Evil Never Dies

by Mick Ridgewell

  "That is all I remember from that night," she said. She took a long drink from her glass then sat looking at a painting of a couple who could only be her parents. Roland was sure she was looking at her father, and remembering the night he saved her from a monster.

  Chapter 12

  Roland sensed that his host had tired, and he excused himself. He drove into Kings Shore where he sat in a small café and ate a sandwich he barely remembered while feverishly stroking the keys of his laptop. Patricia's story was so fantastic that he didn't think recording it would be of any use. He was kicking himself now. This would not work as a fluff, human-interest yarn after the business report or right before the weather. This was going to be Roland's best seller.

  After two hours of nonstop writing, Roland made his way to the library. It was a charming old two-story stone and brick building. He had no doubt that a young Miss Owens had been led through those doors by her mother a hundred plus years ago.

  The library didn't have Wi-Fi, but the librarian did set him up with a network connection so he could get on the web. Roland banged away on the keyboard, entering one failed Google search after another. He found nothing on the internet to validate Patricia's tale. He understood a hundred years ago record keeping may have been lacking in an out-of-the-way town like Kings Shore, but he expected to find some mention of the events Patricia described. Not even the sights dedicated to urban legends had anything.

  His next move was the basement. The librarian showed him to the microfiche room. He found nearly every small town and big city from Tobermory to Toronto had a paper at one time or another.

  He was surprised to find that even Kings Shore had a newspaper back then. The paper closed fifty years ago. To his delight, the archives were converted to microfiche and stored in the library along with many of the rags from neighboring towns.

  Roland spent the rest of the day, reading and searching for anything referring to Kings Shore, circa 1912. He was pleasantly surprised to find quite a lot. Nothing he found actually corroborated her story, but hints of it were there. Mysterious illnesses, sudden deaths, people attacked in the night.

  At 8:00 p.m., a blue-haired old lady in a floral print dress and orthopedic shoes came down to usher him out.

  "You've been down here so long we almost forgot you were here. If Lou Ann hadn't mentioned it, you might have gotten locked in," she said. "Did you find what you needed?"

  "I may be back," he said. "Do you know any other place where I might be able to find local news from a hundred years ago?"

  "Only one other place," she said. "George Stubing."

  "Who is he?"

  "He is a real historian. He studies for the pleasure of it. He lives about fifty miles south of town. Just follow the main road out of town for about a half hour. You'll see a roadside apple cider stand, turn right and drive until you see a long driveway lined with cedars. You can't miss it."

  George Stubing's driveway couldn't be missed. The cedars were trimmed so perfectly, the drive looked like a country road in the Tuscan valley.

  The entry to this house turned out to be false advertising at its best. With a grand entrance like this, one expected extravagant opulence, but the Stubing house was an ordinary middle-class ranch. The house had brick in the front and vinyl siding around the sides.

  Roland guided his car between the immaculate trees. They ended in a teardrop drive in front of the house. A Canadian flag fluttered atop a white metal pole in the middle of the teardrop. Red and white impatiens surrounded the flagpole for an added touch of patriotic pride.

  Roland was sure George was going to answer the door dressed in red and white, and singing "O Canada," or maybe the doorbell would play the anthem.

  George answered the door after the first ring. "Yes?" he said as he looked at Roland standing on his porch. Blue jeans and a white thread-bare t-shirt left Roland disappointed. His expectations were sorely missed when he took in George's attire.

  "My name is Roland Millhouse, with CTV," Roland said, extending his right hand and hoping his disappointment didn't show. "Are you George Stubing?"

  "Yes," George said, giving Roland's hand a brief shake.

  "The lady at the library in Kings Shore suggested you might be able to help me," Roland said.

  "Milly?" George asked.

  "Actually, she didn't tell me her name. Nice lady, maybe sixty-five, flowers all over her dress," Roland said.

  George smiled. "That's Milly, alright. What did Milly say I could help you with?"

