by Brian Hodge
I remained standing, afraid—also repulsed—to sit too close, despite the presence of the guards and the plain fact that he was sufficiently immobilized. “I’d like to talk to you George. Is it all right if we talk?”
He opened his mouth to speak. The heavy stench of his breath nearly brought me to my knees, distracting me from his harsh words: “You got some nice titties, lady.”
I felt a strange emotion rise up, queer anger, bitter revulsion. I couldn’t quite describe it at the moment. I only knew that I needed to get immediate answers from him because something deep beyond those emotions told me I had to get out of there fast.
“So where are they, George?”
“Who?”
“Your parents.”
“You’ll never find ’em.”
“But we will, George. We’ll find them. And all the others. The people from town, and our missing officers too.”
George picked a sore on his bottom lip, smeared the tacky ichor on the table. Blood dribbled down his chin.
“It’s like this George. Either you tell me where to find your parents and the missing people, or I charge you as an accessory to murder.”
“You got any bodies?”
I remained silent, waiting. His sour eyes penetrated me to the bone. I could feel it, like tiny bee stings. I smelled something that reminded me of the time when I was a child and accidentally left the fish I caught in old man Brody’s pond in the garage for three summer days. All rancid and decayed. His brow furrowed, eyes and mouth twitching, and I realized at that moment the psycho was shitting himself. He said, “Sure, I’ll tell you where to find ’em.”
He caught me off guard. My heart pressed against my ribcage. “Where George?”
He leaned forward. “Come here,” he said. “Sit.”
I swallowed my gorge, taking four deliberate steps before cautiously sitting across from him. In this shorter distance between us, I could see in upsetting detail the battlefield of filth on his face. Indescribably horrific.
Then he spoke, voice wet and gurgling as though worms teemed in his throat. “Further back into Silver Hills, by the river, there’s a cabin. I built it. It’s hard to find because there’s so many trees.”
My heart pounded. “What’s there, George? What?”
His face changed again, contorting from the tight squeeze of features into something terribly heinous. Eyes wide, bulging. Cheeks drawn. Mouth widened as if in a yawn. In the succeeding seconds I felt as if I’d been shot with a bullet laced with poison.
George Leighton—Shitman—heaved a thick stream of vomit in my face.
The doctor, silent. Hand gripping chin. Deep in thought. Eyes searching her face for answers. “Terrible.”
She shifts in the chair. It squeaks. Annoys her. She feels scared, looks over her shoulder. Eyes darting like mice. “Is he locked up?”
The doctor nods. “Yes.” He hesitates, then says, “Talking about it scares you, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, very much so.” She repeatedly wipes her face. “It burned real bad, you know. Like acid. Felt as if it was melting my skin. My eyes. Sometimes I…I feel as if it’s still there. Sometimes I can still smell it on me.”
“Can you feel it or smell it now?”
“Yes. A little of both.”
“We can stop here if you—”
“No.” She shakes her head. Wiping at her face. Burning.
The doctor waits. Then, “What happened next?”
Tears in her eyes. “The following day I was in town. The Main Street Diner. Hadn’t eaten a thing since the previous morning. Forced some coffee down but even that was challenging. I was still so damn nauseous from the day before. The people in the diner—the townsfolk—they were all…all staring at me. It was terrible. The waitresses, patrons, even the cooks from out back. All of them, looking at me. Accusing me.”
“Of what?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. Didn’t make a difference anyway. I was so fucking scared at that moment. All I knew was that I had to get out of there. Fast. Before something terrible happened.”
“Like what?”
“Sure as shit wasn’t gonna wait around to find out! Might as well have been back in the questioning room with Shitman. I’d been better off. At least there were guards.” Trembling hands wipe the tears sprouting from her face. “All I know is that I wanted the whole thing to be over with. I wanted to be out of there.”
“Out of the diner?”
“Yes. No. Out of town. I wanted out of the case.”
“So why didn’t you just back out?”
