Canyon Shadows

by C R Langille

  Randall watched Garrett pack up his laptop. He pushed his glasses back up on his nose and took a step in Garrett’s direction.

  “You going to be okay? You can stay here if you want,” Randall said.

  Garrett thought about it for a moment, but pride took over and he made up his mind. He got the last of his papers together and headed to the door.

  “I’ll be okay, thanks. If Allison makes it back tonight, tell her I’ll see her tomorrow.”

  “Will do,” Randall replied.

  Garrett left Randall’s place and headed back to the motel. The closer he got, the more apprehensive he became. He pulled into the parking space and sat in the car for a full five minutes staring at the room. From the exterior, everything looked okay. Finally gaining the nerve, he killed the engine and walked to the door.

  Not wanting to delay further, he unlocked the room and threw the lights on. He half expected his dead daughter to run at him from the darkness; however, nothing assaulted him other than the faint smell of vomit, something he was all too familiar with when alcohol kept him company.

  In fact, rum sounded like a good idea.

  Chapter Nineteen

  October 31, 1180

  After hours of pleading and debate, we left that Godforsaken cavern. Sir William was set in his course, and it was difficult to get him away, but in the end, my constant requests won over, and under the guise of regrouping and getting the rest of the men-at-arms, we resurfaced.

  Satan Himself must have made that monolith; I feel it deep down inside. The way the shadows played at the corner of my vision, showing me things I wish I could forget—and the whispers. The whispers dancing at the edge of my ears, quietly spilling secrets and tempting me with more. “Come to me, deep in the mountain. Come and learn all there is to learn,” they would say. Like a thousand unholy voices joined in some orgy against God. It made my skin crawl. I still hear them flitting in the winds.

  How Sir William couldn’t feel it, I know not. I do know this; I will not re-enter that tomb. We are outmatched. What can we, a small group of knights, hope to do against such an evil? We must leave and inform the Holy Pope of what dwells here. For what good it will do, I know not. God holds no sway in that darkness. We are doomed to fall under its heavy weight.

  -Sir Ralph Mounford

  Canyon Shadows, Utah

  Deputy Brent Rockwell couldn’t sleep. Something wasn’t right with the whole story of the fire. Instead of tossing and turning, or even worse, getting up to sit at his computer trolling forums on “gun violence” he decided he’d go check out the crime scene again.

  Brent pulled his police cruiser up to the remains of Jared Barlow’s pawn shop. He flipped his spotlight on and searched the charred foundation from inside the car, letting the light run over the burned-out walls. Finally, he let out a sigh.

  “I’m not going to find shit inside here,” he said to himself, more as an attempt to fool himself into leaving. It was a mistake to drive out there. Poking at it would only lead to disciplinary action from Sheriff Blackwood or the fire chief. Leaving and returning to his warm bed and let someone else deal with the bullshit would have been the smart thing. But, he knew he couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.

  Flipping the light off, Brent stepped out of the cool confines of the cop car and surrendered to the abrasive heat of the southern night. He hiked up his pants and did the buckle up on the belt. On account of his overly large fuel tank, as he jokingly said whenever he went out eating with his friends or family, the buckle of his belt would bite him when he sat in the car for too long or at his desk. Hence, letting it hang at half-mast when sitting down.

  He walked to the trunk of the cruiser and popped it open. Reaching into the dark confines, he pulled out a large Maglite.

  He ducked under a yellow piece of police tape and through the burned-out doorway. The light of the Maglite cut into the darkness and showed Brent an intricate scene of dancing dust and ash in the air. The entire site smelled like a combination of burnt fireworks and wet dog. For a moment, the smell reminded him of 4th of July holidays spent with his grandparents when he was younger. Every holiday, his family would go to his grandparent’s house in northern Utah and light off fireworks near Hyrum Lake.

  Debris and broken glass crunched underfoot as he made his way through the wreckage. Brent searched for anything that may help his theory of arson. Sheriff Blackwood’s story didn’t sound right, and even the firemen had thought that someone had started the fire. They were still conducting their investigation, and if he were caught snooping around the crime scene, he could get in big trouble. But Brent didn’t care. He was still searching for something that would help salvage his life and bring it back into focus.

  His natural survival instincts kept him clawing and fighting his way up, but gravity seemed to work much heavier in the world of depression, and he slipped further and further down no matter how much he fought to stay up. He felt that if he solved some crazy crime or mystery that it would help boost him up where he needed to be in life, and he could move on.

  Brent spaced out for a moment, and even though his body continued to poke and prod the burnt pieces of the pawn shop, his mind sat firmly in the past. A shuffling sound further back in the office area pulled him from his ponderings.

  “He-hello?” he said softly.

  He pushed the Maglite’s beam toward the sound, willing it to punch further into the dark ashen office area. After realizing that will alone wouldn’t make the light go any further, he moved toward the remains of the office.

  “This is a restricted area!” he called out, “You can’t b—”

  He lost his words as he stepped into a large puddle of water. Sooty wetness drenched his pant leg and quickly filled his shoe.

  “Damn it!”

