THE CHILDREN OF THE ISLAND
T.M. Wright
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
© 2011 / T.M. Wright
Copy-edited by: David Dodd
Cover Design By: David Dodd
Background Images provided by:
http://ashensorrow.deviantart.com
http://blueangelstock.deviantart.com
http://linzee777.deviantart.com
LICENSE NOTES
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
OTHER CROSSROAD PRESS PRODUCTS BY T.M. WRIGHT:
NOVELS:
The Strange Seed Series
STRANGE SEED
NURSERY TALE
THE PEOPLE OF THE DARK (Coming Dec 2011)
THE LAUGHING MAN (Coming 1st Quarter 2012)
The Biergarten Series
THE CHANGING
THE DEVOURING
GOODLOW'S GHOSTS
THE ASCENDING
SLEEPEASY
The Manhattan Ghost Story Series
THE WAITING ROOM
A SPIDER ON MY TONGUE
Standalone Novels
BOUNDARIES
NON FICTION:
THE INTELLIGENT MAN'S GUIDE TO U.F.O.s
UNABRIDGED AUDIOBOOKS:
A MANHATTAN GHOST STORY – NARRATED BY DICK HILL
Buy Direct From Crossroad Press & Save
Try any title from CROSSROAD PRESS – use the Coupon Code FIRSTBOOK for a one-time 20% savings! We have a wide variety of eBook and Audiobook titles available.
Find us at: http://store.crossroadpress.com
This book is very much for Erika, my daughter.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I think I would be quite remiss if I did not give high praise and thank yous to my editor at Playboy, Sharon Jarvis, who, over the last several years of our relationship, has exercised much patience and professionalism and to whom I am more than a little indebted for helping to bring me along as a writer.
And again, thank you, Bill Thompson.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This is the third book of the trilogy begun with Strange Seed and Nursery Tale. I like to believe that each is more than a horror novel—at least I planned them that way. Whether or not the reader sees them that way is actually of little consequence, because the real purpose of occult fiction is entertainment; and philosophy, "message," must be secondary.
At any rate, some of what you will read here is based on fact, although all the people are entirely the construction of my imagination.
Lastly, who's to say that all of us are not Children of the Earth? Can we say we are anything else?
—T. M. Wright
Naples, New York
March 29, 1983
From The Penn Yann Post Gazette, December 6, 1978:
COUPLE INCINERATED IN HOUSE FIRE
Paul Griffin, 30, and his wife Rachel, 26, were killed last night in a fire at their 100-year-old farmhouse on the Tripp Road extension, ten miles north of Penn Yann. According to Deputy Volunteer Fire Chief Clyde Watkins, the fire apparently started when a gasoline-powered electric generator at the side of the house exploded. Watkins described the destruction caused by the fire as "total," and added that when he and his men arrived on the scene at approximately 3:15 A.M., the Griffin home was completely engulfed by flames.
According to Penn Yann resident John Marsh—who did occasional work for the Griffins—the couple had moved into the farmhouse about six months ago, hoping to make the farm profitable once again. "But there were lots of problems," Marsh explained. "I remember when they first moved in, for instance, that house was a shambles. Vandals got in there and just went wild."
Investigation has revealed that the house's previous owners, a middle-aged couple named Schmidt, were found dead at the house in August, 1972, apparently as the result of a double suicide. Prior to that tragedy, Paul Griffin's father, Samuel Griffin, one-time owner of the house, died of a heart attack there in 1957. Mr. Griffin, formerly of New York City, leaves an uncle, Harold Martinson. His wife leaves her mother and father, two sisters, several aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews.
No local service is planned.
From the December 15th Rochester Democrat and Chronicle; fourteen years later:
BIZARRE TRAGEDY IN SOUTHERN TIER
BAFFLES INVESTIGATORS
The death toll now stands at fifteen in what appears to be a baffling series of mutilation murders, suicides, and arsons in the newly developed community of Granada, ten miles north of Penn Yann. At least half of the deaths involve children, investigators say, many of whom may have succumbed to the great blizzard which passed through the area several days ago.
According to Chief of Police John Hastings, some of the children involved either were "runaways, or perhaps relatives of people living in Granada," because, he says, "our records indicate that only three or four children were full-time residents of Granada, and one of them has already been accounted for." That child, Hastings told this reporter, is ten-year-old Timmy Meade, whose parents, Dora and Larry Meade, aged 30 and 32 respectively, were among the victims in Granada.
Only two other residents of Granada appear to have escaped the incredible violence there—Miles McIntyre, 35, and his wife Janice, 29, who with Timmy Meade, are listed in good condition at Myers Community Hospital, suffering from exposure. John Marsh, a resident of Penn Yann, found both Mrs. McIntyre and the Meade boy on Reynolds Road, the night of the tragedy. Marsh himself was treated for exposure at Myers Community Hospital and released. He was not immediately available for comment.
Investigators theorize that the tragedy may have begun with the murders of Dick Wentis, 37, and his wife Judy, 32, who were found . . .
