by Gord Rollo
“Deal. Now let’s go shopping. I wanna pick up something sexy for the trip.”
“Lingerie? For a camping trip? You crazy?”
“Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Let’s go.”
Kelly laughed, but in the back of her mind she thought maybe she might actually pick something out as well; just in case.
When Kelly showed up at Pat’s house Monday morning at 11:00 A.M. as agreed, the rest of the gang was already there, down in the basement poring over old maps and mildew-stained journals. Funny, because Kelly had made a deliberate point of showing up a bit early, eager to get a jump start on this important meeting. Obviously the rest of the guys were just as eager as she was to see if they could find the location of the abandoned village. If they ran into a dead end here, their dreams of finding Joshua Miller’s treasure might be over before they even started. That would definitely suck but there was no doubt it was a realistic possibility.
“Hi, guys,” Kelly said when she walked into the room. “Any luck?”
“Hey, look who finally crawled out of bed,” Dan said, winking at Kelly to show he was only kidding.
“About time you showed up.” Rich carried on the joke. “We thought you’d decided to cut us all out and had decided to keep the gold for yourself.”
“Ha ha…you two are so funny.”
“We haven’t found anything,” Lizzy said, disappointment clearly written on her pretty face. “There’s like…a billion maps left to look at.”
“We haven’t found anything yet,” Pat corrected her, walking over to an old yellow chart draped over the nearby coffee table. “We just got started. Glad you’re here though, Kelly. From what you told us, we’re looking for a map from the 1920s or ’30s at the latest, right. I’ve got one here, copyright 1929, but there’s no mention of Miller’s Grove on it.”
“Then keep looking,” Dan said. “Far as I’m concerned, the harder it is to find that village, the better our chances the treasure might actually still be there. Know what I mean? If we have to look at every damn map here, that’s what we do.”
That was no easy task. Pat’s father had an entire rec room filled with boxes and trunks, all of them filled to overflowing with bits and pieces of Iowa’s geographic history—past and present—and sorting through it all wasn’t as easy of a job as any of them had originally thought. It was tough slugging, even for a group of people like they had. And time consuming as well; in fact, they were still searching through the reams of paper hours later when Pat’s father came home from school.
Jason Brannon was a tall, thin man with a full head of gray hair and a matching goatee. He’d been teaching high school geography for twenty-one years now at the same school and he was looking forward to retiring in another few years. Today, his final class had been over by 2:00 P.M. and the last thing he expected to return home to was a group of kids destroying his life’s work. He’d been collecting these maps and charts since he was a little boy and had taken an interest in geography as a Boy Scout. Seeing everything scattered all over the tables and floor didn’t exactly make him happy. In fact, everyone could tell he was pissed.
“What in the hell is going on here?” Mr. Brannon yelled when he came down the stairs. “This better be good, Patrick.”
Pat bolted to attention. He knew his father only referred to him by his full name when the shit was about to hit the fan and he wanted to smooth things over before they got out of control. After all, they weren’t here trying to do anything wrong. Not that he intended to tell his dad what they were really up to, but he knew he had to say something, so he said the first thing that came to mind.
“Relax, Dad. We’re just trying to find an old village here in Iowa. My friends Dan and Rich are big geography buffs…like you, and we’re just trying to locate a few places off the beaten path for a camping trip we’re thinking about taking. I told these guys no one knew more about the state than you and we’ve been waiting for you to get home. Guess we got a little carried away looking around before you got here, sorry.”
Mr. Brannon looked from his son over to Rich and Dan. “You guys are into geography? Seriously?”
“Absolutely,” Rich lied. “This stuff you have here is incredible.”
“Yeah,” Dan joined in. “We’ve never seen anything like it. It’s gotta be the best collection of maps in Cedar Rapids.”
“The best in the whole state,” Mr. Brannon said, beaming with pride. “Even the museum at Iowa State doesn’t have some of this stuff. I’ve been collecting it since I was a kid.”
