Dire Harvest Book 2 Chapter 4

ONE

The wardrobe in that poor sucker’s closet was exactly what Gary had expected: country club, 30-something white guy, boring as fuck (golf shirts, button-down shirts, khaki pants, and brown shoes). Everything in that closet looked like a goddamn Kennedy would wear it. Luckily, he dug up a pair of Levi’s and a white V-neck T-shirt the guy—Tom might have been his name—probably had worn while working around the house. And even those crappy work clothes were cleaned, pressed, and well cared for. Those people lived a life that couldn’t be farther from the world Gary came from—lived being past tense. Now they were immortal works of art—Gary Elmer originals, the early works. 

The car with the “STOP EATING ANIMALS” bumper sticker had the most gas in it, so Gary lifted that one, a beige Toyota Camry that looked brand new and freshly detailed. It must have been the woman’s car. In the center console he found a lipstick, a few tampons, and a hair tie. When Gary picked up the hair tie and thought of the woman’s face, he imagined how cute she would have looked with her hair in a ponytail. He’d wished her hair was like that now as she lay on the floor of the upstairs bedroom, a brilliant work of his art. A glancing thought of him going back to tie up her hair crossed his mind, then he came back to reality and erased the idea. That extra touch really would have capped off the piece, though. The artist is never satisfied.

The car rode great and had something wonderful going for it: it looked like every other car on the road today, plain and inconspicuous. Even if an alert came out to be on the lookout for a beige Toyota Camry, the thing would still be hard to spot, blending in with every other beige colored car out there. Gary figured he’d at least have a few safe hours to cruise with it before someone found the young couple in their current state. His universe had smiled upon him once again.

Zlo had said very little while Gary cleaned himself up and ate some of the food he’d found in the couple’s refrigerator, so he imagined he was doing everything right so far. But the thing did say it would not control him, merely advise when necessary. It had mentioned some kind of grand adventure earlier, as well, but he wasn’t sure what that was all about. He figured it was best not to prod it too much. After all, he’d already pissed it off once, and Zlo sure put him in his place. No need to go through all that again.

“No, there isn’t, Mr. Elmer,” Zlo spoke up. “No need to go through that again at all.”

“Are you always listening to my thoughts?” Gary said.

“Unfortunately, yes, it’s part of my connection with you. I’ve also gone through your memories. Some of them are rather pleasant, I must say.” Zlo laughed. “I’m particularly fond of the one where you ran that family off the road and into a tree. I enjoyed the look on their faces just before impact. Aaaaaaaah!” Zlo laughed again.

“Jesus,” Gary said.

“Watch your language, Gary,” Zlo said in a stern voice. “That’s not a name I tolerate well.”

Gary kept his mouth shut and tried to keep his thoughts on the road. He didn’t want Zlo to discipline him again; he felt it was best not to ask too many questions. 

He slowly drove the car through the well-kept streets of the Cleveland suburbs, trying not to draw attention to himself. This area was definitely a more affluent part of town. The further he went into the community, the bigger the houses seemed to grow, like rounding the corner on a Monopoly board from Marvin Gardens then heading toward Park Place and Boardwalk. The houses here had various work trucks parked in front of them (lawn care, landscape services, exterminators, swimming pool services… the things normal people did for themselves but the wealthy paid someone else to do for them). 

His criminal instinct kicked in, and Gary realized he needed to quit messing around here. He had to get out of this town immediately. Someone was going to take notice of a stringy, long-haired miscreant driving the neighborhood, and start making calls.

“Winchester, Virginia,” Zlo spoke up.

“Virginia?” Gary asked. “What the hell is down there?”

“Mr. Elmer, navigate this vehicle to the city of Winchester, Virginia.”

Gary let out a sigh. “Ok, fine, Winchester, Virginia. Any particular place or address?”

Zlo did not answer.

“Hello? Mr. Zlo?”

Still no answer.

Gary decided not to push. He opened the Toyota’s dashboard navigation and entered Winchester, Virginia. The map told him his destination would be 306 miles, and he should arrive in approximately five hours. He felt safe that no one would look for this car within five hours, so he headed for the interstate and relaxed into the car’s comfortable seat. Winchester, Virginia… Sounds lovely!

TWO

Being a police officer in Cumberland Springs is a great responsibility. They are the guardians of a town rich in history, tradition, and pride. Most of the residents can trace their lineage back in this town over a hundred years. Some can even trace back to the town’s founding in the mid seventeen hundreds. The people who live here like their community as it is, and has always been, and they do their best to keep it that way. Some may read that last statement and think Cumberland Springs is a backward place, intolerant of anyone from the outside world—inbreds. That couldn’t be farther from the truth. “Judge not least ye be judged” is a tenant held dearly by those who live here. “Strangers don’t stay strangers for long”, as they say. Anyone new to town is immediately greeted by the first pleasant face they come in contact with, and the stigma of a stranger is quickly erased within the first moments of a friendly conversation. “We don’t have strangers around here, because we get to know everybody,” Richard Wynn, the town mayor, likes to say. He’s not bullshitting or politicking when he says it, either; that statement rings true with just about everyone. 

What about the crime rate? Occasionally, there might be a scrap out at Stoney’s Tavern that warrants a call to the police, but it’s rare. Old man Stoney usually keeps his patrons under control. The speeders on Route 31 are the main excitement for the police department. You actually have to turn off of Route 31 to go into town, and it’s not visible from the road, so this leads most motorists driving from Bedford to Somerset to believe there’s nothing out here, and the 45 MPH speed limit is up for interpretation. That is not the case, however. Six miles of Route 31 is Cumberland Springs’ jurisdiction, and rightfully enforced. They’ve had a few speeders over the years going through that stretch at well over 100 mph. Those people end up losing their licenses and paying out the ass over that screw up. It’s mostly tourists heading to Laurel Mountain Ski Resort further up the road, or new students going to Laurel University, which is just a few miles past the ski resort. Cumberland Springs really is one of those places you’d miss if you blinked, that is, unless Glen Crawford or one of his police officers pulled you over. 

There are a lot of tourists who actually do come here, specifically. Some visit for the different festivals and special events, some stop by to visit the craft and antiques stores around the town square, some have found the Covered Bridge Bed and Breakfast on the internet and couldn’t resist its charm, and others just visit here to relax in a small town and forget about the larger part of the world they’ve come from. Whatever the reason for visiting, Cumberland Springs does its best to welcome them and make everyone feel at home. 

There’s going to be a whole load of them coming into town this weekend for the famous Mile Long Yard Sale. Buyers and sellers alike will descend on Cumberland Springs in droves, looking for that rare piece of glassware, or vintage garment, or old something-or-other that can only be found at a yard sale. The event has been going on since the 1950s and brings in a lot of revenue for the town. Tables are $25 each and are provided and rented through the Cumberland Springs Preservation Society. If you want to be a part of the yard sale, you have to go through them. No one can just prop up a table and start selling. 

Now there’s a group! The Preservation Society has been a big part of Cumberland Springs since clear back in the 1800s, and all the prominent members of the community are on the board of directors. They’re the ones who keep the town the way it is and don’t allow big corporations to come through to put all the mom and pop stores out of business. Wal-Mart and Lowes have been begging for years to let them open up a store in the region, but the Preservation Society simply will not budge. For them, it’s all about keeping the local economy safe. Just last year, Jim Loften, who owned and operated the drive-in movie theater since 1964, died and had no family to leave the business to. Rather than close the place down, the Preservation Society bought it and keeps it alive and running. It doesn’t matter if it makes a profit; it’s all about keeping a well loved landmark from fading out of existence. And that sweet old drive-in with the faded neon sign and rutted gravel parking lot is jam-packed every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Volunteers are about to get to work improving the place, but they won’t change an ounce of character. There are too many places in the world that were once great and now crumble in ruins because no one takes the time to keep them alive. That doesn’t happen in Cumberland Springs. Things don’t get torn down or thrown away just because they’re old. They get cleaned, refurbished, and kept alive. If the state grants the town money to build a new facility, they use it to bring the old one up to date. If you got into a time machine in 1955 and came back to the town square at present day, the only change you’d notice would be that the cars were updated, nothing else.

Glen Crawford understood these values well and worked hard to uphold them. He watched over Cumberland Springs like it was one of his own children. His family and his wife Vickie’s family had been here for generations and knew what a blessing it was to be part of such a community. He was proud—honored—to be the Chief of Police of this amazing place, and he knew if it ever came to it, he’d give his life to protect it. No one would ever come here and destroy what so many had worked so hard to preserve, as long as Glen was alive. 

As Lindsay came out of the basement of the municipal building, carrying the big stack of “No Parking” signs they had used for years, Glen smiled. She was struggling but handling the situation, on the verge but not yet needing help. “You got it, Lindsay?” Glen asked, almost laughing.

“I’m on it, Chief,” Lindsay said.

Glen grabbed the small cart they used to tote things around and took it out the front door of the municipal building, then held the door open as Lindsay struggled her way through it. She dumped the signs inside the cart and let out a heavy, out of breath sigh. 

“You ok?” Glen asked, trying not to laugh.

“Perfect, Chief,” she said. 

It was time to put up the “No Parking due to event” signs for the Mile Long Yard Sale this Saturday. The event would take place in one big line all around the town square. Several years ago, the Cumberland Springs Beautification Society (the same people who raise money to plant flowers around the gazebo and hang flower baskets on all the street lamps and put up all the decorations for every season and event) raised enough money to purchase dedicated sign holders for all the telephone poles and street lamps in the square. Anytime an event sign or no parking sign or missing cat or dog sign needed to be hung in the area, they could slide it into a dedicated holder, much better than leaving a pole full of nails and staples behind after they took the sign down. 

