Dark Omen: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel

by Erickson, J. R.

  She’d gone from an immaculate, simple house to a filthy trailer with a pedophile and television addict. The transition had left her reeling. She existed in a state of suspension, able to do little more than wake up, push through the day, and fall asleep each night.

  But then there were the dreams. Dreams so powerful the land of the asylum seemed to call out to her, as if it were reaching through an alternative dimension to summon her home.

  Greta pulled out a handful of her long, silver-blonde hair and opened the scissors. She squeezed the handles, hacking when the blades struggled to cut through the strands. She chopped and cut until a pile of pale locks coated the rock she sat on and lay in a heap on the grass at her feet.

  When she reached a hand to her scalp, her hair stuck out in sharp tufts. In some places, she’d cut so close to her head only a bit of fuzz remained. As she cut, her heartbeat had grown faster, her rage bigger. The end of her hair did not abate the feelings.

  She dropped to her knees and plunged the scissors into the dirt. They sank in the soft ground. She did it a second time and a third, not realizing she’d started screaming until something moved at the corner of her eye.

  The old man she’d noticed on the bench watched her from the trees, his eyes wide with shock.

  “Are you okay, miss?” he asked uneasily.

  When she looked at him, the fury and hatred palpable in the small space she occupied, he took an involuntary step back.

  She saw the fear in his ugly and weak face, and she wanted to lunge at him and sink the scissors into his chest. She wanted to give the earth beneath her its due. But before she could spring to her feet, the man blinked and backed away.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” he murmured.

  He turned and hurried from the woods.

  She could have caught him, dragged him back into the clearing, but she was not a fool. Her hair was everywhere. They’d catch her that very day.

  Greta slumped against the rock, exhaustion overtaking her like a sudden storm.

  She nodded off and when she woke, the sun had begun its westerly descent. The forest was lit with the orange-gold light of a day’s end.

  Her arms ached, and some of her cut hair stuck to the side of her wet cheek. She plucked it off and stared at the hair. She thought of gathering it in her bag and taking it with her. Instead, she left it.

  She hated the hair.

  Peter had sunk his hands into the hair, used her hair to wrench her head back. She wanted it gone almost as much as she wanted him gone.

  43

  Then

  “Weston bought this for you,” Greta told Crystal, pulling out an opal ring. “But I slipped it out of his pocket. What could he say? ‘Where’s the ring I bought for my mistress?’”

  Crystal watched Greta tilt the ring back and forth, trying to catch the sun. She had a distant, sad look in her eyes, but when she shifted back to Crystal, she’d replaced it with stony indifference.

  “You’re one of many. Did you know that? Probably five at least, maybe more. He’s one of those weak men who fall for their students. Some men aren’t cut out to be teachers; they have no heart, just that thing between their legs. You probably thought it was love, that you were his soulmate. I know Wes. I know the stories he tells, the words… black magic. They seduce you, blind you to the truth. The truth…” Greta paused and leaned in so close, Crystal smelled the coffee she’d drunk that morning, “is that Weston was a heroin addict, a user, a lowlife. He ever tell you that?”

  The smell made Crystal’s stomach turn, and though she tried to quell it, the instant oatmeal Greta had fed her spewed out and onto Greta’s black trousers.

  The woman looked at the vomit, studying it. Rather than disgusted, she seemed curious.

  “That’s twice now.” She held up one, then two fingers. “Tick-tock.”

  She frowned and looked at Crystal’s stomach.

  Crystal tried not to follow her gaze.

  “I get sick when I’m scared,” Crystal lied.

  Greta cocked her head to the side.

  “Bungee jumping, cliff diving. You’re lying to me, Crystal Childs. The question is why?”

  * * *

  Crystal saw the bucket inside the toilet and stopped abruptly.

  “I’m okay, I don’t have to go.”

  “Go,” Greta hissed, shoving her into the little bathroom.