“Some FBI men came into the diner, told me they’d investigated my lead and found something…”
The site had been cleared of foliage, a small circular area surrounded by acres of trees. Not far from the river. Skulls, a dozen or more, haphazardly scattered like dominoes amidst the woodland. Each one, aptly stripped of flesh, swarms of yellowjackets exploring the hollow cavities. Damp trails of rotting leaves and writhing slugs ran back and forth and around the formation in an askewed pentagram shape. Forensics experts scoured the scene, carefully collecting evidence. A middle-aged man with a moustache walked over, holding a skull.
“See these streaks?” he said, pointing to the cranium. “Made with a hunting knife.”
“Stabbing?” I asked. The woodland grew dark, ominous clouds floating in from behind the mountains.
“No. Too neat, too deliberate. These were made by an expert hunter. These heads were skinned.”
I gazed to the darkening sky as a flock of dark birds flew overhead. My head spun. I felt sick. When I looked into the woods I saw the pigs. Thirty yards away, strung up with barbed wire between two oaks, six of them in all, their bellies sliced open, the ground beneath soaked with gore. An eight-foot inverted cross made of bramble and tar had been erected alongside, a skinned animal on it, nailed with whittled branches.
“Come quick!” someone yelled. “I think we found the cabin!”
We ran through the woods, trees thick with branches seeming for a moment to come alive, reaching out as if trying to keep us from reaching the cabin. I heard water rushing. The river. Leighton had said something to me about the river.
“Where are we?” I yelled, rain pelting everyone and everything in a sudden downpour. Lightning brought immediate daylight to the gathering darkness.
“Near Silver Hills,” a voice answered.
Another clearing in the woodland came into view and I saw the crudely constructed shack, four walls of two-by-fours held together by a tarpaper roof. Two FBI men were heaving the butts of their rifles against the padlocks on a narrow door.
Why is it locked? I thought, feeling my hair go wild in the static charge of a close-by flash of lightning. At that very moment the locks broke apart, the door swinging violently outward.
The two men rushed inside, guns drawn. The darkness within swallowed them.
Silence followed. We waited, heard nothing. My chest tightened, nervous anticipation stealing the air from my lungs. I prayed to God—if indeed there was one—to make everything okay. A useless appeal. As feigned was Jesus’ bread and wine turning to flesh and blood, nothing here was going to be all right. For that I was certain.
Pretending the cold rain to be a protective wash from the heavens above, I grabbed a flashlight from the trembling hand of an FBI agent and raced forward beyond the threshold of the door into the dark mystery of the cabin…
“What did you find?” The doctor’s eyes, sharp, pleading, hungry.
“Hell…”
The cabin was drenched in shadows, weak light seeping in through cracks in the walls. The interior seemed much larger than the rickety-appearing outside suggested.
The first assault came from the smell: organic, metallic, warm drifts against my prickling skin. Then I saw them, a dozen or more people on the floor, alive, gathered in a naked orgy of filth, bodies intertwined to form a writhing configuration of flesh and excrement. Visceral moans echoed their subtl
e yet triggering movements, like those of a troupe of wild animals lost in the midst of fevered dreams. Amongst the wicked cluster I recognized some distorted faces, those of missing people from town, plus one of our own men who’d vanished looking for them. I made a ridiculous attempt to grasp an understanding of this unforeseen horror, abruptly defining it as a gruesome acceptance into some dark, perverse circle of corruption. A fiendish coven ordered by the Leightons. Certainly the Leightons played a part of this outrageous congregation before me?
Something brushed by me. I spun in terror, screams buried deep in my paralyzed lungs. Dangling beside me, swaying in the sudden breeze, hung a severed leg, fresh blood dripping from the exposed thigh. Next to it, an arm. Beyond, more body parts hanging from the low ceiling. Shreddings of human hair ran through crude drillings in the exposed bone, adeptly sewn and woven to form a wicked lattice. Pointing the flashlight across the length of the cabin revealed three mutilated torsos nailed to the far wall like pieces of extreme art.
I began to cry, unsure of what to do at the moment. I’d been in the cabin for at least a minute now. Undoubtedly my silence terrified those waiting outside. Just like the dead quiet of those men who entered before me…
Before me…
I shot terrified glances about the room, the flashlight’s awry beam finding terror after bloody terror, twisted limbs and wild eyes peering at me from the tainted cluster.