  Water from the firefighters’ efforts covered the floor in a dark murk. The light bounced off its surface covering the walls in an eerie light show. Another shuffle emanated from the office.

  Anger fueled Brent’s confidence. “This is Deputy Rockwell. Identify yourself now!”

  Something heavy hit the floor then was dragged across the ground in response.

  Brent rushed to the doorway and slammed his back against the wall. When he did, more ash and soot fell from above, covering his hair and getting into his eyes.

  “Shit,” he whispered.

  After clearing his eyes, he drew his gun and cut slowly around the doorjamb as he was taught in his police certification training. “Slicing the pie” was the term they used. As he turned the corner, an opening along the back wall filtered into view. A large file cabinet had been pushed out of the way and was lying on its side nearby. As his light passed across the opening, something jittered along the floor. It was a human hand.

  He poured the beam of the flashlight on it and watched as something indiscernible dragged it into the darkness. A moment later, something thudded from behind the wall. Then seconds later, another thud. Someone was dragging a body down a set of stairs.

  “Stop right there! This is the sheriff’s department!”

  The sound stopped. Brent pulled the gun up and trained it on the opening.

  “Now come out slowly with your hands up!”

  He decided to call for backup. He cradled the light in the crook of his neck and used the free hand to activate his radio. When he pressed the button to talk, a loud screech tore through the speaker, causing Brent to drop the Maglite and cover his ears.

  As the light hit the ground and rolled across the floor, something darted from the opening in the wall and ran behind a set of shelves. Brent dropped to one knee and took aim, trying to see who it was.

  “Stop! Come out now!”

  He grabbed the Maglite and moved around the shelf. Adrenaline raced through his body, and it was hard to keep his gun steady. He tried bracing it against his other hand, crossing his arms out in front
of him, but the barrel still wavered about.

  “This is your last warning!” he cried as he cleared the corner.

  A figure stood in the shadows with its back turned to Brent. The figure wore dark swim trunks, a dirty white T-shirt, and flip flops. Shaggy brown hair sat like a mop on top of the figure’s head.

  “Put your hands up and turn around, slowly!” Brent commanded.

  The person didn’t move.

  “Do it now!” He shouted, this time pulling the hammer back on his gun.

  The figure spun around, and Brent saw the barrel of a revolver catch the beam of his flashlight. He fired his weapon twice, planting two bullets into the person’s chest. Brent stood his ground as the boy fell to the ground.

  Brent stood in shock as the event registered in his brain. It happened again.

  He shot a kid.

  “No. No, no, no, no,” he said, falling to his knees.

  He crawled up to the boy’s body. Blood welled up from the two chest wounds, soaking into the boy’s shirt. He looked around for the weapon but couldn’t see it.

  Way to go, Brent, you did it again, didn’t you? The big bad cop gunned down a little boy. The fat fuck killed another fucking boy! God damn it!

  Tears fell freely from his eyes. He sobbed as he absentmindedly patted the dead boy’s leg.

  “I saw a weapon. I did,” he said to the darkness.

  Did you? Or did you jump the “gun” again? You know I don’t think you know what the hell you are doing anymore, buddy.

  “Damn it! I saw a weapon! Just like—just like last time.”

  Sure you did.

  “I did, I swear it!” he yelled, spewing snot and spittle into the air.

  I believe you, Brent. I can help.

  “I believe you, Brent.”

  He swung his gun toward the new presence. Jared Barlow stood next to him.

  “Stop right there!” Brent said, trying to get up off the ground. As he used the shelf for support, the burnt wood gave out, and he stumbled forward.

  Jared moved closer and helped him up.

  “Take it easy. I can help,” Jared said.

  I can help.

  “Back away! This is a crime scene!”

  Brent backed away a step and brought the gun back up between him and Jared. Jared smiled an unnatural grin, but somewhere deep inside Brent found a small bit of comfort in it. Like someone scratching an itch he couldn’t reach.

  His mind raced, and he tried to discern how to explain himself and what to do about Jared in the matter of a millisecond.

  “He had a weapon! I had to shoot. I had to!”

  I believe you—

  “Brent, I can help,” Jared said as he took another step. “I know exactly what you need.”

  “You… You don’t know. This is a police matter.”

  “This goes beyond police matters, Brent. I can help. I just want to show you something, and I think it will all be… better,” Jared said, his grin growing even larger. “Look behind you, Deputy.”

  Brent didn’t know if it was a trick, but he was compelled to look. He shot a quick glance back and then threw his gaze back to Jared. It didn’t’ register at first, but it finally caught up. The boy was gone. He lowered the gun and looked back. Nothing was there—no body, no blood, nothing.

  “What the hell? How—”

  “I can help. I want to show you something, Brent. Follow me.”

  Jared turned and headed toward the stairway at the back of the office. Brent stared at the floor for a moment longer then followed Jared.

  “But what’s going on?” Brent asked, the tears starting again. “What happened to the boy?”

  “Follow me, and all that will be answered. We want to help you. We want to show you something.”

  Brent stopped at the top of the stairway. Jared had already been consumed by the darkness below. He shined the Maglite into the dark, but its light didn’t even make a dent in the gloom that rested down the stairwell.

