. . .
Hibler looked at his hand; now seemingly worn and lifeless, it seemed like moments ago he was stroking his Rebecca’s silken chestnut mane. Her blue eyes now haunted him; he had failed his daughter. Why didn’t he wake sooner that morning? He looked again at his hand; this would become his angel of death, his modus operandi for reprisal, although there was nothing sweet, his daughter’s soul wailed retribution.
. . .
This was undoubtedly going to be the snowiest fall on record; Johnny B had forewarned all his listeners of the impending storm that evening; high winds and 2-3 inches of the powdery mix. If this kept up, it would definitely put a damper on the Halloween festivities at the end of the week.
Tom and his two helpers had wolfed down a quick dinner before heading over to the hall. The hanging flowerpot, all decked out for Halloween, was swaying with the winds that had begun to howl. The gusts came from the depths of Bald Mountain and seemed to have a human quality about them. They reached right into a man’s soul and weeded out the pretenders from the foolhardy.
There wasn’t much the two could help Tom with, but at least he could keep a watchful eye. “You two open a hundred chairs and arrange them in the middle of the room, and when you’re done, open that large folding table and place it in the back of the room.” Joan Medford would be bringing her pumpkin spiced cupcakes to sweeten the seriousness of the evening. It was seven-fifteen, and Bessy had arrived with the copies that Tom had her make, leaving her just enough time to make an urn of coffee to go with Joan’s cupcakes. Bessy had rolled her eyes when the sheriff had told her that Joan would be bringing those cupcakes. They were heavy as lead, and she put too much pumpkin spice in them. It annoyed her when people would fawn over her. Truth be told, they were awful and she itched to tell Joan to her face that she knew the rest of the town thought so too.
The first few who arrived had a dusting of snow on their backs and shoulders. It was fine snow, the type that people would always say with such authority, “this is going to stick.” Larry Bumsfeld made sure he took the seat right in the front. His elderly mother had made an early dinner for him, her meatloaf was now repeating on him. Although it would not keep him from two, or maybe three of Joan’s cupcakes, God how he loved them so. When he saw the sheriff in Martha’s the other day with his two cohorts, he knew there was something brewing. As Tom counted the copies, Joe Wouter came from behind and patted him on the shoulder. “Joe, when you speak, it won’t be necessary to go into gory details.”
“Don’t worry; I’ve done this before Tom.”
William and Lilly were lurking, hiding behind a news box on the corner that held the local Pennysaver. They could see Jessup, arms laden with books, as always, walking with Beverly Townsend. Despite the nature of Beverly’s store, William had come to like her very much. “Did you two get permission from your parents to be out and about this late at night?” Before William could tell the truth, Lilly did the fibbing for the two, “Oh yes Mr. Homel, William is staying over my house tonight, and my mother knows.”
“Well, we’ll see about that.”
Tom’s two deputies were flanking the entrance to the hall, sentinels in case the beast was to bulrush the door. Howie nodded at Jessup, “Good t’seeya,” tucking a camel into the corner of his seamed moth. Jessup never liked Howie; he knew there was not nearly a shred of verity surrounding the deputy.
Bessy was busy handing out napkins to anyone who had a cupcake, it just angered her to no end if anyone dropped crumbs on the floor, but it was those damn cupcakes that angered her more. As Larry sneaked his third cupcake, the front door of the hall rattled as though someone was outside shaking the door, Larry quipped, it’s only the wind.” Tom surveyed the room, for his first town meeting as sheriff, it was a large turnout. He motioned to Bobby and Joey to open a few more chairs.
As Tom introduced Joe and thanked Jessup, the last of the cupcakes disappeared. William and Lilly sat off in the corner, hidden behind Bobby and Joey, just in case James or Jane showed up. Tom had a clipboard; he had jotted down a few points he wanted to touch upon. He wouldn’t speak directly about the past murders; he could leave that to Joe. “I want to thank you all for coming out on such a wintery evening.” As he spoke, he took notice of who didn’t come. He was surprised to see that Martha, Banger, James Willowsby, and his wife had not arrived yet. “As you all know by now, Rebecca Hibler was found dead.” Larry put that last cupcake down for a split second, “Murdered is more like it.”