  "George, Milly speaks to your knowledge of history in very high regard," Roland said, hoping a compliment might make George more apt to cooperate. "I have been interviewing Patricia Owens for a story with the network, and I am hoping to get some background information on life in the Kings Shore area in 1912."

  "What makes 1912 of interest to you?"

  "Miss Owens took me to the cemetery, and there was a lot of death in the spring of that year."

  George motioned Roland to the wicker chairs on the porch. The men sat, and George asked, "Did Patricia tell you about those graves?"

  "She did," Roland said. "At least she has started. She was getting tired during our morning chat, so I left her to rest. I am a reporter, George. No matter who the source, I try to get facts to back up any claim."

  "I can't fault you for that," George said.

  "It keeps the lawyers at the station happy," Roland said.

  "Of course I wasn't there like Patricia, and I haven't spoken with anyone who was. I have spoken to Patricia many times, but she has always been tightlipped about that time. I hope you will let me read her stories when you have them ready."

  "I would be honored," Roland said. "Is there anything you can tell me about that spring?"

  "I have heard tales of dark times," George said, his face drawing out to give him a distant look of sorrow. "The stories talk of demons, or monsters that stole women and children in the night. And, how just a few of these demons killed most of the men in town in a battle that was waged in a single night."

  "You don't have any documents or news clippings from that time?" Roland asked.

  "Sorry, son. I told you everything I can, aside from what I've read at the library. I'm sure you have exhausted your search there already, or you wouldn't be here."

  Roland stood, stretched out his legs, extended his hand and said, "I thank you for your time."

  "Don't mention it. If there is anything else I might be able to help you with, you know where I am."

  "Indeed I do," Roland said, slipping into his car. "You really have a beautiful place here, George."

  Before George could answer, Roland pulled the door closed and in seconds, was watching George disappear in his rearview mirror.

  Chapter 13

  "Good morning, young man," Patricia said when Roland got out of his car. "You look like a man on vacation. You should wear shorts more often; those are the whitest legs I have seen in some time."

  Roland flushed a bit, and they both chuckled as he climbed the steps to meet her.

  When he joined her in the shade of the veranda, concern filled his eyes. He looked down on her, seated in her favorite chair, like a queen on a throne. A very old-looking queen, he thought. Two days ago he couldn't believe this woman was over eighty; now he believed her all of her 120 years.

  "Good morning, how are you today, Patricia?"

  "Well, Roland, I am feeling a bit punk today. You know I haven't had an illness of any kind since the winter of 1911. I can't say I missed it."

  "If that's true, then you are way overdue," he said with a grin. He tried to make light of her possible illness, but Roland knew that any illness in a woman her age could be deadly. His cavalier words were meant to put her at ease. Stressing over her health would not help her recover.

  "I can't argue with that, Roland. I have to be honest though. This is most unpleasant."

  "Maybe we should take the day off…"

  "Roland," she interrupted. "I am too old to put things
off. I need to tell my story while I'm still able."

  "Okay, then," he said. "Tell me what happened the night your father returned."

  "Like I told you yesterday, I have no memory of that night past the point where I fainted. The next thing I remember is waking in bed two days later. It was a trying time for Mother. Mother and Daddy both thought I'd been infected with the sickness. She was sure I was going to die like the others. Daddy, not being here when the others passed, just worried that the traumatic events I had witnessed might harm me mentally."

  "I can't imagine a parent who wouldn't worry about that," Roland said.

  Patricia pulled the front of her sweater tight around her neck. The morning sun had chased the night chill from the air two hours ago. Roland sat in shorts and a t-shirt, with the first hint of sweat beading at his brow, and she was fighting off a chill.

  "Mother was sleeping in a chair next to my bed when I woke. I was so hungry," Patricia said through a chuckle. "I was very young, and I hadn't eaten in over two days. Of course, I didn't know how long it had been. I only knew that I was starving. So, I nudged Mother awake and asked her if breakfast was ready."