  “Where are you taking me, Jared?” Brent asked. As he asked, he already knew the answer, and for some reason it made him smile.

  Deep into the mountain.

  He dropped the Maglite and took the final step off the proverbial cliff. He walked into the darkness after Jared.

  ***

  Garrett twisted the knobs on the shower and let his hand stay under the water’s flow until he felt it warm up. He let it run while he undressed. His clothes piled into the corner in a heap while steam from the water accumulated on the mirror in a thin film. Garrett wiped away the moisture with a towel and looked at his reflection.

  Two weeks of unshaved beard sprouted like grass on his face. His eyes were bloodshot, and heavy bags made themselves a home under his orbs. He let out a deep sigh and stepped into the shower. You look like shit.

  “I feel like shit.”

  The hot water fell over him like a comforting blanket. For minutes, he stood under the jets and let them take him away. His mind wandered, and he soon found himself remembering better times, remembering his wife, Trisha.

  They used to take showers together. It was their time to be together. Whenever they stepped into the shower, they left their stress and problems at the door, and it was about each other. For the first time in months, Garrett genuinely let himself smile, basking in the memory.

  It was short-lived. The smile fell away as the rest of the memories came rushing back—the accident, the funeral, the loneliness. Soon, Garrett didn’t want to be anywhere near the shower.

  Garrett shut the water off and stepped out. He was drying his hair when he walked out of the bathroom and hit his shin.

  “What the hell?”

  The cabinet below the sink was open. He continued drying off and kicked it closed in a small fit of anger. He used the towel to wipe the fog off the mirror again and contemplated shaving. Contemplation was as far as he got.

  Exhaustion was about to overwhelm him, so he hit the lights and crawled into bed. At that moment, the cheap motel bed was like a soft cloud. He let the cloud take him away to slumber land, but the sound of a creaking door opening pulled him back to reality.

  He flipped on the nightstand table lamp. The front door was still closed and chained. He moved toward the bathroom but stopped short. The cabinet door was open again.

  “What in the hell?”

  Somehow, the mirror had fogged up again, but this time, there were words written in the moisture—writing that was in a childish, chicken scratch.

  Mommy’s almost here, Daddy...

  A childish giggle escaped from the cabinet. A small, pale hand reached out from the confines of the cabinet. Garrett wanted to scream. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move.

  It was Maddie’s. Garret knew because she always liked to draw on her fingernails. Childish pictures of frowny faces and stick figures decorated her fingernails in a color that looked too much like dried blood.

  Garrett still couldn’t speak, so he shook his head.

  The giggle grew in volume, and the hand grabbed the edge of the counter. It started to pull itself from the darkness. Garrett didn’t want to see what would come out. Something deep in his mind shouted for him to move, warned him that to see the thing would break him beyond repair.

  Garrett turned and ran. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants and his keys and rushed from the motel.

  ***

  Dan finished his beer. He had drunk many beers in his days, but the beer that Doc served at the local pub and grill, Doc Hooligan’s Eat ‘n’ Slurp, had a certain quality to it that called to him. Allison, on the other hand, scrunched her face up like the drink was made of pure lemon juice. As she choked down the first sip, she pushed it away from her, shaking her head back and forth and making horrible groaning sounds.

  It only made Dan laugh. He gave her his glass of water
.

  “Here,” he said, chuckling.

  She took the offered glass and downed half its contents.

  “Thanks,” she said, still reeling from the beer. “That stuff tastes horrible!”

  “I suppose it’s an acquired taste. It’s made from an old recipe, and the Doc stays pretty true to the original.

  “So ye fancy yerself a beer drinker, eh?” she said in an over-the-top Scottish accent.

  Dan raised an eyebrow in amusement and smiled. “I suppose you could say that. What’s with the accent?”

  “Oh, something I do, I guess. Sorry,” she said blushing. She began to chew on her hair and look around the pub.

  “Don’t worry; I find it cute.”

  She smiled at him, letting the hair drop from her mouth.

  “Not only is this place a great joint for beer, they do a great steak as well. I think you are going to like it,” he said.

  “I don’t know. I hope the steak is better than the beer, or you’re 0-2 mister.”

  Allison replaced the beer with a glass of wine and gave an involuntary shudder as the drink coursed through her body. By this time, Dan had finished off her leftover beer and was halfway through another. The alcohol warmed his insides, adding to the fire that Allison’s presence stoked.

  “So, tell me about yourself. Who’s the real you?” he asked.

  “Well, I’m like an enigma wrapped in an enchilada and topped with a spicy salsa,” she said, taking another sip of wine.

  Dan was in the middle of a swig of beer but choked when he heard her response. He instantly remembered what the strange man in the duct tape coat had said earlier. Very similar.

  “What?” he managed to ask.

  “I don’t know really, it just kind of came to me,” she said beaming.

  “You’re weird, you know that? Weird,” he said, regaining his composure.

  “What does that mean?”

  She shot him a look, her eyes narrowed. He had to think fast to recover from that one.

  “Oh, I’m not being hurtful or anything, and I apologize if I came off that way. What I mean to say is, you’re different, but in a good way.”