The Piper's Graveyard: A Small-Town Cult Horror Thriller Suspense

by Ben Farthing

  Cessy spotted the old pine trees that Gordon had referred to, halfway up the lot. She counted over three rows of graves, then walked up there.

  She found them quickly. Two grave stones still shiny with polish. Plots still covered with straw, thin grass growing through.

  Jackson Arthur Wilder

  Olivia Goodman Wilder

  Dates that confirmed Gordon’s timeline.

  Cessy sucked in a breath.

  She’d wanted Gordon to be lying. It didn’t seem real. She pushed at the gravestones, scooped up a fistful of dirt and grass seed.

  Jackson couldn’t be dead.

  That house had collapsed a month ago. Jackson’s voicemails to Kate were only two weeks old. The audio files Landis had found were downloaded two weeks ago.

  But here was Jackson’s grave. And down in the valley, there was the disaster that killed him.

  Someone had texted Kate. Maybe it had been Jackson at first, but then it was someone else.

  If she hadn’t run off on an adulterous affair, where was she?

  No one lured a pretty young woman to her hometown with benign intentions.

  Kate was here in Hamlin. Somewhere. In danger.

  Cessy tried to squash the thought that it might already be too late.

  But her remaining leads were thin. Her head throbbed from lack of sleep, her shoulders ached from carrying lumber, and her stomach still turned over from the scent of the dead dog.

  Kate’s corpse would smell similar. Had someone skinned her, too?

  She stumbled downhill through the cemetery, back towards her car.

  It wasn’t right. She’d escaped this shithole town, and she’d helped Kate escape. It shouldn’t be able to reach back out and swallow her.

  Jackson was dead, and Mom and Dad had lied about it. Pretended that Jackson was missing, was anywhere but Hamlin, when they knew damn well that he and his wife were buried not a mile from their kitchen table.

  They’d wanted Cessy to leave.

  It was time to go back home and demand answers.

  19

  As soon as Cessy got back into her truck, her phone rang.

  The interruption agitated her agitation. She was after answers, and anything that slowed her down was a threat to Kate.

  It was Detective Landis.

  Cessy answered. “What do you got for me?”

  “Timms, how’s your vacation?”

  “Not in the mood.”

  “Alright. Did you listen to the audio files I sent you?”

  “What files?” Cessy checked her phone. “They never came through.”

  “I’ll send them again. It’s what I found on Kate’s laptop. I’m still trying to get into her email, but these were in her recent-downloads file. Really bizarre radio talk shows. A lot of very specific anger.”

  “It’s all anyone’s listening to out here.”

  “Really? I don’t like the sound of that. Tell you what, I’ve got some PTO banked. I’ll head out there tomorrow, and we’ll see what witnesses we can talk to.”

  “Don’t bother. The witnesses are all hostile. Even my parents.”

  “What?”

  Cessy told him how they’d lied about Jackson’s death.

  “Then who was texting Kate?”

  “That’s one of the questions I’m gonna go ask them.”

  “Bring the local cops.”

  “They lied, too. Straightened out their story with my folks before talking to me.”

  “Shit. Go to the state police.”

  Cessy chewed her lip. That was the right move. But Cessy wasn’t going to wait around for them. She didn’t know how much time Kate had left. “I’ll call them. After I talk to my folks. I gotta make this right.”

  “If you don’t call them, I will. You can’t let yourself get like this, Timms. You’re a hundred and ten percent in the right, but it doesn’t matter what’s right if people won’t listen to you. Your parents won’t talk if you go in there loaded for bear.”

  “Don’t got time for a lecture.” Cessy hung up, and ignored the phone’s buzz when he called back.

  It wasn’t right that she and Kate got yanked back into Hamlin. It wasn’t right that Sheriff Miller lied to her. Or that her own parents had fed him the lie. It wasn’t right that Kate was missing.

  Those were problems she aimed to fix.

  Starting with her parents. They hadn’t listened to logic earlier. Her old tricks to get what she wanted out of them hadn’t worked.

  Cessy took a deep breath. She’d go down there and appeal to their emotion. She was still their little girl. They had to listen. She wasn’t sure what she’d do otherwise.