“Thank you, Larry, but I didn’t say murdered.”
Larry wasn’t backing down, “No? The way she was found in the graveyard, that’s exactly what I would call it.” (let them all be murdered in the bed, for all of me)
“Larry, your candor brings me to the reason I called this meeting. Since becoming your sheriff, I have begun to look at cold cases that involved the children of the town, and a shocking similarity jumps out. But I think you all know what I’m speaking of. I think your parents would have known, your grandparents, and so on.”
Larry rudely interrupted again, “My grandparents?”
“Yes, there is a pattern…” Just then, he was interrupted again. Not too far off, there was a prolonged, unearthly howl that filled the room. Not a single person moved; they were all frozen with fright. Larry broke the silence, “Holy shit, what was that? Someone check the doors; make sure they’re all locked.” Tom attempted to calm Larry; his rants would cause the rest to panic, “Everyone calm down, we are safe in here.”
Larry wasn’t having any of it, “Safe? And what happens when we leave, are you going to walk us all home?” Another howl roared, this time much closer, it echoed the hall, bouncing from wall to wall. No one uttered a sound; ears were straining to hear the beast’s next move. A foolish villager broke from the terrified huddle and made for home, Larry hollered, “Someone lock the door!” Joey leaped from his seat and fumbled with the lock. The beast circled outside in the shadows, its heart a steady rhythm. The storm began to muddle its movements. Just then a thudding knocking at the hall’s door caused the crowd to jump in unison. Tom hollered over to Howie, “Go see who’s at the door.”
“Why is it always me?”
“Howie, just see who’s knocking.” Howie drew his revolver, showing his fellow townsfolk how little intestinal fortitude he really had. “Wh…Who’se th…there?”
“Open the door! It’s Johnny…Jonny B!”
Tom was losing patience, “Howie, just open the damn door!” As Johnny shook the snow off his wide brim hat, Tom and Joe approached him, “Did you see anything out…” before they could finish their question, a sound with a voracious appetite for mayhem invaded the room. It was a cunning, guttural growl, with human-like qualities that were now coming from just outside the front door. A mighty force pushed again and again at the door. Its lock and hinges labored to keep the beast out. Larry was panicking, “My God, someone do something.” The crowd inside instinctively huddled together as though they were frightened fowl and the predator was in their henhouse. And then it became eerily still. A minute seemed like an hour, all ears strained to pick up any shred of evidence, the silence glared nosily in their heads. William’s eyes were scouring the room, and then in the corner of the window, he could see a set of burning red eyes, clearly focused on prey. Its eyes glowed from deep, dark-set sockets like sly and sullen embers. William screamed and pointed, and before the room could see what frightened him, the beast turned away and slipped off into the dark.
. . .
A swirling storm of screaming silver whirled through the valley. Outside raged a blizzard so strong that the familiar sight of Main Street was almost erased. The falling flakes swirled as though panicked; they were so thick that they almost obscured the view completely. Though his feet were beginning to freeze, and his footsteps
were small, sinking in past his ankles with each stride, he knew that each step took him closer to the target. The wild clicking and clacking of the chimes on the porch seemed like it would become undone. Charlie, unnerved by the storm, was barking in a futile attempt to dissuade letting the outside in; something was amiss. The grandfather clock’s chorus of bells and dramatic enumeration failed in a vain attempt to cloak the knocking at the door. The barking startled James who had fallen asleep in front of the fireplace. Its raging fire now calmed, he set aside his book and looked back as the resounding knocking continued. “I’m coming, just a moment.” His mind was a haze, parts still in the deep recesses of warm sleep. His left-hand scratched his butt as his right turned the large door handle, “Anne, did you forge…” The image of the face before him was startling. It was not that of a nightmarish monster, it was a pained view, that of a grieving parent who had nothing left to live for; desperate to join his child and not caring if that promise of an afterlife was real or not. “You protect her, you keep her secret safe!”
“Who are you talking about?” Still half-asleep, James wiped his face, trying to clear his blurred vision, “What are you talking about?”
