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TERROR TOWN

By

JAMES ROY DALEY

 

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This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

 

TERROR TOWN

 

Copyright 2010 by James Roy Daley

 

Cover Art by Steven Gilberts

Book Design by James Roy Daley

Cover Design by Cynthia Gould

 

FIRST EDITION

 

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

 

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Previews:

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From ghosties and ghoulies,

Long leggitie beasties,

And all things that go bump in the night,

Good Lord, deliver us!

 

~16^th Century Prayer

 

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~~~~ PROLOGUE: CLOVEN ROCK

 

The people that lived in Cloven Rock considered the town’s final Monday a beautiful one, like most of the days in the recent weeks. The sun was shining; the air was clean and warm. Flowers bloomed and birds sat among the branches singing songs only birds could understand. Dogs chased master’s Frisbees and people said hello to strangers, not to suggest that thousands of tourists roamed the beachfront or the area that passed as the downtown core. That wasn’t the case; there were only a few. If you asked one of the locals why things were this way, the answer would be simple: Cloven Rock was an inclusive town, an uncomplicated town, a town that didn’t encourage a vacationer crowd even though sightseers would have flocked to it religiously. Many residents thought the town was special and they were right. It was special. It wasn’t a small place trying to be a big place. It was a town without civic uncertainty.

The Yacht Club Swimming Pool, a Cloven Rock favorite, had a full house the day before the town was lost. They also had an open door policy; if you were respectful, courteous, and didn’t pee in the pool, you were welcome anytime. Also on that day, friends sailed the calm waters of Cloven Lake and children built sandcastles on Holbrook Beach. Kids played in Easton Park while the people on the large wooden deck at the Waterfront Café enjoyed the spectacular view. The post office closed early. An ice cream store called Tabby’s Goodies was doing good business and a mile and a half up the road the men and woman working at the Cloven Rock Docks fought for, and won, a fifty-cent raise. Spirits were high at the Docks, and the personnel were getting along just fine. It wasn’t surprising. Nearly half the workforce was related and the other half was considered family.

The Cloven Rock Police Department was not at full strength when things turned ugly. One officer was on vacation, one had gone home due to an illness in the family, and two had the day off. Of the nine remaining officials, only Tony Costantino, Joel Kirkwood, and Mary O’Neill, were on duty when the reports came in. The other four were either at home or on call. Normally this wouldn’t be deemed a problem. Most locals figured a thirteen-person police force was nothing short of overkill anyhow. The Rock hadn’t had a stitch of recorded violence in six years.

The community as a whole didn’t know horror, as most tight-knit communities can understand. It knew long days, family activities, and simple living. It knew Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. It knew family.

But sadly, like all communities, Cloven Rock had its share of tragedy.

2007 was a bad year.

It was the year a local artist named George Gramme had his hands caught in his motorcycle chain while he was working on it. He suffered two broken wrists and lost four of his fingers. He also lost his artistic spirit and the means to keep that spirit alive. In the weeks following, he put his motorcycle up for sale and fell into a state of depression that changed him into a different man.

Two weeks later the town’s senior librarian, Angela Lore, died from cancer on the same day that ‘odd-job’ Martin West fell off a ladder and broke both of his legs while shingling his neighbor’s roof.

2007 was also the year a car accident claimed the lives of three teenagers.

As the story goes, a half dozen youngsters were drinking on the unnamed road surrounding Holbrook’s pond. After several hours of alcohol consumption, the six youths plunked their butts inside two vehicles. In one car, Andrew Cowles and Dean Lee, a pair of borderline delinquents, drove home without incident and arrived safely. The second car, loaded with four of the sweetest kids you’d ever meet, weren’t so lucky. Two brothers, Guy and Henri Lemont, along with May Lewis and Lizzy Backstrom, the youngest of the crew, decided it would be a good idea to take a quick jaunt to Hoppers Gas on the 9^th line. But on the way to Hoppers something stepped onto the road causing Guy to swerve left and lose control of the vehicle.

As luck would have it, Stanley Rosenstein, a foreman at the Docks and an all-around good guy, pulled his truck from his driveway the same moment Guy changed lanes.