“That’s what I told them, Dad,” Pat said, knowing they had him leaning in the right direction. “I told them if anyone around here could find the place they’re looking for, it would be you. Glad you finally made it home.”
“You bet. Hope I can help. What are you looking for?”
“A place called Miller’s Grove,” Kelly said. “It’s not around anymore. My grandfather lived there as a kid and we need to find it. He told me it was a small farming community in the woods somewhere around here, but they abandoned the settlement in the mid-1930s.”
“Can’t you just ask him where it was?”
“Ahh…no, he died recently.” Kelly felt like a fool for lying like this but she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Oh, okay. Sorry ’bout that. Let’s see then…Miller’s Grove, huh?”
“Yeah,” Pat said, stepping in. “Think you can find it? We’ve been looking for a few hours and can’t find squat.”
“That’s because you’re all starting in the wrong spot. These maps might take you weeks to scour over, but I have a system to keep things straight. Hand me that box of journals over there, Pat. Yeah, that box behind you.”
Pat did as his father asked, lugging over a heavy box filled with identical yellow leather notebooks. He set the box down on the coffee table and got out of his dad’s way.
“Thanks. See, what I’ve done is keep an ongoing list of the towns, cities, rivers, forests, state parks, counties…you name it; basically everything you can think of across the entire state of Iowa. Then I put them into these journals where I jot down study notes, or points of interest in those areas. You know, all the fun stuff. I also cross-reference names and places and try to keep an up-to-date record of what’s happening there. If Miller’s Grove existed, it’ll be in these books.”
The entire gang held their breath as Mr. Brannon started sifting through the various journals, trying to locate the volume filled with the letter M. They all knew that if Pat’s dad came up empty here as well, they were more than likely out of luck. A few tense minutes later, the geography buff cried out and jumped to his feet.
“Aha! Here’s something. Look at this. I don’t even remember writing this but it says Miller’s Grove was a small backwoods farming community famous for their unusually large corn crops. Doesn’t say anything about them abandoning the settlement, but there’s no further reference after 1936. Interesting.”
“Sure, Dad,” Pat said, “fascinating, but we already knew that. What about location? Does it tell you where we might find it?”
“Nope. Not a word.”
There was a collective groan in the room, but just as the disappointment was settling in, Mr. Brannon held up his hand and said, “Wait a minute…I might have something here.”
“What?” several people said at once.
“Well, not sure, but I penciled in the name Oak Valley into the margin beside Miller’s Grove, but for the life of me I can’t remember why. Pretty sure I must have figured that was where the Grove was located though. No other reason for me to jot it down otherwise.”
“Okay,” Kelly said, her hope renewed. “Where’s Oak Valley, then? I’ve never heard of that either.”
“Me neither,” Dan said, coming over to stand by her side.
“I know exactly where it is,” Mr. Brannon said proudly. “Not far from here either, they just don’t call it by that name anymore. Oak Valley used to be huge. Thousands
of acres of thick forests and sprawling fields, lots of rivers and lakes too, but the government kept chopping it up and handing out land grants to farmers and every little town that popped up on the map. It’s pretty much gone now, but the state did keep a big chunk as protected land. Today, all that’s left of Oak Valley is smack-dab in the middle of Rock Creek State Park.”
“Rock Creek?” Pat said. “Isn’t that over by Des Moines? We used to go camping there years ago, right?”
“That’s the place, yes. Probably one of the hot spots in the entire state for camping, actually, but that’s the big southern end of the park. You won’t find what you’re looking for there. The north end is real desolate. Wild, even. Night and day from the rest of the state park. Just huge trees and lots of water. Probably a lot of fertile land up there for crops too, now that I think of it, but it’s a bit too swampy for any real commercial outfits.”
“Can you show us on a map?” Rich said, already reaching for one and handing it over Lizzy’s head to Dan, who passed it across the coffee table to Mr. Brannon.
