Abernathy was known throughout Point Pleasant for her eerie but accurate palm readings, which she provided in the back room of her shop. The woman had insisted the arrowhead was special. “It will keep you safe.”
Ben hoped she was right.
Nicholas noticed that Ben was clutching the arrowhead in his palm. He regarded Ben for a moment and then whispered, “Wiseass.”
He had knighted Ben with the term earlier that summer and had taken to using it whenever Ben was especially ridiculous. As Nicholas spoke the word to fill the stifling silence of Tucker’s truck, his tone lacked the usual reprimanding edge. Ben felt almost comforted.
“Boy Scout,” Ben returned, his voice just as gentle.
Tucker reappeared ten minutes later with only his shotgun and a mystified expression. “I shot it,” he said as he pulled the driver’s side door shut after he climbed in behind the steering wheel. “I shot it in the damn wing, I don’t see that it would have gotten far.”
“It was fast,” Nicholas told Tucker.
“Really fast,” Ben agreed.
Tucker started the engine. “Big too,” he said as he assessed the forest a final time before he pulled the truck around in a U-turn.
True to his earlier comment, he did not seem to want to know why the two boys had been alone in the woods. Ben reckoned Tucker understood their curiosity over the recent reports. The three of them spent the ride back to town entrenched in tense silence.
As they neared Main Street, Nicholas spoke up. “Are you taking us to the Sheriff’s Department?” he asked Tucker, who fixed them with a wary gaze.
“Was gonna,” Tucker replied. “Your daddy ought to be there, I expect.”
Nicholas’ eyes widened at the mention of his father, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Dread settled in Ben’s chest. They would both be in a world of trouble for sneaking out of the Nolan house, especially considering how their misadventure had ended.
Tucker pulled into a parking space in front of the Sheriff’s Department and let out a heavy sigh. “Well, here goes me cementing my reputation as the town nut,” he said as he got out of the truck. “C’mon, boys.”
Their disappearance had apparently not gone unnoticed by Mrs. Nolan. Leslie woke early, unable to sleep, and had been delirious to discover that Nicholas’ room was empty when she checked on them.
Nicholas was stiff as he sat in a chair in the waiting area. An officer made the necessary calls over the system to let Deputy Nolan know that his son was at the station.
Deputy Nolan and his wife burst into the Sheriff’s Department ten minutes later; their house was only a brief drive away. Leslie’s short, honey-colored hair was unkempt, and her blue eyes were fraught with a mixture of fear and relief.
“Where were you?” Nate thundered as he loomed over them. The deputy was a man of intimidating stature, and though his dark hair was neatly combed, the coarse, week-old beard on his usually bare face was evidence of the strain his job had placed him under as of late.
Ben hung his head in shame. The polished marble of the Sheriff’s Department’s floor served as a poignant contrast to his filthy Converses.
Nicholas stood to face his father, but he immediately shrank under Nate’s imposing shadow. “I’m sorry. I was—”
“It was my fault,” Ben said. “I wanted to investigate the old factory. See if we could find the creature everyone’s been talking about. Nic only came along to make sure I didn’t get hurt.”
“No, it was my fault,” Nicholas countered.
“Both of you are grounded forever!” Leslie exclaimed in a rush before she leaned in and embraced her son. “Even you, Benjamin Wisehart!” she said and pulled away from her son to hug Ben as well. “You stupid, foolish boys.”
Ben felt his cheeks burn hot when he realized Tucker was watching them from a few feet away.
“Nicholas James Nolan, what were you thinking?” Nate reprimanded, his tone thick with a disappointment that Ben wished had been aimed solely at him when he saw Nicholas’ shoulders slump in defeat. “We will discuss this when I get home. You go with your mother now. You too, Ben. You’re not allowed to set a toe outside the house, do you both understand me? Not a single toe.”
Ben and Nicholas nodded in unison. Nate shifted to speak with Tucker. The deputy’s posture was defensive, and Ben was certain the man’s fury was about to extend to his rescuer, even though Tucker had nothing to do with Ben and Nicholas’ foray into the forest. Ben had to speak up.
