Evil Never Dies
Page 1
EVIL
NEVER
DIES
EVIL
NEVER
DIES
Mick Ridgewell
A
Grinning Skull Press
Publication
PO Box 67, Bridgewater, MA 02324
Evil Never Dies
Copyright © 2014 Mick Ridgewell
First published April 1, 2014, by Samhain Publishing. Reprinted with permission from the author.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters depicted in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons—living or dead—is purely coincidental.
The Skull logo with stylized lettering was created for Grinning Skull Press by Dan Moran, http://dan-moran-art.com/.
Cover designed by Jeffrey Kosh, http://jeffreykosh.wix.com/jeffreykoshgraphics.
Author photo: by Tim Cornett
ISBN: 1-947227-07-6 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 978-1-947227-07-1 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-947227-08-8 (ebook)
DEDICATION
For Wally and Norma Ridgewell, my mom and dad. Thank you for giving me life and providing me with all the tools I needed to make my stories possible.
And for Gerry and Betty Langlois, for being there whenever we needed you. You have been my second mom and dad since the day I said "I do," and for that, I am blessed.
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Pam Bone, Roy James, Mike Soucie, and Greg Toldo. This is a better book thanks to your excellent advice and suggestions.
A big shout out to my critiquing group, Write On Windsor, for all the tips and support, past and present.
I am indebted to Don D'Auria for believing in me and giving my work a chance.
And lastly, I greatly appreciate the entire staff of Grinning Skull Press for giving this book of death a new life.
Chapter 1
Roland Millhouse had his eyes on the prize. He would be a field reporter for a couple more years, and then make his play for the anchor desk in Toronto. Maybe, if all the planets lined up, he would follow Peter Jennings's path all the way to New York.
When Roland was assigned to drive six hours north to interview Patricia Owens, Canada's oldest living citizen, he went without protest. He really did hold himself to standards far above mere fluff bits, but Roland took whatever assignment came his way. You don't get in favour with the movers and shakers by being a prima donna.
The thought of trying to get a coherent response from a 120-year-old woman made his lunch sour in his stomach. Roland had grudgingly spent enough time visiting his grandmother in the nursing home. He adored his grandmother growing up, but by the time she checked into that place, there was little left of her mind. Memories of those visits gave him preconceived notions of what this assignment would be like. He pictured oxygen tubes in her nose and the smell of her filth as she sat in soiled diapers.
Getting his first glimpse of the Owens house didn't improve Roland's impression of this assignment. Putting his car in park in front of the place, he had to crane his neck over the steering wheel to see the whole structure, and as he did so, The Addams Family theme song began to play inside his head.
Creepy and kooky indeed, he thought.
The house, no doubt the toast of the county in its day, now looked haunted. The siding was bluish-grey. Unless you'd seen it many years ago, it would be impossible to say if it had been blue or grey. Now, ugly was the only word to describe this color.
Two and a half stories of ugly. Tall narrow windows filled the front of the house and were surrounded by white trim and shutters that were long faded to the shade of old bones. The ornate trim that adorned the eaves surely gave the house stately elegance decades ago, but now only reminded the viewer of the damage time and the elements will inflict on everything.
"Christ," Roland uttered, looking up at what one could only describe as decay.
Sickly roses tried in vain to thrive in a garden alive with all manner of weeds. The lawn, although cut to a respectable length, looked to be all crabgrass and dandelions.
Roland's gut told him to get the hell out. They could send any flunky to snap a few shots of the old bag, sing her Happy Birthday, and wish her many more. It wasn't like she hadn't already had more than her share as far as he was concerned.
Roland always followed his gut when it pushed him toward a story, but he never followed anything, be it intuition or bad vibes that steered him away from one, not even a lame-ass birthday yarn for an old woman. He would take some snapshots, sing Happy Birthday if she could stay awake, then book it back to Toronto.
He checked his perfectly coifed blond news anchor hair, in the rearview. Tightened his paisley silk tie then pulled the handle to open the door to his steel-blue BMW. Roland loved his Bimmer. When the sun was out, he could stand back and see his own reflection in the paint, and that is exactly what he did.
His image got a bit distorted where the contours of the car changed, but he brushed his Armani suit flat where it had bunched up in the car and admired first himself, then the shine on the car.
It was time to go to work. Roland retrieved his laptop and camera bag from the backseat and trundled across the gravel to the house. He paused at the first step leading to the porch, made an audio memo in his BlackBerry to photograph the house before he left, then climbed the wooden steps to the front door.
