Seaforth Prison (The Haunted Book 3)

by Patrick Logan

  He’ll come. He can’t stay away any longer.

  Leland stroked the girl’s dark hair.

  And when he comes to Seaforth, you know what you have to do?

  If he’d had his physical form, Carson Ford would have nodded. But in this place, in this capacity, he only had his mind.

  Yes. I know what to do with both him and the man of the cloth.

  Leland pushed the brim of his hat, revealing his chin and a thin, lipless smile. Inside, were hundreds of small, pointed teeth.

  Good. Don’t let me down like the others, Carson. Don’t let me down.

  Part II – The Warden and his Cross

  Chapter 15

  “There have been many notorious murders and psychopaths in our time,” Sean said as he, Rob, and Shelly sat in the Harlop living room. “Bundy, Berkowitz, Manson. But Carson Ford was—is—probably one of the worst…you may have heard of him?”

  Robert shook his head, and glanced over his shoulder at Shelly, who did the same.

  Sean grimaced.

  “Really? Just completely numb to violence? These days, terrorists are the only evil that get TV time, I guess. Anyways, Carson was arrested three years ago and convicted of murdering three people, two of whom were his parents. Those crimes were committed a decade ago. There are rumors that he and a partner, Buddy Wilson, killed more than thirty people over a ten-year period.”

  Robert swallowed hard.

  “What about these two men? Why did I have a…uh…a dream about Carson?”

  Sean tugged at his tie, loosening it even further.

  “Buddy’s dead—executed by the state of Texas after being convicted of murdering two teenage girls. Expedited the process…no one wanted that man alive. They tried to get Carson for the same crimes, but he fought extradition. Now he’s holed up at Seaforth Prison, which—”

  “Seaforth Prison?” Shelly interjected. “Never heard of it.”

  “Not surprised that you haven’t heard about that, either. It’s an island prison located off the coast of New Jersey. Houses some local heroes, let me tell you. The place was set up nearly fifty years ago, but has only been occupied for less than half of that time. With the overpopulation of prisons by mostly non-violent drug offenders, the governor got sick and tired of a father of three who was incarcerated for selling a dime bag of marijuana being gutted in the showers by a mass murderer. So he moved the most dangerous offenders to Seaforth.”

  Robert nodded, remembering the briny smell that he had picked up along with the body sweat from the naked man sitting on the floor.

  “Which is where Carson is.”

  Sean nodded.

  “Carson is the worst of the worst.”

  Shelly exhaled loudly.

  “Okay, fuck. What the shit does this have to do with us?”

  Sean hooked a chin at Robert.

  “You want to tell her? Or should I?”

  “Tell her what? I don’t know—”

  “A couple of nights ago, I got word from an insider at the prison. Carson murdered one of the guards, somehow lured him into his cell and tore his eyes right out of his head with his bare hands.”

  “Jesus,” Shelly whispered. She shook her head. “Fucked up, but I still don’t understand what this has to do with us? Is the man he murdered still wandering the halls?”

  Sean shrugged.

  “Maybe, but that’s not the reason why I’m here.”

  He paused and Shelly turned to Robert.

  “Then why are you here?”

  Robert cleared his throat, but the words still came out tight, constricted.

  “The Goat.”

  Shelly was incredulous.

  “The what?”

  Robert turned to face his lover, his skin ashen. He didn’t have to say anything; instead, he just slowly raised his right pant leg, revealing the missing muscle and the three claw marks that marked his skin.

  Shelly turned equally as pale.

  “What about him?” she asked softly.

  Sean finished his scotch and stood.

  “Carson has somehow been in contact with Leland.” He turned to Robert. “He’s been talking to your father, and he’s planning on bringing the Marrow to us.”

  Robert shook his head.

  “He’s not my father…my father’s name was Alex Watts, not Leland Black. I remember him, as I do my mother.”

  Sean stood and moved across to Robert, who remained seated.

  “You need to remember, Robert. We need you to remember.”

  And then he reached out and placed both hands on Robert’s forehead before he could pull back.

  Shelly shouted something, but the words were drawn out like cries underwater.

  And then Robert Watts’s world went black.

  Chapter 16

  “Turn them back on!” the warden shouted as he fumbled with the flashlight attached to his belt.

  “I…I can’t,” Peter yelled. He clacked away at his keyboard, but the monitors, and the entire room, remained pitch black.

  “Fuck!”

  Ben finally managed to yank the flashlight from his belt and he switched it on. The room was suddenly blindingly bright, and Ben lowered the beam for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. Still, even in the short amount of time that it was aimed at Peter, he noted that the man’s face had become even paler—if that was even possible—and he was busy typing away at the keyboard with both hands.

  And yet nothing happened.

  “Peter? What the fuck—”

  But a sound at the door interrupted him. Ben whipped around, leading with the flashlight. It was what he didn’t see that made his heart sink.

  Smitts’s back was no longer blocking the window.

  “Smitts!” Ben yelled. “Smitts!”

  There was another cry from outside the door, only this time it was deeper, more guttural.

  Ben swallowed hard, and he turned back to Peter.