Guy didn’t see the truck in time. The car clipped Stanley’s front bumper, veered off the road, rolled three times, and slammed into a large maple tree, roof first. The two brothers, Guy and Henri, were killed instantly. May Lewis spent nine days in critical condition before she passed away while her parents and grandparents watched. Lizzy Backstrom escaped with a broken back, three broken ribs, a punctured lung, two broken legs, and wide assortment of cuts, scrapes and bruises. Most figured she was lucky to be alive. A few figured she was unlucky to be alive. Once she was able to speak she said a bear stepped in front of the car and Guy swerved to miss it. There weren’t many bears in Cloven Rock so the statement generated a cluster of questions she wasn’t prepared to answer. She pushed the inquisition aside, saying, “It might not have been a bear but wasn’t a deer either. I don’t know what it was.”

Two months later, Lizzy broke down in tears, telling her friend Julie Stapleton that a monster the size of a tank stepped in front of Guy’s car and she got a real good look at it. She said the beast seemed like something from another planet and if Guy were alive he’d be the first to confirm.

Julie, sworn to secrecy, became worried about Lizzy’s mental wellbeing. She thought her friend had brain damage. Of course, Julie’s knowledge on matters concerning the brain could have been written on the on tip of her thumb, but that hardly mattered. She also didn’t know that Stanley Rosenstein––the man driving the pickup that fateful night––had a similar story. If she had known this little noodle of information she may have kept her big mouth shut. Or talked to Lizzy. Either way, that’s not what happened. Instead, Julie betrayed her oath, feeling it was necessary to tell Lizzy’s parents what their daughter was thinking. This forced a confrontation between Mr. and Mrs. Backstrom and Lizzy, who denied everything and never spoke to Julie again. Not ever. And a year later Stanley Rosenstein found himself separated from his wife, in rehab, and in need of psychiatric evaluation.

He thought there were monsters in Cloven Rock.

 

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There were other tragedies.

Four summers before the heartbreaking car accident Simon Wakefield, the town’s only dentist, drowned in his backyard swimming pool while his wife Leanne talked to her sister not forty feet away. The year before that, faulty wiring caused a fire that burned Stephen Pebbles’ house to the ground. To make matters worse, his insurance expired the week before. Ironically, two weeks later the town was hit with a rainstorm that caused over two million dollars in damages. Stephen was quoted as saying that the rain should have come two weeks sooner; it would have saved his life’s investments.

The tales go on: tales of love gone astray, broken homes, poor health, and financial ruin. But these stories shouldn’t be focused on, even if they’re commonly considered the most interesting. Tales of sorrow don’t express the true face of Cloven Rock’s two hundred and nine years of existence. They pepper it in a negative light that was seldom felt or witnessed.

Cloven Rock was a peaceful community, a pleasant community. It was a place where folks could retire from work and enjoy a simple life. The town was good to grow up in, good to live life in, and good to grow old in. The problems were minimal and living was easy. People were friendly and the air tasted sweet with the spice of nature.

On the eve of its extinction, nobody knew what was coming. The locals never expected terror to reveal its vile and horrid face. Not in Cloven Rock. Not in a town of 1,690. The concept seemed out of the question.

But they didn’t know the heart of Nicolas Nehalem.

And only Stanley Rosenstein and Lizzy Backstrom had seen the monsters that dwelled in the dark shadows beneath the streets.

Something from another planet, Lizzy had said. If Guy were alive he’d be the first to confirm.

Stanley Rosenstein would have agreed.

It was the first Monday of June when Cloven Rock began showing the world a different face. And for many of the people that lived in the undersized and joyful town, it would be the last Monday they would ever know.

This is what happened:

 

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~~~~ CHAPTER ONE: NICOLAS NEHALEM

 

Nicolas Nehalem woke up from a happy dream and shifted his near-dead weight into a new position. His eyes opened and closed, opened and closed. He licked the dryness from his lips and ran his tongue across his teeth while forcing himself awake. The dream faded; he was some form of insect, if he remembered correctly, and upon awaking he noticed that his left hand felt funny. He could feel pins and needles pricking his fingers and a lack of sensation in his thumb and wrist. He must have been sleeping wrong, cutting off the circulation.

No biggie; it would pass.

The room was dark. A cool breeze blew through the open window, causing the thin off-white drapes to flutter. The clock on the nightstand said it was 4:08 am and while Nicolas was looking at it time moved ahead by one minute.

The babies were crying again. And they were crying loudly.

It was the crying that woke him. The babies seemed to cry more and more these days. He wondered if the girls missed their mothers. It was only logical if they did.

Nicolas sat up. He clicked on a lamp, grabbed his librarian-issue spectacles from the nightstand, and slid them on his face. He put his feet on the cold hardwood floor one after another. CLUMP. CLUMP. For no real reason he looked over his shoulder, lifted his feet, and dropped them down again. CLUMP. CLUMP.

