Evil Never Dies

by Mick Ridgewell

  Deciding to move the goats first, Curtis dragged one after the other to the fire. He gagged the first time he looked at the blackened burning thing that was once Maureen. The black smoke filled the air with a smell that could make even the strongest man retch.

  While dragging the third goat from the barn, something buried beneath the straw caught his eye. The sole of a boot protruded from the pile. It was Christopher's boot, and Christopher's foot was still in it.

  Infuriated, Curtis dragged his son from the straw pile. When he got the boy out into the open, the thing hissed, jerked his leg free from Curtis' grasp, and burrowed under the straw again.

  Curtis tossed a lit match into the straw and fled the barn just in time to hear the screech and several voices. Whether it was his imagination or reality, he didn't know, but he swore he heard Christopher's voice in one of those screams.

  Chapter 35

  When Roland woke, the afghan he had used to cover Patricia now covered him, at least from his shoulders to his waist. He pushed himself to a seated position, struggling to remember where he was and how he got there.

  Standing, Roland stretched and twisted, trying in vain to loosen the kinks that a night on a couch half the length of his body had inflicted.

  That was when it struck him. Where he was and why he was there. Patricia over-exerted herself, curled up on the couch and went to sleep. Afraid her health was worse than she let on, he had curled up on the couch across from her. With more than a bit of anxiety, he looked at the couch where he last saw Patricia. It was empty. The white pillow, dented in the middle where the old woman's head had rested, gave the only clue that there had been anybody there.

  "Patricia," Roland called toward the kitchen. She didn't answer, and he called again, only much louder.

  "I'm not deaf," she answered from behind him.

  He spun to see her sitting on a chair in the darkest corner of the room.

  The light, however poor, was enough for Roland to see that she did look much improved over the previous evening. Her wispy white hair had been teased into a tidy set. She dressed in what Roland had come to consider Patricia's style. Dark slacks, a white blouse and some kind of shawl or throw around her shoulders.

  "You were sweet to stay with me last night, Roland, but my furniture was sure not meant for a man as tall as you. You truly must feel dreadful."

  "I'm not going to lie, I have felt better, Patricia," he answered through a mild chuckle. "How are you feeling?"

  "Right as rain," she said. "I've prepared a light breakfast, if you wish. It isn't much, just pastries and fruit. Why don't you freshen up a bit, then meet me in the kitchen."

  By the time Roland entered the kitchen, Patricia was sitting at the table with a steaming cup of tea in front of her.

  "You've been here enough to know where everything is. Help yourself," she said.

  He grabbed a Danish from the tray, gobbling it down with voracious verve.

  When he finished, he poured himself a glass of OJ, chugged it down, ate another Danish with a bit more restraint and refilled his glass.

  "Sleeping on a tiny couch must be good for the appetite," she said.

  Roland raised his glass in her direction, sipped some juice and asked, "What's on the agenda for today?"

  "Well, it is a beautiful morning. I thought we might have a sit on the porch."

  "I'm in," he said, grabbing a third Danish.

  Patricia walked out to the porch after breakfast. Roland insisted she sit and rest while he cleaned up. It didn't take any time at all for him to wash the few plates and glasses. He continued to nibble on strawberries and grapes while he worked.

  When he finished, he picked up the serving tray that Patricia had left; on it were a pot of tea, cups, lemon wedges and a flask of honey.

  As with previous days, when Roland found his host on the porch, she sat emotionless, looking out over the land, her journal on her lap and her hands resting on it, neatly folded as though in prayer. He placed the tray on the table, filled two teacups, then took his place in the empty seat.

  Roland didn't speak. He looked out over the same expanse, wondering what Patricia Owens saw when she went to the place she was now. Did she see what he saw, or was she looking out, not at a place, but at a time?

  Roland had finished his first cup of tea and was pouring another when Patricia broke the silence.

  "I think we will get a storm today."