Something he thought could have been a pinecone carved from mahogany dangled on a rusted chain to the left of the door. He had seen these things in movies and television, but this was the first time Roland had to pull on a weight dangling from a chain to ring the doorbell. The chain made a dry grinding noise, followed by
what could have been a couple of saucepans rattling together. When he released the chain, the weight clunked back to its original position with a thud.
He waited, admiring the Italian leather of his shoes. Most people would be taking everything in, having never been to a house like this, but not Roland. He was only interested if there was a story to be had, and he didn't see one here. Roland saw only a waste of his time and talents.
After what he decided was ample time to answer the door, but no more than thirty seconds, he reached for the pinecone. Before he could pull the chain again, he heard the door handle click, and the big wooden door opened with a screech that would have made the sound-effects guys of any horror movie set proud.
"Are you Mr. Millhouse?" came a raspy, but not at all unsteady voice.
Roland looked to find a tiny woman, no more than five feet, probably four ten, dressed in slacks and a white blouse, with small white flowers embroidered above her breasts. She was pale, but not in the way sick people look pale. Her skin was china white and as clear as new snow. She had her share of wrinkles, but not a hint of spots or blemishes that many very old people have. In fact, Roland was sure in younger days this old woman was attractive.
"Yes, is Mrs. Patricia Owens at home?" Of course she's home, he thought. The woman is 120, where is she going to go?
"I am," the woman before him said.
Roland thought himself a good judge of his surroundings when he wanted to be. The temperament of the people around him, their income bracket, and definitely their age. The woman before him could not have been more than seventy, maybe a very well-kept eighty.
"No, ma'am, I'm looking for Mrs. Patricia Owens. It's her birthday. Her 120th birthday."
"I am Patricia Owens, and my birthday is actually tomorrow. I'll be one hundred and twenty years old. Imagine that, if you can."
"I truly can't, Mrs. Owens."
"First things first, Mr. Millhouse," Patricia said. "It's Miss Owens. I never did marry. And, if you are going to get invited into my house, you will have to call me Patricia. I'm too damn old to be Miss Anybody. Wouldn't you say?"
"You're the boss, Patricia. And fair is fair, you should call me Roland," he replied. With that, Roland knew two things. He liked Patricia, and this wasn't going to be the dud assignment he had been dreading. What he didn't know was it would be the best story he would ever get.
"Patricia, can I take a picture of you on the porch before we go inside?" With a nod and a sheepish wave of her hand, Patricia stood in the doorway, waiting for her guest to get his gear ready.
He removed his camera from the case and snapped half a dozen pictures. He asked her to turn this way and that, explaining lighting and background. Once convinced he had a usable photo he packed the camera away, hung the camera bag strap over his shoulder and leaped back up beside her.
"Good, then. Shall we go inside?" Patricia said and motioned to the door.
Roland held it open until his host passed, then followed her inside.
Chapter 2
Roland looked around in awe, as if crossing Patricia's threshold transported him back in time. Deep patterned rugs all but concealed the hardwood floors, gaudy paper covered the walls, and the pale light from ornate wall sconces cast weak shadows all around.
On the walls, oil paintings from years long gone, placed in ornately carved wood frames, hung in perfect symmetry. The cove ceilings soaked up the weak light in the room reflecting it back in muted tones of yellow.
"Patricia, this is a big house. Does anyone else live here?" he asked.
"Many have come and gone in my time here, but at the moment, I am alone. I do have a man who helps me keep the place up. He fixes what needs fixing, does the yard work and brings supplies and groceries from town, but he will only come here during the day."
"Why is that?" Roland felt he knew why but wanted to hear her answer.
"He is a very superstitious man. He thinks the place is haunted. Most around here do."
Roland gave the room a tentative sweep then said, "I guess that's true of a lot of houses as old as this one."
"You're a dear," she said. "Truth is, it is a ghastly looking old house."
"If you think that, then why do you stay?"
"My family has lived in this house since my grandfather built it in 1850. I have never lived anywhere else."
Roland did some quick math in his head. He didn't know for sure, but he thought his own grandmother was born around 1940. This woman's grandfather built a house in 1850, which meant he must have been born around 1820.
"Wow," Roland said. "My family hasn't owned a piece of property for more than twenty years. My parents are now in their third house since getting married."
