A Wistful Tale of Gods, Men and Monsters

by David Ruggerio

  With Bessy rounding up the troops, Tom had called over to the radio station. He needed all the help he could get. He explained to the young, sultry voice that answered the phone who he was,

  “Sheriff, we’re on the air for another minute or two, could you hold the line?” As he waited on hold, he could listen to the radio show. It was evident the moment he heard this DJ’s voice, he wasn’t from around here. A few minutes later Johnny B picked up the receiver,

  “Hey Sheriff, this is Johnny B, how could I be of service to you.”

  “Well Johnny, we have a serious situation going on right as we speak…” Before he could finish Johnny excused himself for a split second;

  “Rory, do me a favor, spin a few records, I can’t go back on this very second,” He turned back to the sheriff, “I’m sorry sheriff, please continue,” Tom told him about the lost girl and wanted him to relay over the radio a message for the general public to look out for the little girl.

  “Sheriff, I will do everything in my power to help you. Let’s stay in contact.”

  Tom had never spoken with Johnny before, but here was a real asset that he could use in the future.

  The Hibler’s backyard faced Bald Mountain, so along with four volunteers, the sheriff had the search party begin to scour the mountain. He had given out a walkie-talkie to each volunteer, and by two in the afternoon, they had not seen a single clue. They broke for lunch, the group headed over to Martha’s’. Not five minutes after getting his iced tea and meatloaf sandwich, Tom could see Banger entering the café with a gloomy appearance;

  “Ah Tom me boy, I need a word wit ya private straight away.”

  Tom knew it was serious; it was the first time Banger had ever called him Tom. They stepped outside away from prying ears;

  Tom squinted, the bright afternoon sun was blinding him, made Banger appear as though he was only a shadow.

  “Wella, twas making me rounds tis morning, saw something a wee bit out of place by thee mausoleum, and a…a…wella, tis hard to say tis. Tom, there’s been a murder. I’m so sorry to say tis; a wee little lassie, her poor little body foddered and left torn and tattered in tee old mausoleum. Tis truly terrible.”

  Tom was stunned; he was looking at Banger with slowly dawning horror. It was as if a hurricane force wind had struck his face, pulling his skin taught, he suddenly felt flush. He knew immediately it had to be the body of Rebecca Hibler.

  Elias was watching from the window as he wolfed down his bologna and cheese sandwich. He could see the sheriffs’ face become blanched of all color as he listened to old Banger; Landtmann’s facial muscles had become contorted and frozen in place. The sheriff’s body was stiff as he came back to the table; he was numb as he thanked the volunteers for their help and told Howie and Elias to come with him. Both deputies could see the dismay in Tom’s face, they both silently left the table and their lunches behind and went to their patrol cars.

  Without telling them any details, he ordered them to follow him in their cars over to the Pinewood Cemetery. Tom radioed back to the office,

  “Bessy, do me a favor and ask Joe Wouter to call me as soon as possible.”

  “What is it sheriff?”

  “I think we found the little Hibler girl, there’s a dead body over at Pinewoods. I need him to meet me there as soon as he can.”

  His two deputies had listened in on the conversation over the two-way. Howie lived the block over from the Hibler’s and knew the family very well. The sudden shock made him forget the hangover he was suffering from the night before, the banging on the side of his head dissipated. Rebecca’s Hibler’s murder would stun the tiny hamlet and reawaken Brunswick’s century-old secret…no one would be safe now.

  PART THREE

  THE TOWN MEETING

  “The boundaries which divide life from death

  are at best shadowy and vague.

  Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?”

  —The Premature Burial

  -Edgar Allan Poe

  CHAPTER 15

  BRUNSWICK

  I form light and create darkness, I make well-being and create calamity,

  I am the Lord, who does all these things.

  -Isaiah 45:7

  The town was an ancient village that could trace its roots back to the first Indians that settled in its lush mountains. But this town knows its past; it is quite familiar with the sort of devilish things that had gone on in its history. It was familiar with its evil; it finds it somewhat agreeable. Evil was the things that went bump in the night, evil was the unspeakable deeds that men dare not utter, evil was sinister and dark, and to be sure…the town knew of the dark.

  In the times after the Mohawks moved north from the area, the town could trace its history back to the early 18th century. Its first inhabitants were German Palatines from the Middle-Rhine region of Germany. They came with fire in their bellies, ready to take every opportunity this new country would offer them. The families from their common region all congregated in Brunswick, making acclamation into their new country that much easier. They worked hard; most farmed the lush countryside. They cleared thickly wooded lots, laid stone fences, laboring with their bare hands. They planted wheat, rye, corn, and apples. In between the fields of crops were herds of milk cows. Life was hard, but they would be greatly rewarded by their efforts. During these times, odd occurrences would happen. These were things that went unsaid, evil things, despicable events, that colored the countryside. At first the locals pointed blame at the handful of outsiders that attempted to settle alongside them in their near-perfect setting. These were the new immigrants, impure and not Germanic; it was they who had unearthed the misery. The locals knew that such things were possible, and they knew the problems the new settlers presented. These immigrants were like a fistful of salt thrown into a melting pot of pepper. But this melting pot never melted very well.

