“Now and at the hour of our death…”
Balin chuckled, “Yes, this is the hour of your death.” The beast moved ever closer, its claw-like fingers, curling back and forth, just itching to sink them deep into muscle and sinew. Its deep menacing growl shook the two; Joey suddenly reached into his shirt and yanked out a gold crucifix that hung around his neck (He momentarily struggled to separate it from his Sicilian gold horn, the Italian hand gesture and of course, his St Anthony’s medal) and pointed it at the fiend, “Back!…Back I say!”
Balin was thoroughly amused, as he clapped his hands, “My Oh-my, you two are so much fun.” The evil dwarf reached to touch Joey’s cheek in jest, but Joey cowered back in fear. Balin chuckled, “How foolish of you my dear Joseph, a crucifix? You see, this here is not a vampire, and you my friends,” his voice deepened and darkened, “are about to find out that this is certainly no movie.” Joey juggled his gold chain as he struggled to put it back in his shirt. He stood straight, puffed out his chest, “Listen, pal, whatever you think we ain’t…we are!” Bobby looked at his brother in wonderment, “What?’
The horror before them then got the better of the two; Bobby bolted with Joey in tow; there was a narrow staircase in the corner next to the casket-lift. Fright provides ungodly-like strength at times of terror. Bobby grabbed the doorknob with such force, the ancient lock crumbled in his hand and the door creaked open. This was a secret entryway that had been sealed for a century. The two slammed the door behind them and bolted up the narrow staircase. These hidden steps led directly up to the sealed attic. Without slowing his pace, when faced with another locked door before him, Bobby kicked it open with one fell swoop. They were now in the attic. The spicy, raisin-eyed duo had barely escaped from being eaten. Their fear, hot and robust caused a coppery taste in their mouths. Bobby tried to swallow away the lump in his throat but could not succeed. The brothers frantically searched for something to bar the way. The attic was barren, save for a large wooden cheval standing mirror. It was covered by an enormous linen cloth.
“Forget the mirror, Joey come here and help me hold the door closed.” The two leaned their shoulders against the door, their ears pressed, straining to hear what was coming.
“At the hour of our death, Amen…”
After a half an hour of eerie silence, Bobby was sure that the fiend wasn’t going to confront them up in the recesses of this attic.
“They’re probably waiting for us to come down. Huh! Fat chance of that.”
The two focused their attention on the ancient mirror. It had been left behind in the center of the attic for a century, and when they uncovered it, they were shocked to find it painted over. Over the years the paint had dried and cracked, for the most part, most of the paint had fallen off. “Bobby, why in the hell would someone paint over a mirror?”
“Beats me?” Bobby began to scrape what paint was left with his fingernail. Surprisingly the paint-like substance came off very easily. Beneath the brothers found a common mirror; Joey grew concerned, “Things are too quiet down there; let’s find a way out of here without going through that dungeon of horror again.”
“You said it.” The pair found another doorway, Joey inquired, “Where do you suppose this is going to leave us?”
“Joey, only one way to find out.” He reared his foot back and swung it with all his might. The result was a thud, leaving Bobby’s leg in excruciating pain. “Bobby, leave it to me.” Joey leaned his body forward and charged it, slamming head first into it and falling down, his mouth agape and dredging up a mouthful of dust. The door was still intact, and now their efforts had signaled to Balin and his creature that the brothers were up to something, “Joey, getup, they’re coming up the stairs.” Bobby panicked. At the far end of the attic was a window, barely large enough for the two to shimmy through. Bobby found it unlocked, he forced it as wide as it would go, and ventured out first. It left him out on a small turret atop the third-floor roof that had a decorative iron railing surrounding it. Joey’s head popped out and he frantically wiggled his way out onto the turret. The two now stood atop the mansion, it was much too far to jump. Without any thought, Joey stepped over the railing, held on with one hand, and attempted to slide down to a second story landing. Bobby followed suit, but instead of landing safely, the two slid sideways off the roof, landingonto a large, dead bush with two ensuing thuds. They lie on their backs, stunned and in agony. Joey struggled to sit up; his crucifix was dangling outside his shirt, “I don’t care what you say, I’m never doing that again.” With those words, he felt momentarily dizzy, and then fainted away from the fright of it all…
CHAPTER 13
REBECCA HIBLER
Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven.”
Matthew 19:14
She woke early and before her mother could tell her to put her clothes into the wash, she ran out to the new swing set that her father had built in the backyard. She gingerly sat on the seat that was coated with tiny icy droplets. She was so excited; she took little notice. She mightily gripped the chains in anticipation. They were freezing cold; she could never quite make up her mind about the smell that the chains left behind on her palms and fingers. She closed her breathtakingly blue eyes, enjoying the almost floating sensation, the world blending together as she swung faster and faster.
Rebecca Hibler was not your average six-year-old; anyone could see that even at such a tender age, she was stunningly beautiful. Adult men looked away; gazing upon her seemed almost sinful. Rebecca flung herself from the swing at the apex of its arc. She momentarily lost her balance, her butt landing in a cushion of autumn grass and maples leaves. She had a good laugh, but from across the yard, someone was also enjoying her laughter. A boy, about the same age as Rebecca, thought her landing was amusing. He waved at her.