  Cessy started the truck. She looked down over the east side of the valley.

  The collapsed house looked bigger from this angle.

  Wait, that wasn’t Jackson’s house. She was on the opposite side of town.

  Down at the bottom of the hill, a quarter mile from the eastern stretch of Mud River Road, another sink hole had swallowed another house.

  From up on the hill, she couldn’t see much detail. But like the first she’d seen, this sinkhole didn’t extend far beyond the walls of the house itself.

  Cessy looked out over the valley. She spotted three more collapsed houses. One more north of town, and two in town itself.

  What kind of underground disaster was going on?

  She pointed her truck downhill, toward the impending confrontation with her parents.

  She had the feeling she’d staggered into a small town crisis that had swallowed up her baby sister. But Cessy didn’t care about hickville rumors or feuds, or local angry radio shows, or collapsed houses, or wires running up mountains. She’d get answers out of Mom and Dad, and then she’d get Kate out of this backwoods hellhole.

  20

  Cessy parked on the street in front of her parent’s house.

  The mid-afternoon sun beat down onto her black 4Runner. Heat welled inside the truck as soon as she turned off the engine and the AC.

  She got out and headed inside the house.

  She knew she should take a moment to decide on a line of questioning, but things had progressed beyond that now.

  She opened the unlocked front door and walked inside.

  The same radio show filled the house. “Bring your best meals to share tomorrow. Make sure everyone’s there. Anyone who misses out, well, that’s how we can tell who’s vermin and who’s not.”

  Cessy navigated Mom’s collection of knick-knacks and the coffee table made by Gordon.

  On the kitchen counter sat a grocery bag full of freshly picked cucumbers and tomatoes.

  The radio sat atop the microwave, an outdated CD/cassette player boombox, tuned to an A.M. station.

  “Don’t forget, someone’s been trying to reopen the roads. They want to let in the gang bangers, rapists, and drug dealers. Small towns like Hamlin are the lifeblood of America. If we don’t take a stand to protect our families from this vermin, who will?”

  Cessy switched off the radio. This Lockler asshole wasn’t a normal local talking head. He was more aggressive, more dangerous. Why the hell did people listen to this?

  Or maybe it was normal, and Cessy just hadn’t turned on A.M. radio for too long.

  Quiet fell over the house.

  “Mom? Dad?”

  The radio host’s muffled voice drifted in from the backyard.

  Cessy went outside. The broadcasted ranting mingled with birdsong. A small radio sat on the deck railing, overlooking the garden. Dad bent over in a row of green beans, dragging along a five-gallon bucket. Mom knelt next to a wheelbarrow, using a hand-trowel to dig weeds out from inside tomato cages.

  “...protecting us from that vermin are those two ‘Road Closed’ barriers.”

  Cessy pressed the off button.

  Birdsong reclaimed the August afternoon. Her parents looked up from their gardening.

  “Cessy,” asked Dad, “I got back and you weren’t here. Where’d you get off to?”
>
  His feigned innocence infuriated her. She tried to hold on to her plan of appealing to their emotion, but she couldn’t get past the thought of them telling lies when Kate was missing. “Sheriff Miller didn’t tell you? Gordon Wilder never called you back? I was looking for my sister, which you should both be doing, instead of playing Little House on the Prairie and wishing you were cowboys.”

  Mom dug up another weed. “We just don’t think there’s anything to worry about. If Kate had come to Hamlin, she would have told us.”

  Cessy stomped down the deck steps. The wooden structure creaked under the violent force. “I’m not having this bullshit debate again. You lied to me earlier.”

  Dad pointed at her, green bean in hand. “Don’t call your mother a liar. We raised you, and we deserve more respect.”

  “It’s always about respect with you,” Cessy felt herself getting dragged into the same teenage argument. She stopped, took a breath. “You lied to me this morning. Fudged the truth, alternative facts, whatever you want to call it.”

  Dad wiped dirt off his glasses, leaving streaks behind. “I told you to stop with those accusations. You may be grown, but we’re still your parents.”