  “Peter what the fuck are you doing? Turn the goddamn lights back on!”

  “I’m fucking trying!” the man shouted back, sweat dripping from his forehead.

  There was another scream and a thump from somewhere in the stairwell.

  “What was that?” Peter asked, his voice wavering.

  Ben reached out and laid a heavy hand on Peter’s shoulder.

  “Peter, turn the—”

  The lights suddenly flickered back on, and Ben looked upward, his grip on Peter’s narrow shoulder lightening.

  “Fucking hell.”

  Peter leaned back in his chair, a strange expression on his face.

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  Ben lowered his gaze.

  “What do you mean?”

  The man shrugged.

  “There was no power, I couldn’t—”

  A wet smacking sound at the door cut Peter off, and both men turned toward the noise. Ben felt the breath forced from his lungs.

  A hand was splayed across the glass—a big hand, one that left a trail of blood as it slowly drifted down the pane.

  Ben immediately rushed to the door.

  “Check the cameras, Peter! Make sure the cameras are back on and that the cells are still locked!” Ben hollered. He flashed his keycard and yanked the handle.

  He almost smashed his head into it when it failed to open.

  “What the fuck?”

  As he swiped his keycard again, he turned his attention to the glass, looking downward. He could see Smitts lying on the ground, clutching his chest. His face was pale, his eyes closed.

  Blood had started to pool beneath his body.

  “Smitts!” Ben shouted, heaving on the door handle again. “Smitts, what the fuck happened? Goddammit, Peter, what the fuck is wrong with door? Peter!”

  “I’m trying! I don’t know what happened…the power must have reset the key codes. Lemme…”

  “Fuck!” Ben swore, swiping his card like a madman over the reader again and again. The result was always the same: nothing happened; the lock d
idn’t disengage.

  Ben stood there helplessly, slamming his palms against the glass, while Smitts lay dying on the ground less than a foot away.

  What the fuck happened to him?

  “Smitts,” he said, trying to remain calm while Peter fixed the doors. The man’s eyes fluttered. Ben wasn’t sure if he could hear him, but now that the rest of the prison had quieted down, he thought it was worth a try. His hand instinctively went to the cross as he spoke.

  What the fuck was Callahan doing back here? What in God’s name is happening at Seaforth?

  “Smitts, tell me what happened. Who did this to you?”

  To his surprise, Smitts pulled one of the arms that was wrapped around his stomach away and held an outstretched finger down the staircase.

  Ben moved as far as he could to one side, pressing his face against the cool glass as he peered down the stairs.

  And then he saw it—or, more specifically, he saw him.

  Carson’s face was staring up at him, a smile on his lips. Ben stumbled backward, and when he regained control and rushed back to the glass, Carson was gone.

  “I think—I think I almost—”

  Ben backpedaled until he bumped into the back of Peter’s chair. The man was jostled, and his fist came down hard on the keyboard.

  “What?” he demanded as he turned in his chair. “What is it, Chief?”

  Ben pointed toward the door, not terribly unlike how Smitts had pointed down the stairs just moments ago.

  “It’s Carson,” he mumbled. “Carson’s out. Peter, lock down the prison. Shut Seaforth off from the rest of the world.”

  Chapter 17

  The massive door to the church swung open, and the boy stared up at the priest in the long, flowing robes who gazed out into the hot summer air. Almost immediately, he could see sweat begin to form on the man’s brow, and he gently brushed it away with the back of his hand.

  “Yes?” he asked firmly.

  The man that was holding the boy’s hand, a man with blond hair and a square jaw that matched the shape of his head, took a drag from his cigarette before answering.

  “Father Callahan?”

  “Yes,” the priest said again.

  “I’ve heard about you.”

  Father Callahan took a deep breath before answering. A flicker of movement at eye level drew the boy’s attention. There was a girl about his age standing behind the priest. She was looking at him, a severe expression on her smooth face.

  Hi, the boy mouthed.

  The girl didn’t acknowledge him.

  The priest must have noticed his interest, as he turned his head around.

  “Get back downstairs, Kendra,” he said gently. Then they waited in silence until her soft footsteps receded out of earshot.

  “Officer, I think you should know that—”

  The blond man shook his head, and then reached up to adjust the tie that hung around his neck.

  “Not an officer.”

  Father Callahan squinted at the man, then lowered his gaze to look at the boy. The boy stared back.

  The man had kind eyes framed by heavy wrinkles, a slightly over-sized nose, and salt-and-pepper hair that seemed to be running away from his forehead.

  Is this the man I will be living with now? the boy thought, keeping his gaze locked. The blond man had told him to behave, to make sure that he made eye contact, didn’t whine, didn’t complain.

  No matter how it went.

  “I usually only take girls,” the priest said, and the boy’s heart sank.

  “So I hear,” the man replied, the same stern expression on his face. “But this is different—these boys are very special.”

  Father Callahan looked from the man’s right hand, to his left.

  “Special?” he said, his eyes locking on the second boy.

  The boy resisted the urge to look over at his brother.

  “Special.”

  The priest’s substantial brow furrowed.