From The Rochester Democrat and Chronicle, November 8th; two years later:
NUMBER OF MISSING PERSONS ESCALATES IN
ADIRONDACK AREA
by Jack Garner, D & C Newsfeatures Editor
The number of persons reported missing in the downstate New York area of the Adirondack Mountain Range has increased threefold in the last decade, according to Bob Quinn, head of the Missing Persons Department of the New York State Police. According to Mr. Quinn, this escalation apparently began late in the last decade and has involved some 125 persons in the decade since. "We have no hard and fast reason for these disappearances," Quinn said. "We do know that people have been hiking into the Adirondack region in slightly greater numbers in recent years, although this increase would apparently have little bearing on the much greater numbers of missing persons being reported."
The most recent disappearances—that of a young, newly married couple hiking through the Adirondacks on their honeymoon—is still being investigated. Quinn holds out little hope that the couple will be found: "Since this increase in disappearances began, we have found precious little in the way of evidence. My advice to anyone thinking of hiking in that area would be to exercise extreme caution. We do know that the number of black bears in the area has increased slightly, due to an unexplained increase in their natural prey. But whether this has any bearing, either, on the disappearances, is something we're still working on."
PART ONE
GENESIS
Chapter 1
Late Summer
Jim Hart wanted desperately to scratch his backside. The late-afternoon Adirondack sunlight, his heavy clo
thes, and the long hours of walking had drenched him in sweat. Despite the brisk temperatures, the sweat had caused a rash to start, and he thought he had never been in greater agony. But Marie was right behind him on the narrow path, and although she would probably think nothing of it if he were to scratch himself, she might think it was gauche, that it was something seasoned hikers didn't do, because they had long since accustomed themselves and their backsides to the walking, and so did not sweat, and she would, from that moment on, treat him as the outsider he realized he was.
But maybe, he thought, he was being unfair.
He said, turning his head to look at her, "Marie,"—and he grinned through his agony—"you want to go on ahead there?" He nodded in front of him. His grin grew apologetic. "Nature calls," he went on.
Marie smiled back. "Yeah," she said, "me too." And she stepped past him. "Fred?" she called to the big, moon-faced, red-haired man walking fifteen feet ahead of them. Fred stopped and looked around, questioningly. "Fred," Marie repeated.
"Yeah?"
"Jim and I have to make a pit stop."
"We're almost there, you know," Fred grumbled. "And that storm is right on top of us."
"It's just for a minute," Marie told him.
He lumbered back. He was Marie's brother, but the only resemblance to her was his red hair, and the several dozen freckles laid out prominently across the bridge of his nose. Marie looked up at him. "Just a short minute," she reiterated.
He sighed. "Yeah, well don't go too far—you can get lost in there"—he indicated the trees and thick underbrush crowding the path on both sides—"quicker than . . ."
"I know that," Marie interrupted.
Fred nodded briskly at Jim. "He doesn't know it."
Jim smiled again, foolishly, he knew. "I know it now," he said.
Two minutes later, after pushing himself painfully through the underbrush, after finding a small, sunlit clearing, after climbing out of his heavy backpack, and after scratching himself into ecstasy, Jim Hart realized that he was lost. He shook his head slowly, self-critically. He shouted, "Hey, you guys!" and waited only a moment, not long enough for a reply. "Hey, you guys—I'm lost!" He chuckled self-consciously. He heard someone—Marie, he supposed—call back, but her words were unintelligible. He grimaced and cupped his hands over his mouth. "Hey, I said I'm lost here." He waited.
"Where?" It was Fred's voice, and he sounded pissed.
"Here!" Jim called. "Over here!" He felt very foolish.
"Where?" he heard again.
"Here. North of where you are, I think."
"North?"
"I don't know. Follow my voice."
"Jim?" It was Marie, from behind him, at a distance. He shook his head again, and turned slowly.
Marie's voice again: "Jim, keep talking!"
"About what?"
"About how damned stupid you are!" Fred called.
"Yeah," Jim shouted. "I'm stupid, I'm damned stupid!"
Marie called, a bit closer, "Don't overdo it, Jim." And he imagined that she chuckled.
"Keep talking, goddammit!" It was Fred again, and he seemed farther off than Marie. "Just keep talking, Jim. You can talk, can'tcha?"
"I can talk, Fred."
"You're not moving, are you?"
"No, Fred, I'm staying put." He paused; his throat was beginning to hurt from the shouting. He glanced about. "It's pretty . . . here, isn't it?" It was something to talk about; they did want him to keep talking. "I said it's pretty here, isn't it?"
"Just keep talking, Jim. I told you not to move."
"I'm not moving, Fred. I haven't moved an inch."
"Shit, too—I heard you move, Jim!"
"It was a deer, Fred," Marie called, and she sounded, Jim thought, as if she wasn't any closer at all.
"Hey guys," Jim called, "I've got an idea. Why don't I—" He paused to let a quick pain in his throat subside. "Why don't I look for you?" It was a good idea, he supposed. After all, he'd be searching for two people, while they were searching for only one.
"Asshole!" Fred shouted, and Jim heard several other words, but they were unintelligible. Fred, Jim realized, was moving away from him:
"Fred," he called, "you're going the wrong way!" He waited. Nothing. "Marie," he called, "Fred's going the wrong way!"