“Hi, that looks like a lot of fun.” The little boy was all by himself.
“Do you want to come in and play on my swings with me.”
“Oh boy, could I!”
The boy was adorned in a fine suit of clothes. His white and blue striped suit was embellished with bright gold buttons. He had a bright white bowtie and shiny white shoes; he eerily resembled an evangelist from the turn of the century. After a few swings of his own, his white shoes morphed into a pale green hue. They laughed mightily together, in the few minutes together she became comfortable with him. He stopped swinging and asked her;
“Hey, do you want to see my backyard. I have a treehouse; well it’s really my fortress. I fight Indians from it, I have wooden guns and shields. There’s even a pole to slide down like the firemen do.”
“Wow, that sounds like a lot of fun.” She gazed over in the direction of her parents’ bedroom window, no one was stirring yet. She knew that after they woke, the two rolled around, kind of wrestling together for a half an hour or so, before coming down for coffee. That meant she had almost an hour more to play;
“OK, let go!”
. . .
Tom pulled his truck up behind a Forerunner that had a bumper sticker that hailed its driver as a proud mom of a Brunswick Blue Devils’ soccer player. People around this area took pride in their children through bumper stickers. There were bumper stickers for not only sports, but also A students, the French club or simply loving school. It brought a smile to his ragged face, although he had not played soccer in high school, he had played all four of his years on his South Philadelphia Rams baseball team. He wasn’t a fan of school, but baseball had made going more palatable. He played a mean third base. He thought back to those days; there was no smell like putting your glove on your face: that smell of leather was intoxicating, a crossbreed of fresh-cut grass and animal skin. Villanova had made him an offer to play college ball, but the gri
nd of classroom study and schoolwork made his mind up for him. Those were glorious times, he didn’t know it then, but those were the best years of his life.
Jessup was leaning at the counter in deep conversation with Martha. Despite her attention towards Jessup, it was amazing that Martha could still cook for an entirely full café without much effort. Martha had manned that griddle for over thirty years, she could do it with her eyes closed. Not one order was made wrong, and no one waited for their food. While intently gazing at Jessup, she reached behind her back and with the aid of her spatula, scooped up a ball of lard from a steel pail and tossed it on the griddle. In consecutive order; potatoes, bacon, and eggs where cooked to perfection in the pork fat, while the grits on the back of the stove still got attention. In one smooth motion, she’d ladled everything onto a plate and tossed it up in the pass for the waitress to deliver it to a waiting customer. All while barely taking her eyes off of Jessup. Only on the weekends did she employ a single waitress to help her.
Mary Higgins was a high school dropout who still had her baby fat despite having a child at fifteen. She loved to work at Martha’s; although Martha could be quite hard on her. Martha watched her like a hawk; it was not unlike Mary to disappear out back in the middle of a busy breakfast to catch a quick smoke. The money was good, in fact quite good. On most weekends she came home with over a hundred and twenty dollars working just two breakfast services. Martha didn’t report her wages, so Mary could still collect social security. She lived with her mother Laura rent free. Couple that with the food stamps she received, her breakfast tips allowed her all the personal necessities she desired. For a person on public assistance, she did quite well. She had her BH Makeup that she religiously bought at the Walmart’s in Troy and an array of expensive weight loss pills that she had mailed to her every month. Then there were her weekly appointments to have her nails done and a Brazilian wax performed at Betty Sue’s Nails and Things, (have to keep myself neat for a potential Friday night fling). Every Friday and Saturday night were spent at Johnny Jones’s Wild West Beer Bar. where she would drop at least forty dollars. Sure, her flirting got a few horny guys to buy her a few drinks, but she was especially hot for Billy Blankenfind, who pumped gas out on the Throughway. Billy was a fellow high school dropout, who although didn’t really have feelings for her, still gave her a romp every week or so. For Mary, life was good. Mary called over to Jessup,
“Hey sweetie, I’ll have a table in just a few minutes.”
Jessup turned just momentarily; “Thanks hon,” and turned right back to his engrossing conversation with Martha.
Martha had an old rickety park bench out front. Weekend customers kept the bench filled while waiting for a table. Although during weekdays, it was usually occupied solely by ole Joseph Reboch, his legs crossed for hours, reading his newspaper and sipping the same coffee from a paper cup for nearly two hours. Periodically he would come in and ask Martha if she could heat it up. She didn’t mind, she felt that having ole Joe out front acted as a cheap advertisement for the place. That morning he was preoccupied, replicating the story he had just been told by Jerry Doupe, the county’s only cab driver, to a group waiting for a table. Seems Doupe had picked up a young girl right in front of the old cemetery. He began to make small talk, when he looked back, much to his horror, she had vanished.
. . .
As Tom neared the café, he could see the coroner, Joe Wouter and found a narrow spot on the bench, “Well good morning sir.”
“Hey Tom, Jessup has everything under control. You have to hear the story I just heard!”
