Point Pleasant

by Wood, Jen Archer

  A few days before the battle, Emily wrote again. “There are whispers in the camp. The men are uneasy. They speak of the eyes in the woods and the great shape they have seen perched atop the trees during their scouting trips for a suitable fighting ground. Captain Mathews has gone silent since his last journey into the forest. Father says it is the anxiety of the impending battle that caused him to say he saw a giant bat swoop over the land near the river. I believe him, though. There is something in these woods, something that I do not think is an angel at all. Angels would not make you burn cold with fear at the sight of them. I heard screams late last night. It sounded like Phillip, but he was asleep beside me. It could not have been him.”

  Ben felt numb with unease as Emily Lewis’ account of the creature’s scream sent him hurtling into the memory of that early morning in the forest that had marred his otherwise normal childhood.

  The next account was written on the eleventh of October, the day after the battle. “We have won the area, though the loss of life and limb is staggering. The soldiers are all quiet and mournful. We have lost nearly eighty of our own, a heavy price for our victory. The Indians in our possession are frightened but not of us. They seem to twitch at every snap of twig and crackle of dead leaves near them. They do not like these woods. I do not blame them. Red-Face, the name the soldiers have given to the Indian man who speaks in English and translates the Algonquian language for us, told father that the Shawnee Indians fear the spirit of the woods. Father laughed, but Red-Face was sincere. He said the Shawnee believe this ground is rotten, that something emerged from it and tainted the land with bad omens. I do not want to live here anymore.”

  Ben leapt to his feet and strode to the other side of the room with the journal in his hand. He switched on the photocopier in the corner and within minutes he had copied every entry of the diary featuring a reference to the creature in the woods. His thoughts raced like the bright green light of the machine that scanned over every page as he worked.

  If the creature had been seen over two hundred years ago, and if it was indeed the same creature, exactly how old was it? And if the forest that lined Point Pleasant was known by the surrounding Native American tribes to be ‘rotten,’ just how long had the creature lived there?

  The creature had rested atop a tower on Silver Bridge hours before its collapse in the sixties just as it had perched in the trees in the days before the Battle of Point Pleasant. Had it somehow caused these events? Or was its presence merely an indicator of impending doom? Was the Mothman truly a death omen?

  Ben gathered the copies and returned to the table. He was not sure how to proceed now. This was so much bigger than anything he had been prepared for. There was a flurry of potential leads to follow. It would be useful to cross-check every recorded sighting of the Mothman with some kind of local disaster or accident. This would be time-consuming but necessary. Ben still needed to find out if both Charlie Warren and Evelyn Lewis still lived in town. If so, he had to talk to them both about Emily as soon as possible.

  A sudden thought froze Ben in place as he packed away his notebook and the photocopies.

  If the Mothman was a bad omen, if its continuous appearance heralded death and destruction, why was it appearing now? Tucker’s journals revealed the extent to which it had been sighted over the years, mostly during random encounters, but what happened when it was sighted more than once? Was some terrible fate about to befall Point Pleasant?

  “This is fucking crazy,” Ben mumbled as he gathered his bag and headed upstairs.

  Timothy was behind the enquiry desk again. “You finished? I haven’t had a chance to look for the factory records yet.”

  “Don’t worry for now, I’ll probably be back tomorrow for those,” Ben said with an anxious smile. “Thanks for your help, the documents were very useful.”

  “I’ll put aside whatever I find,” Timothy offered and resumed his work.

  Ben left the library and took a deep breath when he reached the parking lot. He knew he should grab some lunch, but he felt too discombobulated to consider food. The whole situation seemed nuts. He wondered if he should take his findings to Tucker or if it would only serve to make the old man even more paranoid.

  A vibration rumbled in the pocket of Ben’s coat. He pulled his phone out and saw an alert for five missed calls from a number he did not immediately recognize. Ben scrounged for the Post-it note that Nicholas had given him that morning; it was the same number.