"Jim?" Marie called, apparently no closer.
"Marie, Fred's going the wrong way!"
"You're going the wrong way, Fred!"
"Marie," Jim called, "where's Fred?"
"Jesus, I don't know," she called back.
"Have you got a fix on me, yet, Marie?"
Silence.
"Marie?"
"No, I—"
Jim grimaced. Now Marie was moving away from him. "Marie, you're going the wrong way!"
"Jim?" a voice called from farther off.
"Back this way, Marie."
The rain started—large, random drops at first. Jim looked up, through the clearing; he caught one of the drops in the eye. It stung, like vinegar. He cursed, "Goddammit!" and rubbed the eye angrily. He glanced about. "Marie!" He waited a moment. Nothing. "Marie, I'm going to have to move." He waited. The rain strengthened; in moments it soaked his shirt through to the skin. He swore again. This, he thought, was getting very silly. "Marie, goddammit, where are you!" He listened. He heard the steady, loud hiss of the rain—nothing else. Marie could be ten feet away, he knew, and still be unable to hear him.
"Marie!" he shouted.
He was angry, now—angry at them both. They should have known better than to drag him out here. This was alien territory; he had no right here—maybe they did, but not him. He was a city dweller. He had told them that. "New York may be a hellhole, I know it's a hellhole, but at least you know where to hide, and from what, and with whom!" For Christ's sake, that was true, that was . . . Modern American Anthropology, it belonged in National Geographic. "Marie, goddammit, where are you?!" And he had told them—slowly, steadily, as if teaching them something that required their deep attention—that people (people in general, but not all people) had long ago built cities in order to shield themselves from the wildness all around them. And gradually, over the centuries, they had produced children and grandchildren, and great grandchildren who were increasingly dependent upon the cities; until, at last, a whole new life form developed—the city dweller. "Marie, damn it!" Just like some birds were cliff dwellers, he told them, and some fish were bottom dwellers (but not all birds, and not all fish), so some people were city dwellers. But not all people. What was simpler? But they—Fred, and Marie, and their friends—hadn't understood that, or believed it. They had told him he was intellectualizing his weakness; they had challenged him and laughed at him, and had, finally, dragged him here, where he had no business being, where the goddamned stinging rain was surely going to kill him unless he got out from under it.
The rain had stopped.
He glanced about, momentarily grateful, and saw that he had wandered away from the clearing. He cursed. He had left the backpack there ("That backpack is more important than your damned balls!—you understand that, Jim?" . . . "Yes, Fred, I understand that."). He thought the clearing would be easy enough to find again. In his reverie he couldn't have gone more than a few feet or a few yards from it, at most. He did a full 360-degree turn, very slowly, his eyes wide, and searching, then realized that he had no idea at all where the clearing was. "Marie?" he shouted. He waited a moment. Nothing. "Fred? Marie? Can you hear me?!" He waited a full minute. He thought he heard an answering call, but it was barely audible, at a great distance, and when it was done he wasn't sure he'd heard anything.
He noticed that his backside was itching again, the rash there aggravated by his nervous sweat. He scratched the itch furiously. Embarrassment flooded through him—he didn't know why, at first. Maybe, he decided, Marie and Fred were playing a game with him. Maybe they were trying to show him how jaded he was, how basically . . . incompetent, how in need of their wise advice and counsel. And so, they had seen fit
to put him here. In these woods. Alone (or so they would have him believe). So he could examine himself, and his life. While they watched from close by. Watched him scratch his backside. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Damn you both to hell!" he murmured, though not loud enough that if they were watching they would hear him.
He thought he heard a small, halting laugh from somewhere close by—actually more a giggle than a laugh. He snapped his gaze to the left, toward the source of the laugh. He said Marie's name, and Fred's, and knew, from his tone of voice, that he was getting a little anxious. He thought he couldn't blame himself for that. He said aloud: "Marie, Fred, I can't blame myself for that." He smiled dimly, and realized that the sound of his own voice comforted him.
"Marie!" he shouted. "Fred!" A stiff wind started and pushed the tops of the trees about. "I said I can't blame myself for that! I blame you assholes!" He found that he was walking, that something inside him was making him walk, slowly. He took his hands from his pockets. It wasn't smart to walk through the forest with your hands in your pockets.
He hoped he was moving east because the road was to the east. And the car, in a Holiday Inn parking lot, fifteen miles east—and that was a long way through the underbrush. It could take all night. But that was okay. It was forward momentum.
He heard giggling again, more like a laugh, now, and still close by. But he forgot it quickly as he walked; it was as alien to this place as he was; he decided that it was probably following him out.
Then he noticed two things simultaneously: that he was shivering—either because his shirt was wet, or the air had turned colder, or both—and that darkness was coming. He thought that was improbable—it had been late afternoon only minutes ago, before the quick rain started, and there had been bright, hazy patches of sunlight moving all around him through breaks in the trees. He looked straight up. He saw irregular, black pieces of sky, and he remembered what Fred had told him: "That storm is right on top of us."
Children of the Island Page 1