“He saved our lives!” Ben said to Nate, who twisted back in surprise.
“What’s that?”
“Mr. Tucker, sir. He saved our lives. He’s a hero. He shot it! He shot the Mothman! It was chasing us when we were on our bikes, but he shot it, and it flew off into the woods.”
Nate looked from Ben to Nicholas and then to Tucker with incredulity. “We’ll discuss this when I get home,” he repeated as he fixed a glare over both boys. “Now go and get cleaned up.”
Tucker’s considering gaze settled on Ben, who shrugged with unease before he finally shuffled out of the Sheriff’s Department with Nicholas and Leslie. He had no idea what Tucker and Nate discussed, but he knew that by the time Nate finally got home, it was late that night, and Ben had already returned to his house on Cardinal Lane with Caroline. Nicholas told Ben that after they left, a call came in from Jefferson County; the police there had found Grant Harper.
POINT PLEASANT, WEST VIRGINIA
October 2012
Ben steered the Camaro onto Cardinal Lane for the first time in over a decade and was unsurprised to see that the road he had grown up on had not changed much at all in that time. Just as he had observed during his drive through Main Street, Point Pleasant was still familiar. There were differences, of course.
Duvall’s Diner boasted a relatively new sign, and the Harpers’ Save n’ Shop had been replaced by another grocery store called Chapman’s. Abernathy’s Antiques looked the same, but there was an unfamiliar restaurant called The Grill next door. The post office had what seemed to be a relatively fresh coat of blue paint, which complimented the red brickwork of Carmichael’s Pharmacy to its left. The library and Sheriff’s Department had been completely rebuilt, though; the buildings stood in modern contrast to the quaint, old-fashioned feel that the rest of the town emanated.
Town Hall loomed tall and pale with its columnated portico and high clock tower. The stone fountain in the middle of the picturesque square at the center of Main Street bubbled like a lazy brook. The square itself was lined with white birch trees bearing golden leaves and appeared as well-manicured as ever.
The ‘Welcome to Point Pleasant’ sign listed the population at 4,637. Point Pleasant was small in contrast to a city like Boston, but the town suddenly seemed larger than Ben remembered from his youth. He smiled to himself at the rest of the sign as he sped past: ‘We’re Mighty Pleased to Have You!’
We’ll see about that.
Ben’s seatbelt felt uncomfortably tight. The journey had taken a little over thirteen hours. He left Boston at six o’clock in the morning after a fitful night of sleep. He had packed his freshly laundered clothes and hit the road before his resolve could shift and he reconsidered the notion of returning to his hometown.
When he pulled the Camaro up to his childhood home just after seven o’clock in the evening, Ben put the car into gear and sat with his hands on the steering wheel for a full minute before he finally killed the engine, climbed out, and breathed in the scent of burning leaves on the otherwise fresh air. The black Ford Expedition in the driveway signaled that Andrew was home.
The lawn was mown, but the flowerbeds were vacant. The cherry tree that grew in the westernmost corner of the yard showed signs of a recent pruning; it always bloomed in the spring. As it was late October, Ben wondered if the apple tree in the backyard was still there and if its branches were weighted down by its seasonal yield of the tart green apples that his mother used to bake into pies.
The hou
se itself was as pristine as the front lawn. Andrew Wisehart was a military man; he had served in Vietnam as a field surgeon where he took a shot to the hip while tending to a wounded soldier. His career in army greens had been cut short due to his subsequent limp, but the rigid training lingered in his general philosophy. There was a place for everything so that everything could be in its place.
Andrew had always—quite literally—presented his best foot forward to the world, and this included the appearance of his home. The week after Caroline died, Andrew saw to it that the hedges were trimmed and that the interior and exterior of the house received a new coat of paint after the smoke damage had been cleared.