The other side of the bed was empty. It was always empty.

He put a hand into the vacant space and squeezed the sheets with his fingers.

Taking care of the girls would be easier if he wasn’t alone with the job. Being a father was hard, and being an only parent was harder still. Some days he wasn’t sure if he could take the pressure of fatherhood. It was tougher than it seemed.

He pulled his hand away from the sheets and stumbled across the room. He entered the bathroom, washed his hands very thoroughly and poured himself a cup of water. The cup had a picture of a clown on it. The clown had a big red nose and was holding a balloon. The water inside the mug was warm but he didn’t mind. His throat felt parched and the liquid quenched his thirst nicely. He poured himself a second helping, re-entered the bedroom, and sat the cup on the nightstand, next to the clock and the lamp.

A brown-checkered housecoat hung from a shiny brass hook on the bedroom door. A pair of furry blue slippers sat near the dresser. He put the housecoat on and tied the cotton belt in a cute little bow. He slid his feet into the slippers and stumbled down the hall, rubbing the sleep-cooties from his eyes.

With a yawn and a burp he glanced into a spare bedroom.

The room was loaded with boxes. Not empty boxes. Full boxes. Boxes filled with goodies that go BANG.

Beside this room was a second spare bedroom. He stopped at the door and looked inside. There was no bed in the room. No dressers either. Nicolas had converted the room into his own private laboratory.

He was making stuff, just in case.

He had boxes of diatomaceous earth, sodium carbonate, ballistite, ethanol, ether, guncotton, sulfuric acid, oleum, azeotropic, nitric acid, and about ten other things that were hard to find at the local convenience store. He also had a large maple desk that housed a laboratory distillation setup. This setup included a heating tray, a still pot, a boiling thermometer, condenser, distillate/receiving flask, a vacuum/gas inlet, a still receiver, a heating bath, and a cooling bath.

Looking at his toys, Nicolas nodded and smiled.

They were fine; he was just making sure.

He entered the kitchen, flicked on the overhead light, and opened the refrigerator door. The inside of the fridge needed to be cleaned; it had adopted a funny smell. There were a few items that had really gone bad, including an old turkey sandwich that was sitting behind an empty carton of orange juice on the bottom shelf. The sandwich was nearly four weeks old and had turned green and black with mold. The spores inside the sandwich bag looked like moon craters.

Nicolas didn’t notice. Or maybe he didn’t care.

A bottle of baby formula sat on the top shelf, ready to go. In Nicolas’ current state of semi-awareness his fatherly duties just became ten times easier. It was a small victory but a good one.

He warmed the bottle in the microwave for two minutes and forty-five seconds while looking at his warped reflection in the kitchen window. His light brown hair was sticking straight up on one side, his eyes were puffy and his five o’clock shadow had become a three-day-old beard. He wasn’t extremely overweight, but the way his fat bunched around his waistline was far from attractive. He was thirty-eight years old but looked fifty or more.

Probably not getting enough sleep, he assumed.

A bell rang. He opened the microwave door and retrieved the formula. The bottle was too hot, way too hot. Crazy hot. He tested it on his arm and felt the milky fluid burn like liquid fire.

Good enough.

He opened the door to the basement, walked down a rickety staircase, and clicked on a florescent light, spooking a cockroach from its resting place. The roach scurried across the wall in an arched line and Nicolas tried to catch it between his finger and his thumb. He missed. The cockroach fell to the floor. Its tiny legs hustled towards a crack in the wall and in it went. The bug was gone.

Oh well, he thought. Better luck next time.

The basement smelled bad, much worse than the inside of the fridge. It smelled like piss, shit, sweat, blood, and rot.

The crying was louder now, much louder. If he had neighbors they’d complain for sure. This was a nugget of information that didn’t sit well with Nicolas, not in the slightest. Neighbors shouldn’t have to put up with such nonsense. It just wasn’t right. If he lived next to a noisy house he’d be seething in anger and out of his mind with rage.

Nicolas walked through a room that housed hundreds of shoes, countless jeans, shirts, socks, underwear, hats, wallets, belts, watches, and coats. He opened a cellar door and turned on another light.

The crying stopped immediately.

He walked down a second staircase. It only had nine stairs and none of them were very big. The unfinished room at the base of the staircase had a very low ceiling. Walking inside the room meant that you had to crouch down and tuck your head into your shoulders like a turtle. The room was cold; it was always cold. In the wintertime it was freezing. The walls were made of rock and seemed permanently moist.

The smell of shit and piss was strong now, strong enough to make a healthy man sick and a sick man pass out.