  Crystal stopped, digging her heels into the hard tile floor. They slid as Greta pushed her. It took effort, but she forced her bladder to release. The warmth of her pee washed down the insides of her thighs and over her feet. Greta had dressed her in a skirt without underwear to make using the bathroom easier.

  The urine pooled on the tile beneath her.

  Greta snarled and knocked Crystal into the wall. Hands bound behind her, Crystal nearly slipped in her urine, but maintained her balance, hitting the wall with a shoulder and steadying herself.

  Greta stared at the pee and back at Crystal.

  “You think you’re clever,” she laughed.

  Greta left the room and returned a moment later with a plastic folder. She pressed it on the floor next to the dark yellow urine which revealed that Crystal was dehydrated. The urine gradually flowed onto the folder. She bent the edges of the folder to keep it from spilling out and poured it into a plastic Dixie cup.

  “Let’s see if you do that again, shall we?” Greta smirked.

  Greta stood, pulled the bathroom door closed and shut off the light.

  Crystal didn’t move.

  The warmth of the urine had turned cold and sticky on her inner thighs. It had smeared her skirt too, mostly the hem.

  Slowly her eyes adjusted. The room was nearly black, but Crystal slowed her breath and took small shuffling steps until she reached the corner. She pressed her back into the corner and slid down the wall, pulling her legs in and resting her chin on her knees.

  * * *

  Hours later, Greta returned.

  When she opened the door, Crystal grimaced and tucked her head down, clenching her eyes shut. The light stabbed her aching head.

  “Funny thing in the paper today when I went to buy a pregnancy test,” Greta told her. “Mistress Pregnant with Married Man’s Baby! Oh, the scandal. I almost wasted twenty dollars on a pregnancy test. Things are not looking good for Mr. Meeks. The police have officially named him a suspect in your disappearance.”

  Crystal shivered.

  A chill had come over her sometime in the previous hours. She had a fever. Heat radiated beneath her skin even as her teeth chattered.

  “Ugh, you stink,” Greta muttered.

  She pushed Crystal aside with her foot and turned on the shower.

  “There’s water, but it’s not hot,” Greta said. “I’m sure you won’t mind. It’s summer after all.”

  Greta dragged Crystal into the bathtub.

  Crystal gasped in shock when the icy water struck her. Her shivers turned into convulsions.

  Greta stripped off Crystal’s skirt, making a gagging face, and flung it to the floor.

  She scrubbed Crystal’s flesh with a coarse sponge that made her skin feel raw.

  When the icy shower finally ended, Crystal panted on her knees, her head swimming. It took all her effort to keep from slumping over in the tub.

  Greta toweled her dry and pushed her toward the room.

  Crystal collapsed onto the bed pulling her knees into her chest.

  Greta left the room.

  Crystal stared at the open door, but her entire body shook. She couldn’t stand, let alone run.

  When Greta returned, she carried a lethal-looking knife. The long blade glinted in the light through the window.

  Crystal closed her eyes, but the woman did not stab her. She reached behind Crystal’s back and cut the zip ties. Crystal’s arms were numb. She didn’t have the strength to draw them from their position.

  Greta wrenched Crystal’s hands toward the front of her body. She lifted a wrist and let it drop. It
flopped on the mattress, but Crystal barely registered it.

  “Poor Crystal and Weston," Greta smirked. “Karma is cruel.”

  44

  Now

  After another fitful night of sleep, this one plagued by nightmares of a young Greta Claude stalking Bette through a dark forest, Bette woke to gray light seeping between the curtains.

  She brewed coffee in her room, threw on the previous day’s clothes, and called her dad.

  He answered on the first ring.

  “Any news?” they asked simultaneously.

  Homer chuckled.

  “Kind of," Bette admitted. “Not good news, though. Weston Meeks’ wife is a total pyscho. Her name used to be Greta Claude, and they suspected her of murdering her boyfriend in Marquette over a decade ago. The murder is still unsolved.”

