The Enfield Horror Trilogy

by Ripley, Ron

  Eric himself wasn’t overly fond of cats, but he liked harassing animals even less. Anne had brought Jason over to apologize, and Eric had called landscapers to see what they could do without putting in an eyesore of a fence.

  Pushing through the hedges, Eric stopped, looking in surprise at Ellen Shaw.

  The woman sat on her back steps wearing her pajamas, a robe, and slippers. Her hair, which she normally wore up in a bun, was down and flowing past her shoulders. In her hand, she held a bowl of what looked and smelled to be fresh cookies. She was eating them mechanically and looking through Eric.

  Mr. Meow sat beside her, the cat’s tail switching and twitching, as if waiting for someone else to come through the hedge.

  “Ellen?” Eric asked. “Are you alright?”

  “He likes cats, you know,” she said softly, eyes flicking over to Eric for a moment.

  “Who likes cats, Ellen?”

  “The dragon.”

  The sense of madness around Ellen Shaw caused Eric to shiver. He got a hold of himself and said, “Ellen, did you see Jason at all?”

  She nodded.

  “Where did you see him?” Eric asked.

  “Here, in the yard. With the dragon.”

  “Which way did he and the dragon go, Ellen?” Eric asked.

  She pointed to the left, towards the street rather than the right, which would lead into Katherine’s yard.

  Ellen was seriously deranged.

  “Ellen,” Eric said, “I’m going to go check on Jason and the dragon.”

  Eric stepped off to the right, heading for the old picket fence that surrounded Katherine’s house. Near a shadowy corner, Eric found a small section of pickets swinging freely, so he pushed them up and slipped into the cluttered yard of the Lavoie family. He navigated around half built ATVs and snow blowers, gutted cars and children’s toys. The place was an absolute mess and had been for as long as the Lavoies had lived there.

  Eric put the thought of them out of his head and walked up to a young woman sitting in a lawn chair with her back to him.

  “Katherine,” Eric said loudly, and the young woman jumped up and out of the chair.

  “Mr. Johnson,” she said, her eyes wide in surprise. She held a cigarette in one hand and a fifth of vodka in the other.

  “Where’s Jason?” Eric asked.

  She looked at him with genuine confusion. “He hasn’t come here yet. He was supposed to be here half an hour ago. He’s not home?”

  Eric shook his head. He looked around. “Did you hear anything?”

  “Just a cat yell a little while ago. I think it was that cra-- I mean, I think that it was Mrs. Shaw’s cat.”

  “The cat,” Eric said softly. He glanced back at the hedges and shivered once more. “Katherine?”

  “Yes?”

  “Could you please do me a favor? Call 911 and have them go to Mrs. Shaw’s house.”

  “Why?”

  “My son is missing, and I think that Mrs. Shaw is traumatized by something that she saw.”

  “Um, sure,” Katherine said, and Eric heard her dial the number on her cell phone.

  Eric Johnson looked hard at the hedge that blocked access to Ellen Shaw’s backyard. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he let it out slowly as he walked toward the yard, pushing through once more.

  In a moment, he stood once again in the Shaws’ back yard. Ellen and cat remained in their positions. Eric walked carefully to Ellen and squatted down beside her.

  “Ellen,” Eric said softly.

  The woman continued to look straight ahead. “Yes?”

  “The dragon was here, in your yard, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Jason was with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “Doing?” Ellen asked, turning to look at Eric. “Well, the dragon was getting ready to eat Jason, and Jason was getting ready to be eaten.”

  Chapter Nine

  Israel, the Boy, the Police Officer, and the Dragon

  Israel sat in his easy chair, Turk asleep at his feet. Israel was still fully dressed, with his twelve gauge within easy reach.

  He had seen a dragon outside the barn.

  He’d seen the Lodge, which shouldn’t have looked as though someone had finished building it a few days before.

  And he’d seen skulls. He certainly shouldn’t have seen skulls.

  No, Israel didn’t like what was going on at all.

