The sheriff leaned forward cautiously, and craned his neck so as to take in the entire room. He saw Mary sitting by the window in her rocking chair, Doctor Wellman standing there, white as a bleached sheet, and Carl who looked like he’d been out in the pen playing with the hogs. “Just checking,” he said. “I was driving by and saw Doctor Wellman’s car, and all the lights were on in the house and barn so I thought I’d check and see if there was a problem. Sorry if I disturbed you. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
Carl said, “We appreciate that.”
“Why don’t you invite the young man in,” Mary said, and Wellman looked up sharply.
Jesus, why don’t you just get rid of him, he thought, and then suddenly he suspected he might know the answer to his own question. Gooseflesh played along his backbone like mallets on a xylophone.
“Of course,” Carl said. “Come in, Jimmy, won’t you?” Carl was smiling sweetly, as was Mary now. Wellman looked from one to the other wanting to scream. Carl stepped aside and Sheriff Dugan walked across the threshold.
“Their little girl was sick,” Wellman volunteered. “They were worried and called, so I drove over.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?” said the soft-spoken sheriff with concern.
“Oh no, just a bellyache. I’ve given her something for it and now she’s sleeping peacefully. I was just about to be on my way.”
“I see,” said the sheriff. He surveyed everybody again. “Oh, by the way, I noticed the lights on in the barn so I took the liberty of looking around before I came to the door. I hope you don’t mind?”
“No . . . of course not,” Carl said, the smile frozen on his face.
The sheriff pulled a flashlight from beneath his cap and showed it to them. “I noticed a fresh mound of earth out back. Looks like someone’s been digging. That’s the same soil on your coveralls isn’t it, Carl?”
“That’s right, Jimmy,” Carl replied a little too tersely. “Got two hundred acres of it.”
“I see,” said the sheriff.
“You’ll have to excuse Carl,” Mary said apologetically. “It’s been a long day.”
“One of the herd died this afternoon.” Carl explained. “And I had to bury her. Big job. Just got through with it. Don’t mind telling you I’m beat.”
“I’ll bet,” the sheriff said in that same insanely calm voice of his. “She have an accident?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Your cow. I noticed the blood all over the barn floor, and it looks like you’ve got some of it on your coveralls there.” He pointed.
Carl looked down at his coveralls, then back at the sheriff and that’s when Wellman saw him change. One moment he was the Carl he had known for thirty years and the next he was . . . well, he was different. Wellman caught just a flicker of it, a shimmering glimpse of Carl’s face changing into something else. And then suddenly Carl seemed normal again.
I imagined it, Wellman thought. I’m not a young man anymore and all this stress has overloaded my circuitry. That’s all it is. Just my imagination.
“Had to butcher her where she died,” Carl was saying. “Much too heavy for me to drag out back in one piece.”
Wellman was unsure as to whether the sheriff had seen the change or not. He certainly didn’t act as if he had. Hell, he wasn’t actually sure he’d seen it. It’s the stress. I’m probably going to stand right here and lose all my frigging marbles.
“Could have tied onto her with the tractor,” the sheriff said.
“Could have,” Carl replied, with that same frozen smile. “Except the tractor don’t run. Engine needs to be overhauled.”
Sheriff Dugan nodded.
Wellman was looking at Carl, and suddenly, there it was again, that subtle change, like a ripple of wind on the glass-like surface of a calm lake. And beneath it, something vulpine and predatory, the teeth extending into sharp canines, the eyes brightening into ruby-colored pinpoints. Wellman blinked and Carl was just plain old Carl again.
Jesus, Wellman thought. Now I know I’m losing it. He looked back at the sheriff and saw that his face had suddenly taken on a slackness that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps he had seen Carl change after all.
“I see,” Sheriff Dugan replied, and it seemed his voice had fallen slightly slack as well. “Well, guess I’ll be on my way then. You folks look like you need to get some rest.” He turned and was heading for the door when he hesitated. “Oh, by the way, I almost forgot. You haven’t seen this man, have you?” He turned back around and pulled a photograph from his breast pocket, showed it to Carl and Doctor Wellman. Wellman had never seen the drifter’s face but Carl’s expression told him that he was looking at a photograph of the dead man.