Glen pulled the cart from pole to pole, and Lindsay slid the signs into their respective holders. Not a two-person job by any means, but Lindsay was a junior officer in training; anytime she was on duty in the field, Glen was with her. She was very close to losing the “Junior” in her title and becoming a regular officer. 

“Think you're ready to start patrol on your own, Lindsay?” Glen asked.

“Absolutely, Chief,” Lindsay said.

“I know you’re excited, but I want you to always be prepared for anything, understand?”

Lindsay finished putting a sign in its holder, then stopped and looked at Glen for a moment.

“What’s up?” Glen asked.

“Chief, I’m just going to say it, because no one else will, and I really want to know…”

Glen waited for her to speak, but she seemed to have trouble finding her words. “Go ahead, Lindsay. Let’s hear it.”

“You’re not yourself, Chief,” she said. “I hate to say it, but it’s true, and everybody can see it. You’ve been edgy and you seem… God, I hate to say this, but… you seem paranoid, like you’re just waiting for something bad to happen.”

“Isn’t that what a police officer is supposed to do? Keep an eye out for bad things?”

“Yeah, but you never used to be like this,” Lindsay said. “I know bad things can happen anywhere, I’m not denying that, but you’ve been… please don’t get mad at me for saying this… it’s like you’re afraid of something.”

Glen looked away, and his face changed. He didn’t seem angry, but something entered his mind when she said the word “afraid.” It was a trigger, like the word had actually come out of her mouth and slapped him. 

“Let’s get the rest of these signs put up,” Glen said, and began pulling the cart to the next pole. 

Lindsay stayed still for a moment, then realized he wasn’t going to wait for her. She felt it best to just drop the subject for now. At least it was out in the air. 

Glen had little to say for the rest of the shift.

THREE

Harry Rollins and Billy Klink had become good friends over the course of their respective prison sentences. Cell mates for the past few years, they had genuinely come to enjoy each other’s company. Had they met on the outside as members of everyday society, they would have probably still become good friends, and they probably would have still ended up back in prison together. They had the same sense of humor and shared a similarly warped view of the world. Both were in the joint for a few more years (Harry for six, Billy for five and a half), so the companionship made the time go faster, not to mention they watched each other’s back, something every inmate needed. 

They were looking forward to this afternoon. A new inmate was scheduled to arrive today and would make his walk of shame onto their block right past their cell. A newbie, starting at day one—poor fucker. A guard had mentioned this to Harry last week, knowing it would get around quickly. The guards knew how the other prisoners would taunt the new guys when they were escorted to their cell. That’s why they let the info slip into the population. It was as if they got a kick out of seeing a new prisoner welcomed with a slew of jeers and curses. 

Newbie day was a big event for the inmates. There wasn’t much to look forward to in this shit-hole, so letting out some pent up aggression on fresh meat was a real treat. They got off on it. Seeing a man in clean prison clothes, walking the block while holding his folded blanket and pillow, really got the crowd going. Some guys barked and charged at their cell doors like hungry dogs, others screamed obscenities, and some made degrading, sexual gestures, all to dehumanize the poor guy. 

The goal was to make the target cry, to strip away any ego or confidence he may have once had, and replace it with the same sorrow and desperation everyone else here lived with. This was a new world, and he would have to abide by the rules set forth by its current inhabitants. No one walks into the Somerset County Correctional Facility with a chip on their shoulder and survives. They may try to prepare themselves in advance, but nothing can truly ready a person for what happens after they arrive. The walk was merely stage one. Getting past that and holding on to whatever dignity they had left was only the beginning. 

“What time is that fucker supposed to get here?” Billy asked. “I swear I got a boner!”

“You’re fucked up,” Harry said. 

“I been waitin’ for this all week!” Billy said.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Well, what time is it?” Billy asked again.

“How the hell would I know?” Harry said. “They don’t give us watches in this joint. That bald guard told me it would be in the afternoon. Could be anytime now.” Harry got up from his bed and stood next to Billy at the door to their cell. Inmates all the way up and down the corridor clung to their bars in anticipation.

“Hey, sweetheart,” an inmate called out to Harry from across the hall. “You and your bitch wear each other out over there yet?” He laughed through a mouth full of stained and missing teeth.

“Eat a dick,” Billy yelled back in defense. 

“I’d eat yours if I could find it,” the inmate said. A few laughs came from some of the other cells. 

“Don’t egg him on,” Harry said in a low voice.

A loud clanging noise at the far end of the aisle snapped all the inmates to attention. It was time. They were bringing in the new guy. Harry and Billy’s cell was about halfway down the block, so the jeering usually began before the newbie reached their view. To their surprise, there was no yelling or cussing or ramming against the bars today; there was actually no noise at all. A dead silence had fallen over the entire block, save for the footsteps of the guard’s boots and the humming of the overhead florescent lighting. No one made even the slightest sound. 

The footsteps approached Harry and Billy’s cell. Both of them looked with wide eyes, but neither dared speak. There was something in the air, something terrible. They felt it and breathed it in. It felt like drowning in muck water under a sewage dump. 

Then they saw it: a man, tall and well built, wearing tightly fitting new prison clothes and carrying a fresh blanket and pillow. He was being escorted by the bald guard who had slipped the information to Harry last week. But the guard didn’t look so sure of himself now. In fact, the prick looked like he was about to shit his pants. 

The new prisoner did not look at either side of the hall; he only stared straight ahead with dull, lifeless eyes and a blank expression. There was no emotion, no fear… no anything. It looked like a body without a soul. 

When he came to Harry and Billy’s cell and continued passed, both of them stared in fear, sweating with hearts pounding. This guy had not said a word or made a move—other than the slow walk down the hallway—but he was, at that moment, the most horrible creature either of them had ever seen. 

It was rumored there was another inmate in this prison who gave off a vibe like this, an old guy up on C Block. Everyone stayed far away from him. Harry had seen the guy from a distance a few times, but never went near him, nor did anyone else. He was always alone. This new fucker gave off the same feeling as that old dude. 

After a few moments, a cell door slammed further down the corridor. The bald guard headed back up the hall, quickly, either like he had to get to the bathroom, or he was scared out of his mind. Whatever the case, he didn’t look very confident in himself right then. 

“Jesus, Harry,” Billy finally said. “What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know, but I felt it too. That wasn’t right, whatever it was.”

“Yeah,” Billy said. “No shit!”

FOUR

“Whoa!” Gary said as he stood peering into the open wooden coffin he had just dug out of the earth. His mouth hung wide with a sinister smile curling at the edges, and his eyes were so big they could have popped out of his head had he not blinked. He had never felt astonishment like this. “Where did all of this come from?”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Elmer,” Zlo said. “These riches serve my purpose, not yours.”

Gary wasn’t an antiques dealer or coin expert, by any means, but even he could tell the treasures he was looking at easily valued into the millions. Gold coins, rare watches, gemstones, antique jewelry… it all reminded him of a pirate’s treasure from a movie—the one from the 80s with the kids and the town and the crime family chasing after them… Goonies!

When he had set out from Cleveland to Winchester, Virginia, he’d had no expectations. The thing inside of him seemed to know where it wanted to go, and Gary wasn’t inclined to question it. Besides, he had just killed two people and was driving around in one of their cars, so Virginia seemed as good a place as any to get away from the scene. Tromping through the woods to get to this destination was the part he had questioned. “Why the hell am I out here in the middle of the woods carrying a shovel and a lantern?” Zlo didn’t reply. It had only started him in a direction at the tree-line of a field and told him he’d know when to stop. So he walked, stumbling over fallen trees and doing his best to avoid briar bushes, until he came upon a menacing, windowless stone house covered in vines and forest growth to a point where it was almost unrecognizable. It had to be the place, no doubt. And it was…

“Dig up a fucking grave?” Gary had said in disgust. 

“Probably not the worst thing you’ve ever done,” Zlo had replied. 

He couldn’t argue with that. While it was repulsive, it wasn’t a task that was out of his realm of depravity. Desecrating a grave or holy site or anything else people held sacred meant nothing to Gary. Screw the world and everyone in it! This was just dirt, nothing holy about it. If Zlo wanted him to whip out his dick and take a leak on it, that would be just fine, too—peculiar, but fine.

“Does this girl, Alice Carter, mean something to you?” Gary had asked.

“No more than any of you other worthless flesh sacks who scurry around on the surface of this wretched place.” 

Gary had no argument. Zlo didn’t like people, that was obvious, and it didn’t seem like something he should ask about, being a person himself. 

But the loot staring up at him from the bottom of this grave, now that was something all together different; this was a game changer, for sure. The things he could do with all this money. There would be exotic cars, lush mansions, private jets, private beaches… women. Yes, indeed, he would have to have at least four swimsuit models following him everywhere, tending to his every need. Oh yeah, life had just hit the mark for Gary Elmer.

A subtle yet stern shock pulsed quickly through Gary’s body. He had harshly come to understand what that feeling was about over the past day. Zlo wanted his attention. He stood calmly as the jolt ran its course, causing his heart to race and his legs to weaken.

