“No, but it’s abandoned. It has been since for a while. And here’s where your story gets a little weird. The Split family was killed there in August of 1968. Apparently they were murdered with an axe. The killer was never identified.”
Stephenie though about this for a moment before saying, “So, you think I saw their ghosts?”
“No Miss Paige. I don’t. If your story included a moment where you were chopping up that family, I’d actually start thinking I had fallen into an episode of the X-files. But you didn’t say that, did you?”
“No.”
“Did you chop that family up?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well then,” Quill scratched his head. “This is where I get a little confused Stephenie… the family in the farmhouse, back in 1968. Their names were Christina Split, Anne Split and Blair Split. Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know. What do you want me to say?”
“Frankly, I don’t know what I want you to say.”
“The Split family are a bunch of ghosts; is that what you’re suggesting?”
“You wish. What I’m suggesting is… you did your homework. At the beginning of this interview Officer Lynch thought you knew what you were doing. I was the one that thought you were mentally unstable. Now don’t get me wrong, I still think you’re unstable, but now I’m thinking it was premeditated.”
“What?”
“You heard me. How did you come up with those names if you hadn’t done your homework?”
“I came up with those names because I’m telling you the truth.”
Quill shook his head, becoming slightly angry. “No, you’re not.”
“How can you say that? What makes you so sure?”
“Because there are holes in your story. Big ones.”
“Look,” Stephenie said. “I can understand you guys not believing me. Honest, I can. But this stuff happened. It really did.”
“You might think that it did,” Lynch said.
“And you might be making it up,” Quill said, not just to Stephenie but to Lynch as well. “You might be making it up, and I think you are.”
“Why would I do that?”
“To get a lighter sentence.”
“What? That doesn’t make sense. I sat there, waiting to get arrested. Does that sound like the actions of somebody that’s aiming for a lighter sentence?”
“Like I said,” Lynch mumbled. “I think you are crazy. I’m surprised Quill doesn’t. Seems like a no-brainer to me.”
“And it seems like bullshit to me,” Quill said.
“Wait,” Stephenie said. “Just wait a minute. Assume for a minute that there was a crack in the earth, in our time, in our reality.”
“Like something from Star Trek,” Lynch said, in a condescending kind of way.
“Yeah,” Stephenie said, matching his tone. “Like something from Star Trek.”
Lynch shrugged. “Okay.”
“If there was a crack in our reality, I could have really been in a different place. And that would explain why I know about the Split family.”
“But Miss Paige,” Quill said. “There are holes in your story.”
“What holes?”
“Want me to tell you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay then. Listen to this––”
2
“First of all,” Quill said. “You went back in time?”
“If I fell into a different reality––”
Quill waved her off. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, okay. Let me start over.” He lifted his notes from in front of him. His eyes scanned the words. “I’m going to start at the beginning. You arrive at the gas station, you go inside––everyone is dead.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re aware that in your version of the story, you’re the one who killed them.”
Stephenie felt her stomach clench. “Yeah, it’s starting to seem that way.”
“It’s starting to seem that way because it is that way, Miss Paige.”
Stephenie nodded. “Go on.”
Quill expelled a long breath that seemed to be loaded with frustration. “You know what? Lets assume that you did time travel, or whatever. Okay? You said you stopped for gas, you went into the restaurant, and everyone was dead. Right? And from there you looked around for Carrie, you drove away, you came back––then you went into the bungalow across the street. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s boarded up.”
“So you said.”
“Why don’t you see this clearly,” Lynch said. “The woman’s crazy.”
Quill ignored him. He said, “Then you were chased around by some zombies and you went to the farmhouse and talked to ghosts.”
“I didn’t know they were ghosts.”
“Okay, fine Stephenie. But you told us––in great detail––that Blair went into the barn and looked at his tools. Hell, you even told us about the old car. How do you know that stuff, Miss Paige? How can you know that stuff, if you were sitting in the living room with a pencil rammed into your ankle, which, by the way, isn’t there now.”
“I explained why it’s not there now.”
“Oh, I know. You explained away every bit of evidence there is.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No Miss Paige. What’s not fair begins and ends with the seventeen dead bodies we found in and around King’s Diner.”
“I thought they were––”
“Zombies. Yeah, I know. Personally I think you just wanted to find out what it was like to live out a sick fantasy.”
“That’s not true.”
“Fine then. It’s not true. You still haven’t answered the question. How do you know about Blair’s trip to the garage if you weren’t there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly. And in your story, you end up being a vampire, which… uh… don’t even get me started on that pile of bullshit. But if, and I mean if, that actually happened… why do you know all about…” Quill looked at his notes. “Doctor Bruce McCullagan, Mayor Boyle Scott, and Arthur ‘gravedigger’ McNeill, huh? Where did that little story come from?”
Stephenie said, “I don’t know.”
But this time there was concern in her voice. Officer Quill had a good point. Why did she know that stuff? Why did she know any of that stuff? Oh God. Maybe she was crazy. Maybe she hallucinated everything because there was a problem with her medications. Somehow the idea of walking into that restaurant unprovoked and slaughtering those people was worse than anything else. And let’s not kid ourselves; that’s what she did. She slaughtered them. She chopped them apart with an axe.