  Patricia laughed again, and Roland joined her.

  "Mother threw her arms around my neck and squeezed me so tight I thought I would faint dead away all over again. Then she ran from the room calling for Daddy. I thought she was being silly, so I got up, feeling better than I ever had, in spite of my hunger. Can you picture it? I hadn't had the slightest morsel, nor had I anything to drink, in over two days. I should have been wobbly legged and miserable."

  "I know I would be," Roland said.

  "Well, I put on my robe and went to the kitchen."

  "Was your mother in the kitchen?"

  "No, but Annie was. Annie was our maid. She hugged me tighter than Mother. She was very strong for a tiny thing. I thought I might break."

  "Was your maid always so friendly?" Roland asked with raised brows.

  "Annie was a dear woman," Patricia said. Her eyes looked out toward the road as if she were trying to see the lake through the trees. The sun shone bright, causing her to squint. She strained to see something in the far-off shadows of the garden shrubbery. "She was always nice to me from the time I was a girl. When I awoke, she was filled with joy for a child she loved like her own."

  "Did she know what happened to you? With Timmy Wilson, I mean."

  "No. She was told I had fallen ill. All, including Annie, were sure it was the same affliction that took the Wilsons.

  "Mrs. Wilson?" Roland asked. "The last you mentioned she was recovering at the McKinneys'."

  "While I was in bed, Mrs. Wilson succumbed to the illness. Dr. McKinney said she screamed out in the early evening of the night I was attacked. The night Daddy returned. Mrs. McKinney ran directly to her, but she was already gone. They told Daddy that she had a look of terror on her face. Her expression did not relax in death. The poor woman went to her grave with that expression."

  "Weren't you attacked in the early evening?" Roland asked.

  "Very good," she said, patting his hand with hers. "You may be catching on. It is believed that poor Mrs. Wilson succumbed the moment Daddy slew the monster that once was Timmy Wilson. No one could know for sure. Daddy didn't look at his watch the moment he took the life from Timmy. If it even was life. The McKinneys couldn't give an exact time of death for Mrs. Wilson either.

  All we know is they both happened just after sunset.

  "Before Annie could prepare a meal for me, Daddy came charging into the kitchen, followed by Mother. I ran to him and hugged him the way Annie had hugged me. I kissed him on his cheeks, over and over. I think some of it was gratitude for saving me, but most was just being happy to see him.

  "He instructed Annie to feed me, and told me to join him in his study when I had eaten and got myself dressed proper."

  Patricia's Journal—April 28, 1912

  I slept for 2 days.

  Daddy is home. He arrived just in time to save me from Timmy Wilson. The poor boy had become a monster. He was drinking the blood right from my neck.

  Dear God.

  Daddy beheaded the thing. That image will haunt me all my days.

  Daddy told me this morning that he burned the remains of Timmy Wilson. He said the thing's eyes continued to look around 10 minutes after he cut the head from the boy's body.

  May God watch over us all.

  "Can you imagine?" Patricia asked Roland. "The terror Daddy felt that night. First to get home just as a boy he knew had latched onto my throat and drew the very blood from my veins. Then to see that same child squeal and growl like a wild dog. To see that innocent-looking face peering around, trying to speak after being removed from its body must surely have been unimaginable."

  She wiped a tear from her cheek and reached for a tissue in the pocket of her sweater.

  "Shall I get us something to drink?" he asked.

  "I think maybe it's time to go inside anyway. If you don't mind, there is a tray on the counter in the kitchen. Bring it to the sitting room, would you?"

  "Of course," he said and stood. He held out a hand, and for the first time, Patricia accepted his help.