“Understand this, Mr. Elmer,” Zlo spoke. “Everything—EVERYTHING—in our association is at my leisure and digression. While I refer to you as a traveling companion, you are nothing but a tool which I use to serve my own amusement. I am stuck here with you vile creatures, and there is no other way for me to pass the time but to watch you defile and degrade the lives you’ve been given, to witness the destruction of the innocent whom your ‘Creator’ so loves. The only pleasure I have is seeing His creations stripped of their dignity and brought suffering to their knees. I know you aren’t sophisticated enough to comprehend this, but that is of no consequence. You are of use to me at the moment. So relieve yourself of this notion that you’ll be taking this fortune for your own personal use. You will take a small fraction of it, and you will use it as I direct. Do you understand, Gary?”

Gary stood shaking. “I understand.”

“Wonderful,” Zlo said. “Now we can begin our grand adventure. Take out ten gold coins and that emerald ring, then cover the coffin the way you found it. We’re about to have such fun, Gary! You’ll see!”

FIVE

When Lauren called Grandmother and told her they’d be stopping by, she didn’t mention the visit had a specific reason. She did, however, mention Reverend Allen would be coming along, too, but Grandmother didn’t seem to find that peculiar. All the members of First Baptist were close with Reverend Allen. It wasn’t odd for parishioners to hang around with their preacher during the week.  

After Lauren, Clay, and Reverend Allen had arrived, Grandmother welcomed them all into the sunroom, then went into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. The sunroom, a new, glass walled addition Lauren’s grandparents had built for themselves upon retirement, was the focal point of the house. It was the perfect sanctuary to sit and read or welcome guests or just take an afternoon nap. Grandmother had decorated the room with several live plants and flowers and even a small water feature in the corner which gave you the feeling of being outside in springtime no matter what the actual temperature was on the other side of the glass.  

Lauren felt uneasy as they waited for Grandmother to return. How was she going to present all of this? Of course, she had been confiding in Grandmother for the past six months about the subject, but she wasn’t exactly sure how the woman would react now, learning that Lauren had shared Grandmother’s own personal experience with other people. Plus, she was about to ask her to share that old scrapbook no one else was supposed to know about. The whole thing made her nerves stand on edge again.

Clay held his wife’s hand, knowing she was anxious. 

“I hope coffee is alright with everyone,” Grandmother said as she entered the room with a serving tray and coffee set. “I have some diet soda in the refrigerator, and of course there’s water if you’d prefer that.”

“Coffee is perfect, Sharon,” Reverend Allen said. He had been friends with the family since the day he took over as pastor of First Baptist and preferred to call all of his parishioners by their first name. “Let me help you with that.”

Grandmother placed the tray on the coffee table between the two facing couches. Reverend Allen took care of serving.

“It’s lovely to see you all,” Grandmother said. “Such a pleasant surprise.” She looked at Lauren and could tell by her face that this visit was more than just a social call. “Is everything alright?” She sat on the sofa next to Reverend Allen. 

Reverend Allen smiled and patted her on the shoulder. “Of course, Sharon. Everything is fine. However, we do have a reason for our visit today, and we’re hoping perhaps you may be able to give us another… perspective.”

Grandmother looked at Lauren and Clay. She had become concerned. “What’s this about, Lauren?”

Lauren hesitated, not knowing how to begin. After a few moments of silence in the room, she finally said, “I’ve shared my problem with them.”

Grandmother leaned back on the couch. “I see,” she said. “What made you finally bring it out in the open?” 

“I can’t take it anymore,” Lauren said. “The nightmares, the fear, the lack of sleep… it’s too much for me to handle. You’re the only person I’ve confided in until now, and you have been such a big help, but I had to let it out.” She looked at Clay and smiled. “Besides, he finally pulled it out of me.”

Looking around at everyone, Grandmother said, “Good. I’m glad you're letting it out. Maybe we can all help you through this now.”

“Yes, I believe we can all help her,” Reverend Allen said. “But the problem may run deeper than we think.” He took a drink of his coffee and everyone waited for him to continue. “We know her nightmares and anxiety stem from the John Doe patient she tended to this past November. However, the question we must answer is why? Is it all in her head, or is Lauren being taunted by something metaphysical or—for lack of a better word—paranormal?”

“Para—! Seriously, Reverend?” Grandmother said. “Ghosts? Daemons? I can’t imagine such a thing. And from you, our pastor? Is this the explanation you’re feeding her?”

Reverend Allen held up his hand, stopping Grandmother from continuing her rant. “I believe you can imagine such a thing, Sharon, and I believe you have also kept a record of such a thing.” 

Grandmother’s expression froze, with her eyes locked on Reverend Allen. She knew what the man was talking about—the scrapbook. That was private, sacred. How could Lauren divulge what she had shown her in complete confidence? She slowly turned her head toward Lauren, who was looking at the floor, visibly ashamed. “Lauren?” 

Lauren didn’t speak, but shook her head in acknowledgement. A tear had formed and rolled down her cheek.

“Sharon,” Reverend Allen said. “There’s no need to feel angry about this. In fact, you should be happy.”

“Really?” Grandmother said sharply.

“Yes, really,” the reverend replied. “I know you are well aware that everything happens for a reason. Nothing is an accident. God’s plan is everywhere at every moment, and that is the truth. Something made you collect that information all those years ago—call it a feeling if you’d like—but you were compelled to keep a record of patients who had died while you tended to them in the ICU. Now, all these years later, that information is needed for more than just your own personal record. It’s needed to solve a problem for someone you love.”

“I don’t see how a scrapbook of old newspaper articles can be of use to anyone now,” Grandmother said. 

“Why did you make it?” Clay asked.

“I don’t really know, Clay,” Grandmother said. “I think I just felt something for them. They had come into the ICU with only moments of life left. I suppose I felt sorry for them and their families. Maybe I needed a reminder of how fragile and precious life is?”

“Did you feel that way toward all of them?” Reverend Allen asked. 

“Why would you ask that?” Grandmother said.

“Harlan Wallace,” Lauren said. 

Grandmother went silent. Her face became pale, and she stared at the coffeepot on the table as if she was in a trance. 

No one spoke, waiting to see if she would break the silence. 

Finally, she stood up and left the room without saying a word. Lauren, Clay, and Reverend Allen all stayed seated, looking at each other. They remained like that until Grandmother returned several moments later.

“I believe this is what you’re interested in,” Grandmother said. She held up an old photo album that was worn and had yellowed papers sticking out of the sides. “This is not something I show to people. I hope you understand that, Lauren.”

Lauren stared at the book in Grandmother’s hands and feared what the pages were about to uncover.

SIX

The blank computer screen stared back at Agent Ward as he looked into it. A field of darkness, black and unforgiving. He stared, barely seeing the shadow of his own reflection in the flat matte screen, contemplating whether he should turn the damn thing on or just get up and walk out. He had several emergency vacation days left and could easily tell the HR department he needed a mental break—that seemed to be a thing these days. 

The screen mocked him. It appeared to say: “Go ahead, coward, run from your fear, run like a frightened child, afraid of the boogeyman.”

If he took off now, he would lose, and losing was not an option for Henry Ward. To give up and run would be the ultimate failure. Ward knew if he succumbed to his fear of the strange voice on the recordings, he could never live with himself. All other areas of his life would suffer, and he could not continue as the person he had strove so many years to become. He would be a fake, a phony—a fraud.

Henry Ward was not a fraud. He was the most genuine person he’d ever met. No, this would not get the best of him, and he knew it. He’d had a moment of weakness and vulnerability over the whole thing, but no matter what, he was going to break through the wall of self doubt with courage and determination. 

He turned on the computer at the workstation he’d been using for the past few days and waited for the system to boot up. In his mind, Ward had resolved to accept whatever he had heard on the recordings before and move on to the next set. They couldn’t all be like the first one. If they were, he’d accept it and continue until the assignment was complete, then put the whole thing behind him. 

All he needed to do was find any sort of incriminating evidence linking Micarelli to stolen merchandise, drugs, or anything else the feds could use to nail the prick for racketeering. It sounded simple enough. Guys like Micarelli always slipped up. It was in their nature to brag about their operations—proud criminals.

The computer finished its boot up sequence and waited for the operator to give it commands. Ward entered his login information, then navigated to the file on the server. And there it was, bold as brass, just waiting for him to open it and start this bullshit all over again. He took a deep breath, slipped the workstation headphones over his ears, and double clicked the file titled SURV #01.

Nothing had changed. The two idiots talked about strippers using fake Italian accents, and the wicked voice no one else could hear taunted him over the top of the other voices. Everything was there, the same as the day before, and the day before that. He’d expected as much, so he was prepared when its cackle echoed through the headphones. But a small part of him had prayed it was gone, nothing more than a figment of his imagination, which he could forget about in a few days or weeks and move on with his life. No such luck, though. He listened, trying his best to ignore the taunting thing, and did a pretty good job of keeping his composure. The recording ended after thirty minutes. As for Micarelli and the other moron, they had said nothing he could use as evidence in this file. He marked the recording in his notes as complete.

SURV #02. The next recording started with a soft, subtle mumble in the background, inaudible. Ward listened intently, trying to make out any words or phrases. At first, he thought the recording might be useless. He thought perhaps the hidden surveillance microphone had been covered up by something, causing the recording to be muffled. Someone might have unknowingly thrown a coat over the mic when they came into the room, or worse, maybe they were on to the surveillance and had covered the bug intentionally. If that was the case, the entire operation was blown, and Ward was just sitting here, wasting his time. He quickly found out that wasn’t the case. 