“No,” the two men said in unison, and the sheriff looked appraisingly at them.
“How about you, Mary?” The sheriff attempted to show the photo to Mary but she turned her head to the window, and in that split second just before she turned, Wellman saw the same change in her that he’d seen in Carl. His knees wanted to buckle and for a small moment he thought his bladder might let go.
“I ain’t seen nobody,” Mary said, still looking toward the window. “Why I hardly ever get out of the house anymore.”
The sheriff looked strangely at the woman and put the photo back in his pocket.
“Who is he?” Carl asked a little too innocently.
“New York State Police sent this over the wire. Two nights ago he raped and murdered a young girl somewhere near Albany. He’s wanted for questioning in three other murders. All young girls. Looks like we’ve got ourselves a serial killer on the prowl. They said he might have been headed in this direction. If any of you see him please give me a call.” He glanced over toward Mary again. The woman continued to stare out the window into the darkness.
“We most certainly will,” Carl replied.
“Thanks,” said the sheriff. He walked to the door and opened it. “I hope the little girl’s feeling better soon,” he said.
“Thank you,” Mary replied. “It’s very kind of you to be concerned.” She turned back around then and Ed saw the change again. It was as if a very thin membrane separated her from some other self that lay shimmering just beneath the surface. His underpinnings were getting shakier by the second. He thought he might have to sit down pretty soon.
“Not at all, Mary,” the sheriff said, putting his hat back on and tipping it toward the lady. “Just doing my job.” He looked at all three of the pallid faces once more, hesitating for a short moment on Mary’s. Wellman saw Mary’s eyes brighten into sharp ruby pinpoints. Suddenly the sheriff’s face slackened. He shook his head as if he were trying to puzzle something out. And then, without saying another word, he turned and disappeared out into the darkness.
Carl kicked the door closed behind him, and a very long silence ensued. Next came the sound of an automobile starting and the engine revved slightly as the car went down the driveway.
“How did you do that, Carl?”
“Do what?”
“He had you dead to rights, you know. The blood, the grave, the guilt on all our faces. And then suddenly, he just turned around and walked out of here as if nothing at all seemed out of place.”
“Nothing does, Ed.”
“He’ll be back in the morning, you know,” Wellman said. “With a backhoe and an army of forensic people.”
“Wrong, Ed! I don’t think we’ll be hearing from him again anytime soon.”
Wellman shook his head in utter amazement. Again he glanced at Carl, then back to Mary, and then back to Carl again. “What’s going on here?” he asked, and he could feel a hysterical little laugh trying to break to the surface but he didn’t dare let it out. He was afraid he might never stop laughing again and those guys from the Raspberry Farm over in Stockton would have to pump him full of Thorozene before they slipped the straight jacket on over his arms.
“Nothing, Ed,” answered Carl. “Nothing at all’s going on here.”
Wellman swallowed and the lump stuck in his throat. “Why wouldn’t you look at the photograph, Mary?”
“If I’d had to look at that face one more time I think I might have gone crazy, Ed, and then he would have known.”
“You don’t think that made him suspicious?”
“Oh, he was suspicious for a little while there, Ed,” Carl answered. “You knew it, Mary knew it, and I knew it. But I don’t thing he’s suspicious anymore. Matter of fact, he’s probably sitting out there somewhere right now in his patrol car pulling wings off dead flies and eating them. Or perhaps he’s taken all the rounds but one out of his revolver and he’s sitting there with the muzzle against his temple, spinning the cylinder and pulling the trigger. No, I don’t think he’ll be suspicious about much of anything ever again.”
“You’ve lost your mind, Carl.”
“So help me God, Ed, shut that mouth of yours or I’ll shut it for you.” And that’s when Carl began to change again. And this time Ed knew he hadn’t imagined it. That predatory look shimmered just beneath the surface, not quite human, not quite beast, but some insane mixture of the two.
