The phone rang. I picked it up expecting the police, or the medical team. It was Virginia Hastings canceling her three o'clock appointment. All the better.
Ten minutes had passed. No sign of an ambulance. I called Ellenville again and was put on indefinite hold.
Something didn't smell right.
Finally I hung up and dialed 911, hoping that the police might be a wee bit more prompt than the pokey Ellenville medical team; I'd bag another two inches on my hairline before they showed up. I got a tired-sounded female on the phone, a young girl that sounded unmotivated and bored, not spent from a hard day on the job. I reported a life and death situation, my voice cracking with anxiety and unsettling impatience. Another promise was made for an ambulance.
"How about the police?" I asked.
"I'll notify the Ashborough Sheriff."
"Thank you," I said unappreciatively. My fear and anxiety was peaking. Couple that now with frustration and you had one shredded individual.
Another ten minutes passed. No one showed.
I went back outside. Lauren's body was starting to pale—rigor mortis setting in. The blood had rushed to her head which was angled off the edge of the walkway into the grass, turning it a purple color with sticky black blood pooling from her mouth and nose. There were so many questions that needed answering. I stood there realizing that I'd have to be the one, for now, to try and find out what exactly had happened. If a person in Lauren Hunter's condition popped into my office (actually, the emergency room, but I'm being hypothetical here) in a similarly distressed state, we'd come to immediate assumptions: dragged by a bus (or a subway), maimed by an angry mob (or a pack of wild dogs; every now and then a trio of pit bulls goes haywire on some poodle-walking bystander in Central Park). Other than that, what else could it be? Here in Ashborough with its unexplored woodland and uninvestigated maimings and dare I add its ominously unpleasant lore, anything goes.
With all these thoughts running around in my mind, more time had passed, and in this time my head had screwed itself back on to some degree. I was thinking more clearly now, and now was the time to trust my instincts.
I went into the garage and got the tarp back out. Noon was approaching and more than an hour had passed since I placed the first call for help. I'd subsequently left a message at the Sheriff's office, tried Ellenville again, 911, ran the whole helpline gamut. No one had come, and that scared me even more that what'd happened to Lauren Hunter.
I laid the tarp down next to her body, keeping my eyes and ears on high alert in case someone—a patient, Phillip, whoever—decided on a visit. Christine and Jessica were probably having lunch in town by now, and an educated guess said they'd do some shopping afterwards. Plus having Page with them wouldn't be a problem. She was a calm pup and small enough to be held, and I'm sure most store owners wouldn't mind a cute little canine to pet as long as she didn't lick at them too much. So, no worries about them coming home right now. Fingers crossed.
The July sun beat down on me like a hammer, and it didn't do much justice to Lauren either. The smell was like nothing I'd ever encountered before, thick and assaulting on my nose in a cesspool kind of way. The thought of her cooking under the sun's rays put my nausea back into high gear, and I had to look away from the organic burst before I added more of my own sloppy colors to it.
This was the first time I noticed her footprints. She'd worn tennis sneakers and their flat soles had left clear impressions on the cement path. I eyed them all the way to the right corner of the house, where the walkway angled left and wrapped around the front of the porch. But the footprints...they didn't lead that way. They went off in the opposite direction, on the grass.
Into the woods.
I'd never gone more than five feet into the woods on this side of the house. But I'd spent a good amount of time peering into them; the window over the kitchen sink glimpsed out across the side yard and provided a serene view every time I washed the dishes. The addition of the bloody trail (second one in two days; things seemed to work in pairs around these parts) leading into the woods ate into the serenity like crude graffiti on a stark white wall. It began to eat into my mind as well, shaving away at my stability one slice at a time. Like a revelation, the unhappy passion of the entire scene hit me suddenly and made me realize that despite my experiences as a physician, this one ordeal would stay with me forever—would change me into a man who from now on would cover himself in a protective film and become thinly disconnected from reality—a bystander of circumstance. From now on I'd have to go with the uncontrolled flow.