“Oh, how hilarious it is to watch the young ones scream,” a low, sinister voice suddenly said with perfect clarity. “It’s like an inspiring melody, ever so pleasing.”

“Agreed,” said a second voice. “They certainly don’t hold back the cries when the time comes.”

“What the—” Ward whispered aloud. His mouth hung open and his heart raced. He identified one voice (the first one that spoke) as the same voice from the other recording he’d already listened to. The second voice was unfamiliar, however, and sounded just as horrible, if not worse. Both voices had an unusual tonal quality to them, like nothing he’d ever heard before. He felt what could only be described as evil, not just in the things they had said, but in the actual underlying sound. The timbre had the most fiendish quality to it, like it meant to do harm, even if it had said something pleasant. It was as if this voice carried with it the sound of malice.

Ward stopped the recording, backed it up to the beginning, then played it again. His ears did not deceive him. And the second time he listened, a terrifying chill ran down his back, as his body had instinctively told him to flee from danger. The voices spoke in English, but didn’t sound human, nor did they sound digital, like from a voice emulating program. They somehow gave the impression they did not belong in our world, and they had actually found their way into his body, gripped his heart, and squeezed the life out of it. 

“I’m losing it,” Ward said, putting his face in his hands. “Either someone is a master at messing with my head, or I’m really fucking losing it.”

Taking a deep breath, Ward pushed on, not caring at this point about what came next. He had even lost his curiosity about it. He just wanted to get the ordeal over with and get out of this padded hell-hole.

“Ah yes, the cries,” the first voice said after Ward had resumed the playback. “They bellow and scream in such a lovely symphony when the time comes. Isn’t it glorious?”

“Indeed,” the second voice said. “So enjoyable, so fresh and invigorating. I’m giddy with anticipation of the next one. When can we expect the next?”

“The next should be anytime now,” the first voice said. “Zlo is working with a new prospect who should fulfill us at any moment.”

The second voice laughed. “We can only hope the new prospect is as good as the last traveling companion Zlo had groomed. What was his name?”

“Parker, I believe,” the first voice said. “Hanson Parker.”

“Yes, that’s the one… Hanson Parker,” the second voice said. “He did quite well, surprisingly, quite well indeed.”

“He faltered toward the end, but in his heyday, the man had moxie,” the second voice said. “Remember the little girl under the canoes near the riverbank?”

“I do! I do!” the first voice said. “I’d have to say she screamed the loudest, if I’m not mistaken. You should have seen it, Agent Ward. I believe you are well acquainted with that little girl, being that she is (I mean… was) your niece and all.” 

Both voices broke into deviant, hysterical laughter, which turned from a repulsive cackle into a horrendous chorus of screams.

Ward threw off the headphones and stood up. He was sweating, pallid, and about the throw up. He ran from the audio room and through the main offices toward the restroom, nearly knocking down three other agents before making it to the door labeled Men. Once inside, he hit the metal stall door, targeted the porcelain bowl, and unloaded the contents of his stomach. He cried a stream of tears as his body heaved and convulsed uncontrollably. It seemed like his emotions were coming out of him as rapidly as this morning’s breakfast. Physical and emotional pain had converged, making this the most miserable experience he’d had in all of his thirty-six years on earth. He felt like it would never end, like this horrible pain would be a part of him now and for the rest of his life. 

But it did end. After ten solid minutes in the second floor toilet, Henry Ward regained his composure. He stood up—out of breath—took a handful of toilet paper to wipe his mouth, then flushed the fixture he had just become so intimately acquainted with. 

The voices had hit him in his most vulnerable spot: his niece. They had addressed him by name and also brought up the name of Hanson Parker. This was no joke, nor was it a frequency glitch. It was personal, directed specifically at him. 

Agent Ward stood at the mirror with his hands on the edges of the sink. The face he saw staring back at him looked weak and worn down, like a person with nothing left to give the world. He was afraid now, truly afraid. He didn’t have a plan for what to do next. One thing was for sure, though, he would not be putting those fucking headphones back on to listen to that recording again. Never! But as far as what to do or where to go now, he had no clue. 

After cleaning himself up the best he could, he left the Men’s room and went to the HR office. He told them that because of a personal issue, he’d be taking a few weeks off. He had the time built up, so it wasn’t a problem. A few agents tried to talk to him as he left the office, some concerned, some just wanting to know the scoop. Ward didn’t acknowledge any of them, not even his friend Brian Dunlop, who had walked with Ward all the way to his car. 

When he left the parking garage, he didn’t know where he was going. It didn’t matter.

SEVEN

The pages were yellowed, frayed, and in some places difficult to read. Reverend Allen took great care not to do any further damage as he flipped through Sharon Snyder’s scrapbook, cautiously turning from one page to the next. Bold headlines from old newspaper articles stood out to him as he made his way through the book: 12-YEAR-OLD BOY DROWNS IN SHAWNEE LAKE, THREE DIE IN CAR CRASH, COLLEGE STUDENT DIES AFTER DOG ATTACK. The book was indeed macabre, as Lauren had told him, but it was also oddly fascinating—a gruesome chronicle of terrible moments in local history. His eyes grew wider after each page. 

“What I believe you came here to see is toward the middle of the book, Reverend,” Grandmother said. 

Reverend Allen didn’t look up from the book. He was consumed with an article titled: SNOWMOBILE ACCIDENT CLAIMS THE LIVES OF TWO CUMBERLAND SPRINGS TEENAGERS. Apparently, in February 1966, Larry Caldwell and his girlfriend, Mary Griggs, had taken one of his father’s snowmobiles out for an evening ride along the bank of the Cumberland River. Larry had decided to test the thickness of the ice on the river by riding full speed onto it, close to the bank. As he felt more daring, he had inched the snowmobile closer to the center (most likely attempting to scare his girlfriend). The ice, of course, had given way and the couple was swallowed up by the frigid under current. They fished Mary out of the river that night and she died after two days in the Cumberland Springs Memorial ICU. They had found Larry’s body two weeks later, twelve miles downriver from where they went in, washed up with a pile of debris. 

“This is all so sad,” Reverend Allen said. “Some of these people were just beginning their lives, some mere children.”

Grandmother, seated next to the reverend, sighed as she looked at the pages of the book with him. “These articles are about people I had attended to in the ICU before they had passed on.”

“Did you speak with any of them?” the reverend said.

“Some, yes, but most of them came in unconscious and never woke up.” Grandmother paused, searching her mind for the right words. “You’re probably wondering why I created this scrapbook.”

The reverend didn’t take his eyes off of the pages when he said, “I am Sharon.”

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” Grandmother said.

Reverend Allen finally pried his eyes away from the pages and looked at Lauren’s grandmother. “I would never think that of you, Sharon, never. In fact, I actually have a theory as to what made you create this book.”

She leaned back on the couch, focusing intently on the reverend’s face.

“Yes, you heard me correctly,” Reverend Allen said. “I believe you are blessed with the gift of empathy, and I consider empathy a gift from God. So many people go through their lives focused solely on themselves and their own needs, desires, and problems, but some of us can actually take the time to put ourselves into the shoes of others and feel what they are going through. Some of us actually care about others. Your deep level of care and compassion is a blessing, and it’s what made you want to remember these people. You felt what they were going through, and it touched you.”

Grandmother sat quietly as the reverend spoke. She never imagined in all these years she would have this conversation with anyone. To her, the scrapbook was a sort of therapy, something that had helped her get past the emotions she had experienced while treating these dying patients. It was only for her, no one else. But now here she sat, in the sanctuary of her sunroom, sharing an intimate part of her life that was never meant to be shared. 

A look of guilt hung on Lauren’s face like an old homemade Halloween mask. She stared at the ground, not wanting to make eye contact with her grandmother. 

Clay didn’t know what to say, either. It seemed better for him to keep quiet and let the reverend and Grandmother sort this all out. 

The reverend flipped through a few more pages as the rest of the group watched him in silence. Suddenly, his expression changed from curiosity to a look of distaste, verging on fear. “Who is this man?” he said.

Without looking at the book, Grandmother answered: “Harlan Wallace.”

EIGHT

April 16, 1964: Braddock County Tribune

DERANGED MAN KILLS FAMILY OF FOUR

Cumberland Springs, Pennsylvania—Authorities in the small Braddock County town of Cumberland Springs have confirmed the deaths of four residents, murdered in their home by an intruder, late last night.

Harlan Wallace, 36, of Milldale, West Virginia, is suspected of committing the brutal slayings after breaking into the home of Ken and Caroline Dzerbeck and family. Ken Dzerbeck, wife Caroline, daughter Marie, and second daughter Elizabeth, were all pronounced dead at the scene by the Braddock County Coroner. Ronald Dzerbeck, the twelve-year-old son of Ken and Caroline, survived the incident and is credited with ending Wallace’s rampage. 

Police are unsure at this time as to Wallace’s motive, but maintain he acted alone.

A West Virginia driver’s license recovered from the scene was used to positively identify Wallace. An eight-inch hunting knife was also recovered and is believed to be the weapon used by Wallace to commit the murders. 

A press conference is scheduled by the Cumberland Springs Police Department for later this morning. No further information is available at this time.