"That is the way of things for most," she agreed. "My grandfather made a success in lumber. That money built this house and sustained my family. Now I am all that is left of the family. Most of the money is gone now, but I don't need much, and I don't have a lot of time left. I am 120 after all."
"Patricia, if I look as good when I'm sixty as you look today, I'll count myself lucky. I think you have lots of time left."
"That's very kind of you to say, Roland, but we both know I have had more than my share of years." She patted his hand as though to acknowledge his effort to say the right thing.
"While we're on the topic, Patricia," Roland said, his demeanor changing from social to professional, "how do you explain your longevity? You've not only lived decades longer than most, but you are in spectacular condition compared to most people much younger than you."
"Oh dear," she muttered. "I feared that you would ask that question. I am, however, not sure you will believe the answer, young man."
"My job is to report the news, Patricia. Not judge it."
"I'm sure you believe that, Roland. But my tale is so fantastic that your viewers will scoff with great prejudice," she said, looking deeply into his eyes.
"Let's get the story, then we can decide how to spin it," he replied. "Okay?"
"Well," she began. "The short answer is, the reason I have lived so long is that evil never dies."
The corners of his mouth curved up into a grin. A smile born of amusement and confusion. Roland stood, looking into what, at that moment was to him, the sweetest old face he could ever remember seeing. After a moment of trying to understand what she meant, his eyes met hers, and his smile faded. Roland didn't know what he saw in her eyes, but he knew there was nothing there to smile at.
"Patricia, you are no more evil than I am. Or for that matter millions of others who have never seen eighty let alone 120," Roland said. He meant to appease her, but he may have been trying to convince himself.
"I agree that I am not evil, but I have an evil within me. The good in me, and let me be clear, I have a great deal of good inside here…" she said, tapping the fingers of her left hand over her heart, "is finally winning. That goodness has battled the evil within me for one hundred years. The good has about won that battle, and when the battle is over, I will join my family in God's house, if he will have me."
Roland paused before her, trying to make some sense of what the old woman was trying to say. He feared coming into this assignment that he would have to deal with some degree of dementia or senility. He just hoped it would be more subtle.
"Let's say for argument's sake that there is something evil inside you. How did it get there?" Something in her tone was telling Roland that this story would be worth more than the price of admission to the best stage show in Toronto.
"I think the best way to tell this story…" she said, patting his hand again, "is to get my journal. When I was a girl, I kept a journal, and although I haven't kept at it, I was quite relentless back then.
"Why don't you make yourself comfortable and I will fetch it." She left the room without waiting for a response from her guest. She moved slowly, but her stride, although agonizingly short, had an air of grace.
When the sound of her light steps faded in the distance, Roland walked over to
the mantel. Lined along its length, black and white and sepia toned old pictures told stories of days gone by. People in dark suits and long dresses stood in front of horse-drawn wagons and carriages. Not a single picture appeared to Roland to have been taken after the first decade of the twentieth century.
"I see you have found my family," Patricia said as she returned to the room. Holding a large, brown leather-bound book in front of her, she looked to the collection of photos over the fireplace.
"How long have you been, as you put it, the last one left?" Roland asked, motioning to the pictures.
"The last of my family passed one hundred years ago. It's all in here," she said, stroking the spine of the journal in her hand. "Shall we get comfortable, and get to work?"
He extended his arm toward the sofa as if to usher her to her seat. She grinned, gave a quick nod and made her way to the sofa.
"Roland, dear," she said. "Before you sit, I have set out a tray with iced tea and glasses in the kitchen. Would you help an old woman and bring it in?"
She pointed to the door across the room. The door, like all the doors Roland had seen since arriving, was solid raised panel oak. This one differed slightly from the rest in that it had no knob. A tarnished brass push plate was the only hint of which way that door swung. If it hung on hinges, Roland saw no evidence of them.
"Of course," he said, striding across the room.
He gave the old door a push, and it swung open in silence.
The room on the other side was like a galley kitchen of an ocean liner from a different era. A long narrow room, lined with counters and cupboards of brilliant white. Roland released the door, and it swung back into position, stuttered a bit, then settled.
On the counter next to the door sat a silver serving tray, adorned with a large crystal pitcher of iced tea, a dish of sliced lemons, a cup of sugar, two tall glasses and serviettes.
The neatness of it made Roland smile. He was developing affection for this woman he could not explain. Normally cautious with people until getting to know them, surrendering easily to an emotional attachment to a new acquaintance did not happen to Roland Millhouse. He had few friends, and none he could say he trusted completely, but he felt something for this old woman.