  “Dear Lord,” Homer huffed. “That makes me feel half sick. Is it true?”

  Bette rubbed her eyes and yawned. She drained the last of her coffee and refilled the cup.

  “I don’t want to believe it, but I do. Everyone in town seems to think so, and she left mysteriously right after he died. I’m going to track down one more person this morning and then I’m driving home. Any developments on Crystal?”

  Homer sighed. “I spoke with the Lansing State Journal. They’re running Crystal’s story on the front page today. Officer Hart called to tell me that Weston Meeks is scheduled to take a lie detector test at the end of the week. Apparently, he’s gone back to Traverse City but promised to return by Friday.”

  Bette flared slightly at the news, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was no longer sure that Weston had a hand in her sister’s disappearance.

  Bette said goodbye to her dad, gathered up her few things, and rode the elevator down to the lobby.

  She stopped at the front desk where a young, heavily made-up woman stood bobbing her head to the song on a little portable radio. When she saw Bette, she blushed and turned the volume all the way down.

  “Don’t mind me,” Bette told her. “I like Bon Jovi. I do have a quick question, though, and this may be a long shot. Do you know Nate Montgomery?”

  The girl nodded enthusiastically. “He owns The Rebel Music Store right downtown.”

  “The Rebel Music Store?” Bette asked, wondering at the name. The man’s father was the sheriff, and he owned a business called the Rebel Music Store?

  “Yeah, it’s great. You should check it out while you’re in town. It’s not just music. He has books and concert tickets and instruments. It’s the coolest place in town. You can walk there from here," the girl went on. “It’s like two blocks that way.” She pointed at the road that sloped up the hill into downtown.

  “Great, thanks.”

  The Rebel Music Store occupied a large corner space in an old redbrick building. It was butted on one side by a resale store and across the street from an ice cream and candy shop.

  When Bette pushed open the door, a bell didn’t tinkle. Instead, a plastic cartoon cat meowed loudly and flicked its tail.

  The store was dimly lit. Twinkle lights ran along the tops of bookshelves. Waist-high racks stood in rows down the center, filled with CDs and records. Books and musical instruments lined the tall shelves against the walls.

  Between shelves, squat, timeworn chairs offered patrons a spot to relax.

  Bette eyed a young guy wearing earphones and sitting in a shabby purple velvet chair. His head bounced to the music in his head.

  Bette recognized the song playing on the store speakers. “Black Magic Woman” by Fleetwood Mac.

  She walked down the center of the store, finding a circular wood counter at the back. No one stood behind it.

  Bette noticed a taped sign that said “Buzz for Service” next to a bullfrog with a red button protruding from its plastic back. She pressed the button expecting a croak. Instead, a comical Pee-Wee Herman voice announced, “Be Right Out!”

  Almost immediately, a door behind the counter swung open, and a man popped his head out.

  He smiled and waved a hand.

  “Be with you in two shakes. Trying to cut the damned twine off these newspapers I just got delivered, as if reading the news isn’t punishment enough.” He disappeared back through the door, and Bette wandered to a table stacked with fliers, postcard-sized ads for various CDs, and posters for concerts and other music events.

  The man walked out, a hefty stack of newspapers clutched to his chest.

  Nate was not a conventionally handsome guy; his face was long, his hair longer and pulled into a ponytail draped over one shoulder. A carefully trimmed goatee covered the lower half of his face, surrounding large lips. Golden eyes gazed from beneath bushy eyebrows. He smiled a genuine, kind smile that travelled to his eyes. He looked nothing like the clean-cut guy in the prom photo, but Bette recognized him just the same.

  “Welcome to the Rebel Music Store, young lady. How can I assist you?”

  He plopped the newspaper copies on the desk, and she saw they were not local but called The Upper Underground.

  “All your anti-establishment news north of the Mackinac Bridge,” he told her, tapping the paper.

  “Are you the sheriff’s son?” she asked, suddenly wondering if he was not Nathan Montgomery after all.