* * *

April 16, 1964. 11:30 AM: Transcript of Cumberland Springs P.D. press conference

Chief Decker:

“My name is William Decker, and I am the Chief of Police in Cumberland Springs, Pennsylvania. Last night at approximately 10:30 PM a perpetrator by the name of Harlan L. Wallace broke into the home of Ken and Caroline Dzerbeck, murdering them both along with their two daughters, Marie and Elizebeth. Wallace was eventually stopped by the Dzerbeck’s twelve-year-old son. This morning at 1:45 AM, Harlan Wallace died at Cumberland Springs Memorial Hospital as a result of injuries sustained from a gunshot wound to the abdomen. This investigation is ongoing. I’ll now take a few questions.”

Reporter #1:

“Chief Decker, have you established a motive yet as to why Wallace would kill almost an entire family of innocent people?”

Chief Decker:

“Presently, we believe this was a botched abduction. From clues gathered at the scene, it is apparent Wallace broke into the house through the youngest daughter’s room and attempted to take her without alerting the rest of the family. It is entirely possible she struggled or screamed, alerting the father, Ken Dzerbeck, of an intruder in the house. The girl’s body, along with Mr. Dzerbeck’s, was discovered in that room together.”

Reporter #1:

“Were the father and daughter killed in the same manner?”

Chief Decker:

“Actually, no. The girl was strangled to death—most likely in an attempt to silence her. Mr. Dzerbeck was stabbed several times in the chest and abdomen.”

Reporter #2:

“Chief Decker, how did Wallace kill the mother and second daughter?”

Chief Decker:

“I’m not going to go into much detail about this, but both appear to have been killed with the murder weapon we retrieved from the scene… a hunting knife.”

Reporter #2:

“Where were their bodies discovered?”

Chief Decker:

“Mrs. Dzerbeck was found in the hallway, just outside of the room where Mr. Dzerbeck and his daughter were discovered. We found the youngest daughter in her bedroom closet. She had most likely gone in there to hide, but Wallace had found her.”

Reporter #3:

“Chief Decker, you had said Wallace was stopped by the Dzerbeck’s twelve-year-old son and died from a gunshot wound later in the hospital. Can you elaborate on that further?” 

Chief Decker:

“I going to make something perfectly clear to all of you: I want Ronald Dzerbeck to be left alone. He’s gone through a trauma I’m sure none of you have ever had to experience. He’s scared, in shock, and suffering tremendous grief. The boy is with his grandparents now, and if I see anyone parked in front of their house looking to catch a photo or an interview, I’ll arrest you myself. Now, what I will tell you is that brave little boy defended himself with his father’s double-barrel shotgun, and Harlan Wallace is no longer with us. That’s as far as I’m willing to elaborate.”

Reporter #1:

“Chief Decker, what can you tell us about Wallace? Who is he? Where did he come from?”

Chief Decker:

“I spoke with the Chief of Police in Milldale, West Virginia this morning. We determined Wallace was from Milldale by the driver's license obtained from his wallet. Wallace had had a long history of past offenses in that area, including an attempted murder charge that put him in prison for four years. He had been in their sights, so to speak, for quite a few years now.” 

Reporter #2:

“Were you able to get a statement from Wallace before he died? Did he say anything?”

Chief Decker:

“Not that I am aware of. Wallace was unconscious when we arrived at the scene. We’ll question the hospital staff on the subject later in the investigation. At this point, I have nothing further to add, so this press conference is over. Again, I ask that you allow the Dzerbeck family their privacy, especially Ronald and his grandparents. As more information becomes available, my office will let you know. Thank you!”

* * *

October 9, 1964: Braddock County Tribune

TOWN FINDS THE STRENGTH TO MOVE ON

Cumberland Springs, Pennsylvania—Just four short months ago, the quaint and sleepy town of Cumberland Springs was devastated by a horrific tragedy that will certainly live on in resident’s minds forever. A monster appeared out of the darkness and took the lives of four loving, kind—and above all—innocent people in an act of brutality so violent the scar will mark this land for eternity. Where did this creature come from? How did this evil slip into our world and destroy four of our innocents? And in the name of God, why?

On the night of April 16, 1964, the Dzerbeck family had all gone off to bed, unaware it would be the very last time they would ever wish each other goodnight. From the conclusions reached by the Cumberland Springs Police Department and the Braddock County Coroner’s Office, the events of that fateful night played out like a horror film, unfit for viewing by a general audience. Sometime between 10:00 PM and 10:30 PM, a man named Harlan L. Wallace found his way into the Dzerbeck residence through the first-floor window of young Marie Dzerbeck’s bedroom. From there, he unleashed a hellish reign of terror and carnage upon this poor, unsuspecting family. 

But why the Dzerbecks? By all accounts, they were as sweet as human beings can be. Ken (father) and Caroline (mother) owned and operated the Dzerbeck family bakery in downtown Cumberland Springs. They also belonged to the First Baptist Church, the Rotary Club, the Moose Club, and just about every other club you can find in this part of the world. So why? Why them? Why did this beast feel the need to take away four people who meant so much to this community?

The investigation report, filed by Police Chief William Decker, states Wallace had most likely been after the Dzerbeck’s ten-year-old daughter, Marie. Witnesses from her school (classmates who shall remain nameless) came forward to say they had seen Wallace sitting in a white car, close to the Cumberland Springs Elementary School playground, earlier that day. They had also seen the same car driving past them at least twice as they walked home from school. Chief Decker deduces in his report Wallace had most likely stalked Marie Dzerbeck that entire day, possibly even for some time before that. 

But why? Why this young, beautiful girl, so full of life and innocence? We’ll never actually know the answer to that question, as Harlan L. Wallace didn’t count on there being a young boy in the Dzerbeck house that fateful night who had been well trained on how to use his father’s twelve-gauge shotgun (a 1955 Winchester Model 21 to be precise). Young Ronald Dzerbeck (Ronnie) has not spoken to anyone outside of the police and his immediate family about the matter, nor does anyone expect him to, but the story in the police report states as follows: Ronnie Dzerbeck awoke to his father and sister screaming and could immediately tell the family was in trouble. Instead of first running to their aid, he ran for his father’s gun cabinet, loaded the side-by-side shotgun with two shells, then ran to assist. When he reached the top of the stairs and looked down, Harlan Wallace was on his way up, coated in blood, laughing, and holding a large blade in his right hand. Ronnie did not hesitate, firing two blasts directly into the monster in front of him. Had Ronnie not had the instinct to retrieve the weapon from the cabinet, we can only imagine what the outcome would have been, and Harlan Wallace might still be out there, stalking someone else’s unsuspecting family with his devilish plans in mind. Instead, however, a young boy found the strength and courage to face the beast, eye to eye. While young Ronnie did tragically lose his entire family on that terrible night, he unknowingly saved the world from a terror born straight from hell. There are certainly more monsters out there in the world—too many to even contemplate—but there will always be one less thanks to a young boy with the guts to look directly into the face of the darkness and say: “NO!”

As for the community that took a direct hit to the heart from this tragedy, they will live on together. A dedication and memorial is already being planned at First Baptist Church of Cumberland Springs and a candlelight prayer service is scheduled for Sunday, October 17, at the gazebo in the Cumberland Springs town square park at 8:00 PM. Everyone wishing to attend is welcome.

NINE

“My Lord!” Reverend Allen said. “I thought I knew this town pretty well, but I didn’t know about this.”

Lauren’s grandmother took the scrapbook out of the reverend’s hands and closed it. She didn’t want to look at the terrible face of Wallace in the faded newspaper photo any longer. She placed the closed book on her lap and put both hands on the cover as if to guard it.

“Dzerbeck?” Reverend Allen said. “There’s a granite stone under the large oak on the front lawn of the church with an inscription. I believe it has the Dzerbeck’s names inscribed on it with a verse: So also you have sorrow now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you (John 16:22).” The reverend stared out of the large glass window behind Lauren and Clay, his mouth hanging slightly open and his eyes looking off into the distance. After a few moments of silence, he finally said, “There’s a Ron Dzerbeck in our congregation. Is that—”

Grandmother touched the reverend’s arm. “Paul, every town has things in its history people want to forget. Of course, no one ever wants to forget the Dzerbeck family, but at the same time, we don’t want to focus on that terrible tragedy, either. Some things are much better left alone, to fade away into the past and stay buried.” 

“But is that the same Ron Dzerbeck in church?” Clay spoke up. “I gotta know! He coached my little league baseball team when I was a kid. I think he still coaches.”

Looking annoyed, Grandmother flashed a glance in Clay’s direction that told him to drop the subject. Clay quelled his excitement, feeling the woman’s eyes glaring into him. 

“You don’t have to say it, Sharon,” Reverend Allen said. “I know it’s him. The ages match up perfectly. Plus, I see Ron stopping by that memorial every Sunday after church for a few moments of silent prayer. But you are right. We need to keep this to ourselves. That man has a horrific memory in his head, and we can’t even begin to imagine the pain he’s gone through over the years. Let’s all promise right here and now to keep this conversation between us, shall we?”

Everyone nodded in agreement. Clay still had a look of fascination on his face, but he agreed just the same. 

Grandmother finally broke the silence that had fallen over the room as everyone had unknowingly retreated into their own thoughts. “So what does my old scrapbook have to do with fixing Lauren’s nightmares? I can’t imagine such a thing can be of help to anyone.”

The reverend looked at Lauren, goading her to answer the question.

Finally, Lauren said, “It’s about your experience with Harlan Wallace. When I told you what was happening in the ICU with my John Doe patient and the things I had experienced, you told me what you had seen and felt in 1964 with Wallace. And our experiences match up almost identically.” Lauren paused and looked at the reverend. “Reverend Allen thinks they’re connected somehow.”

