by Glenn Rolfe
Music played softly somewhere in the house.
Making his way down the hall, passing bookshelves, and random furniture placed haphazardly down the already small space, he headed for the first floor’s back bedroom, The Moody Blues classic, “Nights in White Satin” playing on a component stereo system just beyond the doorway at the end of the hall. He half-expected to find the decomposing corpse of Jack Truman waiting for him. He envisioned something like the body Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman found in SEVEN, tied to the bed, wasting away, the Sloth victim, if he remembered correctly. Mae had sat with him through the movie on HBO until that scene. When the guy moved, she was up and out of the room. No fucking way, she’d repeated like it was the chorus to one of her Willie Nelson songs. She refused to watch the rest of the film. That proved for the best. She would never have forgiven him for the ending.
He checked the ceiling for Pine Tree fresheners, happy that none were present.
There was no one in the bed. The room reeked of piss and shit, the stained yellow blankets were thrown on the floor. Jack Truman was either a walking sickness or buried out back.
Oh God, please don’t be down in the basement.
“Mr. Truman?”
He prayed no one answered.
‘cause I love you, oh, how I love you…. The haunting ballad played on adding to the creep out factor.
The house felt empty. He turned and walked back down the hall.
He passed the bathroom and an office room. An old PC sat under what appeared to be years of dust, surrounded by more books and some newspapers, a vacuum, and some random clothes. Just beyond the computer room he found the door to the basement.
The light was on as he descended steps that creaked beneath his weight. Gun at the ready, Shane bent down, trying to keep alert, and not get caught off guard. All his years in law enforcement, the long hours, the late or restless nights, too often playing witness to the ugliness of his fellow man, it all seemed like another world compared to this.
The scent of decay assailed and overwhelmed him.
Coughing, holding his mouth in his elbow, he reached the cement floor and saw the source of the stench.
The dirt-smeared corpse of Jack Truman, maggots working on his diseased flesh, flies hovering, laid atop a work bench.
Had Clint sent him here for this? To see what he was truly running from? His crime? Had the fucking kid made up all that shit about the journal, the lake, the town?
No. Shane had seen his eyes, his hand…
This would be too convenient for Shane’s mind. To stamp out the unreality of it all. Trivialize what’s happening under his watch; make it seem like just another murder.
The book, the journal, it had to be here.
Holstering his weapon, Shane waved away the gathering of flies and shuffled around the workbench. His foot stepped on something. It was a clip to a backpack. He reached down and pulled the strap. The bag had been tucked beneath the shelving unit against the wall. There was no name on it. He unzipped it and pulled the text books from inside.
A set of papers fell to the floor.
He picked them up. The graded report was Jennifer Neilson’s.
Shane threw the bag on the floor and let the report go, and it drifted to the floor.
“Son of a bitch. That little son of a bitch.”
Rage knocked his fear aside. He had the bastard. The kid fucking sent him here, knowing what he’d find. His father, murdered and displayed. The young teenage girl, taken…and who knows what else. Her body could be here. And Greg Hickey. He hadn’t found the proof yet, but he didn’t doubt he’d find him, too.
Probably had been all along.
“Goddamn it”
He kicked a stack of milk crates across the room. Random magazines and rags spilled out to the floor. Truman was far from normal. Nothing about any of this came close, but Shane would end whatever it was.
Turning back toward the corpse, his gaze landed upon the brown book cover tucked beneath the torso. It was just a corner; the rest was under the body. He’d have to touch the damn thing. He snagged one of the rags that he’d knocked from the crates. Laying it over the elder
Truman’s hip, he got a good grip with one hand and lifted the light body, taking the book with his other.
Not wanting to stay with the corpse, Shane ventured upstairs with the book.
The couch in the living room appeared to be the least filthy object in sight. He took a seat on one of the ugly brown cushions. A bottle of Jack taunted him from the magazine-littered coffee table. Ignoring the impulse, not wanting anything to numb or slow him down with what remained before him, he opened the book. The pages were yellowed. The writing within was mostly smudged, and what little he could decipher was in a strong cursive. Lucky for him, Mae’s notes were scrawled in similar loopy script.
There was no name, none that he could find anyway. A number of pages were dated. The last was September 30, 1917:
In all my years lived never have I witnessed such evil. The devil in the waters has taken my family. It will come for me. I know this. I could run but I have no one to run to. Everything I love is here. Hiding in the basement, my family, or the devils they have become, wait upstairs. The waters are waiting. The creature that has touched them. It calls.
I could run but I have no one to run to.
At least in the waters we can all be together.
God, please forgive me.
Your servant,
M.
A vehicle pulled into the driveway. Shane set the book down, pulled his gun, and set eyes upon just the person he wanted to see.
Chapter Thirty
Michele spun the truck around as a gunshot rang out. She’d managed to shake the two guys from the back of the truck in one hard turn. Looking in her rearview mirror, she saw they’d disappeared. Dirt and dried up grass flew as she spun the vehicle around and pressed the pedal.
