Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3)

by Derek Ciccone

  “We heard a noise—thought it was intruders,” Carter answered.

  “You’re the one who’s intruding!”

  “We were invited,” Carter said.

  “By whom?”

  “Your mom and dad refused to let us stay in a hotel … said their home is our home … wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Byron said.

  Of course, they didn’t have them stay in their house. I looked to Gwen, who appeared exasperated.

  Carter’s paranoia slowly dissipated. One would think a man who has slept in a tent in Fallujah during the most intense firefighting would be at ease in a place like Rockfield. But the danger seeps from the outside into the head, and follows wherever you go. Even sleepy little Rockfield.

  A knock on the door was followed by another “intruder.” My mother arrived with glasses of milk, and yes, a batch of cookies.

  She looked at Gwen and me. “I’m glad you two are home—I heard there was some sort of incident at the bridge tonight.” Her eyes grew serious. “It brought back some bad memories.”

  “Just some kids playing a prank,” I said. “They made up some story about a guy in a bathrobe with no face, who was looking for someone named Archie—ghosts, vampires, zombies … the Twilight generation just being themselves.”

  My mother’s face grew pale. “Did you say Archie?”

  “Does the name sound familiar to you?” I asked.

  “It’s just one of those old-time names you don’t hear that much these days, and caught me by surprise.” She feigned a smile. “I’m just glad nobody got hurt. I need to get back to your father, so we can watch the end of the movie. I’ll let you get back to what you were doing.”

  I watched as my mother left—she couldn’t get out of here quick enough. Something had spooked her.

  Chapter 13

  Sunday

  I pulled up to the Rockfield Historical Society, bearing gifts—coffee and cinnamon buns.

  The door was locked, so I returned to my Jeep and listened to the radio as I waited. Fifteen minutes later the founder and CEO arrived, looking much more cheerful than on her departure last night. My mother opened the door, stepped inside, and flipped on the lights. I followed her in.

  “So, what can I help you with, JP? I don’t have much time—I just stopped by to pick up a few things before heading back to the fair.”

  “Perhaps if you’d have been here on time that wouldn’t be a problem. Looks like someone is slacking off now that they’ve given their two months notice.”

  “I was at church—I have a note from God excusing me, if you’d like to see it.”

  I knew she didn’t have any such note. If she did, she would have been too busy properly preserving and documenting it, to talk to me. Historians are a different breed.

  I offered her a cinnamon bun, which she declined, but took me up on the coffee. We went into the bookshelf-lined main room, which always reminded me of a smaller version of the reading room at the Burke Library, where I spent much time during my college days at Columbia. And it was much like my mother—small but tidy, and had held up very well over the years. She began picking up items and placing them in boxes, which were scattered about. I figured they had something to do with the upcoming transfer of power.

  I would have assisted, but I had no idea what she was looking for. So I focused on what I did best, which was to ask questions that make people uncomfortable. “I’m actually here to ask you about what happened at the bridge last night.”

  “Since I wasn’t there, I don’t know how I could help. I’m just glad nobody got hurt.”

  “I saw something in your eyes last night when I described what happened. Did it have something to do with Noah’s anniversary?”

  “I’m afraid that bridge was cursed long before Noah’s death.”

  “Cursed?”

  “What do you and Murray always say about having to go back to the beginning of a story to figure out the ending, well, that’s very true when it comes to Rockfield. I’ll be right back,” she said, and disappeared into the Records Room. She returned moments later with a roll of architectural drawings. She placed them on a table, and rolled them out like a map, using books to hold the corners down.

  She took a seat, and I followed her lead. I felt an importance in what she was about to tell me.

  “In 1824, the state of Connecticut built what was called the Charles Zycko Resort on land on the north side of Zycko Hill. Rockfield was broken into two parts at the time—North and South Rockfield, divided by the river. It later became known as Farm Ridge Resort when the Zycko family no longer wanted to be associated with the stigma of a mental hospital, which is what it was, despite its fancy name. And like most 19th-Century mental hospitals, it earned its stigma—house of horrors would be a better way to describe it.”

  She refocused on the plans in front of us, which were the original architect renderings for the “resort.” “Many people believe Zycko Hill was nicknamed Psycho Hill, because with the treachery of its roads—one might have to be psychotic to try to pass it with a vehicle, going back to the horse and buggy days. But the moniker was actually related to the mental hospital it once housed. And just as important, regarding the curse the Samerauk Indians put on that hospital when they were kicked off the land.”

  “You’ve never struck me as someone who believes in curses.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I believe—my job is to record history, and there is much historical evidence that the people of these parts believed in it. Perception is reality, as they say. But I thought it was just another piece of history … until last night.”

  “What makes you think last night was connected to this curse?”

  “For starters, it was the same M.O. The faceless man in the bathrobe, calling out to them, begging for help. Legend claims the figure represents one of the residents from the mental hospital. A ghost, if you will. Often, victims were chased to the river by a man on a horse, and then became disoriented by a bright light. In 1876 the Samerauk Bridge was built, but prior to that, the only escape was the steep drop to the river, which usually ended in death.”