“Yes, I do,” Reverend Allen said. “And I believe you do too, Sharon.”

Grandmother let out a deep breath. “Ok, so there’s a connection. We had a similar experience. I got over it, and now it’s time you do the same, Lauren.” Though her expression was stern, it was still the loving, caring face Lauren had always known. “Harlan Wallace and John Doe—or whatever the asshole’s name is, pardon my French—are dead, buried, and probably rolling around together in hell. We all need to get past this and live our lives outside of their shadows.”

“Yes, we all do need to move on,” Reverend Allen said. “But I still believe the issue is deeper than we think. We may only be scratching the surface of what is really going on here.”

Grandmother added more coffee to her cup, then settled in, ready to listen to the reverend’s theory. “Ok, Paul, you have my attention.”

The reverend situated himself on the couch to get comfortable. “Based on what Lauren has shared with me about her experience and yours, the similarities of the two stories are too close to be coincidence. They’re nearly identical, save for the expanse of time between them. You both felt a menacing presence around a patient, you both saw shadow figures in the room, and you both saw the patient die. You two have even described the same smell of sulfur and decay that appeared in the room accompanying all of this. In a court of law, these two testimonies would hold up as fact.”

Grandmother listened, taking the occasional sip from her cup of black coffee, but not interjecting.

Reverend Allen continued: “And I have kept no secret about my experience in the ICU room with this John Doe patient. I know in my heart I came face to face with the devil that night, and the son of a bitch nearly took my life; there is no denying it! My story lines right up with both of yours. So here we are, three people who have looked into the face of evil and lived to tell the tale. None one can say with honesty these events haven’t severely changed us. Maybe you, Sharon, are a little tougher than the rest of us and were able to handle the after effects in your own way, but surely you can’t deny the experience hasn’t affected you. Or am I just off my rocker?”

Grandmother looked into her coffee cup and didn’t acknowledge the question. She had certainly heard it, but was either unwilling or unable to give an answer. 

“So here we are, today,” he continued. “Doing our best to live our lives, knowing evil is real and can slip into our world as it pleases. We’re left with this knowledge and expected to live out the rest of our days happily ever after.”

Unable to sit still any longer as his preacher side took over, launching him into a Sunday morning fire and brimstone fervor, Reverend Allen stood up and paced around the room. Lauren, Clay, and Grandmother followed him with their eyes, keeping to their seats. 

“This thing came into our lives from the most vile grease pit of the farthest depths of hell and taunted us, attacked us, tried its best to break us,” Reverend Allen said. “But it did no such thing, because it can not do such a thing! We are stronger than any piece of filth the devil can spew forth! We are shielded by the Blood of Jesus Christ! Harm can not and will not befall us because through Christ we are whole, protected, and—praise God—we are saved!”

The excitement level in the room rose collectively, and everyone could feel their hearts thumping with joy. 

Reverend Allen touched Lauren gently on the top of her head, then Clay, then Grandmother. “We have nothing to fear from these beasts. God is here. Jesus Christ is our Savior. The Holy Spirit is our guide. We shall never fear again!”

The reverend stopped talking, and the silence was interrupted only by the sound of sniffling coming from each of them. They had shared a moment together and had each been touched in some way. The heaviness over the room had lifted. Whether the reverend broke into his rant intentionally or if the Spirit had moved him—launching him into a pulpit pounding sermon—it didn’t matter. The group felt stronger and lighter. Things were going to get better. Perhaps they just needed a little kick in the pants to get the healing process started. 

The reverend took his seat again next to Grandmother and gave everyone a moment to relax. 

“So, where do we go from here?” Grandmother asked.

Reverend Allen picked up his leather briefcase, which had been sitting on the floor next to the coffee table, and opened it on his lap. Inside were several manila folders and a few scattered papers, some looked like photocopied newspaper articles. “I’ve taken on a research project of my own, not unlike that old scrapbook of yours, Sharon. And I’ve discovered some very interesting things about this region we all call home.”

TEN

Session two with Dr. Lightner. In the first session, she had made Devon feel comfortable, unusually comfortable. Even though it was only a simple get to know each other meeting, he left feeling like he could tell her things, open up if she wanted him to. Few people—other than Linda and Ronnie—had ever made Devon feel relaxed enough to open his feelings. But this doctor seemed to have a way about her, a calm confidence. It didn’t hurt that she was attractive, but he didn’t honestly believe that’s what made him feel good about her. She seemed genuinely interested in what Devon had to say; that had touched him. Maybe she was a witch.

Dr. Lightner’s office was another part of this relaxing experience. Either she was a world class interior decorator on the side, or she had hired the best one available. Tall, floor to ceiling windows along the far wall allowed warm, natural light to fill the room. Perfectly placed plants added just the right amount of greenery without over crowding. The plants themselves gave off a slight hint of organic aroma, which was further enhanced by another soft and subtle smell that delighted the senses and promoted relaxation (most likely an aroma therapy diffuser or something like that). It reminded Devon of the spa he took Linda to for a surprise couple’s getaway a few years ago. 

“Devon. Welcome. Please come in,” Dr. Lightner said as she stood and came around from behind her desk to meet him. She ushered him not to the chairs that sat across from her desk, but to a small seating area in the middle of the room with four comfortable leather chairs around a small coffee table. “Can I get you something? Coffee? Soda? Water?”

“Water would be fine,” Devon said.

The doctor left the room for a moment, then returned with a stemless wineglass filled with water and placed it on the coffee table. Devon wondered if it was pretentious or elegant to serve water in a wineglass. He’d never seen it done like that before.

In the middle of the coffee table was a small, round, black disk that looked like a hockey puck but slightly larger. Devon stared at it, trying to figure out what it was.

“That’s a recording device,” Dr. Lightner said. “I use it to record our sessions, then I go back and review the recording later. I don’t like to make notes while we talk; it’s distracting. I want our conversations to flow without interruption.” 

Devon shook his head in agreement, then sat quietly.

“Are you having a good day so far?” Dr. Lightner said. “It’s beautiful outside. I think I’ll do some gardening around my house after I leave the office today. It’s the perfect day for digging in the dirt.” She smiled and took a sip from her own stemless wineglass of water.

“I’m ok, I guess,” Devon said.

“You don’t sound so sure?”

Devon smiled. “No, I’m good. Just getting used to being here today.”

“Well then, why don’t we jump right in and get the session started,” Dr. Lightner said. She reached forward and pushed a button on top of the little black disk. A soft blue light came on, letting the world know that until she pressed the button again, whatever was said in this room would be committed to record. 

Devon looked at the blue light, a little nervous about being recorded.

“I know from your file, and from the last time we spoke, that you were a Marine Corps combat medic and served for two years in the Iraq War,” Dr. Lightner said. “I imagine that’s something you find difficult to discuss with people you don’t know very well?”

Devon didn’t answer. He continued staring blankly at the blue light on the recording device.

“But I believe that’s what we’re here to talk about, isn’t it, Devon?” Dr. Lightner sat forward in her chair. “Devon? Hello?”

He didn’t lift his eyes from the blue light when he finally said: “Do you believe in evil, Dr. Lightner?”

The doctor looked at Devon while she searched for a reply. His question caught her off guard. “Well, Devon, I believe mankind can do evil deeds. So evil as an action? Yes, absolutely. What makes you ask?”

“No, Doctor, I’m not talking about evil deeds,” Devon said. “I mean evil, like… I don’t know… like something that physically exists.”

“Physical evil? No, I don’t believe that exists,” the doctor said. “Evil is an action from a human being. In fact, it’s more of a label placed on an action for effect. It’s like saying a serial killer is bad, but saying he is evil makes the description more dramatic, especially if you're reading it in a newspaper.” She took a sip from her water glass. “Why do you ask?”

“Promise you won’t think I’m crazy?”

“I don’t think anyone is crazy, Devon,” Dr. Lightner said. “It’s not a word I use.”

Devon took a few deep, calming breaths, letting them out slowly, then began his story about the ambulance ride the other night. Without hesitation and without holding back the details, he told the doctor about the woman, Mrs. Hargrove, that sweet little-old first grade teacher who was one of the kindest and gentlest souls he’d ever known. She was also the woman who had viciously attacked him in the back of the ambulance, shouted the most horrible things he’d ever heard, then spewed black bile directly into his face. And the things she knew about him. She knew about Marines in Iraq who had died in his arms, as he worked so hard to save them. She knew their names, which was impossible, simply impossible. Then the ordeal was over, like it never happened. But it did happen, and he had the sore throat and bruises to prove it.

“Devon,” Dr. Lightner said. “Your mind has had to endure stress that far exceeds its ability to comprehend. When the brain is dealing with or coping with those issues, sometimes it fills in the blanks on its own, attempting to understand. You saw people do things that are repulsive and terrible, and your mind is still trying to figure out why. I believe this is why you’re thinking evil goes farther than mere deeds, that it’s something that actually exists in a tangible form. It’s your mind doing its best to make sense of situations that truly don’t make sense. Graphically violent movies and video games can desensitize a person to a point, but when a human being is face to face with the real thing, sometimes the brain can’t handle it. And please believe me when I say this is nothing to be ashamed of. The military had asked you to go far above and beyond what you were capable of, and you did it without question. Now we need to bring you back, calmly and clearly. And by clearly I mean without the use of drugs. I only prescribe medication as a last resort. It’s my belief—and the belief of many of my colleagues—that drugs are just a quick solution to a problem which is much deeper and needs to be brought to the surface through counseling. That approach will help you heal yourself rather than rely on a synthetic chemical.”