“She killed my Rebecca, and you give her protection. You know what she is, don’t you?”” Hibler was irrational, his eyes bulged from his head, chilled tears were dripping from his chin, and his rage numbed his morality. He pulled out his revolver, it was loaded with silver bullets, none the less they would work fine just fine. The jarring crack of the pistol echoed; its piercing sound bounced around the rafters of the grandiose home. James felt a sudden excruciating pain in his chest, just above his right nipple. It was a suffocating pain that erased away all reality, he couldn’t feel that his legs gave out; the violent thud of his head against the wooden floor was painless, almost comforting. He laid there, his view distorted, his eyes fixated on the lamp that was now oddly sideways. Every breath intensified the pain. He felt like a drink had gone down the wrong pipe, he was coughing it up, and he could feel his heart fluttering loudly. Although he was now lying on the floor, he felt dizzy; the room had begun to spin. It was a familiar feeling, but this time it was not due to pills and scotch. He couldn’t focus any longer, he fought to stay conscious. He held no panic, no fear, instead simply tired. He thought; I’ll sleep now, he closed his eyes and drifted off.
Hibler was startled by how loud his gun had resonated, but then felt an unexpected twang of guilt. He had now given another family the gift of loss. He knew that James had a little boy, just a few years older than Rebecca, but his thought of her was sobering. The amount of blood that pooled around his victim’s body startled him. His mind was running rampant; visions of Rebecca were fused with the sight confronting him. He felt no responsibility, no guilt, why should he? His view focused on the golden glow of a lamp inside the adjoining room; he was dazed and could not feel the chill in his back or the snow that had begun to accumulate inside the entrance of the house. He would escape everything; he raised the pistol, looked closely at the bluish steel; it was frigid. He thought for a second, this is the last moments of my life. Next, I will open my eyes and Rebecca will be awaiting me with my dear mother and father in a far better place. (My pain will be gone; I will feel happiness again) He turned the gun towards his mouth; it was a painfully slow process. Too slow. A sudden heavy thud behind startled him and distracted his intentions. An unexpected powerful blow disabled him. His right knee buckled. The might of its teeth, as it clamped down from behind, steely hard and sharp, sank deep into his neck. It shook him violently; he was weak and unable to wrench himself free. Pain, deep pain, a wooziness came over him; he was now lying on the floor, next to James. The sight before him was of a great beast, its claws savagely tearing at something, its anger and violence seemed distant, almost vague. He would sleep now, slowly, everything was moving so slowly. He welcomed the next door to open, unable to control, closing his eyes as the monster ripped opened his chest. The promise of Rebecca would be a false promise, he was in the last throes of death, his body was convulsing, and the beast could do as it wanted. It did not want him to die just yet, it had more violence to inflict, but its rage could not bring back James. It rose, its powerful hind legs stepped into the house, the claws scratched the wood beneath, its snout held high in the wintery air, desperate to uncover if there were any living humans left in the dwelling. It was now alone. Crimson blood, thickened by the cold, dripped from its long ivory-hued claws. Each mighty limb grabbed at a bloody corpse, it turned and dragged the two off into the blizzard. The rapidly falling flakes would deftly cover the blood trail as the beast towed the evidence off into the deep thicket of the forest. The evidence wouldn’t be found for weeks, stumbled upon by a father showing his son the ritual of the hunt.
PART FOUR
UNLEASHED TERROR
“For the first time the feelings of revenge and hatred filled my bosom, and I did not strive to control them, but allowing myself to be borne away by the stream, I bent my mind towards injury and death”
—Frankenstein
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
CHAPTER 19
PURE AS SNOW
You have done more evil than all who lived before you.
You have made for yourself other gods, idols made of metal; you have aroused my anger and turned your back on me.
-1 Kings 14:9
Joey stumbled out of bed; the motel’s bed was hard as a rock, and the pillow was worse. He looked around the room. Without the girls, it looked like a bomb went off. He could see the glaring sun streaking against the array of dirty clothes strewn around the room; its glare intensified by the rare autumn snow. He pulled the curtain back, it was blinding, “Wow, I never went trick or treating in the snow before.” It was the day before Halloween, and although the simplest of the pair had his mind on such a juvenile act, he knew there were much more pressing matters to handle.