  He tapped his finger over the notification to return the call and was surprised when Nicholas picked up after the first ring.

  “Ben?”

  “Hey, Nic. Sorry, guess I lost signal. Didn’t know you called.”

  “Where are you?”

  “God, you’re not turning clingy are you?” Ben laughed.

  “Ben, where are you right now?”

  “The library. In the parking lot. I can send you GPS coordinates if you want something more specific.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute. Stay where you are.”

  “Nic, wha—” he started, but the connection ended.

  The unease Ben had experienced when driving into town that morning slithered back into its place in the pit of his stomach. He deposited his bag in the Camaro’s passenger seat and slammed the door shut.

  A moment later, Nicholas appeared. He strode at a brisk pace as he rounded the corner of the library. The Sheriff’s Department was only a few minutes away by foot, so it made sense for him to walk.

  “What’s wrong?” Ben asked. He had a moment to register the sheriff’s grave expression before he spoke.

  “Ben,” Nicholas started. “I—I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Andy,” Nicholas said, and Ben felt his heart drop in his chest even before Nicholas finished. “He’s dead.”

  A gust of wind shook the sanguine foliage of the dogwood trees that lined the parking lot. Ben could only stare at the other man.

  “Ben,” Nicholas said, but he faltered for something else to say.

  Ben struggled to parse and process the words that had lost all meaning in his lexicon. Dead. Andy’s dead. Your dad is dead.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you,” Ben whispered.

  “Ben, I’m so sorry.” Nicholas’ tone made it real; his grief was genuine.

  The asphalt under Ben’s feet was littered with dead leaves. Ben fixed his eyes on the thick lines of white paint that marked the separate parking spaces against the blacktop. When he looked up, Nicholas’ gaze was dark with sympathy. Ben jerked away.

  “How?” he asked. The word tumbled out with a jarring shrillness that sounded foreign to his ears.

  Nicholas seemed to be debating whether he should tell Ben to take a moment and collect himself before he started asking the hows and whys. “Ten-car pile up on the bridge. A semi crashed into the back of the line.”

  “And?” Ben demanded.

  Nicholas’ voice went soft as he continued. “Some of the vehicles involved were pushed over the side with the impact. Your father’s was one of them.”

  Ben sank down onto the asphalt he had just been staring at.

  “Ben,” Nicholas said in alarm. He kneeled down and placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder.

  “I’m fine,” Ben said, but the response was weak. “I just need a minute.”

  “Are you—”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  Nicholas sat at Ben’s side. They leaned against the rear bumper of the Camaro and did not speak.

  “When did it happen? Is this why you left earlier?” Ben asked at last.

  The small nod of confirmation from the sheriff was devastating.

  Ben felt like a game of human KerPlunk; it was as if there was a handful of feeble plastic straws holding his marbles in, but those barriers were being stripped away one at a time. Soon, the marbles would drop out of him and scatter across the coarse surface of the parking lot.

  “I hav
e to tell Kate,” he said.

  “I can call her.”

  “No,” Ben replied. “You should go back to work.”

  Nicholas’ eyes lit up with concern and something else, something that seemed almost like devotion if Ben looked close enough. It made him feel even smaller inside.

  “I can stay if you need me.”

  Ben forced himself to climb to his feet. “I need to be alone.”

  “Where are you going?” Nicholas asked as he stood.

  Ben huffed out a sad laugh. “To the house, I guess. Fuck.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t. You can go to mine.” Nicholas had taken his keys out of his pocket before Ben could refuse. “Take them. If you don’t want to go back to your house, go to mine. You don’t have to, but you can if you want to.” Nicholas took Ben’s hand, placed the keys in his palm, and then carefully closed his fingers over them. Their weight was almost a comfort.

  “Yeah, okay,” Ben said.

  “But be there around six either way. I need someone to let me in. I’ll make you dinner.”