  He was fairly certain that he wasn’t going crazy, although he felt as though he was. Dragons weren’t real. But he’d seen one.

  The Lodge should have been a wreck. But it wasn’t.

  Elizabeth Danbury should not have looked like she’d come out of a meat grinder. But she had.

  Things weren’t right.

  In fact, it seemed as though someone had decided to play a joke and turn Enfield up on end.

  Israel shook his head, picked up his glass and finished the last of the beer in it. He stood up slowly. The dog’s ears perked up, but his eyes staying closed as Israel gave a small smile, stepping over Turk’s broad shoulders. “Yes,” Israel said, leaning over for a moment and patting the dog on the head, “you’re a good boy.”

  Taking up his shotgun, Israel walked back into his kitchen, dug another beer out of the fridge, popped the top and poured it into the glass, letting a beer head build on it. When he put the can down, he heard a muffled cry followed by a deep, throaty bark from Turk.

  The dog came racing into the kitchen, running to the back door.

  Leaving the beer on the counter, Israel opened the door, shooing Turk back. His heart beating spasmodically in his chest. Israel flipped off the safety and walked out of the house.

  The dragon was crossing his barnyard, dragging a teenager by one arm, the boy terrified, eyes rolling in his head.

  Israel brought the shotgun up to his shoulder and sighted along the barrel.

  “You’ll stop and let him be,” Israel said, a slight tremble of fear in his voice.

  He’s my dinner, the dragon snarled, the words punishing Israel with each syllable. I admire your will, Farmer, but I will break you and eat you. Your ghost will make its home at the Lodge with the others I have gathered.

  “Put him down.”

  Fool! the dragon spat and dropped the boy, leaping forward.

  Israel sank to a knee and put a round of buckshot into the dragon’s chest, the force of the blow knocking the beast off track, so that it slammed into the house instead of Israel. It squirmed away angrily with the speed of a snake, and yet Israel followed it easily. As the dragon turned to launch itself again, Israel gave it the second shot of buckshot, knocking it back once more.

  Israel stood, broke open the gun, pulled out the smoking casings and put two fresh ones in. As he clicked the weapon shut, he saw the dragon open its mouth wide and spit.

  Israel was sixty-eight years old. He’d been milking cows since he was five, and he’d learned long ago how to dodge a kick from an irate heifer. That instinct took over, and he twisted his way out of the vile, green vomit that shot out of the beast’s mouth.

  A foul smell, accompanied by a surprisingly delicate hissing sound caused Israel to glance to his right, where the vomit had struck the side of the house. Smoke rose up from the vomit as it burned through the wood siding.

  “Prick,” Israel grumbled and let off another shot.

  That shot clipped the dragon’s right foreleg and knocked him to ground.

  And Israel realized that while the blasts were knocking the dragon back, they weren’t drawing any blood.

  A moment later, headlights and the flashing blue and red strobe lights of a cruiser came barreling into the barnyard. The dragon twisted around, focusing on the cruiser while Israel ran out to the boy, grabbed him by his right arm and dragged him towards the house.

  The cruiser came to a stop, and an officer jumped out, yelling in an authoritative voice, “Enfield Police!”

  Israel made it to the
door, the boy howling in agony as Israel dragged him into the house, the dog following them, turning to bark at the dragon.

  The dragon leaped upon the cruiser, smashing the hood in and shattering the windshield. Israel heard the officer scream just before he managed to close the kitchen door. He didn’t bother locking it.

  Dropping the boy to the floor Israel looked out the window, and saw the dragon shaking the officer like a rag doll before sending a thought towards Israel.

  We are not done, Farmer.

  And the dragon hurried off, dragging the officer behind him.

  Israel watched the tail disappear into the night before he turned his attention back to the boy.

  The boy was pale and shaking, sweat standing out on his forehead as he cradled his left hand as he moaned.

  Israel saw why.

  Whatever the dragon had spat at the house had also sprayed onto the boy’s hand. The vomit was slowly but steadily eating through the boy’s flesh with the same ease and speed as white phosphorous.