Where are the men?
I heard a moan. Not from the cluster. Behind me. Against the wall next to the thin door. I pointed the flashlight in that direction.
Both FBI men were there. But not really men anymore. They’d become demons, victims of the ruinous evil conquering those unfortunates to stumble into its path. Their clothing, discarded, one gleefully feasting on his own waste, eyes wild and rolling and looking about like those of a rabid dog mindfully considering my presence as a threat to thieve its meal. The other man had tears in his eyes, not yet subdued and clearly battling the perverse urges attempting to corrupt him. He too gazed up at me, not in defense but in fear, fully knowing there would be no answers or excuses for this depravity. Only acceptance. And that was something he would not tolerate.
He placed the barrel of the rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Tears, filling her eyes. Dousing her cheeks. Sobs of dread. Of defeat. She crumbles in the chair. Her face pales, fingers tugging at her cheeks.
“And what of you?” the doctor asks.
Her eyes, gazing up at him. Filled with dread. “My m-mouth. It watered. Like I’d hadn’t eaten in a month. I’d been affected, and at that moment I wanted nothing more than to taste, to feast in whatever waste I could get my hands on. I had to have it, and I started pulling my pants down but more men raced in at that moment and pulled me away. I screamed, fought with them, wanted to go back, but they were too many. They tore the cabin down. Took the people away.”
“And the Leightons?”
In silence, she utilizes her left index finger to scoop out a lump of mucous from her nose. She contemplates it for a moment then slicks it across her wet tongue. “Shitman was right. We never found them.”
The doctor stands. “I think we’re through for today.”
Her face, changing. The stench of excrement fills the room. “I’m hungry. Please!”
The doctor calls the guards. They enter, cuffs readied. She fights, fruitlessly. They wrestle her from the office, pin her to the floor, pull down her pants and barehandedly scoop away her feces.
And begin to feed themselves.
I escaped Wheeler state. Actually, they let me go. I stopped eating, completely. Food and all. I figured if nothing came out of me, then there’d be no reason to keep me around since the guards solely used the inmates for self-serving needs. And once beyond the town line, beyond the grasp of George Frederick Leighton, my unspeakable desires faded.
They let the Shitman out after the FBI men took their case back to Quantico. The reports stated an escape, and everyone in Capson’s Way backed up the story, of course. But I knew better. The FBI wanted no part of it. They wanted out.
It took great pains for me to escape the hold Frederick Leighton had on Capson’s Way. Maybe he let up on me a bit? It only stands to reason, for when I stood at the center of Main Street amid the passings of some townsfolk, Frederick Leighton, Shitman, appeared at the road’s edge, and we locked eyes and he winked and smiled at me—the same thin grin his image wears now in the toils of my mind—then slipped behind a cluster of oaks and blackberry copses, never to be seen again.
Now, as I mentally gaze at the amber casing exhibiting his uncanny representation, I gather my wits as ugly memories of my once corrupt state taunt my soul, and without giving it a moment’s chance to resurrect, I flee the image of my tormentor, never to speak of George Frederick Leighton again.
Night of the Rage
Deke leaned out the passenger window of Skiv’s ’57 Chevy, the upper half of his slender body riding the wind, his right foot hooked under the seat for support. “Pick it up, Skivy! I need speed, man! Speed!”
He smiled to himself, knowing all too well how badly Skiv got bent out of shape when he barked commands at him like that. It’d been going on for the last hour, and Deke thought with perverse pleasure, Skiv’s probably biting down real hard on his cigarette, wanting to crush me like a butt in his ashtray.
The Chevy roared like the savage beast it was, surging forward, launching the wind through Deke’s plaid flannel shirt and stringy hair. “Eeeeaaahhhh,” he howled in his thickest redneck drawl, double fisting the baseball bat tall and high like a musket in battle. The Chevy’s tires kissed the edge of the road, tossing dirt up into a shower of dust around him.