  Roland looked up at a sky as clear and blue as any he had ever seen. "You really think so?"

  "Couldn't say for sure, but we should take a walk before lunch. The afternoon will be a good time to sit inside and chat."

  Still looking up at the blue expanse, Roland said, "Whenever you're ready, Patricia."

  Patricia's Journal—Sunday, June 30, 1912

  I have only Auntie. The rest of my family has been taken by those things. I pray this nightmare ends soon before anyone else has to suffer.

  I am an orphan now. God watch over me.

  "I rode out to the house that day," Patricia said, placing the ribbon in the pages and closing the book.

  "Your mother didn't return?" he asked.

  "She did," Patricia said. "I rode my horse to the house that morning. Aunt Maggie didn't want me to, but I told her that the bad things only happened at night.

  "She told me to at least find someone to ride out there with. I stopped at the Petersons. My best friend, Carol, agreed to go with me. Carol's husband had gone to the mill at dawn and wasn't expected back until dusk, so she was happy to have some company.

  "Carol never looked quite right up on a horse. She was barely taller than a fireplug, and to tell the truth, she was built like one. It's funny when I think about it now. She was quite a plain-looking thing, but her smile could light up a room. Carol took command of the room whenever she entered. She was a storyteller, and we all sat rapt when she began a tale.

  "Suffice to say, the ride out to the house had flown by. Carol told one story after another, and before we knew it, we were standing in front of this house."

  Patricia's gaze drifted back out over the landscape. Roland sipped his tea, then set the empty cup on the table between them.

  "Not all the bad things happened at night did they?" Roland said.

  "We tied the horses to the railing right in front of where you sit. I didn't notice the door until I climbed the steps. The door was closed, but not all the way. We probably should have turned right around as soon as we saw that and rode back to town. We should have sent a posse of men to search the house, but like Daddy, I feared nothing."

  "I have no doubt about that," Roland said.

  "I placed my hand in the middle of that door and pushed it open. The door has seen a century of weather and settling since, but back then it swung quiet and true. Sunlight flooded into the house like an unwelcome guest. I only took two steps inside and stopped, Carol bumping into me. We could feel warmth cozy against our backs from that sunlight. But the front…" She paused, rubbing her arms like she had just taken a chill from a cool damp breeze.

  "I felt a chill in the house. I remember wrapping my arms around myself to shield my body from the cold, and I looked to Carol, who was doing likewise. It was dark in the house. All the drapes and curtains were pulled tight. I know I didn't close the place up like that."

  Patricia's voice had dropped to a mere whisper. If Roland weren't sitting so close, he'd not have been able to hear her.

  "Roland, it was a terrible feeling. I was home, and I was so uncomfortable. I felt like an intruder in my own house. There was no sense of belonging, only cold emptiness. Can you imagine how that was for me? To feel unwelcome here of all places."

  Patricia stopped and looked over to her companion as she pulled her throw tight around her shoulders.

  "I can't," Roland said. "It must have been terrible, frightening even."

  "I shouted out, 'Is anybody here?' No one answered of course. I wanted to run back to my horse. I wanted to go back to town. I didn't thoug
h. I remembered how brave Daddy had been, and I would not be weak. I didn't want Carol to see me turn tail and run either."

  Patricia wrapped her arms around herself just as she had done so long ago, as though the mere thought of that day had chilled her.

  "We began to search the house. There was no knowing how long that door had been ajar. Any manner of animal could have moved in. I didn't think they would. If animals could sense what I felt, they would have been smart and run in the other direction, just like I wanted to do.

  "It took no time at all to check all the rooms on the ground floor. We were young and quite fleet of foot." She said that with a wry smile on her lips.

  "The sense of foreboding grew as we ascended the stairs to search the bedrooms. With each riser, the temperature dropped. We had no air conditioner, I still don't use one. This old house can get a fair bit warm up there, but cold is what we felt."