“Sure, let’s see now…yeah, right about here.”
Everyone present crowded in to see where Jason Brannon had placed his finger on the map. Kelly had no idea of the scale of the map, but she noticed Cedar Rapids near his finger and knew it couldn’t be that far away.
“That looks pretty close to here,” she said.
“It is. It’s between here and Des Moines but you’ll need to head down toward Iowa City, then cut west to get there. Probably only fifty miles by the crow, but more like double that taking the highways.”
“Still, that’s only a couple of hours,” Dan said. “Nothing to it.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Brannon said, quite proud of himself. “And here’s another tip. Don’t waste your time searching inside the state park. Even the desolate areas will have been combed over by the rangers and hikers. Everything to find in there already has been, trust me. If you want to find Miller’s Grove, I’d go just north of the park. Same wild country, but no one wanders around in there. No reason to…there’s nothing there.”
Searching the map again, he’d tap his finger on a section, but then change his mind. After another minute, he still hadn’t made up his mind. “I need an older map. I wanna compare the two. Something from the 1930s, if poss—oh my God!”
“What?” Kelly said. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. 1937. I just remembered a map I have of this exact area. Hunting and fishing map, laying a grid through the middle of the state, and I’m pretty damn sure there are several close-up segments showing some of the parks. It has Rock Creek on it, I think, even though it wasn’t even an official state park yet.”
It took him several minutes of frantic searching where he made more of a mess than all of the gang combined but eventually he shouted, “Hell yeah! I got it!” Red-faced and tired from all his efforts, Mr. Brannon brought back to the coffee table a smaller map, two feet by two feet, on yellowed wrinkled paper that was clearly very old. “Now we’re talking. Okay, here’s the outline of what’s now Rock Creek State Park. All the camping and hiking and fishing takes place down here in this tourist area. Head north up toward…well I’ll be damned! Look at that!”
“What?” they all asked, leaning closer to get a better look. “Just above the boundary of the park, just like I said; take a look at what’s written there in pencil. MG with a question mark behind it.”
“Miller’s Grove,” Lizzy said, almost in awe. It wasn’t a question.
“Miller’s Grove,” Jason Brannon said, proud as a peacock. “I’ll bet my next paycheck on it.”
“Wow, Pops,” Pat said. “I’m actually impressed.”
“As you should be,” his dad answered, then laughed. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go get myself a cold beer. It’s been a long day.”
Everyone thanked Mr. Brannon for his help. And they meant it too. There was no way they would have found Miller’s Grove without his passion for geography and his knowledge of Iowa. Now at least they had a destination to shoot for. It still might turn out to be a dead end, or even if they did find the old settlement in the woods, it didn’t mean there would be any truth to the treasure rumors but they were definitely headed in the right direction.
“Oh, wait a sec, Dad. We can borrow this map for a few days, right?” Pat asked, just as his father was exiting the room.
He poked his head back in, smiled, and said, “Sure…but first you’re all going to clean up this goddamned mess!”
Chapter Eleven
For a time, there was only darkness.
Constant night. Oppressive, stifling darkness as hot as the inside of an oven but eventually cracks appear in the foundation walls and some of the floorboards sag and collapse. Between the gaps in the wood and stone some indirect sunlight finds its way into the space, and through the gloom a large room is revealed.
An old church.
Row after row of empty pews waiting for the congregation’s arrival, but nobody comes here anymore and nothing sits on the once-polished oak seats except for an inch-thick layer of dust. No one is sitting down and no one is standing in the aisles but that doesn’t mean the sanctuary is empty. Up on the raised altar, the room’s only inhabitant hangs high on the wall, a macabre parody of Christ on Calvary. He was a normal man once, but that was ages ago and time has been less than kind. His body and muscles have withered, emaciated from the heavy ropes and forced bondage. His skin has hardened, mummified paper-thin from the years spent in insufferable heat.