“More local ghost stories?”
“I guess.” He knew it was better to keep these things to himself, “Come with me, I want to show you something.”
He walked Joe away from the waiting customers, the details he was about to discuss with Joe would spread throughout the town like wildfire if a single nosy buddy heard.
The list of dead children was of a disquieting length. Joe put his leg up on a lamppost and cradled a thick brown file he had lugged with him in his lap. He pulled out a single file; it was the report on another of Tom’s murdered girls. Aganetha Trolinger was six years old when her father had come home from the war. Günter had served in the famed U.S. Third Army. He spent two years as a tank gunner, charging across France and Germany. He was tortured during that period, often wondering aloud how many of his own cousins and uncles had he killed along the way. Generations of his family came from Mainz-Bingen; he had left there at eleven. His village had been hit especially hard after World War I, his father felt that it was time to start anew. They packed what little belongings they had left and immigrated to America. During World War II, his little town was again torn apart by the war. As Patton’s tanks rumbled through the narrow streets of the village, much of his family perished. In 1945, PTSD was not yet a diagnosis. Upon returning to Brunswick, it became immediately evident to his wife Gertraud that Günter was simply not the same person. He was constantly jumpy and became irritated at his little daughter at the drop of the hat. Before leaving for war, Aganetha was the apple of his eye, now with his angry outbursts; the child started spending more and more time outdoors. On All Hallows Eve, she and her friends had gone out trick-or-treating. She like many other girls her age in the neighborhood dressed as a witch. So, when she wandered off, it didn’t immediately become apparent. The next morning her delicate body had been found in the cemetery, ravaged. Her chest had been torn open, and her body left arranged in the old mausoleum. Parts of the heart were missing, along with a good amount of her blood. What made this case stand out for Wouter was that there were partial remains of the heart. When examined by the coroner at the time, there were significant, wolf-like teeth marks in the heart itself. The locals at the time had set-up hunting parties to find and kill the beast, but nothing was ever sighted. In fact, although there were wolf-like tracks found within Pinewoods, as they tracked them, they mysteriously disappeared within the cemetery.
“So, Joe, this is concrete evidence in your opinion that it was definitely some type of large wolf and not a human perpetrator.”
“Yes, although the way the heart was damaged seemed strange to me, it had been removed from the chest cavity, large bites had been taken out, but the heart itself had been found back in the chest cavity.”
“That’s strange.”
“Yes, it’s quite possible that one of the first responders simply placed it back in her body in respect for the girl’s remains.”
Just then Jessup leaned his head out of the café; “Hey fellas, come-on over, our table is ready.”
“Joe. Don’t mention this particular case in front of Jessup.”
“I won’t.”
Jessup was an encyclopedia of the history around Brunswick, what he didn’t witness in his seventy years; he read or simply heard about it in his shop. As the two joined him at the table, Jessup had already taken the liberty of grabbing a pot of coffee and three mugs and brought them over to the table.
Tom took command of the conversation; “Joe, you have to order her lumberjack flapjacks with a side of sausage.”
“Tom, I know them very well.”
“Well then, Jessup we wanted to meet with you, but what we are about to discuss cannot leave this table.” Jessup shook his head in agreement, Joe then lowed his voice to a hush; “You see, since Tom has taken over the sheriff’s office, he has dived head long into the old cold case files and has found quite a few files with alarming similarities.”
“Doesn’t surprise me, over the many years of living here in Brunswick, I often heard or witnessed things that made me wonder if I was the only sane person in town.”
“What do you mean Jess?”
“I’m sure those files you have in your bag there contain the murders of quite a few young girls
.
“Yup.”
“While those murders caused such heartache, not only to the girl’s parents, but to the community as a whole, the investigations went nowhere, and the details were quickly swept under the rug. But that was a long time ago, and thank God there hasn’t been anything like that for twenty years or more.”
Joe pulled out a few files and opened them up. He pulled out sheets that showed the form of a body with the details of the wounds marked with black ink on it. As he spread them out on the table, he quickly noticed Rory Wilhelm, the local insurance salesman, trying to get a gander at them. He instantly scooped them up and lowered his voice;
“The girls who were murdered had alarming similarities.” He looked around to see if anyone was trying to overhear their conversation; it was safe.
“As I was saying, the similarities are alarming, in all instances, these girls were savagely attacked, there chest cavities were torn open, and the only organ that was missing in all, but one case was the heart.”
Jessup interrupted Joe; “Yes, and I bet dollars to doughnuts there was one more similarity that you might not have noticed.”
Tom’s interest was piqued; “What was that?”
Jessup continued; “Now gentleman, listen closely. This particular reminiscence does not have the pastel nostalgia of other country hamlets antiquities. Small towns such as Brunswick have very long memories and pass down their horrors ceremonially from generation to generation.” At that moment he realized he was talking over his audiences’ head; “For the most part, as I remember, all of these terrible murders occurred in the fall. To be even more precise, it seems to me, if my memory is not mistaken, they all happened around Halloween.”
A Wistful Tale of Gods, Men and Monsters Page 13