“We ain’t gonna let nothing or no one stand between us and that little girl, Ed. Not the sheriff, not even you.”
The change was shimmering in both of them now, Wellman saw it, just beneath the facade of their human skin, like water coming to a slow boil.
Mary had gotten up from her chair for the first time since she and Wellman had brought the child in from the barn, and now she had taken her place beside her husband and they were slowly advancing on him. “There’s never been an incident up till now,” Carl was saying, and his voice sounded like his throat had become constricted by something. Perhaps the sudden growth of a vulpine tongue was blocking the air passage. Wellman was slowly backing away from their advance. “She’s already had two years of schooling. She’s always got along good with the teachers and the other kids. Never had any problems. Never! Do you hear me? Until that bastard violated her! You heard the sheriff, Ed. He’s a serial killer! The son of a bitch got what he deserved and I ain’t sorry for none of it.”
Wellman stumbled backwards. The couple continued their slow, unrelenting advance. Wellman could not look away. He tried to, but their eyes held him like psychic magnets. Sweat ran in hot rivulets down his forehead and into his eyes, partially blinding him with stinging pain. His shirt was stuck to his body like flypaper. His heart thudded dully inside his chest, and his legs were shaking so badly his knees were threatening to come unbolted. He reached up and gingerly wiped the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand. His vision blurred. Suddenly he could not see with any real clarity. His own sanity was now in question. He thought he felt something let go in his head, something small, but something fundamental. Like a thin strand of cord in an overly-stressed rope. He was afraid the rest of the rope would come unraveled very soon. He wanted to scream but he didn’t think his throat would cooperate. And besides, who would hear him? Certainly not the sheriff. He was parked out by the side of the road somewhere with his gun to his head firing on empty cylinders.
Wellman had backed into the kitchen table. He reached his hand behind him and groped for his medical bag. “I’ll drop out here in a day or two to check on the child,” he said, having no intentions of doing anything of the kind if he was lucky enough to get out of this alive.
“You do that, Ed,” The Carl vulpine croaked. “You do that.”
Wellman grabbed his bag and moved quickly toward the door, intending to use it as a weapon if he had to. The two vulpine creatures had stopped their advance and were just standing now, watching him; predators with elongated snouts, sharp canines and ruby pinpoints for eyes. Their bodies were lank and lean now and the arms and legs had grown muscular and hairy.
“Wellman glanced toward the bedroom door. He almost expected a child vulpine to open it and come stalking out. But of course that didn’t happen, instead something shimmered out of the corner of his eye and when he looked back, there stood Carl and Mary, his two oldest friends in the world, looking like they always had, smiling sadly, but weary, and much older it seemed.
Jesus, go home and get some rest, Wellman thought. And after you’ve done that, if you’re still capable, hop on a bus or an airplane or a train, and get as far away from this miserable place as possible. If you don’t, you just might lose more than your sanity, old man. You might lose the same thing Carl and Mary have lost. And you might gain something too. Like sharp canines and a cold wet nose.
Wellman touched his dry lips with his tongue, and came very close to speaking. He knew there was something else that needed to be said, but the words that might have been, hung in the charged air between himself, Carl and Mary, ugly, intangible, death-like. Carl nodded as if to say, go ahead, I dare you. Those words were never meant to be spoken. Wellman knew it and so did they.
Suddenly an overwhelming sense of urgency overtook Doctor Wellman. He felt that if he could just make it out the door he might have a slim chance of escaping demons, manifestations of his worst nightmares.
Carl and Mary stood motionless, watching him with tiny sad smiles creasing the corners of their ever-so-human mouths. They didn’t try to stop him, and for that, Wellman was grateful. He turned, opened the door and slipped quickly out into the night.
The small crack between the bedroom door and the kitchen closed gently, and the beautiful dark-haired seven-year-old girl scurried hurriedly back across the floor, up onto the bed and under the covers. A moment later the door opened again, sending a wedge of kitchen light shooting across the pretty pink Raggedy Ann canopy bed. Mary Landers was looking in on her little girl, and she saw that the child was resting peacefully; and that may have been true, but at the same time, the sweet little thing was smiling to herself.