  Cows led to chickens, apples led to pumpkins, and all became a favored staple of the area. As the 18th century gave way to the 19th century, so did new opportunities. In the Eagle Mills area of Brunswick, such unique happenings as a flour mill and a hoe company sprung-up. But these callings didn’t much attract the entrenched German farmers or their descendants. Through it all they maintained their principles, they didn’t deviate from them, but along the way, those strange occurrences kept arising. (It kept coming back) Unexplained disappearances rocked the community, staining the pristine countryside and testing their core values. But they maintained their silence; they knew of the dark.

  Their homes were made of stone and wood, all hand hued, products of their German tradesman. Those early farmhouses that dotted the countryside would last forever. Main Street was a collection of frame stores with false facades, a world apart from those ancient farmhouses. The great-grandchildren of the first immigrants manned the stores that fed, clothed and entertained the village. These shops were a warm, country collection of Americana that made Brunswick so charming a hamlet. Next to St. Paul’s Potions & Apothecaries was Alice Bumbleberry’s Antiques. Across the street was Martha’s Café. Just a bit up the road was the Willowsby Pharmacy and around the corner were John Benner’s Auto Repair and Filling Pumps. Everyone knew everyone’s business, there was hardly a secret that could be kept hidden for long. But now, as the sons of the village came home from far off Vietnam, the town held its breath. It had been nearly fifty years (and these were short years) since an occurrence, no one spoke of these things, knowing full well what might result from such foolishness. They remembered the wickedness. They knew of the evil nature that lies in the shadows…and they knew of the dark.

  Living in such a small, intimate setting, one learned many things. With the town in the shadows of the surroun
ding mountains, as young boys went, and for that matter some girls too, one knew all about the tradition of the fall deer hunt; knowing his was a rite of passage.

  Waking at three in the morning, bleary-eyed, would leave time to eat a hearty breakfast and then trek deep into the shadowy forest. Walking through the mountains in the fall often meant snow and deep cold. Keeping as silent as possible was paramount to the success of the hunt. Walking in the icy dark, with only a pen light illuminating a foot or so of the frozen tundra ahead, one knew to watch for tangles of dead and fallen branches. A loud crack in the eerie silence would signal to the deer for miles of your arrival. You knew to keep your gun slung over your shoulder; your hands deeply buried in your pockets. Frozen fingers made for a miserable hunt. You knew that when you got to your tree stand, to unsling your gun and tie it to a rope. You climbed your tree, safely pulling the gun up after. It was only a few years ago that young Ben Shouldice dropped his rifle as he climbed, the gun hit a rock and fired. His father; Harold Shouldice fell dead where he stood.

  You knew that once you were comfortable in the tree, even in the dark, you knew not to move a muscle. You knew that there was no protection in the tree from the icy November winds. They cut through your body like a knife. You held those new-fangled hand warmers tightly, not allowing one degree of heat from escaping. You knew that as the sun began to inch its way over the treetops, this would be your best chance to see a deer. As your eyes scanned the surrounding forest, you knew not to move your head. And then, some hundred yards away, you could make out a number of deer coming your way. You slowly moved the gun into position. You knew to wait for that perfect shot. As the deer came closer, you could make out the last one. Yes, it was a buck, and a big one. You scanned its horns, five-six-seven- oh my God, an eight-pointer! A trophy like this doesn’t come along often. As the buck neared, its regalness came into full view; its deep, thick, chestnut coat, the dark hooves that dare make a single sound. The delicate circles of snowy white that gave way to its willowy face and those ivory antlers, oh so grand. You knew to gently slip the safety from the gun…to ever-so-slowly bring the sight up to your face, and not to forget to remove the lens cap. You remembered to direct the end of the gun towards this magnificent animal and to aim the crosshairs right behind its shoulder. You knew it was time to take a deep breath and hold it…it was now the moment to slowly, gently, squeeze the trigger. The forest held its breath, the silence was deafening, and then…the mighty gun roared. Fire spewed from its muzzle. It violently kicked you back, your head hit the tree, piles of snow fall from the limbs above; you momentarily lose sight of the majestic buck. (Did I hit it?) And then you gain your composure, you peer down from the tree, a spray of brilliant crimson stained the silvery-white blanketed forest floor. The majestic animal was lying in the snow; helpless. It pained so as it struggled to take its last remaining breath. It was in its death throes, its front paw seemingly reaching for the earth. Its chest lurched for a second, and then, with no strength left, the life of this splendid animal escaped from its body. Its eyes were now still, black and lifeless. It is his first kill, and as he peers at the great buck, he experiences a deep feeling of remorse, but this will not be spoken of, it will remain with him. The young child now knows of taking a life, but there is much more to life than killing…he will eventually learn of life’s evils, and he will then know of the dark.