  Ben glanced up at Nicholas, at those fucking blue eyes that spoke of something deep and ineffable that Ben could not bear to think was truly directed toward him.

  Nicholas put a hand on Ben’s shoulder in a brief gesture of solidarity before he turned toward the direction of the Sheriff’s Department.

  Ben closed his fingers around the keys. He pocketed them and slid into the Camaro. He took out his phone to dial Kate’s office. He bowed his forehead to the steering wheel when Margaret answered. Of course. She sounded perky and cheerful. Of course.

  “Yeah, this is Ben Wisehart again, Margaret. I need to speak to my sister.”

  “I’m sorry, Kate is in a board meeting right—” she started, but Ben cut her off.

  “It’s an emergency, Margaret. Seriously, please get her. Right now.”

  Something in Ben’s voice must have convinced her of the urgency of the call. “I’ll just get her for you. Please hold.”

  The jovial drone of elevator music rose from his phone’s speaker, and Ben wanted to get out and kick the burgundy Nissan parked beside the Camaro. A minute later, Kate picked up.

  “Ben? What’s wrong?”

  “Kate,” Ben said, but he could not continue. The broken sound of his voice threw him off guard.

  “Ben? Say something. Talk to me.”

  “Dad’s dead, Kate.”

  The line went silent. Kerplunk.

  “What?”

  “Dad’s dead. Car accident. On the bridge. This morning.”

  Ben dropped his head to the steering wheel once more and kept the phone to his ear.

  “Are—are you sure?”

  “Nic just told me,” Ben said. “He was there.”

  “Fuck,” Kate uttered.

  A silence as lengthy as the distance between New York and West Virginia stretched between them while they absorbed the news.

  “I’ll fly out,” Kate said finally. “I’ll fly out today.”

  Ben brushed a hand through his hair and straightened. “You don’t have to, Kate. There’s nothing to do, is there? Doesn’t the army arrange the funeral?”

  “No, Dad had most of that sorted out with his will. I can fly out anyway,” Kate said, and she sniffed. “If you want me there.”

  The offer was beautiful, and Ben wanted to accept immediately. Yes, fly out. Please, fuck, come home. I can’t do this on my own.

  “I don’t know, Katie,” Ben whispered into the receiver. “It’s up to you. But you don’t have to.”

  “Are you okay?” The concern in his sister’s voice was wounding.

  “I don’t know,” Ben answered honestly. “Are you?”

  “I’ll finish up some cases today and tomorrow and try and fly out the day after,” Kate said with finality. “And I’ll start making the necessary arrangements.”

  Ben nodded even though Kate could not see him. “What can I do?”

  “Just call me later. Okay?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Ben said.

  “Bye, Benji…”

  “Bye, Katie.”

  Ben hung up and stared down at his phone. He brushed his finger over the face of it, and the call log came up on screen. He skimmed over the list of received calls, and his focus settled on the numberless ones that had come in yesterday while Ben had been in town and at the Freemont Farm.

  “Fuck,” Ben murmured to himself.

  The library’s automatic sliding doors were visible in the rearview mirror when Ben glanced up. He thought of Emily Lewis, of Silver Bridge, and of how the Native Americans had steered clear of Point Pleasant’s rotten forests. He thought of death omens and wondered if the two phone calls he received the day before had been the Mothman’s warning to him.

  Ben wanted to go back to Boston, close his eyes, and pretend he had never ventured down I-79 and crossed into West Virginia. But then he would not have seen Andrew before—no. Ben clamped down on that thought. He cranked the car and pulled out of the parking space without even bothering to secure his seatbelt.

  The Camaro’s engine was a comforting hum as Ben drove down Main Street and made the turn for River Bend Road. He floored the accelerator, flew past the Tucker farm, and gritted his teeth. The tires squealed, and the car heaved violently when Ben brought his foot down onto the brakes. He tore himself out of the driver’s side and left the engine running as he strode to the shoulder of the road and screamed.