  She stopped for a moment, and I could tell her mind had gone to Noah. But as she’s conditioned herself to do, she pushed the bad thoughts out of her mind.

  “For about a hundred year period, there were numerous incidents and deaths attributed to the curse. And as word spread, the myth grew. The Samerauks gained national attention from it at the time, and they capitalized on it. There were many cases of people making journeys to Zycko Hill, as some sort of pilgrimage to the supernatural, including many suicidal folks who used the place to take their own life. These deaths just added to the mystique.”

  She got up and searched one of the shelves, before returning with a couple of hardcover books. “If you’d like to read up on the subject, here’s a couple that I’d recommend.”

  I thumbed through them, and found that Connecticut was known as the leader in haunted, abandoned mental hospitals. Funny, that never made it onto the license plates.

  My mother continued, “Like I said, these incidents went on for over a hundred or so years, along with much feuding between the Samerauks and the Hastings family, who by that time had become Rockfield’s most powerful family, as they are today. Then in 1930, a treaty was signed between the town and the Samerauks, which gave them a portion of land on the north side of town—the area that currently constitutes Samerauk Nation.”

  I nodded. I was aware of the 1930 agreement, as it had become a big deal in the casino fight. But it sounded as if it went much deeper than that.

  “It supposedly signaled a major change in the relationship between the parties. The Hastings family even gave up a portion of their land to make it work … although, they were to be reimbursed by the state—when the mental hospital was officially shut down they would receive that land.”

  “And that is currently the area off Zycko Hill where the Blueberry Bush development is located, and Lefebvre Park?”

&
nbsp; “For the most part, yes. The state agreed to take no more patients on after 1930, as more modern institutions were being opened in the area, like Fairfield Hills in Newtown, and the Southbury Training School, which housed the mentally retarded. Prior to that time, everyone was lumped together—schizophrenics, those born with Down syndrome, drug addicts. It was done out of ignorance, and was often cruel.”

  “So the 1930 agreement essentially ended the curse?”

  “It did for twenty-nine years, until October 4, 1959, when a high-school senior named Thomas Archibald went missing. He was last seen heading toward the bridge … toward a faceless man in a bathrobe.”

  It was starting to sound familiar. And now I understood my mother’s reaction last night. “So you think the Archie the teenagers were referring to, was this Thomas Archibald?”

  “Thomas Archibald was known as Archie, yes. And I wish the man in the bathrobe luck in finding him, because many people have looked for Thomas Archibald over the years, and as far as I know, nobody has found him yet.”

  “They reported that the bathrobe man told them that he was looking for Archie in the gristmill. Do you have any idea what he was referring to?”

  “There used to be a gristmill on the river, owned by the Hastings family. But I believe it was condemned and knocked down in the 1960s. Other than that, I don’t know of any.”

  “What about a Bette? Supposedly the ghost referred to Callie Faust by that name.”

  She looked like she’d been struck by another bolt of surprise. “Callie would be about the same age as Bette Hastings was the night of her accident, so I could see how it might confuse Callie for her.”

  “Bette Hastings?”

  “I assume that’s who it was referring to—she was the youngest of the Hastings children.”

  Before I could begin my many questions, she was on the move again. She rummaged through more archives, until she found a framed newspaper with the headline “The Curse Ends.” After last night, it had a certain Dewey Beats Truman vibe to it.

  She brought it to me. “One year after Bette’s accident, the Hastings family and the Samerauks got together for a peace offering, including a ceremony in which they ‘reversed the curse.’”

  I skimmed the article from November of 1962 that depicted the elaborate ceremony on Main Street, which allegedly put an end to the infamous curse. The accompanying photo displayed Chief Vayo, in full headdress, shaking hands with Joseph Hastings Sr., who looked very much like his son Woodrow did today. There was a joint statement, declaring that they had come together, and noting that the latest incident had attacked both their families, not only Bette Hastings, but also Chief Vayo’s daughter. This caused them to take the step to, Make the safety of our children, and the children of Rockfield, the highest priority. They should not have to pay for the battles of those who came before us. And just to prove there were lawyers back then, the statement went on to deny any role by the current Samerauk leadership in the curse … yet apparently they had the ability to stop it at any point.

  “I was aware that there was a younger Hastings daughter, but I know very little about her. Just that she was a recluse, or something to that effect—I was unaware of any accident.”

  “Bette became mentally impaired in the incident.”

  “It was a car accident?”

  “More like a curse accident. Supposedly a faceless man in a bathrobe tossed her off the bridge into the river, and she was under water too long prior to being rescued. She lives in that red brick house over by Lefebvre Park, next to the community center—the one with the big arching windows. The family keeps her very low profile, and rarely speaks of her, so most people in town are unaware of her existence.”

  My mother made her way to a nearby bookshelf. She pulled out one of the photo albums that the historical society stored, for each year the Rockfield Fair had been held, going back to the 1920s. She flipped through pages until she found what she was looking for. It was a photo of three girls in their early teens, standing near the Ferris wheel.