I stepped into the woods, following the bloody trail which broke up over the choppy earth, then petered out about twenty feet in. The trail really should've gotten thicker, considering Lauren's injuries would have left quite a mess, unless...unless I'd veered off track by following an errant spattering, and that the crime had taken place just nearby.
I looked around, turned left, then right, saw an opening, then some more streaks of blood on the ground. I followed them, eventually stepping through a blood-stained thicket of shrubberies, into a small clearing.
Here I located the scene of the crime.
At this moment I knew for certain that I had to get the police here. But I also knew deep down inside that they'd be too frightened to come. Somehow it became apparent that they retained full knowledge of what'd just happened here...just as they most likely did with Neil Farris and Rosy Deighton and God knows how many other unfortunate bastards. I had no evidence of such an allegation but it seemed all too obvious to think otherwise. All I could do was stand in place and try my damnedest to shake off the feelings of bleak dread that would never be so uncertain or indiscernible again: the indisputable realization that something very wrong had taken place here. And it was all too evident in the underlying chill in the air—not even the hot sun of this July afternoon could dispel it. The pinnacle of fear I'd always considered previously unimaginable, conceivable only in nightmares, had become fully concrete upon the premise that a conspiracy of great proportions might very well be in play here.
Within the ten-foot clearing were a set of stones like those in the circle of oaks Phillip had shown me. A smaller representation of its larger model, they were also arranged in an equally purposeful manner, perhaps twenty to twenty five white oval-shaped monuments, twelve to eighteen inches in height, erected in a circular fashion with one larger rock at the nucleus of the framework. The center stone had a douse of blood cloaking it, thick drippings slowly lining the surface and pooling at the base in small dense puddles. Stepping around to the far side of the stone revealed a hunk of tattered flesh—this clearly being the missing piece in Lauren's midsection—lying at the base of the rock like a huge scavenging slug. I bent down and ran a finger across one of the erect stones. A thin white film of powder coated my finger, leaving me to postulate that these stones weren't of ancient origins like the larger ones. No, these were a more recent tribute to the legendary temple, recently carved and unstained by the passing of time.
The dry earth crunched under my feet as I stood (again, like its larger predecessor, the clearing maintained a healthy canopy of reaching branches and leaves sufficiently cloaking it from moisture). At once feeling the need to flee this place before I too play victim to the curse of the Isolates—at this point my mind could fathom no reasonable explanation to the horrors taking place—I staggered away haphazardly, my mind struggling to get itself into gear, struggling to explain to me that everything going on was all part of some grand scheme and that the dreadful chill in the air might be the final catalyst to some evil brew I had unwittingly become a part of.
I promised myself that as soon as Christine and Jessica returned with the car, I would immediately take them far away from Ashborough, leave the house and my business behind to the vile happenings taking place here on a regular basis.
Good idea, Michael. But tell me this...why doesn't everyone else leave? Do they choose not too? Are they not affected by the local corruption? Do th
ey not know about it?
Or are they kept here against their will?
That last thought sent horrible shivers racing throughout my body, and I made another steadfast promise to flee this God-forsaken place as soon as my family arrived home. I slipped from the woods, ran up the walkway alongside the house and realized only as I got there that Lauren Hunter's body was gone.
16
There's a time in your life when something really scares you. Not just scares you, but scares the piss out of you, and you leap and scream and your heart pounds and your skin ripples and your blood races and your breathing goes shallow on you, and then, in a domino-effect type of way, your head spins and your eyesight blurs and it might even tunnel-vision on you. There's a tightness in your chest that simulates a heart-attack, and you claw at your breastbone with sweaty palms and pray for Dear Jesus to save you from the hellfire and damnation that sits at the end of your tunnel like some great black cloud blocking out the ever-saving light you depend on all too often.
But then, like a fog in heat, it goes away, and you return to the world of love and roses and all-things-sugar-and-spice-and-everything-nice with only a vague remembrance and perhaps a little eye-rolling, shoulder-shrugging giggle of denial that you were ever scared at all.