  Without hesitating, Israel went to the stove, turned the burner up to high and put the old cast-iron iron on the burner. As the iron heated up, he took the meat cleaver down from the rack and brought out a bottle of vodka from the top cabinet. He opened the bottle, took a drink and then brought it to the boy.

  Squatting down beside him Israel said, “What’s your name, son?”

  “Jason,” the boy mumbled.

  “Jason,” Israel said, pulling the boy into a sitting position, “take a drink.”

  The boy took the bottle from him with his right hand and took a long, professional drink from it. When he stopped, Israel glanced over at the stove, saw the iron glowing red and said to the boy, “Drink again.”

  Jason did, grimacing the second time and handing it back to Israel before lying down on the old linoleum floor.

  Israel stood up, took the bottle to the sink and picked up the cleaver. He poured some of the vodka over the cleaver’s sharp edge, took another drink for himself and put the bottle down.

  Picking up the cleaver in his right hand and putting his left into an oven mitt, he grabbed hold of the iron and walked over to Jason.

  The boy didn’t open his eyes.

  Using his right foot Israel pushed the boy’s left hand off of his chest, the boy groaning as the injured hand struck the floor.

  Israel took a deep breath, stepped heavily on the boy’s forearm and dropped to one knee, swinging the cleaver with all of his might.

  Jason screamed and thrashed as blood spurted out of the rough amputation. Israel stepped harder, dropping the cleaver to the floor. He seized the boy’s forearm in his right hand and pulled it up, hardly noticing the heat of the iron burning through the oven mitt as he slapped the iron against the wound. The stink of burning flesh and blood filled Israel’s nose as the boy passed out.

  Turk sat in the corner by the fridge, watching all of it impassively.

  Israel got to his feet, staggered over to the stove and put the iron back on the burner. He put the oven mitt on the counter, picked up his beer—which was still cold—and drank all of it in one go.

  Holding the empty glass, he turned and looked at what he had done.

  There wasn’t as much blood as he thought there was going to be, and the wound itself wasn’t bleeding.

  The hand was about six inches away and still smoking.

  With a shaking breath, Israel walked to the fridge for another beer.

  Chapter Ten

  Tom Henderson and the Call

  The ringing of the phone dragged Tom out of sleep, and he rolled over in his bed. The room was pitch dark, the way he preferred to sleep. That perfect darkness was broken though when he took the phone out of the cradle and the neon green of the keypad spread out over his bed table.

  “Hello?” he asked groggily.

  “Tom, it’s Steve Militello.”

  Tom sat up, sleep racing away from him. “Steve, Jesus, what time is it?”

  “Five o’clock in the morning. Listen, it’s all hands on deck right now.”

  Tom rubbed the back of his head. “What’s going on?”

  “You know that woman who was eaten?”

  “Yup.”

  “Her husband is missing still, just like that Justin Sandock and the guy from the car on Old Route 4.”

  "Shit." Tom swore.

  “Pretty much. Listen, the reason that I’m calling is because I’ve got a hell of a mess down here in Concord. Bus tour coming down from Montreal. Mass casualties all over 95, it’s terrible.”

  “You need me to come down there?” Tom asked.

  “No,” Steve sighed, “we just got another call down here that there’s a teenager missing in Enfield.”

  “What about Jerry?” Tom said. “He’s running the overnights right now.”

  “Tried him,” Steve said. “No answer. That’s why I called you. I’d like you to find Jerry. If he’s okay, kick him in the pants and tell him to get his act together. If you don’t find him, well, take over and let me know what’s going on.”

  “Roger that,” Tom sighed. “I’ll call either way.”

  “That’s why you’re the best,” Steve said. “Call soon.”

  “Yup.”

  Tom hung up the phone and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He grunted as he got off of the bed and made his way to the bathroom.

  Twenty minutes later he was headed towards Dunkins to grab a morning cup of coffee, and five minutes after that he was in the station. Everything was locked up, just the way it should be when Jerry was out on the road for a call.

  Tom parked his personal vehicle, let himself into the station and checked the call book.