“Buckle up,” she said.
Alice complied, Mrs. Davis sitting in the backseat directly behind Michele hesitated, but then followed suit.
“Your father said to go. We should–” she started.
“I’m not leaving him or mom.”
She glanced up at the rearview mirror and saw the pained look on Mrs. Davis’s face.
There wasn’t time for questions, her father was outnumbered and needed them. She swung the large vehicle around the police car and slammed the brakes.
Her stomach turned.
They had him. They’d gotten to him. She was too late.
Pastor Hernandez had her father on the ground and he wasn’t moving.
The blonds, standing on either side of her dad and Pastor Hernandez, raised their attention to the SUV.
Michele put the truck in REVERSE and slowly backed up.
The blonds started after them.
The pastor and his organist each grabbed one of her dad’s arms and began dragging him away.
Michele stopped, put the truck in DRIVE, and stamped the pedal to the floor.
“What are you doing,” Mrs. Davis cried.
The taller blond on the right ducked, the shorter one met the grill and vanished beneath the wheels. The SUV thumped over the body. She followed her father’s captors across the yard, clipping the passenger side mirror on the large Maple tree. The little organist turned on them. Pastor Hernandez lifted her father over his shoulder and continued toward the woods.
The small elderly woman just stood still gazing blankly at the vehicle barreling toward her like a missile. There was no fear in the woman’s eyes. Michele clutched the steering wheel and drove straight over the woman; she was nothing but a speed bump.
The pastor reached the tree line at the edge of the property before they could catch up to him. He was gone. Michele hit the brakes, the SUV sliding to a stop just before the trees. She threw the truck into PARK, unbuckled, and opened her door.
A hand grabbed her shoulder.
“No, you can’t save him,” Mrs. Davis said.
“Let me go,” she said, pulling free. “Oh shit!”
The other blond was coming straight for her. She jumped back behind the wheel, closed the door, and locked it just as they reached them. She put the truck in REVERSE and backed away. He came forward and jumped on the hood. His eyes sparked with green light.
“Hold on,” she said.
She swung the front end around, put it in DRIVE, and headed straight for the oak tree.
Blondie’s hands pulsed and shifted, morphing into two long, pale tentacles. He slapped the windshield with them; the second blow splintering the glass. Michele stopped the truck. Blondie flew backwards, smashing into the tree and dropping to his knees.
He lifted his chin, eyes aglow, and stood.
“No!” Michele yelled.
The SUV flew forward, slamming into Blondie and the tree. The seatbelt gripped her shoulder as the airbag exploded in her face.
Everything went black, her head spun, stars bloomed behind her eyelids. Someone was talking to her, but the voice was muffled. She lifted her arms, swatting at the airbag. She tasted blood. The passenger door opened.
Oh no…
Then she saw Mrs. Davis moving the passenger airbag aside.
The high-pitched wails from Alice shook the cobwebs from Michele’s head.
“Oh my God, Alice, I’m so sorry.” She had a bloody nose and a busted lip. “Is she okay?”
It wasn’t until the girl pointed out the windshield that she saw the cause of her terror.
Blondie, eyes still aglow, pinned between the truck and the tree, was trying to swing his tentacle arms.
“Get her out,” Michele said.
Alice unbuckled, throwing herself into Mrs. Davis’s arms.
She put the car in PARK, and cranked the key in the ignition. The vehicle came back to life, though the engine was making an awful grinding noise. It didn’t need to get them anywhere. She had other plans. Blondie’s appendages banged the hood in a flurry of activity. Michele put the truck in DRIVE and tapped the gas pedal, rocking the vehicle back and forth the way her father showed her to get out of a mudhole or if she got stuck in the snow. With each drive forward she squished Blondie a little more, by the fourth tap, he started slipping down. When his head ducked under the hood, she stamped the pedal and held it down.
She didn’t realize she was screaming until the truck stalled.
Mrs. Davis appeared at the driver’s side window. The door opened and she fell out and into the old woman’s arms.
“You got him. You got ‘em all, dear,” Mrs. Davis said.
“My dad…they got my dad.”
“He helped save us, helped buy us time.”
“Did he…did he look dead to you?” she said
“I couldn’t tell. And dear, there’s something else.”
“Mrs. Davis, they got my mom, too. Didn’t they?”
She nodded.
Michele was numb, the shock from it all—the chase, the run, the crash—all coming down as her adrenaline wore off.
“The sheriff,” she said.
“Shane?”
“Dad said he needed to meet him…he needs help.”
“Where?”
“The Truman house. Out near the lake.” She craned her head to the SUV. “I don’t think we can get there now. Not in this.”
“How about in that?”
Mrs. Davis nodded toward the cruiser.
“Who has the keys?”
“They’re inside. Come on.” They both stood. Alice latched onto Michele’s side. “And, please, call me Mae.”
Mae guided them to the cruiser, and made them get in and lock the door before she went back into the house.
…..