That's all good and fine.
But then there's pure fear. Pure fear is something different altogether. It isn't provoked by anxiety of any other mental facet. No. Pure fear is the type of fear that many of us never live to tell about. It's the feeling you get when you realize your plane is most definitely going down and that you have only one minute left to live, and in that minute you can do nothing but pray that the Good Lord has decided you've lived an exemplary life and that you deserve to red-carpet your way into the pearly gates despite all your shortcomings. Pure fear exists in those precious seconds after you lose control of the car just before it slams into the utility pole. It's in all those moments when you realize that certain death will take you and you can do nothing but succumb to the finish and the irrefutable fact that you can't say goodbye to your family on your way out.
I, for the first time in my life, experienced pure fear. But I lived to tell about it.
Without question, the person who survives pure fear becomes changed. I knew it the very moment I saw the blood-stained walkway where Lauren Hunter's slaughtered corpse had lain not five minutes earlier. Suddenly, I'd become a different man. My mind shifted into some irreversible mode of function where I would now look at the world through some kind of starkly gray-toned filter, where my common senses drowned in a muddied pool while my nervous system swam in violent storm-driven swells.
Like the baby deer last night, Lauren had been carried away, that much I could hypothesize. There was no trail of blood beyond the puddle—even her spilled organs had been taken, perhaps scooped up and crammed back into her cavity. Now it wasn't just the fact that I knew, with no uncertain doubt, that I was being watched, perhaps drawn into some wicked ritualistic-type game of death, that had me experiencing pure fear. It was what I discovered on the ground beside the puddle of blood that had me staring death right in the face.
Footprints. Not the staggering impressions of Lauren's tennis shoes. Not my own booted feet (I even made a moot point to stare at my boots alongside the house to make sure—I'd taken them off before going inside—and it was at this moment I realized that amidst all the disorder I'd hiked up into the woods in just my tube socks). These prints were numerous, made by what appeared to be a group of animals. They harbored reptilian characteristics, long pointed digits with winding patterns in the soles. The only difference was that they possessed five digits in total, something purely distinctive of a biped—a human. But, they were too small to carry anything beyond four feet tall.
I'd remembered what Phillip had said during our walk into the woods:
It'd creeped over the far edge of the rock, just a hand at first, long fork-like fingers gripping the dead animal like a doll.
"Jesus Christ," I whispered aloud. Was he telling the truth after all?
There were now so many questions that needed answering, none of which I knew would ever be resolved.
What did they want from me?
The animal must be alive at the time of sacrifice.
"Oh my God..." I said, thinking of the deer, then of Lauren. Clear-cut clues as to what they might want. Were they actually giving me a handicap, starting the process for me? Could it be?
I managed to find the strength to gaze at my watch. 1:30. Time was moving along at a lightning's pace. I suppose I could've left the mess here; it surely would've aided in my grounds for wanting to leave this place so abruptly. But I also knew that this was no image I wanted in my wife's or daughter's head, for if they were to experience this they would most surely succumb to the ills of mind flourishing within me at the moment.
The tarp...oh my God...it was gone too, I realized this only now. This led me to believe that whoever, whatever took Lauren Hunter, had used it to aid their efforts. Decidingly uncaring of this fact (denial sets in yet again), I fitted my boots back on, then raced into the garage, got out the gardening hose and attached it to the spigot in the back of the house. Twisting the nozzle to the 'jet' setting, I sprayed the blood until it diluted away into the grass and soil in minutes. Fifteen minutes later, all signs of Lauren Hunter were gone, at least to the untrained eye. It looked as though she were never here.
