Amid the Recesses: A Short Story Collection of Fear
Page 7
Day 6 - November 27, 1941
I admit I am shaken as I write. I plead that if anyone reads this that they forgive my unsteady hand. It appears a page of my journal has been written upon by someone other than myself, an incessant, repetitive statement: Can’t sleep. I woke up in the chair beside my bed and my pistol was missing. Insomnia is a terrible disease. As weary as I was, it seems I drifted helplessly to sleep after what must have been a day and a half of restlessness. It’s Thanksgiving Day. I hope it is not my last. I will remain indoors.
As I write now, someone knocks…
Day 7 - November 28, 1941
Spending Thanksgiving Day being questioned on the murder of Doctor Reynold Creston wasn’t what I had hoped for, but I felt an odd peace in the presence of the only remaining officer of Barrow, Officer Yarborough. He was visibly shaken and uncertain as he questioned me.
It appears that Doctor Reynold Creston received an early autopsy, or so that’s how I envisioned it after receiving the officer’s explanation of the scene. The good doctor was found next to his examination table, sawed completely in half with one of his crudest medical instruments. His halves were placed on the ground. A circle was drawn around his dismembered body and in a cross of four points were the Roman numerals, XI, III, VI and IX painted in blood. The two halves of the doctor’s body were used as the hands in the grim “clock” painted on the ground and, according to the officer, the time depicted would have been either one o’clock or five after twelve.
Officer Yarborough mentioned that Ms. Dolton admitted seeing Patrick Martin and me leaving the clinic’s premises that day. I told him that I had nothing to do with the situation. I also confirmed that Patrick was following me that day and had made me uneasy with his stalking. I warned the officer that my pistol had been stolen and my journal had been written in by someone other than myself. He looked for signs of forced entry and found none.
Officer Yarborough mentioned he would be stopping by the residence of Mr. Patrick Martin shortly after speaking with me. I asked if I should come with him, to offer any assistance I could, but he declined. I could tell that he was uncertain of whether or not to trust me, but I vowed to be cooperative. I hope his search yields positive results. We’re all in desperate need of it—us few remaining.
Day 8 - November 29, 1941
I admit that today is the first day that has shown any promise since the beginning of this disaster. Today Officer Yarborough had a small conference for those that remained in Barrow. He said that after my visit and questioning, he proceeded to Mr. Patrick Martin’s and discovered him hysterical and covered in blood. He apparently had my pistol and had been shot in the side of his neck. Living, but mad, Patrick aimed the gun at Officer Yarborough and fired once with poor accuracy and put a hole through his front door. Officer Yarborough responded professionally, but employed lethal force on the crazed undertaker, and killed him in a single shot.
Furthermore, Officer Yarborough found suspicious paraphernalia in Patrick’s residence, or what he thought was suspicious. Dirt was apparently caked to his floorboards and his shovel was covered in blood.
Officer Yarborough then admitted to proceeding to cemetery, where Mr. Martin had worked, and claimed that many new graves had been dug just under the newest layer of snow, fresh and studded with the mutilated pieces of what seemed to be Mr. George Ferrell, the shopkeeper. The evidence is condemning.
Finally, this hour, just before midnight, I intend to lay down and sleep soundly.
Day 9 - November 30, 1941
Officer Yarborough needed to die. I ensured that Ms. Dolton’s death was especially gruesome, to lure the officer in. What time is it? Fifteen after midnight at the time of writing this. My hour. I wonder if the pocket watch will work now. I wonder if the night will finally become day. Haven’t I given it enough? I think I have. No. The Russian needs to die, too. That’s eleven. But there’s twelve numbers on the watch. Twelve numbers on the watch. Twelve numbers. The officer is outside. He heard her screams. So is the Russian.
Someone knocks…
Day 10 - December 1, 1941
I write because I can no longer speak. If I could, there wouldn’t be anyone left to speak to. I do not recall writing in my journal yesterday, but the writing within is indeed my own. My deceiving hand admits that shortly after the midnight hour, I prepared to kill Officer Yarborough and Mr. Chekov just after murdering Ms. Dolton. I awoke in the snow, with my journal on my chest, in the Barrow graveyard surrounded by the bodies of those my cursed hands and mind have driven me to procure. I do not recall placing their cold, dead bodies in this circle of blood—the blood of the entire town—or using their corpses as numbers on a watch face. Pieces of Mr. Ferrell arranged in connection to one another, grimly stacked, appendage to cut appendage to make bloody hands that indicate what would be just after midnight. Here atop this wet page rests my pocket watch revealing the same hour, stuck eternally in darkness, frozen like this town. It has been the hour of death. It was me. In my sickness, it was me. There is no corpse the lay dead as the number twelve on this death clock. The space is empty and I know for whom it is designed. I am the twelfth marker.
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