And there she was: Cathy Eldritch.

Cathy was thirty-one years old; her birthday fell on New Years Eve. She was right where Nicolas had left her… fourteen years ago––

Inside a cage.

 

 

2

 

Cathy Eldritch was naked and covered in scars. Her ribcage stuck out from her skin and her muscles had wilted to noodles. Her large and unsightly nipples were dry and cracked, centering breasts that were non-existent. Her arms and legs were nothing more then sticks, elbows, and knees. Her few remaining teeth were black and rotting; her hair was long and crawling with bugs. Below the pits that housed her bright and sunken eyes––eyes that seemed far too alive and knowing, like Sun Gods buried in an apocalyptic badland––her nose had become as thin as a wafer and crusted with dehydrated wounds. Lips that were so tragically withered and cracked made her look like a mummy, or a living corpse, or like a horror story monster that needed to be buried in the earth and forgotten, a ghoul that lurked in the darkest corners of the most twisted and perverted minds. All of her toes and three of her fingers had been amputated, proof she had been a bad girl thirteen times.

Nicolas named Cathy Eldritch: Kathy the Kitten.

She was a trooper and he knew it; nobody lasted fourteen years. It seemed damn near impossible.

Nicolas Nehalem approached the wire cage, which was nothing more than a modified, three-foot by three-foot square. He smiled a strange and outlandish smile, laced in twisted logic and perverted reason.

After opening a small door on the right side of the pen, he dropped the bottle of formula inside. The bottle rolled between two walls of wire and landed on the caged floor.

At one time she wanted to kill this man, make him pay, make him bleed. She had despised him more than anything else in the world. Now she only wanted her nightmare to be over. She wanted to die. Not in theory, and not in some exaggerated way that people say it but don’t really mean it. She wanted to die for real. She wanted this life to end and whatever was waiting for her on the other side to begin. And she was close, so close. She had been clinging to death’s front door for as long as she could remember. All she had to do was stop drinking the formula and she would cross over. All she had to do was die. But she couldn’t. She just couldn’t. She was famished––and her hunger wouldn’t allow her mind to say no to the bottle. She needed the bottle, the formula. And for this reason she didn’t hate Nicolas. Not now. She hated herself for needing him.

She said, “Thank you daddy. I love you.”

“Very well done,” Nicolas replied, knowing she hated expressing her love. His voice sounded calm, yet agitated; it always sounded agitated. “You’re a good baby today, yes you are; yes you are.”

Nicolas wrinkled his nose playfully, raised his shoulders and opened his housecoat so Cathy could see his semi-erect penis. He released the lever on top of the cage.

The bottle rolled another two inches.

Cathy rammed a hand through the small cage door and grabbed the formula; flies buzzed around her. She put the bottle to her mouth and drank greedily, burning her mouth and tongue. She hardly even noticed.

On the other side of the room were two more cages. One was empty. It had been empty for three weeks. The other cage had a young girl in it. The girl’s name was Olive Thrift. She was fourteen years old, might have been Asian. At this stage, it was hard to tell.

Nicolas named her Pumpkin.

Olive said, “Daddy, may I have a bottle too? I’ve been very good lately. I didn’t cry tonight or anything. Honest I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry dear,” Nicolas said, stepping away from Kathy the Kitten. “I only brought one bottle with me. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

“Oh.” Olive’s eyes slipped down to the stumps on her hands. She only had three fingers left; she didn’t want to lose them. A multi-legged insect walked across her face and she swatted it away thoughtlessly. “Okay daddy. I understand. I love you.”

She crawled toward Nicolas on her mangled digits and knobby knees, closed her dark and cheerless eyes and put her lips to the wire. Flies flew in circles around her. She kissed his hand as gently as she could manage.

“You’re a good little Pumpkin,” Nicolas said. “Yes you are. And if you keep being a good little girl I’ll never have to smash your face in with a sledgehammer. Or set your cage on fire. Because you don’t want that, do you? No. Of course not.”

Nicolas walked across the room, smiling insanely. He lifted a hose from a hook on the wall, turned a faucet, and approached Olive spewing hose-water where it fell. As he stood over Olive’s cage, she held out two water jugs and he filled them. He made his way to Cathy’s cage and poured water inside her coop for a little more than twenty seconds. She was able to fill one container and wet her hair before he dropped the hose and turned the faucet off, deciding enough was enough.

At the top of the stairs he clicked the light switch on and off, several times. He was tired. He hadn’t been sleeping well plus he had to get up early. He had things to do, although he couldn’t quite remember what those things were.