  “How are they special?” he asked.

  The blond man let go of the boy’s hand and reached into the bag that was slung over his shoulder. He pulled out a plain brown book and held it out to the priest.

  “Read this, and you will know.”

  The priest didn’t take it right away. Instead, he eyed the book suspiciously.

  “I have to say, this is the strangest visit I’ve had in a while.”

  The blond man’s face remained expressionless.

  “Can you take them?”

  The priest chewed his lip, then his eyes darted from the young boy in the man’s right hand, to his left.

  “I can take one, but not both,” he said. “The other one has to go somewhere else.”

  The blond man’s face finally changed. His lips twisted into a frown, but Father Callahan stood his ground and shook his head defiantly.

  Even at nine years old, the boy knew that this priest wanted to take him and his brother in, but he just couldn’t do it.

  “One of them,” the priest reiterated, even though it pained him to say the words out loud.

  The blond man’s response was immediate. He pushed his right hand forward, guiding the boy into the threshold of the church. Then he handed him the book.

  “Robert, go with Father Callahan. He will find a home for you.”

  The boy, eyes still downcast, didn’t even look at his brother as he obliged.

  Robert’s eyes snapped open, and like when he had had the dream of the man in the cell, the one who was naked, sitting cross-legged, he felt disoriented and confused.

  Blinking rapidly served not only to clear his vision, but to also clear the frostiness that gripped his brain.

  Less than a year ago, I was an accountant with a daughter and wife…and now—now this. Dreams, visions, demons that threaten to enter our world.

  “I have a brother?” he asked softly, tears streaking down his cheeks. “A twin brother?”

  Sean Sommers’ lack of emotional response struck Robert as not only insensitive, but it touched a nerve with him.

  A nerve that ran deep, and brought with it an unexpected fury.

  Robert started to stand, but then lost his balance and fell back to the couch again.

  “Why didn’t you fucking tell me?”

  Shelly reached over and put an arm on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

  “Why didn’t you fucking tell me?”

  Sean pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head.

  “I told you before, Robert, I’m not here to answer all of your questions, as important as they may seem.”

  This time, Robert bolted upright, making sure to firmly root his feet on the ground.

  “Seem? Seem? You think that the fact that I…I…I have a twin, that you—that somehow you—dropped me off at a church, turned my fucking world upside down, that I’m—what? Overreacting somehow? Like this shit isn’t important?”

  Robert reached for the man, but Shelly came between them before he could throttle the smug bastard.

  “Like you have no responsibility in this? In any of this?” he shouted over her blonde head.

  Sean stood then, drink still in hand.

  “Oh, I have a role to play,” he said softly, eyes downcast. “But that time has yet to come. For now, we have other things to deal with.”

  “Yeah? Like fucking what? Like Ruth Harlop? George Mansfield? Doctor Andrew Fucking Shaw?”

  Sean shook his head.

  “Like Carson Ford. And time is running out. We need to act now, or none of your questions will matter at all. If the rift opens, this—” He raised his hands, signifying the massive room in the Harlop Estate, but somehow also indicating something more. “—none of this will matter at all.”

  Chapter 18

  “Can you reset the doors? Let me out of here? Smitts is fucking dying out there!”

  Peter, his face as pale as a sheet, nodded slowly.

  “I can try to reset the entire system, but it means that everything will be off
line for at least five minutes, maybe more.”

  Ben frowned.

  “Well, fucking do it, then. I can’t do anything from in here. And bring up the camera feed.” He pointed at the large monitor, and then the one to the left of it. “I want Carson’s room on here, and put wherever Callahan is on this other one.”

  Peter punched away at the keys, and as Ben requested, Carson’s cell was displayed on the center screen.

  “What the fuck?”

  The warden wiped his eyes, trying to understand what he was seeing.

  “The door—show the hallway of Cell Block E.”

  Peter clacked again, and the hallway appeared on a smaller screen. The door was still closed, and as far as Ben could tell, locked as well.

  “The fuck is going on here?” he whispered.

  Carson was still sitting cross-legged in his room.

  “I could have—I know I saw him in the stairwell.”

  Peter shook his head.

  “Door’s locked, Chief. Maybe—”

  “Restart the system,” Ben said firmly. “Do it now.”

  Peter immediately turned back to his computer screen. A second later, everything went dark again. Only this time, the lights in the room stayed on.

  Ben waited, his heart racing.

  Was it like Quinn? Is my mind playing tricks on me again? Am I losing my fucking grip?

  And then there was Smitts…Smitts fucking bleeding to death just outside the door.

  If it wasn’t Carson, then who did that to him?

  And then there was Father Callahan.

  How did he get back here? Why did he come back?

  “Fuck,” he muttered through gritted teeth, “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” If he had had hair atop his bald head, he would have pulled it all out in that moment.

  Peter swiveled around.

  “You okay?”

  Ben waved the man away, then quickly crossed the room to the door and stared down at his long-time friend and one of his most trusted guards. The man had since curled into the fetal position, the blood continuing to leak out from between his hands that were still clutching his stomach. His eyes were fluttering, which Ben took as a good sign.