by Jon Fore
He caught sight of the tired blue Nova parked next to the house, Abby’s Nova. This was Brighton’s house, and lights were on, convincing Ethan someone was at home. Then he fell, this time harder into the dusty soil. He saw a bright flash of white, and his vision went dark and cloudy for a moment. His ears rang, but he fought for his feet. This time, they did not oblige, and he fell to his knees. He abandoned them and began crawling toward the house.
His desperation had become perfect, and his mind a jumble of rage and relief, guilt and loss. He watched the soil beneath him as he crawled, falling away from his knees as he smashed into the furrowed lines. The taste of it filled his mouth and picked at the edges of his eyes. He ran headlong into something and collapsed to one side. It took him a moment to realize he was staring at the treads of a tire just below a rusty blue quarter panel.
Ethan dragged himself around the side of the Nova and pulled at the door—locked. Abby always locked her car as if someone would steal it. He had teased her about this on more than one occasion, but it never changed. He began to pull himself toward the porch. He could hear the old television talking about the weather for tomorrow and the rest of the week. It was loud, and the normalcy of it spurred him on until he reached the steps of the worn porch.
Ethan pulled himself to a sitting position on the first step, and saw the old woman, still in her sundress and apron, the scarf tied tightly around her head, some distance away. She looked at him sadly, her face a mask of disappointment. After a moment, she turned and walked back toward where Ethan had come, her head hanging slightly, her age apparent in her walk. He had wanted to call to her, plead for help, but somewhere in his mind, he knew it would have been fruitless.
He pulled himself up each step, sitting on each like a geriatric climbing from a bathtub. His arms were close to giving out when he reached the top. He lay back for a moment to rest, and the mixtures of orange and purple staining the sky surprised him; there was more night than day there. He worked himself backward on his elbows until he met the side of the house and pounded on the door urgently.
The door screeched open, and Mr. Brighton looked down on him with no emotion. He stared for a moment, “You went down into the basement, didn’t you?”
Ethan croaked, “Help me…”
“Ya shouldn’t of gone down in the basement. Stupid kids…”
Ethan realized then that Mr. Brighton knew all about the house, what lay beneath it, the horrors in the darkness there. Fear bolted through him as this realization struck, and he yanked the revolver from his pants. Brighton jumped back toward the warm glow of the inside of his house. “Mr. Brighton, go and call the police, right now.” His voice was calm, the calm of one that had finally given up his hope and was now ready to die.
Brighton eased back into the house, and Ethan let the weight of the gun fall to his lap. He was panting with exhaustion, but if Brighton had known and did not tell them before they went up to the house, who knows what he could do. He heard the old man’s tired fingers spinning the dial of an old rotary telephone.
“This is Brighton. Can you send the police and an ambulance, Edna? No, nothing too serious, but tell them to get here as fast as they can. Yeah. No, I’ll tell you later. Thanks, Edna.”
Ethan could hear the old man rummaging in the kitchen before he reappeared at the door with a cup of steaming something. “Trade you this cup of coffee for the gun, son.”
“When the cops get here.”
“Well, take it anyways.” He offered Ethan the cup. “They are a bit slow getting all the way out here.”
Ethan took the cup and drank it quickly. It burned his throat, but the warmth spilled through him. “Why didn’t you tell us about the basement?”
“It was walled off about a hundred years back. Didn’t think you would go down there…”
“What’s down there, Mr. Brighton?”
“I don’t rightfully know, nor did I ever want to go down there and see either.” Mr. Brighton sat in an old rocking chair on the porch. “Hear tell it’s just the prison they used back in the war.”
“There is more to it than that, and you know it!” Ethan surprised himself by shouting.
“That’s just a legend, nothing more.”
“No it’s not! That place is evil, and you let us go up there anyway!”
“Where are your friends?”
“They’re fucking dead!”
Brighton looked down at Ethan, a look of disdain and disapproval in his face. “Alright…” he said simply.
Far off and in the distance, many miles from the sound of it, the same chill-raising screech bled over the top of the mountain. Ethan began to shake again. “You hear that? Huh?”
“That would be a cougar…mayhap a bobcat.”
“It’s that thing, the thing that killed Abby!”
The distant sound of sirens began to reach them as well.
“Those are just legends, son, rumors. Nothing more than stories.”
Ethan wanted to shoot the man, drill him in the face, but he was too tired. Anger could no longer spark him into action, and he just stared at the wrinkled old face trying to will it to explode as an ambulance rushed into the dirt parking area with its lights screaming through the night’s darkness.
PART 2
Chapter 16
“So, you heard the pounding at the door and found him just lying there on your porch? Is that it, Mr. Brighton?”
“Yeah, that’s it, Steve. I don’t know where the other three are and such, but the way he yanked that pistol at me, who knows?”
“Well, did he tell you anything about that?”
“He went on about some monster or something killing them. They looked like decent kids; would have never thought one of ’um might crack like this.”
“A monster, huh?” The cop arched an eyebrow at him.