  The farmer knows of rising at four in the morning to milk his prized herd, in the winter his fingers are frigid as he pulls at the warm utters. The farmer knows of tilling the earth as spring approaches, preparing the soil for the new crop. The farmer knows of the itch that he has in his crotch as it rests on the hard, hot metal seat of his tractor during the dog days of August. The doctor knows of the difficulty of vaccinating the youth of the village when the school year begins anew. Martha Rodenbecker knows of the sting of a cut, the wrenching pain of a burn, as she toils and sweats day in and day out in her little café. The town knows these things…it also remembers, it keeps that pain and discomfort in the rear of its memory…and the old mortician knew of the evil deeds he performed for that thing in the dark. The town knows, yes it does, it knows very well of the dark.

  The town doesn’t know of Martha’s theft of Emma Ushelbaugh’s lumberjack pancake recipe stolen back in 1969 when she worked for three days in Emma’s diner in Decatur and disappeared into the night without quitting. The town doesn’t know that Jessup had let his mother die while he watched as she was in the last throes of lung cancer. The town doesn’t know that it was young Joseph Reems who was breaking all the store windows on Main Street two summers ago. The town doesn’t know that its bank manager, Roger Bovenizer, embezzled thirty-five thousand dollars of his neighbors’ money and is planning to run off with Erma Benner; the oh-so prim and proper, married librarian of the town. The town doesn’t know that Donna Ermentraudt has a magic wand that she uses to secretly pleasure herself daily when her husband Richie goes off to work in Troy as a die cutter. The town doesn’t know that Howie Cripps’ girlfriend Lucy gets busy with the star high school quarterback, Freddy Spingler, almost every afternoon while Howie is out keeping the neighborhood safe. The town doesn’t know of a concoction that James Willowsby has hidden away in his pharmacy for his wife. And the town doesn’t know, although some may suspect, that James’ wife, Anne Justice, trolls for young men to have hot, passionate sex quite often. The town doesn’t know about the lair that this mistress of the night uses as her secret rendezvous. The town doesn’t know how she extracts the life from these virile men and leaves behind a shell of a person; dry, papery and lifeless. The town doesn’t know of her immorality. It doesn’t want to know of these things that go bump in the dark. The town doesn’t want to know what preys upon its female heirs. Although at night, behind closed doors, people whisper, fearful that someone or something may overhear. This town doesn’t want to know what lurks in the dark, the sinister being that hunts its prey in the dark. The town doesn’t want to know…but the town does know one thing, it knows of the dark…

  CHAPTER 16

  GERARD HIBLER

  Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God;

  I will strengthen you, I will help you,

  I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

  -Isaiah 41:10

  Gerard Hibler had been born in a nearby town named Saugerties. Outwardly it was not unlike Brunswick. He had a wonderful group of friends. Together they were inseparable; skating on the nearby pond in the winter, flipping baseball cards after school in the spring, and playing hide and seek in Bald Mountain for endless hours in the summer.

  At ten years old he was unceremoniously plucked from his friends and school and moved away with his family to Brunswick. Even at such a tender age, he sensed that this town was somehow very different. There were things and places that people wouldn’t talk about.

  High School had been uneventful. He had luckily not experienced the usual bullying a teenager of his meager build would have gone through. For some reason, they just paid no mind to him. After school, he would race home in time to watch Family Feud. From the kitchen, his mother could hear the audience oohing and awing as Richard Dawson would kiss the pretty young female contestants and say,

  “That’s for luck.”

  Excitedly she would blurt out; “Asparagus!”

  Aloud he would respond; “And…the correct answer is?”

  His mother allowed Gerard that hour or so of escape. She knew that he wasn’t happy in Brunswick. She thought to herself; better he turned to Match Game rather than drugs.

  His grades throughout school were good, although he cruised seemingly in a perpetual daze. This school offered him little, except for the fact that in his senior year he had met and fallen in love with a local girl; Debra Delmege. It was truly love at first sight; her blue eyes mesmerized him. At sixteen;
and with the help of Debra’s father; Ewald Delmege, (who was strangely welcoming from the beginning) he had found his path. Gerard now knew his way, and the correct answer was! He was determined to become a minister. His mother wasn’t happy at all, she was jealous of Debra, and her parents’ (her father was also a minister) (oh what a surprise) hold on her son, but there was little she could do.

  (Well, at least he didn’t have to go to Vietnam and come back a heroin addict)

  Immediately after graduation, his diocesan bishop (a family friend of Debra’s) (but of course) and the local commission had approved him as a postulant, his first step towards ordination. Soon after he was accepted by a seminary, which was a 3-year graduate program leading to his Master’s Degree in Divinity.

  He was assigned a deaconship in a small parish in Babylon, New York,on Long Island. Those eight months there would be the longest he and Debra were ever apart. They had spoken daily on the phone, and the moment he got back, he asked for her hand in marriage. Ewald was content, all was good.

  Their wedding was a faire la fête for Debra’s father and his congregation. Soon after, with some financial help from Ewald, they bought their dream home. Gerard’s mother still hadn’t come to like Debra, although she maintained a smile whenever Debra was around. Not long after, there was the expected announcement of a pregnancy; Ewald exclaimed that all was good.