A terrible way to die; or should have been anyway, but in this unholy place death is only a fading dream and what hangs on the cross isn’t dead. Nor is he alive. An abomination trapped in the shadowy realm that exists somewhere between. He breathes, he listens, he waits.
Rage is what keeps him sentient. Unbridled fury.
And hunger.
Decades on the cross have left the beast famished, his teeth often gnashing together in his torturous slumber, tearing out the throats of his enemies over and over again in endless dark dreams filled with gore and spectacular violence.
Then suddenly he awakens, a thin stream of blood spilling down his pale chin as he opens his large haunted eyes and begins to laugh. “I’m waiting for her, old man,” he says, licking his dry lips with a leathery gray tongue. “Can’t wait to see how she tastes!”
The man-creature on the cross begins to thrash and scream, pulling and twisting with all his considerable might to break free from the bindings that hold him tied to the wooden beams. He yanks and tears with an unworldly strength, savagely ripping his own desiccated skin but not caring in the least, intent on nothing else but freedom.
“You hear me, coward?”
Malcolm Tucker woke up screaming in bed, his tired eighty-four-year-old heart doing cartwheels inside of his aching chest. He instantly realized he was safe in his bed at Lorimar House but that knowledge brought no comfort, as for several minutes he was convinced he was having a heart attack. At his age it was a distinct possibility and twice he came close to pushing the panic button beside his bed that would immediately summon the nurses and orderlies. Both times though, he rode out the pain, taking deep breaths and willing his body to settle down and not abandon him yet. He wasn’t scared of dying and had made his peace with the Lord a long time ago; he simply wasn’t ready to go yet. There were still so many things he wanted to do with his life, such as it was. Surely this wasn’t going to be the way he checked out—alone and wearing the same dirty pair of pajamas his granddaughter had scolded him about wearing a few days ago.
“Kelly,” he whispered in the dark, still massaging his chest with an open palm, but finally starting to feel the steel bands around his ribs loosening their grip, allowing him to breathe a little easier. Saying a quick prayer of thanks, he lay back down and concentrated on taking long, slow breaths until he was sure he felt back in control and relatively safe attempting to move around.
It might be foolish trying to get out
of bed to go to the bathroom this soon after having bad chest pains, but Malcolm had always been stubborn like that. Besides, he needed to go pee. What was he supposed to do, wet the bed when a perfectly good toilet was less than ten feet away? Not likely. He swung his skinny legs off the side of the bed and gingerly set them down on the cool floor. He cautiously stood up and being fairly confident he wasn’t about to keel over, shuffled off to the bathroom to do his business.
In truth, he didn’t really have to go pee that bad. Certainly not urgently. He was just stalling for time, not yet ready to think about the horrible dream he’d just had or whether he could trust his granddaughter to keep her word that she’d never go after Joshua Miller’s treasure. After washing his hands and returning to bed, Malcolm was sure of two things: One, he’d never had such a vivid, terrifying dream as that in his whole life, and two, Kelly had lied to him. And why wouldn’t she? If he were young and full of piss and vinegar like she was, he’d go after the treasure too. The ravings of a silly old man and the ghost story of a fallen reverend wouldn’t be enough to keep him away from fortune and fame. Not a chance.
Kelly didn’t know Miller’s Grove the way he did, didn’t have a clue what wickedness Joshua Miller had brought to their village. She was far too young to know about good and evil, heaven and hell, and the cruel ways the Man in Black could corrupt a good man’s soul. Malcolm thought again about the dream, about Joshua Miller lashed onto his cross and transformed into some hideous long-haired beast out for revenge. Silliness, of course, but that didn’t mean Kelly wouldn’t be in danger if she went off on a wild-goose chase into the woods. His father Angus had always told him, “If someone goes looking for trouble, they usually find it.” Malcolm agreed. Reverend Miller was dead and gone but Miller’s Grove was still a terrible, cursed place and he didn’t want Kelly going anywhere near there.