Myrtle fired up the motor. “You be careful out here.” With a wave, she was off.

  He waved back. “I’ll see you in town,” he called after her, watching the boat for a bit before heading back into the cabin.

  Later, as he sat down to a dinner of canned soup, he thought about the original cabin owner. Did Burgess Barton sit at this same table, worrying about the amount of gold ore in the rocks he’d dug out of the mountain? Did the isolation tear at his mind, making him go crazy? Sitting here alone now, the place did seem kind of creepy to Rory. He half expected Burgess Barton to pop out of the closet or appear at the window to scare him.

  And then, as he sat that evening, reading through some of the articles he’d brought with him, he felt a depression settling over him, along with a coolness in the air, and he wondered about the town’s past, and what it meant for him.

  CHAPTER 2

  The next day, after sleeping late, Rory rowed across Taylor Lake, huffing as he pulled on the wooden oars of the boat. He could feel his heart pumping in his chest as he rowed. He would not have paid attention to such an automatic response a few weeks before, but now, after the accident in New York, after that thing appeared, he didn’t take it for granted anymore.

  Breathless, he stopped midway through his trip across the lake and surveyed the view. It was mid-August, and to the west, the Indian Peaks stretched upward, pine trees creating a verdant blanket over the rough landscape, aspen trees shimmering green in the sunlight. Myrtle had told him that the foliage would be even more spectacular in a month or so, when the aspen groves morphed from their present colors to gold and then red-orange. But the abundant colors tapered off well before the summits. The rocky terrain on the peaks was too high for trees to grow. As his eyes wandered over the landscape, he felt a familiar hint of unease, as if the cold of the gray and distant peaks washed down the mountains, invading the lake and him.

  He took a deep breath, the crisp air filling his lungs. He held it for a moment, then let the air out, and began to row again. Once an old mining town nestled in a remote mountain valley, “the Crossing”, as it was locally known, was now a small tourist town west of Boulder, near the Peak-to-Peak National Scenic Byway, a stretch of highway that ambles through the Rockies from Interstate 70 to Estes Park. As Rory rowed, the Crossing began to emerge from the morning shadows, cabins dotting the hills, a few abandoned mines listing in disrepair, red and gold mine tailings like earth spittle on the mountainsides beyond the town.

  From his reading the previous night, he had learned about a variety of stories surrounding the naming of the town. Everything from a discouraged miner named Taylor who had given up on his prospecting claim, and after hiking down from the higher peaks, wearily threw his pick, ax, shovel, and other tools on the ground. After taking an exhaustion-driven nap, the old miner got up to continue his journey, only to find that the tools he had flung down in frustration now formed a perfect cross. Intrigued, he dug in that spot and hit the richest vein of gold in the state’s history. Another story had a preacher who wanted to build a church to help give spiritual direction to the poor and wayward prospectors who were scattered throughout the mountain region. The preacher built a church with a cross so large it could be seen from the Continental Divide, meant to guide the miners down from their claims. Rory never heard how successful the church was, but the crumbling foundation of a building up beyond a rise from the general store was thought to have been the church, minus the towering cross.

  But the most intriguing story was that a tailor named Cross had come through the valley with his wife and five children, and loved the mountain views so much he stayed, only to go crazy during the first cruel winter and kill his wife and children in their sleep, then wander out into a blizzard where he froze to death. Rory wondered if the person who related this yarn realized that someone had used the wrong spelling of the word in the naming of the town, and dismissed this as a tall tale brought on by stories of former residents going crazy from the isolation.

  The most believable account, and the historically accurate one, was that a lot of prospectors came around the lake from the higher peaks, on their way to Nederland, and all the traffic intersected at a natural crossing point on the northeastern end of the lake. An ent
erprising man named Taylor had built a hotel and general store to profit off the miners who either needed supplies as they headed up to their claims or a warm place to stay before they continued on down to Nederland and then Boulder.