. . .
Ronny Bowlen lugged the last wooden crate of glass bottles that held his family’s milk and dropped it with a thud in the back of the truck. The town had grown on this luscious milk. The door of the truck creaked as he opened it. He was annoyed at himself because he had left the window opened a crack. Now there was a small mountain of snow on the driver’s seat. He brushed it away, but seconds after starting the truck, his ass became wet and cold. It was just another thing that he hated about living in the country. He began assuring himself that he would have the courage to tell his father that he was moving to New York City. He had read about a section of Brooklyn called Dumbo; the magazine had pictures of hot looking girls hanging out in cool restaurants. Brunswick didn’t have girls that looked like that. When he showed the magazine to his father, he exclaimed, “Dumbo? Yeah for dumbbells. This is your family’s business, one day you’re going to own it outright.” The notion was nauseating to Ronny. The beginning of the long stone wall signaled that he was at his first stop. As he pulled up the driveway, he noticed, oddly enough, that the front door was wide open. The Willowsby had their usual order of six quarts of regular milk, one quart of buttermilk, and six pounds of fresh butter. As Ronny took the first step on the front porch, he hesitated for a second. “Hello, Mr. Willowsby, are you there?” He half hoped that Mrs. Willowsby would show. He had come by a few times when she greeted him in a negligee that sent shivers down his spine. As far he was concerned, she was out of place here. She belonged in New York City. What he wouldn’t do to have a roll in the sack with her. Still hesitant, “Hello, is anybody there?” Why in the hell was the door wide open, he took a deep breath and climbed the porch, as he reached the top, his front foot slipped on a frozen puddle of blood that was hidden by the fresh snow. His eyes scanned the scene before him, it looked like the slaughterhouse up on Brandenhouse Road. There was blood everywhere. With the milk still in hand, he turned and ran back to his truck. Halfway there he slipped, the crate we
nt crashing, milk splattered the silken fresh snow. He fractured his wrist, but the pain wouldn’t set in till later; for now, he was filled with fright. He struggled to get to his feet, the panic made him feel nothing. He started the truck and headed straight for the sheriff’s office.
. . .
Jane would wake the two in a few minutes after coffee; she had the morning all planned out. After breakfast, she’d take William home and check on his costume, tomorrow was Halloween, and there wouldn’t be much left if he didn’t have one. Afterward, she’d have the kids help her make the bags of candy to give out to all the revelers who came to the door tomorrow. How she adored Halloween, as well as that first cup of coffee in the morning. She peered out her kitchen window, holding the mug close; it made her feel warm and fuzzy all over. The countryside outside was majestic, silken white, the sun sparkled on the freshly laid crystals, only interrupted by the occasional tree peeking out from its white cap. The whiteness of the valley seemed like an unfinished painting, silvery and blanched, just awaiting color. This was the earliest she had seen this much since she was a kid, but this snow still brought that child-like excitement to her. She walked to the front of the house to see how much shoveling it was going to take to release her truck from the icy holds. The wicked winds from the night before had blown most of the snow up against the house; the car wheels were spared. The swing that hung from the oak in the front caught her eye; the snow had been brushed from its seat. As she focused closer, she jumped back, her coffee spilled. Peering from behind the tree, in a vain attempt to hide, was Anne Justice. As she gripped the tree, her long black hair that hung like icicles gave her away, while her eyes focused intently on the house. What the hell was she doing there? Jane was strangely frightened by the sight, but put her fears aside and went to the front door to invite Anne in. (Hell, it was the neighborly thing to do.) (Though I might just spit in her coffee) As she stepped out on the front porch, Anne had vanished. Not a trace, when Jane walked over to the tree, there were no tracks, except those of a large dog (probably Joe Smithfield’s damn German shepherd got loose again). She was sure she had seen her. (Guess the glare of the snow played tricks with my eyes) She needed to reassure herself, it was all a mirage. Lilly called from the front door, “Mommy, what are you doing out there in your slippers? We’re hungry!”
A Wistful Tale of Gods, Men and Monsters Page 18