  “Are you fucking happy?” Ben yelled as he threw his arms in the air. “Is this what you do?”

  The pervasive silence of the forest met his rage. For the first time, Ben was unmoved by its darkness.

  “I’m going to find you,” he said as he balled his hand into a fist. “I’m going to find you.”

  The Camaro’s engine went dead behind him. Ben twisted around. The driver’s side door was still swung open. White noise hissed from the car’s radio and broke the eerie hush of the surrounding tree line.

  Ben stepped closer to the car, forgetting about the forest. He edged toward the open door, leaned inside, and pushed the off-button on the radio, though the static continued to drift out of the speakers. A high-pitched squeal spewed out like the sudden rush of water from a collapsed dam, and Ben threw his hands over his ears as the frequency grew shriller.

  “Fuck you!” Ben screamed, spinning to face the woods. “You’re fucking there? Come on! I’m right here!” he called out as he dropped his hands to his side and stood straighter. “I’m right fucking here!”

  “Ben,” said the radio through the static.

  Ben felt like his throat had been filled with cold lead. It was not the high-pitched squeal that said the words. The voice was crippling in its familiarity; it was the voice that had often enquired about the Camaro’s mileage, the voice that had graveled with age and one too many Marlboros, the voice that more often than not had been weighed down by sighs of exasperation.

  “Benji,” said the voice of Andrew Wisehart.

  Horror and repulsion dueled for dominance as Ben stared unblinking at the dials. Tears blurred his vision. The radio went silent, and the engine roared to life as if revved by some unseen force.

  Ben turned to the forest and almost expected to see a figure with red eyes crouched in the underbrush, but there was only the empty shoulder and a shadowy boscage from which no sound emerged.

  He hopped into the car and slammed the door. He made a U-turn and sped back to Tucker’s farm where he parked in front of the house.

  “Tucker!” Ben called when he got out of the car. “It’s Wisehart! Don’t fucking shoot me, all right?” He grabbed his bag from the trunk before he stalked up to the porch.

  Tucker stood behind the rusted screen door with the Remington in his hands and alarm on his face. “What the hell’s gotten into you, son?”

  “My dad’s dead.”

  Tucker ushered Ben inside. “How?”

  “Car accident this morning. On the bridge.”

  “New Silver Brid
ge?” Tucker asked, widening his eyes as he led Ben through to the kitchen.

  Ben threw his bag on the cluttered table. “Guess you heard about Freemont?”

  “Sheriff came by yesterday. Asked me when I last saw Jack.”

  “Yeah. Lizzie Collins told me he’d been hearing it,” Ben said. “And that its screams sounded like children.”

  Tucker stiffened and reached up to adjust his red baseball cap. “They do.”

  “I know,” Ben said and shoved the copies of Emily Lewis’ diary into the other man’s hands. “I found this earlier.”

  “What is this?”

  “Diary of the daughter of the colonel who led the charge at the Battle of Point Pleasant. She’s writing in 1774 about how the campsite in the forest, that fucking forest—” Ben said and waved his arm in the direction of the woods outside, “—felt ‘ominous.’ Like eyes were always watching you when you were in it. She wrote she saw ‘an angel’ by the river, but it was like no ‘angel’ she ever read about in the Bible. It was big, and dark, and had eyes like blood.”

  “Jesus Christmas,” Tucker said as he read the copies.

  “She said it started appearing to the soldiers in the days before the battle.”

  Tucker’s shoulders set even tenser than before. “It showed up on the old bridge a few hours before it collapsed.”

  “I got phone calls yesterday. Two phone calls from no apparent number, and it was just static and squealing. Today my dad died.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I think this thing is a fucking death omen. I think it shows up when bad shit is about to happen. And if it’s been showing up all over town like the newspaper says, then something is about to happen here. Something really fucking bad.”

  Tucker tossed the papers onto the table and went to one of the countertops. He pulled two glasses and an unlabeled bottle of something dark and amber-colored out of a cabinet.