“Is that the best you can do, Miss Paige?” Quill said. “I don’t know?”
Lynch said, “I don’t know why this is hitting you this way, Quill. It still boils down to the same thing. She’s crazy.”
“But it was premeditated!” Quill exclaimed.
“So she was crazy before she showed up at the restaurant, so what?”
Just then, the door to the interrogation room opened, creaked open actually. Stephenie, Lynch, and Quill all turned to see who was there.
It was Carrie.
Both Lynch and Quill looked at her oddly, wondering what she was doing and where her supervision had gone and how she knew where to find them.
Stephenie pushed away from the girl, afraid.
Very afraid.
Carrie, or perhaps the thing that looked like Carrie, tapped her index finger against her temple.
And with that, the vampire child’s words haunted Stephenie’s memories: “Soon you will understand everything and more. All will be explained, in time. You have one more death in this realm, Stephenie. Just one. And my hand shall be the hand that delivers your death and seals your fate. After that, you and I shall return to the place in which you desire––you and I, almost together. You first… alone; then after a short while I shall join you. Soon, everything begins.”
; Stephenie found herself reaching into her back pocket. Her fingers fell upon two photographs. Both showed Carrie sitting on a chair in a big empty room. She looked sad. She looked frightened. Her knees were together, her bottom lip was out and both of her hands were wrapped in a white towel. The towel had a dark spot. The spot was red, looked like blood.
“Oh my God,” Stephenie said.
And when she ran her tongue across her teeth, wouldn’t you know it? They seemed a little bigger.
October 21/08 - March 31/09
JAMES ROY DALEY ~ The Dead Parade, James Roy Daley’s first novel, was released in a trade paperback edition in 2008 by Permuted Press/Swarm Press, and once again by Bad Moon Books in a limited edition hardcover edition in 2010. Best New Zombie Tales Volume One is Daley’s first anthology. Other books include Terror Town, Best New Zombie Tales Volume Two, Best New Vampire Tales Volume One, and Into Hell.
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Preview of:
JAMES ROY DALEY’S - TERROR TOWN
~~~~ PROLOGUE: CLOVEN ROCK
The people that lived in Cloven Rock considered the town’s final Monday a beautiful one, like most of the days in the recent weeks. The sun was shining; the air was clean and warm. Flowers bloomed and birds sat among the branches singing songs only birds could understand. Dogs chased master’s Frisbees and people said hello to strangers, not to suggest that thousands of tourists roamed the beachfront or the area that passed as the downtown core. That wasn’t the case; there were only a few. If you asked one of the locals why things were this way, the answer would be simple: Cloven Rock was an inclusive town, an uncomplicated town, a town that didn’t encourage a vacationer crowd even though sightseers would have flocked to it religiously. Many residents thought the town was special and they were right. It was special. It wasn’t a small place trying to be a big place. It was a town without civic uncertainty.
The Yacht Club Swimming Pool, a Cloven Rock favorite, had a full house the day before the town was lost. They also had an open door policy; if you were respectful, courteous, and didn’t pee in the pool, you were welcome anytime. Also on that day, friends sailed the calm waters of Cloven Lake and children built sandcastles on Holbrook Beach. Kids played in Easton Park while the people on the large wooden deck at the Waterfront Café enjoyed the spectacular view. The post office closed early. An ice cream store called Tabby’s Goodies was doing good business and a mile and a half up the road the men and woman working at the Cloven Rock Docks fought for, and won, a fifty-cent raise. Spirits were high at the Docks, and the personnel were getting along just fine. It wasn’t surprising. Nearly half the workforce was related and the other half was considered family.
The Cloven Rock Police Department was not at full strength when things turned ugly. One officer was on vacation, one had gone home due to an illness in the family, and two had the day off. Of the nine remaining officials, only Tony Costantino, Joel Kirkwood, and Mary O’Neill, were on duty when the reports came in. The other four were either at home or on call. Normally this wouldn’t be deemed a problem. Most locals figured a thirteen-person police force was nothing short of overkill anyhow. The Rock hadn’t had a stitch of recorded violence in six years.
The community as a whole didn’t know horror, as most tight-knit communities can understand. It knew long days, family activities, and simple living. It knew Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. It knew family.
But sadly, like all communities, Cloven Rock had its share of tragedy.
2007 was a bad year.
It was the year a local artist named George Gramme had his hands caught in his motorcycle chain while he was working on it. He suffered two broken wrists and lost four of his fingers. He also lost his artistic spirit and the means to keep that spirit alive. In the weeks following, he put his motorcycle up for sale and fell into a state of depression that changed him into a different man.
Two weeks later the town’s senior librarian, Angela Lore, died from cancer on the same day that ‘odd-job’ Martin West fell off a ladder and broke both of his legs while shingling his neighbor’s roof.
2007 was also the year a car accident claimed the lives of three teenagers.