The Manor
From the Journal of John J. Tittleman
July 1897
It is with great trepidation that I, John J. Tittleman, in the year of our Lord 1897—a prisoner it seems in this huge and draughty stone manor named for its indomitable owner and builder, Captain Nathaniel Ellis—commit to posterity the events of the past several days. Please forgive the incongruities of speech and rhythm for I am not entirely clear of mind, and thus would not swear with absolute certainty that all words contained herein are, or should be construed as gospel. After what has occurred, this writer’s very sanity is in serious self-doubt.
I am feeling slightly better now, the fever seems to have broken, but the head still aches ferociously, and it causes within me an utter and almost complete sense of unreality—
Sorry for the sudden interruption but Williams has just fled from the room. It is uncertain as to whether Williams—a strikingly handsome Negro—is the gentleman’s proper name or merely his title. No matter. It is the appellative he has asked me—in his exotic sounding tongue (probably a mixture of West Indian and Creole)—to address him by. He entered—without announcing himself, which seems to be the custom here at Ellis Manor—carrying a bowl of bland porridge, startling me as I wrote, and I was forced to hastily tuck my journal beneath the bed’s massive feather-tic. It is quite probable that he witnessed the act for he glared balefully at me with those large, intelligent brown eyes of his, before turning abruptly and literally fleeing as if being chased. He seldom speaks, and when he does his manner is curt and businesslike.
He is gone from my presence now; nevertheless I get the disquieting feeling that the walls here at Ellis Manor have eyes, and ears.
I have eaten the small helping of warm porridge—which strangely had a slight red hue to it—and although it tasted bland and sits heavy and burdensome in the pit of my belly, it seems to have satisfied—at least for the moment—the gnawing hunger that has gripped me since awakening from the fever. Perhaps this is a good sign. That said, I shall begin anew.
Such an account would not be wholly adequate without first relaying the events that brought me to this particular place in time.
It began wi
th newspaper accounts; that of a ship, a China Clipper to be exact, captained by one Nathaniel Irving Ellis of James Village, Maine. The vessel, commissioned by aforementioned captain and built by sturdy stock with locale materials, was a particularly large Clipper, some 1,200 tons berthen, and christened with the name Witchcraft. According to this reporter’s sources, Witchcraft had been round the horn on a number of global voyages and had made significant inroads as a China-trade vessel.
Why Captain Ellis had christened her with such a vile name as Witchcraft is any man’s guess. There are those, of course, who’ve made ill claims of the good captain’s morals and intentions. Some have asserted that he nurtured a life-long romance with the occult, others have said that he literally worshiped the dead. I cannot attest to any of these assertions, however appealing and scandalous they may be to the readership at large, having as yet—to the best of my knowledge—never met the man.
There are those as well who pronounced Witchcraft doomed from the very beginning of her life, based on speculation that she was somehow christened with blood. It seemed the skeptics were wrong, however, for as years passed, Witchcraft and her crew completed voyage after successful voyage, and it appeared that she was not cursed at all. On the contrary, there seemed to be an angel of mercy resting on her bow, for in all the years of successful voyages Witchcraft lost nary a single hand.
Then came that fateful voyage four months passed.
As I have already stated, I cannot in all good conscience swear that the reports set forth in this account are wholly accurate, for I was not aboard Witchcraft on said voyage and therefore did not experience first hand the terrors which purportedly ensued. The task set forth for reporters of news in this modern day is a wholly clinical one, which leaves no room for embellishment. Thus stated, I will pronounce the facts without embellishment, as accurately and as skillfully as the information at hand will allow.
What follows is an account verbatim by Witchcraft’s first mate, Joshua Whitney, following the strange and untimely events on board said ship while en route to England in March, the year of our lord, eighteen hundred and ninety seven.
Servants of Darkness (Thirteen Creepy Tales) Page 9