  Rory soon guided his boat inexpertly into an open space on a long wooden pier. The boat rocked in the gently lapping water as he tied it to a post. With one hand on the dock to steady himself, he leapt in a half-crouch onto the dock, where he was greeted by a grizzled old man.

  “Coming ashore, are you?” The man glared at Rory with ominous eyes, wide and dark like a bat’s, that appeared even bigger because of the way they stared.

  “That’s right,” Rory said, trying to sidestep the old man.

  Rory couldn’t help but think that the man looked like something out of an old horror movie. He was tall and skinny, with hollow, sunken cheeks, his features not quite right, with white hair blowing every which way, and eyes like some test tube mixture, part dark and haunting, part wild and crazy.

  “You rented the place across the lake, eh?” The old man grabbed Rory by the arm, his grip surprisingly strong.

  “Uh, yes,” Rory said. He carefully pulled himself from the man’s grasp.

  “Ya seen anything funny last night?” The old man peered at him intently.

  Rory eased himself back, avoiding any confrontation. “Nothing.” He started to walk away, but the next thing the old man said stopped him cold.

  “Did the haunts bother you?”

  “What haunts?”

  The gaze didn’t waver. “There’s rumors about this town. You know it, don’t you? Only folks got it wrong. There’s no vampires out there.”

  “Or ghosts or goblins,” Rory said. “What rumors?”

  “Can’t get me to go to your place, no sir.” The old man harrumphed. “No sir.”

  Rory started to grab his arm, but the man jerked back, his eyes fiery. “You’ll find out,” he said, nodding vigorously. “And you watch your back.”

  An early morning fisherman sauntered along past them, his flip-flops making a whapping sound with each footfall, fishing pole and tackle filling his hands. He eyed them curiously, giving them a wide berth.

  The old man growled. “Strange things been happening lately. Can you feel it?” he asked with puckered lips, his face close to Rory’s. “Strange things,” he repeated. He blew a smoke-tainted breath at Rory, hefted his tattered blue jeans up on his narrow hips, and shuffled on down the dock, white shirttails flapping in the breeze coming off the lake.

  Rory watched him for a moment. What a character. Seemed as old as death itself, but that scrawny body sure carried a hidden strength. He was now hassling the fisherman, probably pretending he was the law, asking the poor guy for his license, giving him the rules.

  Strange things, huh, Rory thought. The old man didn’t have to tell him that; he sensed an odd undercurrent in the air the moment he drove into town. He should’ve been able to dismiss the old man’s rantings, since he’d heard about “strange occurrences” countless times during his career. He didn’t get to be a syndicated columnist specializing in paranormal phenomena without hearing some odd things. He had a file cabinet full of notes and clippings of bizarre stories, most of which he’d never written about. But what secrets did this town hold, and did they relate to his own recent experience?

  With a shake of the head he turned and strolled uneasily up the dock toward Taylor Crossing. The few buildings, their false fronts weathered and gray from too many high summer suns and cold winter blizzards, seemed to beckon as they must have over a hundred years ago. He walked by a small but serviceable boat supply shed, and stepped off the dock, wondering what the town must have been like. Visions of old western movies danced in his mind as he turned left and crossed the dirt road, headed for the general store. It was the only original building from the town that still stood, albeit with a lot of repairs over the years.

  On a porch that spanned the entire front of the store another old man sat in his rocker, slowly moving back and forth, his unfocused eyes gazing out across the lake.

  “Mornin’,” Rory said, giving the man a quick nod.

  The man startled, then twisted his head. “New to town, are you?” The rocker continued in its steady, even tempo. He seemed to be looking right through Rory.

  “Yes. I’m staying across the lake,” Rory answered.

  “Across the lake? Be careful. A lot can happen to a man out there.”

  Rory felt a pang of uneasiness. Why did everyone seem to hate the cabin across the lake? He ignored his apprehension and pulled the door open while behind him the man’s gaze returned to the water.

  “Hello,” a cheerful voice greeted him as he entered the store. A woman in her late thirties with long auburn hair sat perched on a stool behind a long counter filled with impulse buys like candy, mints, and the daily paper from Boulder.