“Don’t look at me like that, Steve, I know your father…”
“Mr. Brighton, what did he say about the monster?”
“He said the place was evil and that some monster or another done killed the others. That was about it. Oh, then he heard a cat screech up on the hill there and said that was the thing that killed ’um.”
“The three others, Mr. Brighton: what did ya say they looked like?” The officer leaned over his small pad of paper with his pencil nub and stared at the old man intensely.
“Well, the first girl, this Abby person, she was sorta plain, but pretty enough, being so young and all. She had light skin, light hair, freckles. The other boy, he had long, dark hair like he was one of them hippies or something, and real cocky-like. Then there was that girl…”
“What about her?” the cop asked after writing furiously.
“She was a real beauty, like one of them movie stars. She had that dark hair, you know, that flowed like water, bright, perky eyes, and a figure that would make spoiled milk fresh again.”
“Did any of them have any tattoos or any distinguishing marks on them?”
“Well, the real pretty one, she had a tiny mole or something just above her lip, like Marilyn Monroe had. The short haired fellow, he had on a gold chain with some kind of Egyptian symbol or the like.”
“Alright, Mr. Brighton. Thanks for your time and the coffee. Think you can make it down to the shack tomorrow and sign a statement?”
“Well, the old Ford ain’t running right now. Clinton said he got the part on order, but who knows when it will come in.”
“That’s fine. I'll drop by with it tomorrow when I get back on shift, if that’s alright with you.”
“Sure. Hey, would you mind retuning this here video I rented the other day? I haven’t been able to get by there, and Betty's going to be sore with me.”
The officer took the offered video tape and tipped his hat with it. “You try to have a good rest of the evening, hear?”
“You, too, Steve. My best to your ma and pa. Will that boy be okay?”
The officer stopped and turned back to him. “I reckon, just chilled to the
bone. It’s his head that has me concerned. I think he may just be a lunatic.”
“You think maybe he shot those others?”
“Could be… Night, Mr. Brighton.” The office waved as he descended the porch steps and climbed into his cruiser, the one he smashed into a guardrail and the department could not afford to fix yet. He worked his underwear into a more comfortable position before radioing in. “417 en route to the hospital.”
“417, clear,” a woman’s voice crackled back.
Steven knew all about the legend of Black Water Mountain; he had shared it with friends in school, even added a bit to the story here and there that still persisted to this day. He knew this because his own son was sharing it now with other children in school—the legend of Black Water Mountain and Captain Black. Some even tell the tale of a Father Burns. Nevertheless, it was all make believe, a lie passed among the children and shared with friends and family.
He even recalled reading about it in some book about myths and folklore in college. However, that did not make them real, just stories told, retold, and embellished along the way. He looked down at his notes, trying to read them in the soft amber glow of the dashboard. One word he had written repeatedly, monster. He dropped the pad back onto the passenger seat; the boy was just crazy is all.
“417,” the radio hissed at him.
“417,” he replied after retrieving the handset.
“417, they are moving the boy to Glendale Psychiatric.”
“417, 10-4, en route.” He clipped the microphone back to the dash. “So he is crazy,” Steve said to himself, satisfied with his own diagnosis.
* * *
“Good morning…” the man in the white lab coat paused to read the papers held firmly on his clipboard, “Ethan. And how have they been treating you?”
“Fine,” Ethan replied dryly.
“Well, seems you had a bit of an episode…” The doctor flipped a page, and then another. “Up on Black Water Mountain. What can you tell me about it?”
“I already told the doctors at the other hospital. That’s why I am here, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, I suppose. I read the statement you gave the police.”
“What can I help you with, Doctor?” Ethan asked, both bored and irritated.
The doctor dropped the clipboard onto the small table, the only other piece of furniture in the room besides the bed. “I just want to know what happened. They found the girl, you know that?”
“That would be Abby, I suppose?”
“Yes, Abby; the search party found her, or what was left of her, this morning. Can you tell me how she died?” The doctor leaned against the table and crossed his arms in an air of superiority.
“It’s in the fucking report,” Ethan replied angrily.
“They found two large pieces, Ethan, well chewed by animals. What they also found—that is what is troubling so many people. She had been shot.”
Ethan’s mind raced back to the prior evening’s events. He knew he fired twice at the thing, but he did not think he hit Abby. “I did not kill her,” he declared flatly.
“But you shot her?”
“No, not on purpose. If I did, she was already dead.”
“You don’t remember if you shot her, Ethan? Do you expect the police to believe that?”
“I don’t give a shit what they believe, or you, either. I did not kill her or the others. Go to the house; see that I am telling you the truth!”
The doctor lifted the clipboard from the table, accounted for his pen, and left the room without another word. He closed the door and latched it, and headed back to the nurse’s station. Gretchen was there talking with a younger cop, one with youth in his hair and build, but age in his eyes.
“So what did he say, Doc?” the cop asked.
Gretchen turned back to her monitors and paperwork.
“He’s having trouble remembering; most likely a psychotic episode brought on by something. Did you find the others yet?”