  The man showed the dazzling smile a second time and nodded.

  “That’s not a greeting I hear much these days. But yes, you’ve found the sheriff’s son. One of three, I might add. I’m Nathan, Nate if you buy me a beer.”

  Bette smiled and shook his outstretched hand.

  “I’m Bette and actually I’m on my way out of town, but—”

  “It was a joke, no beer necessary to call me Nate.”

  Bette nodded and thought again of Nate’s editorial. Nearly twenty years had passed since the death of his friend, Matt. He probably wouldn’t be smiling much when she mentioned his name.

  “Nate, I’m actually wondering if you’d be willing to talk to me about Matt Kelly.”

  Nate’s smile faltered and then, as she suspected it would, dissolved.

  “Are you a reporter, Bette?”

  She shook her head. “I’m a research assistant for an anthropology professor. My sister disappeared a week and a half ago and I’ve been…” She searched for the explanation that took her from Crystal’s disappearance to the murder of this stranger’s friend nearly two decades before. “I’ve been following every possible clue.”

  “And somehow you’ve ended up in the Rebel Music Store asking about Matt Kelly,” Nate murmured in wonderment. “Man, I haven’t had a conversation about Matt in months.”

  “Months?” she asked, surprised. She would have suspected years.

  “Yeah. I feel guilty right now, realizing it’s been so long. I try to bring him up at every opportunity, but the summer around here gets crazy, and I’ve neglected my responsibilities to my friend.” He sighed. “Let’s sit over there. That’s my gathering space. I’ve told Matt’s story a hundred times or more from that armchair.”

  Bette followed him to a circle of well loved couches and chairs that surrounded a coffee table fashioned from a worn leather suitcase on wooden legs. Magazines lay strewn across the surface.

  “Who have you told his story to?” Bette asked, settling into a cracked red leather chair.

  “Anyone who will listen. Tourists, bands who visit the store, newspaper reporters, psychics. I’ve had two of those come in.”

  “Psychics. Really?”

  He laughed. “Well, that’s the question isn’t it? They didn’t tell me who killed Matt, but I’m a believer. I’m more of a prove-it’s-not-real kind of guy. Our government likes to keep everything in a tidy little cafe while in the kitchen they’re testing biological weapons and dropping atom bombs. I’ll trust the psychics over the news most days.”

  Bette sighed.

  She didn’t believe in psychics. And though she didn’t explicitly trust the government, she’d never had much patience for conspiracy theories.

  “Did t
hey say anything of value?” she asked.

  Nate nodded. “The second one did. The first woman was writing a book. She wanted to break open a case for publicity, but she couldn’t tell me a thing about Matt. She was either full of shit or really off her game that weekend. The second woman came in out of the blue. She didn’t do readings for a living or anything like that. She’d stopped into Blackbird Coffee. It’s a little place with coffee and scones in a shopping center where Bishop Park used to be. She was sitting at a table and saw a vision of Matt in that same spot, bleeding to death.”

  Bette balled her hands in her lap, listening dubiously.

  “She asked the owner of the coffee shop if someone had been murdered there. Pretty weird question, right? Anyway, the woman told her about Matt and the park that used to be there. Then she mentioned me. So the psychic walked into town and showed up here. She told me Matt knew his killer, and she had a strong sense that the murderer was a woman. She couldn’t give me any more details than that. It wasn’t groundbreaking news. I’ve known all along who murdered Matt. But it was a pretty amazing insight, considering she’d never heard of Matt and was just here for the weekend photographing the lakeshore.”

  “You believe Greta Claude killed Matt?”

  Nate nodded. “Yeah. Greta Claude. And I’m not afraid to say it either. No journalist has ever printed it because she came into some serious money back in the day, but she murdered him. I’d bet my life on it. So, tell me, Miss Bette, how is your sister connected to Matt Kelly?”

  Bette sighed and leaned her head back on the sofa.

  “My sister was having an affair with Greta Claude’s husband.”