It was almost unbelievable to hear, but this woman got it. Not once since Devon came back from Iraq did a doctor send him home without a prescription for some damn thing. Here ya go, kid; take two of these and go fuck yourself! But Dr. Lightner seemed to care about the real problem. She wanted to help and expel the daemons from within, giving him back his life naturally. A tear formed in his eye and he smiled. Maybe, just maybe, things were about to get better.

ELEVEN

Truck stops are odd places. Like the magnificent train stations of the past, they serve as a stopping point for travelers coming and going from all parts of the country. Of course, there isn’t much grandeur to marvel at in a truck stop, not like one would find in Penn Station or Union Station or Grand Central Station, but they basically serve a similar purpose: a break from travel. Grab a bite, get some gas, take a leak, and get going. 

The truck stop where Gary had stopped to get gas on Interstate 81, just outside of Winchester, was quaintly decorated compared to any other he had seen before. It was still a chain establishment (Loves or Pilot or something like that), but whoever owned this franchise had tried to make the place look like an old country store. And it was a nice attempt at turning a boring, dismal building into something comfortable. There was even a cinnamon or apple pie smell that welcomed you inside as you opened the door, probably from a scented candle or wax melter. The decor gimmick must have worked, too, because the place was way busier than any other along the Interstate today. 

Gary topped off the tank and went inside to pay with cash, newly acquired cash, all twenties, fifties, and hundreds. He had imagined those gold coins he’d pulled out of that coffin were worth a lot, but when the pawnshop owner offered him twelve grand cash just for one, Gary almost hit the floor. 

“Where did you come across this thing, anyway, buddy?” the pawnshop guy had asked.

“Do you want it or not?” Gary said. “I don’t have time to play Fifty Questions.”

The man was reluctant to do business, knowing full well the guy standing in front of him had undoubtedly gained this rare coin through ill-gotten means, but damn if he was going to pass up a Fifteenth Century Spanish Doubloon. It was surely worth way over twelve thousand, but twelve thousand was good enough for now. Zlo had said nothing about the price, anyway. It had just told Gary to find a pawnshop and unload one—only one, Mr. Elmer—of the coins. There was no discussion about how much he should take for it. 

After paying for the gas, he pulled the car around to the back of the building and parked in an inconspicuous spot where he ate a barbecue sandwich and fries he had purchased inside. The sandwich was surprisingly delicious for road food, and the fries were fresh and crispy.

“So, what now?” Gary asked with a saucy mouthful of pulled pork and bread. “What’s up with this grand adventure you keep mentioning?”

“Ah yes, our grand adventure,” Zlo said. The vibration occurring when it spoke made Gary’s stomach flutter, causing him to nearly spit up his food. “And so we shall begin.”

 “Yeah, sounds great. What am I supposed to do?”

“Mr. Elmer,” Zlo said. “Have some enthusiasm. Now is the time for excitement! You are about to embark on an escapade that will forever change the lives of many, yourself included. Aren’t you exhilarated? Thrilled? Elevated?”

“Exhilarated? I don’t know what the fuck I’m even doing out here.”

“Yes, but you’ve already felt stimulation the likes you have never imagined,” Zlo said. “Some of which you have produced of your own accord. True?”

Gary thought back over the last two days. It had been a great ride so far. The power, the dominance, the creativity… He was an artist now, creating art through his power over others, through their deaths. It was amazing!

Zlo laughed. “Yes, Gary, you are an artist now, the creator of new worlds. Your work shall live on for eternity. Wonderful, isn’t it?”

Wonderful wasn’t a word that did justice to his work, because there wasn’t a word for it. Masters of language could not describe his art in mere words. It was emotion and energy, raw power brought about through rage and destruction. Beautiful, simply beautiful. 

But there was something else that came along with this new creative energy he had tapped into, something more powerful than anything he could produce on his own. That feeling, the one Zlo had given him while he lay in a puddle of muck at the bottom of a dumpster. It came from somewhere he couldn’t explain, inside of him, yes, yet from another place, as well. It was like a drug, administered from an inside source, more potent than anything humanity could produce. Zlo had filled him with power, pure and violent, amazing power that elevated him to the level of a god, a ruler over these piss-ant weaklings he shared the earth with. Now that was something truly amazing, something worth more than all the money in the world, something he would do anything to feel again.

“Hey, man,” Gary said to Zlo as if they were long-time friends sitting next to each other at a bar. “What about that feeling you gave me a taste of? You know, the reward, as you call it. When can I get some more of that shit?”

“Mr. Elmer, our grand adventure has just begun. You can have your reward anytime you’d like, provided you accomplish certain tasks first.”

This was a no brainer for Gary. That rush of power was so intense there wasn’t a thing in this world he wouldn’t do for it, nor a person he wouldn’t kill. All that mattered now was getting a dose of it again, that power which came from a place humans shouldn’t to know about. “Let’s do it, man! Give me the task.”

“That’s the spirit, Gary! Your excitement is encouraging. And for someone with your skills and selfish soul, this should not be a problem for you, not a problem at all.”

Zlo continued: “My interest, so to speak, is in the innocent. I have an abominable hatred for the innocent and everything they represent—putrid, loathsome little creatures, all of them. What I ask of you is to bring me a child of no more than twelve years of age, then you shall receive your reward. It’s really that simple. And each time you complete this task, the reward shall be yours.”

“Kidnap a kid? That’s it?” Gary said. “How hard can that be? I mean, I’ve never done it before, but what the fuck… I’m down.” He stepped out of the car and looked around the parking lot. “Hell, there’s a bunch of ‘em right here at this truck stop.”

“You must be discreet, Mr. Elmer,” Zlo said. “Getting caught is not in your best interest.”

“Shit, I’m the discreetest motherfucker you ever met,” Gary said. “Watch the skills!”

The sun had just gone out of sight from the sky, but it was still fully light outside. There were no dark places to hide yet, no shadows available for concealment. Gary didn’t give a shit. One of these kids running around here was the key to his reward, surly one would stray away from their parents and unknowingly fall into his web. It was just a matter of patience—a virtue Gary sorely lacked at the moment. 

He took the crumpled brown paper bag his food had come in and walked around to the front of the building by the pumps. His plan was to act like he was just throwing away some garbage, but in actuality, he was scanning for a loose kid he could snatch and dash. Perhaps a parent had left one in the car while they went inside to pay for their gas or grab a candy bar or something. People did those kinds of absent minded things all the time. The chance of him striking gold on the first shot seemed pretty good; he liked his chances.

The pumps were full of cars, two deep on each side. Sure, that meant a lot of prospects, but it also meant a lot of eyes out there, too. Could he rely on the fact that most people didn’t pay attention to their surroundings? Could he be sure the girl looking down at her iPhone while she filled up her car with gas wouldn’t turn the camera on and film him while he made his attempt? Maybe stream it live to Facebook or some shit? The whole thing suddenly felt a lot harder than it had looked in his head a few moments ago. There could have easily been fifty cars in this area, all of them with people in or around them. His excitement level diminished right before his eyes, which was very disheartening. He could feel the reward slipping away, and he so wanted another taste of it right now. 

And suddenly there it was: a little kid walking over toward the dumpster around the side of the building, all alone. He was carrying a trash bag that looked slightly bigger than the opening in the garbage cans at the pump islands. Maybe his parents had told him to drop this larger bag into the dumpster and hurry back. And just like that, out of the blue, the perfect situation had presented itself. Was it really that simple? Perhaps all a predator needed was a little patience and a watchful eye and he could have his pick of the sheep whenever he wanted. After all, they were everywhere. You just needed to know when to pick your moments. Like this one right here.

A quick scan of the area and Gary gained a good idea of where the kid had come from and who his parents were. There was a newer model minivan at pump number six with a small family in and around it. The father was pumping gas while the mother was inside of the van attending to two other children. All of their attention was diverted from the kid they had sent to the dumpster. Honestly officer, I just sent him to that dumpster right over there with a bag of trash, only took my eyes off the boy for a minute.

Gary changed his path from the pumping area to the front side of the building. He pulled out his phone and pretended to look at it, keeping the kid in his peripheral vision as he headed for the dumpster. A quick glance around the area showed him no one appeared to be watching. This was perfect! His car was parked around the back, so with one quick swoop, he could grab the kid and continue to the back of the building with ease. He might have to crack the little shit in the head once or twice to shut him up, but that shouldn’t be so hard. Business was about to begin. 

The boy had the dumpster lid open with one hand and was doing his best to swing the trash bag into it with the other; he didn’t quite have the height needed to make this a smooth operation. After two unsuccessful swings with the bag, Gary was on him like a pouncing cat on an unsuspecting mouse. With his left arm around the kid’s waist and his right hand over the kid’s mouth, Gary whisked him up and was off and running. Holy shit, I got him! It astonished him how simple that was. And even though the kid squirmed like crazy, he was still no match for Gary’s strength. All he had to do was make it to the car, which was in sight, throw the cargo in the back seat, crack it in the head to shut it up, and that was it. He could now add kidnapping to his long list of offenses against society.  