  “I talked to Gordon Wilder. I walked up to Jackson and Olivia’s graves. I saw the collapsed house that killed them.”

  Dad flinched. He looked to Mom, who stared at her feet and shook her head.

  “A month ago,” said Cessy through gritted teeth. “They’ve been dead a month. Why did you lie to me?”

  Dad’s face grew a deeper shade of red. “Did Gordon tell you what Jackson and Olivia had been up to?”

  “Rusty, don’t,” warned Mom.

  “The girl wants to know the truth, let’s tell her the truth.”

  “That’s Hamlin business. No one else’s.”

  “Cessy’s family. She’s part of Hamlin. That means it’s her business, too.”

  Cessy cleared her throat. “If this juicy tidbit of gossip about Jackson explains why you lied, or explains where the hell my little sister is, then spit it out.”

  “Jackson was cooking meth,” said Dad.

  “Rusty,” hissed Mom.

  “Hamlin’s not immune to vermin,” said Dad. “And Jackson was the king rat.”

  “So what?” asked Cessy.

  “Jackson was cooking the meth that was killing this town,” insisted Dad. “What do you mean ‘so what?’”

  “You expect me to be surprised?” asked Cessy. “Jackson’s been a sociopathic moron since Kate first brought him over for Christmas dinner. He’d fit right in with the criminals I hunt down every day.”

  “He’s still Gordon’s family,” said Mom. “And we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

  “That’s not the point.” Cessy was ready to pull out her hair. “Why did you tell me he was missing? Why’d you want me to think Kate had run off with him somewhere? Like you’re trying to get me to leave town to go looking for them somewhere else.”

  Dad grimaced. “Let’s go inside and sit. Your mom can fry up some bacon with these green beans, and I’ll pull a couple steaks out of the freezer.”

  Cessy stepped backwards. “Why did you want me to leave town?”

  Mom pushed the wheelbarrow out of her way and walked towards Cessy. She held the trowel at her side. Mud dripped from it like congealed blood off a knife. “You’re jumping to conclusions, honey.”

  “Neither of you are answering the question. Why are you trying to get rid of me? Where’s Kate?”

  “We haven’t seen her. Honest.” Mom walked closer. She held out her hands as if in supplication, except she still held the sharp trowel. “Let’s go inside and talk.”

  Cessy stepped back with her right foot. Her left hand went up. “Stop. Don’t get any closer,” she ordered. Her right hand unhooked the strap on her holster.

  Mom stopped. Hands raised in supplication turned to hands raised in defense. “Cecelia?”

  Dad stormed towards her. “Threaten your own mother?” He was unarmed, and pushing seventy, but still fifty pounds heavier than Cessy. If he was spry enough to fix houses, he was spry enough to be a threat.

  Her instincts took over. She drew her pistol, aimed it at Dad’s center mass, but kept her finger off the trigger. “Stop.”

  Staring down the black pit of a gun barrel scared all but the most tweaked-out criminals. Dad hesitated, stumbled, fell to his side. He winced and grasped his hip.

  Mom dropped the trowel to hurry to her husband.

  Cessy dipped the barrel at the ground, but kept the gun raised.

  Dad inhaled through clenched teeth. “What the hell’s got into you?”

  Cessy holstered her pistol. Dad wasn’t a threat. “My baby sister is missing. She came to Hamlin. You’re lying about it.”

  “Get off my property,” Dad growled.

  “Where’s my sister?”

  “You can’t threaten me on my own property. I didn’t work my ass off thirty years to have my disrespectful daughter threaten me on my own property.”

  Cessy resisted the urge to draw her gun again. She’d defended herself; the threat was over. But maybe not for Kate. “Tell me where to find Kate, and I’ll leave.”

  “We don’t know! Why do you think we know?” pleaded Mom. “Please go. Let me get your father inside, and I’ll call you later and we can sit down and work out this conflict before it turns into something serious.”

  “We’re beyond that,” said Cessy. “You’re hiding something, and I’m going to find it.”

  Cessy walked past them towards the shed in the back yard.

  “Call Sheriff Miller,” Dad said behind her.