Ben and Kate had helped, of course. Kate had flown down from Boston upon the news of her mother’s death. Andrew cried once that week, only once. He blamed himself with the misguided notion that with all his medical expertise, he should have recognized the signs of the ticking time bomb in his wife’s brain. Ben knew that his father’s desire to have the house restored to its initial beauty was not a result of his anal-retentive need for order. Rather, it was his tribute to his dead wife and the home she had helped create for their family.
Ben followed the cobblestone walkway to the front door, which had been painted red at some point in the last thirteen years. Caroline would have approved of the way the shade of scarlet accented the yellow exterior of the three-story American Craftsman.
He took a moment to adjust his suit jacket. Normally, Ben would wear jeans and a t-shirt for such a lengthy drive, but he had reconsidered that option when he thought of seeing his father for the first time since Kate’s graduation from Harvard Law School in Boston almost eight years prior. Ben adopted the ensemble he wore when he appeared as Preston James at book signings to swathe himself in a security blanket of his own making.
The doorbell let out a muffled chime when Ben pressed the small button mounted on the wall by the mail box. The sound of shuffling feet prepared him for when the door opened, and his father stood on the other side.
“Ben?” Andrew asked, blinking in disbelief.
“Hey, Dad.”
Andrew laughed and pulled Ben into a hug. It was brief, but Ben savored the gesture.
“I didn’t think you were serious last night,” Andrew said as he stepped back. “Come in, come on.”
Ben followed Andrew inside and absorbed the familiar sight of the entry hall. A heavy winter coat and a black rain jacket with a The North Face logo hung on the wall pegs behind the front door. The walnut banister and staircase gleamed with the evidence of a recent polishing, as did the hardwood floors that lined the corridor.
“I thought it was a good idea after all,” Ben said. He faced his father and took the moment to assess his appearance.
Andrew loomed tall in Ben’s memories, and though they had been the same height back when Ben left Point Pleasant, it still felt strange to share the same eye level. Andrew was neatly shaven, and his chestnut hair was flecked with gray. He wore a white button-down shirt with a loosened tie; he had probably just arrived home from the hospital.
“You look good, Benji,” Andrew said, grinning as he clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder.
“You too, Dad,” Ben replied with a smile of his own.
“You left it too long,” Andrew said. “Much too long.”
“I know,” Ben said. “I’m here now.”
Andrew’s faulty gait was only slightly discernible as he limped on his left leg toward the kitchen. The walls were the same cheerful teal that Ben had helped paint thirteen years prior. The black marble countertops were immaculate and clear of clutter. There was now a dishwasher and a new refrigerator, and a halogen stove top had replaced the former gas fixture. Ben’s gaze fell to the spot on the floor that had haunted his dreams for over a decade, and he forced his eyes to his father.
“Have you eaten? I only just got in a few minutes ago,” Andrew said. “What do you say we have a beer and then head into town for food? There’s a new place, does good burgers.”
“Sounds nice.”
“No, I know, Duvall’s. Mae will go nuts when she sees you.” Andrew offered Ben a cold bottle of Blue Moon from the fridge. The lids were popped, and Ben clinked the neck of his bottle to his father’s.
“Duvall’s would be great.”
Andrew took a long draught of his beer and lounged against a countertop. They stood in easy silence, but Ben soon shifted from foot to foot as his father looked him from head-to-toe again. “You look professional, Benji. Your mom would be impressed. Your hair’s still shaggy, though. You allergic to scissors?”
Ben raised an eyebrow and sipped his own beer. “The house looks nice,” he observed, shifting the conversation away from himself and his father’s barbed compliments.
“Had it painted in the spring. Was starting to look a bit weatherworn after last winter. Lotta snow.”
“Yeah, Boston was a nightmare too.”
Andrew had another swig and continued to eye his son. “So why leave Boston now? You in trouble?”
“No, sir,” Ben said, straightening reflexively. “Just got to thinking about Mom, and you—” he started, but he felt unsure of how to finish. “I had a message on my machine from Katie when I got home last night. She said she had good news.”
Andrew tilted his head with interest. “What kind of good news?”