  Roland watched as she pulled her wrap even tighter around her shoulders. He dabbed the sweat from his brow while Patricia fought off a chill that took hold of her a century ago and held tight to her weary old frame. He swore he saw her shiver just before she adjusted her shawl.

  "I went to my room first," she said. "I walked straight for my closet and put on a sweater. I tossed another to Carol. She looked like a child trying on her mother's clothes. I was always much taller than she, so my sweater hung past her hands. I slid the drapes open wide and stood in the warmth of the sun. The warm rays and the brightness gave me strength and courage."

  "I think it just helped you summon what was already there, Patricia," Roland said.

  "You're sweet," she replied. "Well, I walked across the hall, Carol right on my heels, and pushed the door to Daddy and Mother's room open. I have never felt such joy, only to be crushed with the weight of a lifetime of dread, all in a heartbeat."

  Roland sat silently while Patricia dabbed a tear welling from the corner of her eye.

  "Mother lay on her bed, and Daddy lay beside her. They both lay flat on their backs. Like a pair of corpses. I think Mother hissed when the light from my open window fanned out across the floor to the foot of the bed. I called to them, but they made no other sound. I was certain at that moment that somebody had found them and brought them here to be laid out for a funeral. I thought, while I was riding out of town to get here, whoever had put Mother and Daddy here must have been on his way to fetch me."

  "Would you like to take a break? Maybe a walk to the bench?" Roland asked. He could see the toll this part of the story was taking on her. Tears glistened in her eyes. Her hands quivered in her lap.

  "You're a dear for asking," she said. She sipped her tea, placed the cup on the tray. "Help an old woman to her feet, Roland."

  Roland stood and extended his hands to her. She gripped them and heaved herself up. Her grip was still strong, but Roland felt a fragility beneath that grip.

  "When neither of them answered, I whispered, 'Mother? Daddy? Are you awake?' Of course, by then I knew they were not. But, it was easier to hope.

  "I could feel Carol place her hand on my shoulder. I think she whispered something to me, but I can't recall what.

  "Everything slowed as I made my way from the door to their bedside. I forgot about the chill. Maybe it was the sweater. I think it was sheer terror. I put my hand on Mother's shoulder to shake her awake.

  "So cold." Patricia's voice had trailed to a whisper. She tugged at her wrap, pulling it ever tighter around her shoulders.

  "I recoiled at the cold. Like one does when a static shock gets you. You know what I mean?"

  He nodded but said nothing. Roland knew she was powering through the grief. Patricia needed to tell this story, and he didn't want to deter her.

  "I began to shiver like I was trapped outside in an autumn rain without a coat. I needed to feel warmth, so I rushed to the window and pulled those curtains open."

  Patricia's hand sprung up to her ears as if a deafening screech were piercing her brain.

  "Oh, Roland, their screams. First Daddy, as he was on the window side of the bed. Mother didn't like to be close to the window, she said it was too drafty.

  "Mother's screams came right after Daddy's. It was the sun. I looked at them, lying side by side, their hands folded neatly over their waists, not making any effort to shield themselves from what must have been agony. They just screamed."

  Patricia seemed to notice then that she was covering her own ears, and she lowered her hands. Her strides were slow and labored. They had only progressed as far as the road. She clung to Roland's arm, and they turned right and walked toward the cemetery.

  A blue Chevy Avalanche passed by. The driver slowed a bit, waved, then continued on. Patricia gave a half wave with her free hand and placed it over the one on Roland's arm.

  "I'm not sure that bench is close enough for me today," she said.

  "I'm sure you'll be fine," Roland said. Just then they passed the point in the road where it curved to the left, and a shiny new bench gleamed in the morning sun.

  "How did that get there?" Patricia asked. He thought she was asking herself, more than him.

  "Well, I made a few calls. Told some people how it might be nice to have a new bench along here for a certain elderly citizen. Do you know how many of your neighbors wanted to help? There are ten new benches along this road." It was Roland's turn to dab a tear as he saw the humble look of appreciation on Patricia's face.