  Chapter 14

  Roland entered the sitting room to a familiar scene: Patricia seated on the couch with her journal placed on her lap. Her hands rested neatly on the book, folded like those of a schoolgirl awaiting her teacher's instructions. She didn't acknowledge his presence when he entered. She just stared out the window. Her gaze focused, yet nothing in her line of sight was remarkable in even the vaguest sense. Roland didn't think the beautiful weather held her attention. He doubted she was looking at anything, or seeing anything for that matter. If he had to guess, he would have said that whatever Patricia focused on could be seen only in her memories of 1912.

  Roland set the tray on the coffee table. Without asking, he poured her a glass of lemonade and then one for himself. The glass clunked slightly as he placed it on the side table next to her. That seemed to bring Patricia back to the present. She smiled up at him and he returned it with a grin he hoped did not show the concern he felt. After she sampled from the glass, Roland took his seat in the chair across from his host. He chugged down half his drink, grimaced with pleasure at the sweet-sour icy beverage.

  As if she were reacting to instructions from backstage, Patricia opened the journal and caressed the page with the usual brush of her hand.

  How wonderful and dreadful, he thought. To hold such emotion and longing for the memories, both good and bad, contained in the pages of her book.

  Patricia's Journal—Monday, June 10, 1912

  All has been quiet since Daddy returned. No one has spoke of Timmy, and we buried Mrs. Wilson. I am so saddened when I walk by the Wilson place. The whole family taken by the sickness.

  That's what they are calling it. The Sickness.

  Things are getting back to normal since no new sicknesses have occurred in almost 2 weeks.

  Maybe God is watching over us.

  Patricia's Journal—Tuesday, June 11, 1912

  As if to mock my words of yesterday, the bodies of three strangers were found in the woods near the mill. I heard the constable tell Daddy that they all looked like the boy when he was found.

  I assume he means Timmy.

  "That was the day things really turned ugly in Kings Shore," Patricia said. She was looking directly into Roland's eyes, as though she were trying to assess how he grasped her meaning.

  "The sickness was accelerating?" Roland asked.

  "There was no sickness, Roland. I think by now you have figured that out. That was just what we were calling it because we didn't know what else to call it."

  He nodded, and they both took a sip of lemonade. Roland took comfort from those sips. It was something he could feel and taste and smell. It was real, and if this was reality, he could convince himself that Patricia's tale was just the ramblings of an old woman. Deep down, he didn't believe that, but it helped to keep him in his se
at when what he really wanted was to run.

  "Those men had no identification. Nobody in town recognized any of them. These were strangers in the truest sense of the word. They are buried in unmarked graves in the woods where they were found. It seems unchristian to dig a hole and pitch the bodies of three men in. To cover them without so much as a prayer, but that's what was done. Not even a pine box. They just tossed all three in one hole and filled it in. Some justified it by saying the illness was brought here by them, and bringing their remains into town might just infect more people."

  "They were scared," Roland said. "You can't blame them for trying to take care of their own."

  "You have a keen ear, Roland. That is exactly what they were. They wanted to believe it was those men, what brought this plague on us. That way they could convince themselves that with them being buried out in the woods, all our problems were buried with them."

  "But things got worse. Didn't they?"

  Patricia nodded, and she began to stroke the journal. The swish of her delicate hands on the paper made the hair stand up on Roland's arms and neck.

  Swish, swish, swish. Her delicate fingers slid over the paper almost as though she were trying to banish the evil from the pages.

  Patricia's Journal—Wednesday, June 12, 1912

  The church bell rang just before 10:00. Daddy rushed into town with Bill, the stableman. I wish he'd stayed home. I know it is more of the sickness. I just know.

  I sat in the parlor with Mother, waiting.

  Not knowing is torture. If only we could leave this hell.

  "It was the men from the woods wasn't it?" Roland asked.

  "When Daddy got to the church, most of the men from town were there. A few arrived just after. The strangers they buried in the woods walked into town. Four of the men Daddy met in town that day were present when those three men were buried. All four were at the church. And do you know what, Roland?"