  ‘20:15, Shaw Residence, 79 Washington Road, possible runaway?’

  Almost nine and a half hours.

  And no sign of Jerry.

  That wasn’t like Jerry. Not like him at all.

  Tom walked over to the key box, took the keys for his cruiser out and walked back to the rear door. He keyed his pass code into the armory door, signed out his shotgun, took the shells and let the armory close and lock behind him. Tom walked out, locked the door and made his way to his cruiser. He opened the trunk, secured the shotgun and the rounds, and went to the driver’s seat.

  Washington Road, Tom thought. He flipped on the siren, and the lights raced along Broad Street, the few cars on the road moving out of his way. In a matter of minutes, he was turning onto Washington Road and pulling up in front of number 79.

  All of the lights were on in the house and as Tom shut the cruiser down the front door opened. A man who looked slightly younger than Tom hurried out, wearing an expression of pure anxiety.

  When Tom stepped out of the cruiser, the man stopped, a look of confusion briefly replacing the anxiety.

  “Are you alright, sir?” Tom asked.

  The man shook his head. “I’m Eric Johnson. I’d been speaking with Officer Huron.”

  “Officer Huron was here?” Tom asked.

  The man nodded as a woman came out of the house looking bemused and eating a cookie. A large tabby cat came out from between her legs, tail switching.

  “What’s going on?” Tom asked.

  “My son,” Eric said, “Jason, he snuck out of the house last night, and he disappeared between my house and the Lavoies, which is right on the other side of Mrs. Shaw’s here.”

  Mrs. Shaw, holding half of a cookie, smiled and waved at Tom.

  “Did you see anything, Mrs. Shaw?” Tom asked.

  She nodded, smiling still.

  “What did you see?” Tom asked her.

  “A dragon,” she answered.

  “A dragon?” Tom asked.

  Both Mrs. Shaw and Eric Johnson nodded.

  “That’s what she told me last night,” Eric said, “and what she told Officer Huron when he showed up.”

  “Did he say where he was going to look?” Tom asked. “He didn’t leave any notes or call anything in.”

  “He’s gone?” Eric aske
d. “Just gone?”

  “No,” Tom said, “he may be out of range to transmit with his handset. I just want a general area to look in.”

  “Um,” Eric said, shaking his head, “there were some shots fired in the distance, and he went off after them. He said that maybe Jason trespassed and upset some farmer.”

  “Which direction?” Tom asked.

  “Southeast, I would guess,” Eric said, and Tom saw how exhausted the man was. How frightened. Mrs. Shaw, however, simply took another cookie out of her bathrobe pocket and munched contently.

  “Southeast,” Tom repeated. “I’m going to call this in to the State Police. If I’m not back in an hour, call them. Call them immediately.”

  “What’s going on?” Eric asked.

  “The dragon,” Mrs. Shaw answered, finishing off the cookie in her hand and producing yet another. “The dragon is what’s going on.”

  "Dear God." Tom got back into the cruiser. "I hope that she’s not right."

  * * *

  Book 2: Darkness Rising

  Chapter One

  Jerry Huron is Missing

  Tom saw the lights from Jerry’s cruiser long before he got to Israel Porter’s farm.

  Pulling in behind the cruiser, Tom got out, a nervous feeling sweeping over him as he looked at the car. The lights were on, and the engine was still running. The driver’s side door was open, and the hood had been crushed, the windshield smashed in.

  There was no sign of Jerry.

  Blood stained the ground, and drag marks stretched across the barnyard, along with deep, three-toed footprints.

  The wood siding on the back of the house was smoking in a few spots, looking as if someone had thrown sulfuric acid against it. The back door was closed, but the light to the kitchen was on.

  With his hand on the butt of his pistol, Tom walked over to the back steps, climbed them and knocked on the door.

  It opened quickly, and Israel Porter fairly dragged Tom in before slamming the door shut.

  “What the hell’s going on, Israel?” Tom asked, glancing out the window at the barnyard.

  “Help me with this boy,” Israel said, ignoring the question.