He eyed the house sitting a hundred yards up.
“Here we gooooo!” Adrenaline surged through his body as he pinned his target. He wound up, muscles swelling. At the perfect moment, he raged and gave the baseball bat a major-league home-run swing, connecting with the white mailbox perched at the edge of the house’s driveway.
The metal box went flying, its papery contents trailing behind in a shower of confetti. It struck the ground and tumbled on the front lawn like a fumbled football, its tubular structure now cast into a taco shape. The owner of the house—an elderly man wearing tan pants and a cardigan sweater—raced from his front door, gray hair flapping in the wind, fist waving angrily at Deke. Deke kindly acknowledged the gesture with a wide smile and a fist of his own, middle finger in full salute.
Deke slipped back into the car, laughing and clapping. “Fucking great, man! You see that geezer doing the two-step on his front porch? No kidding, I bet he pissed his pants real good.”
Skiv sucked on his cigarette, the glowing embers igniting his face to a dull orange glow. “My turn now,” he said, releasing a plume of blue smoke. “You done three of ’em.” He slammed on the brakes. A screech ripped from the smoking tires like an escaping ghost, its acrid reek seeping into their nostrils. The glass empties from the twelve they shared rattled against one another on the floor in the back seat, as if the two of them had just been married.
“Cool your pits, man. It’s Halloween. Night of the rage. We got all night.” He popped a fresh beer and chugged half in one swallow.
“Yeah, well then there’ll be plenty time for you later on. My turn to rage now.”
Deke smiled and gave Skiv a friendly shove. “You wanna rage man? Well rage you shall!” He leaped from the car and ran around to the driver’s side. Skiv slid over, taking hold of the bat.
Deke and Skiv had been friends since the second grade, by reason of default, since most of the other neighborhood’s kids avoided associating with the too-big-for-their-own-good bullies. It was a choice made by reason of risk: if you had the misfortune of crossing one of their paths, you could bet your lunch money times two that you’d bring home a black eye or a swollen lip as a memento. It had been that way for years it seemed, and the only way most kids escaped their wrath was by graduating, which is some
thing Deke and Skiv never managed to accomplish.
Deke smiled, staring ahead, blood on fire. “Ready, set, rage!” He slammed on the gas, leaving a trail of thick smoke behind.
They sped through the meandering backroads for fifteen minutes, leaving their trademark skids behind before spotting another suitable target: a wooden mailbox shaped like a barn, a colorfully painted rooster perched atop its dome as if prepared to peck at those who dared come close enough.
Skiv leaned out the window, bat in one hand and can of beer in the other. “Ready, aim, rage!” he yelled. Deke raced the car toward the edge of the road.
But he took it a little too close to the curb for Skiv to get a good whack at the mailbox. The car jostled and he lost control of it as it careened sideways into a small row of hedges, taking them out. He pressed on the gas, twisting the wheel away from mess he made. The tires skidded, tearing up a pair of deep grooves in the lawn and nearly depositing Skiv out on his head. Eventually Deke gained control and brought the car back into street, but not before colliding into the mailbox, ripping the post from the ground, and sending the rooster airborne.
“Son-of-a bitch!” Skiv slid back into the car, threw his beer can at Deke. “You fuckin’ nuts or what? You almost killed me!”
Deke laughed, a bit wet from Skiv’s beer. “Cool down, man. I didn’t see how close I was.”
“Stop the car. I’m done.”
Deke gazed at Skiv with disbelief. “You kiddin’? It’s just turning dark, and you wanna quit?”
“Stop the car. I’m serious.”
“Fuck you.” Deke stepped on the gas.
“Asshole…” Skiv leaned into Deke, grabbed the wheel and kicked at his right foot, struggling to get at the brake. The car careened from side to side, speeding and screeching, turning the edges of the road into dust. A wild shower of dirt and leaves flew all around, nearly enveloping the car like a genie’s mist. Deke brought his elbow into Skiv’s chin, Skiv retaliated with a fist to his face. They wrestled with one another, arms flailing, words flying, each unsuccessful in their attempt to gain control of the car.