  The garden shed was red and white, painted like a barn from a storybook. Cessy opened the door.

  “I told you to leave,” Dad growled. “That means you’re trespassing now.”

  Inside the shed was a riding mower, a snow blower, and garden tools hanging from a wall. Empty spaces for the wheelbarrow and tools already out in the yard.

  Cessy didn’t see any answers to her questions.

  She turned around, crashed into Dad, knocked him to the ground. He yowled in pain. Grasped his hip.

  Cessy left him behind. Back inside, she passed Mom in the kitchen, who frantically dialed their landline phone.

  21

  Down into the basement.

  Cessy’s footsteps on the wooden staircase echoed in short slaps. Cessy flipped the light switch at the bottom of the stairs. Two bare bulbs lit up the cramped room. The basement ran the full length of the house, but just half the width. The ceiling was open--joists spanned the length of the ceiling. The floor was bare cement. Against either wall were steel shelves, packed tight with canned and jarred food close to the stairs, and then boxes of Mom’s baubles farther down into the basement.

  A freezer blocked half the path, cutting off the view of the back corner of the basement.

  The door slammed shut at the top of the stairs.

  Cessy ignored it. There was no lock. And if she needed to, she could go to the far end of the basement, through a doorway into the crawlspace that occupied the other half of the house’s underbelly, then out through the crawlspace entrance under the front porch.

  She listened for Mom upstairs, her call with the sheriff, or even the weight of her footsteps. Nothing. The basement felt cut off from the world, like instead of being six feet beneath the earth’s surface, Cessy was a thousand feet beyond the sun’s reach.

  She caught her breath. She should have controlled her temper. Mom and Dad would have listened if she could get across to them how scared she was for Kate. But she didn’t know how to do that.

  A fly buzzed at the lightbulb overhead.

  Cessy moving forward made a shadow float over the freezer door. She tried to look past the freezer. Although there was ample space to maneuver around it, the second lightbulb was positioned so that the bulky off-white appliance cast a shadow over the rear of the basement.

  “Kate?”

  Again, a s
ingle clap of an echo, returning before she’d finished saying the word.

  If their parents were hiding Kate from her, this was where they’d keep her. Or more likely, in the crawlspace.

  Cessy walked toward the freezer.

  Above, Mom turned the radio back on. The host’s voice drifted downstairs, muffled but distinctly him. He spoke in small bursts, like he was interviewing someone whose voice wasn’t making it through the floor. Cessy couldn’t make out his words, but she heard something else: that same slowed down, nails on a chalkboard sound she’d heard on the phone. A slow warble, like train cars passing by underwater.

  A bug skittered across the freezer door.

  Cessy gave it a wide berth, brushing against the shelves. A plastic Christmas wreath caught her sleeve. A red holly berry broke free, fell to the cement floor, rolled into the darkness past the freezer.

  Cessy switched on her phone’s flashlight. The pale white light contrasted with the yellow bulbs closer to the stairs. Behind the freezer, the steel shelves continued to the far wall, except for a cramped wooden door built from planks now white with powdery mold.

  The radio host’s voice grew loud and clear.

  Cessy whirled around, expecting to see him standing behind her.

  The basement remained empty. The underwater train sound sped up. The host’s rage came down the stairs, as if Mom were holding the radio against the closed door. “...worked hard all our lives, not like these people who game the system, and then they tell us, we’re responsible for keeping food on their tables? We’re the ants in this situation, ladies and gentlemen, and they’re the grasshoppers. It’s feast or famine, and tomorrow, at the diner, we feast, while the vermin’s gravestones will read ‘refused to prepare for famine.’”

  Cessy hesitated. Mom--who’d birthed her, breastfed her, played dolls with her on the floor, taken her to softball games, did her hair for prom, encouraged her in her career, cried on the phone with her when Pat left--was standing at the top of the stairs, blasting local talk radio down the stairs. A pang of grief. It wasn’t a stranger on the other side of that door. It wasn’t so simple. Mom hadn’t been replaced, or forgotten who she was, or anything so simple as that. Everything she was doing fit her personality, even if it was the shameful, damaging corners of her personality.