As the story goes, a half dozen youngsters were drinking on the unnamed road surrounding Holbrook’s pond. After several hours of alcohol consumption, the six youths plunked their butts inside two vehicles. In one car, Andrew Cowles and Dean Lee, a pair of borderline delinquents, drove home without incident and arrived safely. The second car, loaded with four of the sweetest kids you’d ever meet, weren’t so lucky. Two brothers, Guy and Henri Lemont, along with May Lewis and Lizzy Backstrom, the youngest of the crew, decided it would be a good idea to take a quick jaunt to Hoppers Gas on the 9th line. But on the way to Hoppers something stepped onto the road causing Guy to swerve left and lose control of the vehicle.
As luck would have it, Stanley Rosenstein, a foreman at the Docks and an all-around good guy, pulled his truck from his driveway the same moment Guy changed lanes.
Guy didn’t see the truck in time. The car clipped Stanley’s front bumper, veered off the road, rolled three times, and slammed into a large maple tree, roof first. The two brothers, Guy and Henri, were killed instantly. May Lewis spent nine days in critical condition before she passed away while her parents and grandparents watched. Lizzy Backstrom escaped with a broken back, three broken ribs, a punctured lung, two broken legs, and wide assortment of cuts, scrapes and bruises. Most figured she was lucky to be alive. A few figured she was unlucky to be alive. Once she was able to speak she said a bear stepped in front of the car and Guy swerved to miss it. There weren’t many bears in Cloven Rock so the statement generated a cluster of questions she wasn’t prepared to answer. She pushed the inquisition aside, saying, “It might not have been a bear but wasn’t a deer either. I don’t know what it was.”
Two months later, Lizzy broke down in tears, telling her friend Julie Stapleton that a monster the size of a tank stepped in front of Guy’s car and she got a real good look at it. She said the beast seemed like something from another planet and if Guy were alive he’d be the first to confirm.
Julie, sworn to secrecy, became worried about Lizzy’s mental wellbeing. She thought her friend had brain damage. Of course, Julie’s knowledge on matters concerning the brain could have been written on the on tip of her thumb, but that hardly mattered. She also didn’t know that Stanley Rosenstein––the man driving the pickup that fateful night––had a similar story. If she had known this little noodle of information she may have kept her big mouth shut. Or talked to Lizzy. Either way, that’s not what happened. Instead, Julie betrayed her oath, feeling it was necessary to tell Lizzy’s parents what their daughter was thinking. This forced a confrontation between Mr. and Mrs. Backstrom and Lizzy, who denied everything and never spoke to Julie again. Not ever. And a year later Stanley Rosenstein found himself separated from his wife, in rehab, and in need of psychiatric evaluation.
He thought there were monsters in Cloven Rock.
* * *
There were other tragedies.
Four summers before the heartbreaking car accident Simon Wakefield, the town’s only dentist, drowned in his backyard swimming pool while his wife Leanne talked to her sister not forty feet away. The year before that, faulty wiring caused a fire that burned Stephen Pebbles’ house to the ground. To make matters worse, his insurance expired the week before. Ironically, two weeks later the town was hit with a rainstorm that caused over two million dollars in damages. Stephen was quoted as saying that the rain should have come two weeks sooner; it would have saved his life’s investments.
The tales go on: tales of love gone astray, broken homes, poor health, and financial ruin. But these stories shouldn’t be focused on, even if they’re commonly considered the most interesting. Tales of sorrow don’t express the true face of Cloven Rock’s two hundred and nine years of existence. They pepper it in a negative light that was seldom felt or witnessed.
Cloven Rock was a peaceful community
, a pleasant community. It was a place where folks could retire from work and enjoy a simple life. The town was good to grow up in, good to live life in, and good to grow old in. The problems were minimal and living was easy. People were friendly and the air tasted sweet with the spice of nature.
On the eve of its extinction, nobody knew what was coming. The locals never expected terror to reveal its vile and horrid face. Not in Cloven Rock. Not in a town of 1,690. The concept seemed out of the question.
But they didn’t know the heart of Nicolas Nehalem.
And only Stanley Rosenstein and Lizzy Backstrom had seen the monsters that dwelled in the dark shadows beneath the streets.
Something from another planet, Lizzy had said. If Guy were alive he’d be the first to confirm.
Stanley Rosenstein would have agreed.
It was the first Monday of June when Cloven Rock began showing the world a different face. And for many of the people that lived in the undersized and joyful town, it would be the last Monday they would ever know.
This is what happened:
* * *
* * *
~~~~ CHAPTER ONE: NICOLAS NEHALEM
Nicolas Nehalem woke up from a happy dream and shifted his near-dead weight into a new position. His eyes opened and closed, opened and closed. He licked the dryness from his lips and ran his tongue across his teeth while forcing himself awake. The dream faded; he was some form of insect, if he remembered correctly, and upon awaking he noticed that his left hand felt funny. He could feel pins and needles pricking his fingers and a lack of sensation in his thumb and wrist. He must have been sleeping wrong, cutting off the circulation.
No biggie; it would pass.
The room was dark. A cool breeze blew through the open window, causing the thin off-white drapes to flutter. The clock on the nightstand said it was 4:08 am and while Nicolas was looking at it time moved ahead by one minute.
Into Hell Page 27