“No. The detectives in charge are heading up the mountain now. Do you think he could have killed the others as well?”
“Most likely. It’s pretty clear he killed the girl, right?”
“Yeah, looks like it. She has one bullet wound in her wrist; the coroner will tell us more when he has completed the autopsy. The animals really made a mess of her.”
“I’m going to start him on a medicinal regiment; maybe we can clear his memory up in a few days. I am sure, though, he will be with us for a while…” the doctor trailed off.
Chapter 17
“There it is, finally. I have not hiked like this since I was a kid. I’m going to be hurting in the morning,” the older detective said.
“Ah, come on, old man, we can rest when we get there,” the younger and somewhat attractive Shelly teased. She was in her late twenties and made detective not only early, but also as the only woman on the force.
“When you going to find a husband and badger him instead of me?”
“Actually I was thinking of you, Glenn,” Shelly laughed.
”I retire in six years, four months, and two days, and I already have a boil like you to take to my grave,” he shot back.
“The house looks almost new, doesn’t it?” Shelly asked with a voice softened by amazement.
Glenn looked up towards the house, “Yeah, it does. You don’t reckon that ol’ Brighton is coming up here and keeping it up do you?”
“Hell, he’s got ten years on you at least, and just look at you, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf.”
“Ah, leave me alone,” he grumbled, long weary of the teasing about being older than her. He loved the girl like a daughter, but his joints reminded him of his age and he did not need her to remind him.
They came to the door and stopped in unison as Shelly pulled out a dust kit and began to cover the knob with the gray powder, her eyes knitted in concentration, the brush twisting between her fingers. She had just recently completed a crime scene refresher course by the state, and seeing as how crimes like this were rare in Black Water, they had both decided she would do most of the work.
Glenn waited patiently, taking in the beautiful house. It was large and welcoming, brilliant white in the afternoon sun. He recognized the place as his wife’s dream retirement house, like the one she had described to him for years now. The image of him and his wife, shuffling about under gray hair was easy to imagine. It would need a bit of landscaping, but for all that, it was a charming house.
“Okay, nothing here. Odd, perhaps they wore gloves when they came up,” Shelly reasoned, her voice betraying her belief in that.
“Let’s go in,” Glenn said as he reached for the dusty knob. The door swung open slowly, all by itself, and Glenn jumped back suddenly.
In the doorway stood the most sensuous young woman, her hair was dark and flowing, her eyes wide, large, and deep brown. She had the figure of a Greek statue with a tiny mole above her lip. She was shocking, wrapped tightly in an expensive party dress, which barely containing her ample figure, as though she where about to receive dinner guests. Glenn felt his heart do a slow roll in his chest, then pound hungrily. He would have given a finger to have this girl, right here, right now.
“Hello, and welcome to the Heart House,” she said pleasantly, her perfect teeth showing behind her full red lips, her voice husky and thick with sexuality.
Shelly felt her stomach tighten a moment, suddenly taken with the stark attractiveness of the girl. She was so perfect, so alluringly petite. She had never actually felt any desire for another woman, but somehow this girl drew from her a deep and instinctive response. “Uh, hi,” she rushed out, clearly ashamed of herself. “I am Detective Greenbrae and this is Detective Craig. We are here to investigate three missing college students.”
Glenn stood silently, grinning at the girl like a smitten teenager.
“Well, perhaps you should come in then. You will want to see the basement first, I’m guessing?” the girl replied as she turned and
started toward the central passage. “That’s the last place I saw any of them…”
“Excuse me, miss, but aren’t you Madison Graves?” Shelly asked, still blocking the door of the house. Her instincts told her that there was something wrong—wrong in a sickening way—and she had learned long ago to heed these vague motivational sensations.
The girl stopped short, her long dress rushing past her before settling at her feet. “I used to be, yes, but not any longer,” she said lightly, keeping her back to them as if ashamed of her answer.
Glenn found himself transfixed with the perfect curves of her youthful bottom. He cleared his throat. His voice sounded dry and almost frightened, and he hoped Shelly had not realized how turned on he was.
Thankfully to him, Shelly spoke before he could. “You are one of the people we are looking for, Ms. Graves. Can you come out here and talk with us?”
“I have guests waiting, Ms.…”
“It’s Greenbrae. Who is here with you? Is Chris Porter here?” Shelly remained the stony professional, but there was something strained in her voice, something almost wistful or reminiscent.
Madison turned slowly, a sly sexy grin playing at her lips. “Why yes, and some gentlemen from Virginia and the Carolinas. Won’t you join us, detective?” she asked as she locked eyes with Glenn.
“Sure, Ms. Graves,” he said as he pushed his way past Shelly. He did not understand why but he knew he could no longer resist this young girl’s suggestions. He would give anything to spend any short moment in her company, even after the sixteen years of marriage.
“Glenn!” Shelly hissed low. “Wait…”
“You can stay here, Shelly, but I’m going in.”
Madison offered her arm to the aging cop, “This way, Detective.”