  She pointed out that this might be the last photo taken of Bette Hastings before her accident, which took place later that night. She had a fresh face, wild curly hair, and a mischievous smile. She wore a sophisticated, sleeveless dress, and I was struck how much more formal people dressed back then. I couldn’t picture a fourteen-year-old girl of today wearing such attire to a country fair.

  I recognized the girl to her left, who was also dressed to impress. But that wasn’t a surprise—it was Vivian Bardella. Her passion for fashion would continue into adulthood. She has owned a dress shop in Rockfield for decades, and has been relentlessly pursuing me to be the spokesman for the new menswear line she’s creating. Suddenly I felt the urge to return her messages.

  I pointed to the third person in the photo, a dark complected girl with long braided hair, who was wearing a skimpy dress more in line with a fashion choice of today’s teenagers. “She looks familiar,” I said.

  “She should—it’s Poca Dohasan,” my mother responded.

  I took another look, and now recognized the younger version. Poca was the Chief of Samerauk Tribal Nation, and the driving force behind the push for the casino. It made her a controversial figure in these parts, but that’s nothing new, as she’s always been outspoken in her belief that the Samerauks were entitled to the return of their land, and had fought Rockfield for years in the courts over it.

  I stood and began to pace. “I can’t believe I’ve lived here much of my life and this is the first time I’ve heard of this. A teenager went missing, never to be found, and people in this town just pretend it never happened?”

  What if justice was never pursued in Noah’s case? Would his story have ended up in the backroom of the historical society?

  “It’s not really that surprising, if you think about it. It was over fifty years ago, and the town has changed dramatically. By the time your father and I moved here in the 1970s, very few people remained from 1959. Thomas Archibald was an interesting tale from the past, just like the curse. I’ve spent much of my adult life trying to interest people with the history of this town, and I can assure you it’s a difficult task.”

  My mother stood. “I’ve got to get to the fair. If you want to stick around, we have plenty of information on all of this. Just be sure to lock up when you’re done … and don’t take anything out of this room.”

  When she left, I got to work. Suddenly I had a story to tell … and this time everyone was going to know about it.

  Chapter 14

  “I want to report a missing person,” I said to Lenny Williams, the lone officer on duty at the Rockfield police department.

  Lenny’s normally easy demeanor tightened. “What’s the name, JP?”

  “I can’t discuss it with you—I need to speak with Chief Tolland.”

  “He’s at the fair. Why can’t you discuss it with me?”

  “It’s classified.”

  “Classified?”

  “I’m not leaving until I speak with Chief Tolland.”

  He sighed, knowing me well enough to know I wasn’t leaving until I got my way, and proceeded to call Rich.

  I spent the next half hour in the waiting area, until Rich arrived, and he didn’t look happy to see me. “My office,” was all he said.

  I followed him inside, and closed the door behind us. I took a seat facing his desk, noticing the almost-empty bottle of antacid, which I was likely responsible for.

  “So what are you up to, JP?” he asked, and sat behind his desk

  “I want to report a missing person.”

  “You told Lenny that it involved classified information—so this better involve Jimmy Hoffa or DB Cooper, or you’re wasting my time.”

  “I want to report Thomas Archibald missing.”

  He took a deep breath and slowly blew it out. “Seriously? In that case, you can rest easy—Thomas Archibald was already reported missing … over fifty years ago!”

  “So you know who he is.
How come I never heard about this?”

  “Probably the same reason most kids don’t worry about things that happened decades before they were born. And once we’re all grown up, it’s hard enough dealing with the present—paying our mortgages, raising our kids—there’s just not a lot of leftover time to think about 1959.”

  “But since the kids last night claimed the bathrobe guy was looking for Archie, doesn’t that make it about the present?”

  “We are currently investigating what actually happened last night. But I truly doubt it has anything to do with Thomas Archibald.”

  “How did you come across the Archibald case? It was decades before you were born, as well.”

  Rich leaned back in his chair. “My first month on the job in Rockfield, back thirteen years ago now, a tipster claimed to know that Archibald had been murdered, and he knew who did it. Nobody on the force took it real serious, so it was assigned to the low man on the totem pole, which was me. Since I was the new guy, and trying to make a good first impression, I threw myself into the assignment full steam ahead. I memorized the police reports, I re-interviewed the few people in town who were there that night, and I even looked up old newspaper articles at the library. But the tipster turned out to be some flake trying to get publicity between stints in drug rehab, and it was much ado about nothing.”

  “I want to see the police reports from the night Archibald went missing.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding, JP.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Freedom of Information Act?”

  “Have you ever heard that you are completely annoying?”

  I smiled. “No—never heard that one before.”

  I followed him out of his office, and down the hall to what looked like a closet door. We stepped inside, and he turned on the lights. The room was stacked with cardboard boxes. Rich searched through the clutter until he found the one he was looking for. He pulled out a thin folder with Archibald, Thomas written on it, and handed it to me.

  “Have fun. It’s public information, so you can make a copy if you want, but it doesn’t leave the premises. I need to get back to work.”