“She didn’t say. I dunno, maybe David proposed.”
“Wouldn’t that be something?” Andrew asked almost to himself. Ben could see his father was considering the idea of walking his little girl down the aisle.
“Yeah,” Ben agreed. “It would. But it just got me thinking. It’s been a while. And I don’t have anything else going on right now.”
“You’re not working?” Andrew asked, and Ben steeled himself at his father’s tone. Andrew might as well have used his index and middle fingers to make a pair of air quotes as he spoke the final word.
“I am,” Ben said. “But a change of scenery can’t hurt. I can write anywhere.”
“You staying long, then?”
Ben scratched at the label on his bottle. “I dunno, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.”
“Well, you’re welcome to stay as long as you want, Benji,” he said. “I’m not here much, honestly. Your room is just as you left it,” he said, and Ben smiled as his father repeated himself from their conversation the night before.
“Thanks, Dad,” Ben said, and his earlier tension slipped away.
Andrew clapped him on the shoulder again. “Duvall’s?”
Ben nodded.
“Let me grab my coat,” Andrew said as he led them to the front hall. He paused and twisted to face Ben. “But let me ask you something.”
“Yeah, what?” Ben asked.
“Can I drive?”
Ben laughed, pulled the keys to the Camaro out of his pocket, and tossed them to his father. Andrew caught them and beamed.
When they reached Duvall’s, all of Ben’s earlier anxiety had disappeared. Andrew had been impressed with Ben’s upkeep of the Camaro despite his grumbles over the mileage, and he had taken the long way back to Main Street so that he could enjoy the drive.
The diner was relatively busy, but it had always been a favored destination in Point Pleasant. Mae Duvall was an important member of the community and this was reflected in the popularity of her business.
A stout man with ginger hair and a scruffy beard to match greeted them. His name tag read, ‘Keith.’
Ben followed Keith to a corner booth and took a seat opposite his father. Ben gave his order; he had been away for over ten years, but the menu had not changed. Andrew asked for the same. Duvall’s did the best burgers in the state as far as residents of Point Pleasant were concerned.
Keith seemed unprepared for their quick decisions and fumbled for his order pad. He took an awkward moment to jot down their requests before he disappeared to the kitchen.
“He new?” Ben asked, and Andrew shook his head.
“
Keith? Nah, he’s been around a while. A nephew on Mitch’s side, I think.”
Mitch, Mae’s husband, had died two years prior. Andrew had mentioned it in a phone call soon after, and Ben had sent flowers to Mae, but it felt like an empty gesture. Ben had liked Mitch Duvall; he had helped Ben patch up his front bike tire one muggy summer afternoon in his youth and had offered a free milkshake afterward.
Ben sat a little straighter in his seat when he realized he and Andrew were under the scrutinous eyes of the other patrons. He felt overdressed for a burger and fries at the local greasy spoon, but Andrew seemed unperturbed.
“Not much else has changed, though,” Andrew said.
“Yeah, the ride in was like hopping into a time machine. The only real difference seemed to be the Sheriff’s Department.”
“They finished construction on the new building a year or two ago. I don’t remember. Cost the county a lot of money, but I guess they can justify it.”
“I saw Sheriff Nolan’s comments in the paper. About the missing livestock,” Ben said, and he kept his tone casual, hoping Andrew would resume their conversation from the night before. “Online, I mean. The Gazette has a website.”
“Yeah, Lizzie Collins runs it almost single-handedly,” Andrew said, snorting. “She’s always got her nose in town business.”
“Sounds about right.”
“I read that article the other day, though,” Andrew said. “Nolan’s dealing with it in the right way. These people get up in arms over anything. Best to keep the civilians subdued.”
Ben took in the casual way his father referred to the townspeople as ‘civilians.’ His years in the armed forces tended to shine through at the oddest times. “But it’s weird, isn’t it? The disappearances.”
“Benji, I know you write your little books about the monsters under beds, but there’s not some giant bat carrying cows off into the darkness.”
Point Pleasant Page 4