  They sat on the new bench. Patricia wasn't out of breath, but with a huge exhalation, it was obvious she was happy to be seated.

  "It's nice," she said.

  Roland sat quietly next to her. He was dying for her to continue but knew better than to prod her for this part of the tale.

  "I left my journal at the house," she said after a few minutes. "Where did I leave off, young man?"

  "The curtains," he answered. "You opened the curtains to your parents' room, and…"

  "The screams," she said. "I was completely frozen with fear. Like a school girl, I cowered from the horror. I looked to Carol who was doing the same as me. Her hands covered her ears trying to block the noise. I was sure if the screams didn't stop soon our ears would begin to bleed or we would go completely deaf.

  "That was when we met the man who would help Kings Shore end the nightmare decimating it."

  "What man?" Roland asked.

  "His name was Bernhard Werner. He was a scrawny little man with a blade of a nose, round gold-rimmed glasses, and a terrible scar that ran from the corner of his left eye, all the way to the corner of his square jaw. He had the palest white skin and wispy straw-colored hair.

  "Well, he stormed into that room, yanked those curtains closed, and said, 'Girl, just because they are no longer living, does not mean you should torture them.'

  "As soon as the curtains were closed, the screaming stopped. It took Bernhard a while to get us settled enough to understand that he was there to help. We were so scared."

  Chapter 36

  Roland and Patricia agreed to find the rest of the benches another day and made their way back to the house. While she rested on the couch, Roland fixed them a snack of cheese and crackers and lemonade.

  "Lunch is served," he said, placing the tray on the coffee table. "I am afraid the presentation is not as appealing as your work."

  "It is perfect," she interrupted.

  "Well, I aim to please," he said with a bow. Roland looked to the window. "It is a beautiful day, would it be alright if I opened the drapes?"

  She gave a nod, and with a motion that was almost ceremonious, Roland pulled the old drapes aside. The rings protested as they grated on the worn wooden curtain rod, filling the room with annoying sound. Almost as brilliant and sudden as a camera flash, sunlight flooded the room causing both occupants to squint and momentarily turn away.

  After their eyes had time to adjust to the brightness, Patricia said, "Do sit," motioning him to the seat across from hers. He did, without another word.

  "You said, as soon as those wi
ndows were covered, the screaming stopped," Roland began after a few moments of quiet.

  Patricia looked from the window back to Roland. She closed her eyes for a moment, like she might be trying to puzzle out a math problem in her head, then smiled.

  "'Are you the Owens girl?' Bernhard asked me."

  Just then a rumble of thunder rolled from far off.

  "It sounds like you might have been right about the storm," Roland said.

  Patricia shrugged, looked to the window, then back to Roland.

  "I assured him I was the Owens girl, and he began to berate us for cruelty. I didn't get an opportunity to explain myself until the little man was out of breath from his endless tirade.

  "I stood before him, mad as hell, and scared out of my mind. Grief was crushing me like a pebble beneath a boulder. The last thing I needed was to be scolded like a child. I explained myself to that man at a volume I have not used before or since."

  "I just bet you did," Roland said. He couldn't stop the grin that blossomed on his face. He imagined a twenty-year-old Patricia Owens going postal on Herr Werner and the smile turned into a chuckle.

  "He let me have my say, then told me we had to get to work. Can you picture the gall, strolling into my house, uninvited, and telling me I have work to do?

  "I stood right in front of him and demanded some answers. Who are you? What are you doing here? Where did you come from? How did you get in?"

  "Your father was right," Bernhard said.

  "You know Daddy?" I asked. I was quiet then. When he mentioned Daddy, I calmed down.

  "I knew him, yes," he replied. He looked to the bed then back to me.

  "It was your father who summoned me here. He sent word the day he returned home. He told me of the boy who very nearly ended your life."

  "His gaze traveled to my throat. He wanted to be sure there were no fresh wounds from…" She paused.