  Two things struck him simultaneously: she was as beautiful as the columbines in the surrounding mountains, and she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  “Hello, yourself.” Rory smiled and poured on the charm. “I’m new in town and need to pick up some supplies.”

  “We’ve got most staples here in the store,” she said. “What we don’t have you’ll have to drive to Nederland to get.”

  “That’s the place on the way up from Boulder Canyon?”

  She nodded. He started to walk down an aisle, picking up a few items.

  “Let me know if you can’t find something.”

  He filled his arms with groceries and came up to the counter. “This’ll do for now. I’m Rory Callahan, by the way.”

  “Anna Holmes,” she said. She totaled the items, took the money he gave her, and made change. “Where are you staying?”

  “The cabin across the lake, and I know, it’s a weird place. But it was the only place available.” He smiled then at his abrasiveness. “But nothing could compare to the charm of this place.”

  She smiled back as she bagged his groceries. “Don’t let the talk get to you.” She finished and handed him the sack.

  He took it from her, lingering. “Tell me something, Anna. Who’s the old man out there?”

  “On the porch? That’s my father, Jimmy. He owned the store until his failing health pushed him into retirement. Now I run the place and he rocks away his days.”

  “Actually, I meant that old geezer wandering up and down the dock. But I’m glad to know your father.”

  “Oh, you must mean Old Man Brewster. What’s he up to now?”

  “He’s on patrol, after some of the fishermen.”

  Anna shook her head in mock disgust. “All the time I’ve been here, and I still can’t get used to that man. He seemed old when I was a kid, and he’s old now, like he never ages. He’s exactly the same all the time.”

  “Cantankerous and creepy?” Rory’s lips twitched as he tried to hide a smile.

  “Yes.” Anna laughed, and he felt a jolt go through him. Man, she was beautiful! “He is creepy, the old fool.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “Where do I start?” She pursed her lips and sighed. “Aloysius Ignatius Brewster. That’s his full name. He’s as old as the devil, as far as I know, and darn near as mean. Lived in the Crossing probably since Taylor himself put down roots in 1881. Old Man Brewster’s one of a handful, some say a crazy few, who live year-round in the Crossing.”

  “What’d he do for a living?”

  “He’s done just about everything,” Anna said, resting her elbows on the counter. Rory was the sole customer in the store, so she could take a few minutes to chat. “I recall Dad saying that Brewster used to work down in Nederland, but I don’t remember doing what. Now he just lives in his ramshackle cabin, collecting his Social Security check once a month. He doesn’t eat much, based on what he buys here, and I doubt he’s shopping somewhere else since he doesn’t drive anymore.”

  “What does he do in the winter?” Rory asked in surprise. Even the toughest of people had to get out for s
upplies once in a while.

  “Some of the others full-timers check on him. And I hear he’s got a son who pops in now and again. Likes to snowshoe up here in the winter.”

  “Seems like the winters would be too much for him.”

  “I think Old Man Brewster’s so ornery he scares death away,” Anna said. “I hate running into him. He’s always got some weird story to tell, things his grandfather told him.”

  “Like what?”

  “People disappearing. Strange things happening in the woods.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “Uh huh. The best one is how all the townspeople just up and left back in 1891.”

  Rory waited expectantly, hoping she would continue.

  “You haven’t heard this one before?” Rory hadn’t but he knew he would be looking in his books and articles when he got back to the cabin. He shook his head, and Anna shifted on her stool and began her tale.

  “Back then, the Crossing was on the downside of the gold rush. There were still quite a few residents, but lots of people had taken off for other, greener, pastures. You could say the town was dying. This was way before the summer business started,” she gestured at her modest surroundings. “The way Brewster tells it, his grandfather – he’s the one who lived here when Taylor first started the town – was still trying to eke out a living at one of the mines. He was a bad tempered old cuss, and one weekend, he got really drunk. The story goes that Brewster’s grandfather swore he saw ghosts or something moving in the night, only they weren’t ghosts with white sheets or anything like that.”