One thing Gary hadn’t counted on, however, was that God gave these little bastards teeth. And damn if they weren’t sharp as glass! Pain shot through Gary’s second and third finger on his right hand, hot and blazing. He had felt pain before over the course of his life (mostly through various ass-kickings he’d experienced by larger and more skillful men), but nothing like this. No one had ever bitten him. It had a different feeling than being cut by a knife or a razor. Those lacerations were clean and quick, but the bite was another story all together. Teeth were primal, savage. They didn’t break the skin with the finesse of a blade, instead they slowly parted the flesh, jolting raging flashes of agony with every millimeter they gained until finally reaching the bone. And they hung on like a steel trap, radiating even more intensity as every split second passed they were attached.  

Gary hung on the best he could, but this would be no eight second ride; the pain was far too intense. As soon as the kid felt Gary lessen his grip, he broke free. And he sure didn’t hold back on the screaming either. The little prick let out a roar of “Help! Help! Help!” that sounded like he had a bull horn in front of his mouth.

There was only one way out of this mess for Gary, and thank his lucky stars he had already gassed up the car before the start of this whole debacle. He ran for the beige Toyota he had parked in the back lot of the building. There were a few people in this area, mostly just folks eating in their cars before heading back out onto the Interstate, but fuck ‘em; if they had heard the kid screaming and saw a stringy long-haired guy running though the back lot, that was just tough luck. He’d figure it out later. Now the only priority was getting his ass out of here as fast as he could.

He jumped in behind the wheel, hit the start button on the dashboard, and put the car in gear. When he grabbed the shifter with his right hand, electric fire shot up his arm. Looking down at the source of this horrible sensation, he saw the little kid’s bite had savaged his fingers. Flesh was torn aside, and Gary could actually see the bone on the underside of his middle finger. It didn’t look real to him. In fact, the only thing his mind could equate it to was something he’d seen in Return of the Living Dead. 

“Imbecile!” Zlo shouted from inside Gary’s body, shocking him right back to the moment. “The next few precious seconds of this catastrophic failure may just determine how the rest of your life goes, Mr. Elmer. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Gary said, gritting through the pain. The image of that kid gnashing his teeth into Gary’s fingers flashed in his head, making the agony more intense. 

“Listen carefully, Mr. Elmer,” Zlo continued. “Navigate this vehicle slowly out of the area and back onto the road. Do not look around. Focus only on getting back onto the road. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Gary said. He composed himself and did as Zlo had instructed. Driving out of the area through the back lot of the building gave him the advantage of not being seen by the people parked at the pumps out front. Besides, that’s where the screaming kid had run off to. He crept the car through the lot and slipped onto the ramp leading to Interstate 81 North. Whether anyone saw him or photographed the car with their phones, he did not know. The main thing was that he was out of there, on the Interstate, and putting distance between himself and that goddamn, rabid, chomp hungry kid!

TWELVE

Grandmother sat next to Reverend Allen, watching him leaf through pages of notes and photocopied articles stacked inside of his leather briefcase. She was impressed with the amount of work he had put into this subject already. It was probably part of his job, she imagined, to look for signs of evil at work in the world and protect his congregation from falling victim to it. From the look of his briefcase, it appeared the reverend took his job seriously. Though she didn’t fully agree with the paranormal aspect he was peddling, she respected his efforts.

“Here it is,” Reverend Allen said as he pulled out a piece of white paper with an article photocopied to the front of it. “It’s an article written quite a few years ago by a Baptist Pastor in Tennessee named Arlowe Williams. It’s about his brush with evil and how he prevailed over it. Some of Reverend Williams’ encounter coincides with what you ladies, and I myself have described in our own experiences—the horrible odors, the shadow figures, the feelings of dread and despair, etc… His ordeal came about in exactly the same manor as ours: over a dying patient, except his was in a prison infirmary instead of a hospital ICU.” Reverend Allen put on his glasses and scanned through the article until he came to the part he was looking for. “Ah, here it is. Apparently, before the man whom Reverend Williams was praying over had died, he said this name, or word, the reverend wasn’t sure what it was: Bol. B-O-L. Does that sound familiar to either of you?”

Lauren shook her head no, then looked over at Grandmother. The woman was staring down at her scrapbook, looking somewhat shaken. “Grandmother?”

“Huh? Oh, no, I’m not familiar with that word,” Grandmother said. Her voice carried little in the way of confidence. 

“Sharon, are you alright?” Reverend Allen asked. “You seem shaken.”

“I’m sorry. I… I think I just remembered something.” 

Grandmother opened her scrapbook and flipped to the first article about Harlan Wallace. She lifted the clear plastic protector off of the page, removed the article, and turned it over. On the back of the yellowed newspaper was a small word, written ages ago in her own handwriting. “Zlo,” she said aloud.

Reverend Allen looked at the word and whispered it to himself as he studied it. “What is this, Sharon?”

Grandmother took a deep breath and let it out. “It’s the last thing Harlan Wallace said before he died. Zlo. At first I thought he had said the word slow, but he had pronounced the Z so emphatically that it had to be Zlo. And in my own personal nightmares, which occur still to this day, I sometimes hear that word.” She put the article back in the scrapbook and closed the cover. “It’s a Croatian word. It means evil, or of evil. I also did some research over the years.”

“Zlo!” Reverend Allen exclaimed. “Dear Lord, you will not believe what I’m about to show you next, ladies and gentlemen, because I don’t believe it myself!” The reverend tore into his briefcase, frantically pulling pages out and letting them fall to the floor. He was a man on a mission, a quest. There was something in these pages that sent him into a frenzy, and he desperately needed to find it. 

After the briefcase was nearly empty and the contents scattered about the couch, coffee table, and floor, the reverend stopped. He peered into the case with a look on his face of both fear and excitement. “Here it is,” he said, pulling a single page out and holding it up in front of him. “This is astonishing!”

Reverend Allen continued: “Here is an article from the Cumberland Springs archives from way back in the year 1906. It’s about a young Irish coal miner named Sean Collins who was accused of killing twelve men at the Juniper Mine, which was located just outside of our lovely little town until it closed down shortly after this event took place. Sean Collins believed he was possessed by an evil spirit, which, by the way, he had discovered in a cave deep in the mine. He goes on to say that the spirit was in the body of a billy goat, which he had found trapped down there. I know you’re thinking this sounds like folklore or the ramblings of a deranged man trying to avoid execution, but what do you think Sean Collins claimed this evil spirit’s name was? Anyone?”

No one wanted to speak. The room had a heaviness over it again, making the air feel almost too thick to breathe. 

“Since no one wishes to speak up,” Reverend Allen said. “I’ll say it. The name was—”

“Zlo,” Grandmother interrupted. “You’re going to say the name was Zlo.” She looked heartbroken, as if she had just heard earth shattering news that was certain to change her life.

“Yes, Sharon, the name was Zlo,” Reverend Allen said softly. “Dear Lord!”

Clay was the first to speak up after the room had gone eerily silent. “So, this is a name, not a word?”

Reverend Allen broke out of his thoughts. “It would appear that way, yes, Clay. We may actually have a name.” He rubbed his hand down his face as another thought pierced his mind. “The word from the other article I had found, Bol, that could be a name, too, instead of just a strange word.”

“Zlo? Bol?” Lauren said. “I’ve never heard anything like this.”

Clay frantically searched his iPhone with a look of intensity on his face. “Google Translate says that Bol is another Croatian word. It means: pain, anguish, grief.”

Reverend Allen spoke: “So, we have two words, spoken on the deathbeds of two horrible people, at two different time periods, that mean something terrible in a language used half a world away. Does that sound about right?”

No one answered.

“And one of those names appears in 1906 at a murder trial right here in Cumberland Springs! Then once again in 1964 in our very own hospital, and in front of you, Sharon.” Reverend Allen continued. “This is truly unbelievable!”

“Reverend,” Grandmother spoke up. “Maybe we shouldn’t be going down this road? I don’t like where this is heading. I have my own nightmares I’ve dealt with all these years. I don’t want to stir up anymore. And I’m sure Lauren doesn’t either.”

Lauren looked at her grandmother and gave her an endearing smile. “I can understand if you don’t want to look further into this, Grandmother, I really can. But for me, I think I need to keep going. I need to figure this thing out. After these past six months, I know the nightmares will never leave me alone unless I face them head on. I have to put a stop to them, or whatever is causing them, even if it goes farther than just my own head.”

Clay moved closer to his wife and put his arm around her. 

“Sharon,” Reverend Allen said. “I understand your apprehension; believe me, I do. But you know yourself that the only way to fix a problem is to face it head on. There is no other way.”

“Paul, I know how to handle problems,” Grandmother said. “That’s not my concern.”

“Well, what is your concern?” Lauren said.

“I just don’t like where this is going,” Grandmother said. “Evil spirits, criminals, murderers… I don’t want those things in my head.”

“I think they already are, Sharon,” Reverend Allen said. “Haven’t you been carrying this load already for all these years?” He reached over and tapped the cover of the scrapbook on her lap. “Instead of keeping them bottled up in this book, perhaps it’s time you faced them.”

The room went silent again as Grandmother and Reverend Allen stared at each other.

“What do you propose we do, Paul?” Grandmother finally said.

“Well, I believe more research is the key,” Reverend Allen said. “We have a few names now, and a couple of articles. Let’s all go off on our own and see what else we can dig up. We can meet in my office, or here in this lovely sunroom, if you’d prefer, and compare our findings. At the very least, I believe it will be good therapy for those of us who have actually seen this thing face to face. Clay, I’m sure it will be interesting for you as well.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Paul,” Grandmother said. “For your sake and ours.”