I kicked off my wet boots, went inside and tried calling the police again. This time I got no answer. 911 was the same story: the operator would put me on hold until I either got tired of waiting or was disconnected. The word conspiracy entered my mind again, but so did the word paranoia. I had every right to feel this way given the alarming circumstances, but I also reminded myself that this wasn't New York City and that the societal gears here weren't as well oiled as I'm used to. Perhaps help was still on the way? My hopes were still alive but walking on a very tenuous rope. I figured that eventually, after fleeing this insane asylum, Lauren Hunter's disappearance would be investigated and someone would find out that she had had an appointment with the local doctor who'd just upped and left with no fair warning, and then the investigators would show up and find minute traces of Lauren's blood on the walkway or on the house and I'd end up on the FBI's most wanted list or as a special guest on America's Most Wanted. Fucking great.
What to do? What to do?
I checked the time. Almost three. I paced like crazy around the property, my legs guided by some force of adrenaline I never knew I had. I told myself that this is what a caged animal must feel like, under lock and key and unable to go anywhere. I had my hands and legs tied, I might as well've been bound and gagged too. I'd have to stay put until my wife and daughter returned. And this, my home sweet fucking home, was the last place I wanted to be.
17
I went into the house and continued pacing back and forth between the kitchen and living room, thinking of all the blood, and those footprints. I'd tried calling for help a few more times—a force of habit at this point—even though I knew damn well that it was too late. I'd covered up the crime already: an abetment with no intention and my only sensible response to the alarming absence of emergency relief here in Ashborough. The whole time inside the house my heart continued pounding like crazy in tandem with my dissolving mind, and it did not let up until Christine and Jessica got home.
Three hours later.
I'd packed up a few bags: some valuables, jewelry, clothing, and food. All essentials. It had all been done in vain, however, for when Christine and Jessica pulled into the driveway, I knew that we weren't going anywhere tonight.
Our minivan had been replaced by a ratty Dodge pickup driven by a burly bearded man wearing a Genesee Beer baseball cap. He grinned toward me in a friendly manner and tipped his hat as I stepped from the house. I was so nonplussed I almost fell down the front steps. Christine slipped from the passenger seat, placed Jessica down (who'd been sitting on her lap), then shrugged her sh
oulders and burst into tears as the pickup backed out of the driveway.
Christine had actually planned on arriving home a couple of hours ago but an accident had occurred and instead of catching me in the act of rinsing away Lauren Hunter's remains, she'd found herself staring her very own monster right in the face. She'd been driving up the road that led out of Beaumont Park toward Main Street, thinking about what to make for dinner, when an animal darted into the road (she couldn't say for certain what kind of animal it was; she mentioned that it was about the size of a dog, but lankier, sort of like a monkey) right in front of the minivan.
After she told me this, I said, "It was probably a dog,"
She shrugged her shoulders, head down, face buried in tears. "There was a man jogging on the sidewalk. I didn't see him. I lost control of the car, I tried to avoid the...the dog," she finally admitted, "but I couldn't. I ran it over," she told me again, "I could feel the car thump, and when that happened I lost control of the car and the wheel spun from my hands and then the car shot sideways across the road over the curb...right...right into the man." She wailed, "I killed him!"
I knew she couldn't be mistaken, the shocking truth was too obvious in her face, but I tried to comfort her nonetheless. "How do you know for sure, Chris?"
"I hit him and I saw him...I saw him fly across the front lawn of someone's house...it was like he'd been shot from a fucking cannon! He went forty maybe fifty feet and hit a tree next to the house. Head first...face first. Michael...it was so fucking unreal..." More tears. "His head..his head..."
Jessica was looking up at us, lost in a cloud, blue eyes buried in a welling of tears. She'd seen what'd happened too, in full living color, and I wondered what would have been worse: death number one on the road or death number two right here at home. I pulled her close to me and she snuggled against my leg, scared not only with what had happened, but also at the sudden fear-induced hostility Christine conveyed. For a moment I thought about asking her to wait for us in the house while Christine and I talked this out, but I couldn't be for certain what horrors might be waiting for us next, so I kept a strong arm on her shoulder, which she graciously accepted with a comeback hug around my waist.
Deep in the Darkness Page 11