Mae hurried to the bedroom, praying Deputy Horner was still where she’d shot him down. He hadn’t moved. Thank God. She refused to look at his head as she checked his pants pockets and found the keys. She also took his pistol and the extra clips from his belt and tossed them in one of the reusable shopping bags by the door. Moving into the bedroom, she grabbed an extra afghan from the back of the closet and placed it on top of the gun. She moved through the house, practically gliding like a ghost through the quiet rooms. She entered the den, barely giving a glance to the shattered glass on the floor where just an hour ago the man she’d known nearly fifteen years, Vern Crawford, smashed through, chasing after her. All the love, all the character she’d grown to love from that gentle soul. The gentle giant. The man who’d lost two wives in that span of time. Heather, his first wife, to a plane crash as she flew home alone for Christmas in Oregon. Then, Jackie, two years ago to an aneurysm while they were celebrating their sixth anniversary in New Hampshire. Despite the life of tragedy, he never stopped smiling.
And she’d shot him. Killed him.
No, he—it--wasn’t Vern anymore. I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t Vern.
Mae grabbed the rifle from over Shane’s black and white framed poster of Clint Eastwood and Morgan Freeman from one of the Westerns he loved so much. Bending down, she opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out two boxes of bullets for the rifle. She shoved the ammo down beside the afghan in the bag, threw the rifle over her shoulder, and headed out to the girls.
They had to find Shane.
She wasn’t like Vern. If she lost him…she’d never recover. The thought struck her like a bullet to the heart. She paused in the foyer. Here she was thinking about herself. Those girls out there just lost everything. Everything. No matter whether they happened upon Bret Cote again, he would not be behind the thing that they found. She wiped her tears on her shirtsleeve, cleared her throat, and opened the door.
…..
Michele kneeled next to her mother. Alice waited at the corner of the house. The little girl didn’t need to see this, but Michele did. She’d been a horrible daughter to her mother. All that time spent wishing it was just her and dad. Why? Because she was strict? Because she wasn’t fun? Maybe that was what they needed. It couldn’t be fun all the time, right?
A cold breeze blew hair across her face, sending a shiver through her as she stared at the blanket over her mom. She placed a hand over where she figured was her mother’s chest.
“I…” she bit her trembling lip. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you a chance. I’m sorry that I didn’t talk to you more… I remember when I was little, sitting by your side late at night, watching those news shows. The ones where they investigate murders and people that went missing. I remember feeling so safe...” her voice quivered. She wiped the tears away, and leaned down laying her head where she’d had her hand and wept. “I love you.”
After a few minutes, she felt a hand on her back.
“We should get moving,” Mae said.
She sat up wiping her face. “Can we come back, after… she deserves better.”
Mae nodded.
Together they got up, gathered Alice, and piled into the police car.
“Okay if I drive this time?” Mae said.
“Yes, please,” Alice said.
Michele smiled. “I think that’s a good idea.”
She gazed out the window as they headed out toward the lake. No one spoke. They just had the soothing sound of the wheels on the blacktop. Outside the wind had whipped into a fury, blowing leaves across the street, swaying the trees back and forth. It truly felt like the calm before the storm, and like they were the last people alive on Earth.
Chapter Thirty-One
Greg Hickey walked out of the waters feeling stronger, ready for the great task bestowed upon him. The sky was growing darker, and night would soon descend. The townsfolk would be joining him soon. Tonight, they would make the ultimate sacrifice. They would give of themselves to the lake and the great goddess within.
He turned and looked out over the body of water.
They would sacrifice and they would be rewarded with her love, becoming one with her and the lake.
He heard movement from the woods.
The first arrivals, The Neilson’s,
came with a group of seventeen. Old, young, men, woman, children, each and every one perfect and necessary. Each one ready to give, ready to become.
“Welcome,” he said, raising his arms.
A second, larger group drifted forth from the trees.
“We will all be joining her soon. You have done well. Your service shall be rewarded by her grace.”
Two more smaller groups came forward.
“Come, come. Side-by-side, the time is nearly here. Looking at you all, I know just how pleased she will be. Our lady of the lake, giver of love and life eternal. As she has throughout time, she welcomes our great sacrifice and shall accept it with all that she is and will be. And you shall all become one, we will join her from here on and forever.”
“Now, we gather and wait.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Shane waited in the darkening room. Gun aimed at the door. Ready to put this son of a bitch down.
A door closed. The radio at the other end of the house played on, but he could hear Truman on the porch, heading straight for him.
“Sheriff?” he said, from the other side of the door.
“You come to confess?”
He didn’t answer.
Son of a bitch.
“Sheriff, I’m not innocent–”
“You’re damn right you’re not.”
“I’m not innocent, but I’m not the real threat. Not now.”
“I don’t know what the hell you are, you or the others, but you’re not getting away with the things you’ve done. I found your father. And the Neilson girl’s backpack.”
“My father…”
“Just where you left him. In the basement--”
“I buried him. Earlier this week. I put that no good bastard in the dirt where he belongs.”
“No more lies, Truman. Not one goddamn more.”