“Oh yeah,” he whispered. A grin that could have given a slaughterhouse butcher nightmares crept across his face like a spider on a corpse. “Now I remember.”

Closing the cellar door, he thought he heard a whimper.

Sounded like Pumpkin.

Pumpkin was a good girl; she was trying. And that’s what counted most in his books: trying. He hadn’t been forced to punish her lately, which was a nice change. Not since the incident with Pauline Stupid-Head had he been forced to perform one of his little operations. Not since he emptied the third cage.

Thinking about Pauline’s empty cage made him sad and lonely.

Empty cages need to be filled. Sure they did. An empty cage was wrong; everybody with a lick of sense knows that. But Nicolas was a busy man, he had things on his mind and his work was never done. The cage would have to wait.

Nicolas crawled into bed wearing his housecoat. He lifted his cup from the nightstand, smiled at the clown holding the balloon, and slowly emptied the cup’s contents on the floor. Water splashed, creating a miniature lake where no lake had once been. He named this lake, Lake Empty Cage. He wondered how long the lake would last, and when he would be forced to make a new one.

The clock beside him read 4:19 am.

It was late, too late for feeding babies and making lakes. Maybe tomorrow he would punish Kathy the Kitten for waking him––maybe, but maybe not. He wasn’t sure yet. He would see how he felt in the morning.

 

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Nicolas woke up early, went to the kitchen and mixed another bottle of formula. He warmed it perfectly, added a little chocolate and brought it to Olive; he apologized for not giving her a bottle the night before. Afterwards, he cleaned the basement and found each of his babies something to read. He gave them fresh blankets, a rice-crispy square, and a nice cup of coffee. Shortly after, he stepped inside a closet, stripped naked, and screamed for twenty minutes while pushing his fingers into his eyes.

 

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~~~~ CHAPTER TWO: JUNE 1^ST, MONDAY AFTERNOON

 

1

 

His hands were bleeding. Not much, but some––right around his knuckles and the tips of his fingers. The wounds were starting to feel bad, and as the day wore on he figured the irritation would grow increasingly worse. He had a scrape on his knee that hurt when he touched it and a bruise on his shin that ached constantly. His hair had become wild, soiled with dirt, dust and sweat. He was shirtless; his shoulders and chest glistened. His slim waistline and impressive abdominal muscles were swollen from his efforts. The blue jeans that clung to his body were beyond dirty, and even when the pants were ‘fresh from the drawer’ clean they looked dirty. They always looked dirty. The jeans were a special pair that were set aside for times like this: grubby times, labor times, times when getting filth up to your eyeballs and annoying cuts in your hands were an expected part of the program.

Dan McGee was his name.

Daniel; named after a wise and honorable prophet whose faith in God had protected him in the Lion’s Den. This fact was not kept in the forefront of Dan’s thinking, but it was ironic. At least now it was, now that he was standing at the mouth of precarious exploration.

He was at the cottage.

Cottage.

Truth be told, the place looked more like a house built next to a lake. It was a summer home really, but Dan considered it a cottage. He wasn’t sure why. The building, located just outside Cloven Rock, had two floors, not including the basement. It had a full kitchen, two bathrooms, four bedrooms, a laundry room, and a deck that was large enough to accommodate seventy-five people or more. It also had a garage and an attic. The building was secluded, but not completely secluded. It was one of three cottages built together on a small, fat peninsula. There were no others for a quarter-mile in either direction. And now, as Daniel McGee discovered, his summer home had something else. Something he never knew about until just this minute, something interesting and almost certainly hazardous.

Dan cleared his throat and walked across the dusty room.

The floor was littered with tools: hammers and saws, drills and screwdrivers, crowbars and wrenches and everything else he needed. Some of it was piled around an open toolbox; some was scattered about.

He stepped past three rolls of thirty-year-old carpet and lifted a bottle of water from where he left it, next to the rotting pickets on the warped and rickety staircase. He drank two swallows quickly, poured water into his free hand, and slapped it onto his face, cleaning himself slightly. Still feeling dirty, he poured a splash of water over his head. The water wasn’t cold but it was refreshing, which was exactly what he wanted. After returning the bottle to its home on the stairs he ran his fingers through his sopping hair and took a deep breath.

He was excited. That was the truth of it.

He felt energized.

Six hours earlier the basement was loaded with junk: Boxes of clothing from years gone by, old furniture, unloved artwork, boring books, unwanted appliances, out of date electronics, rusted tools, VHS tapes, pointless sporting equipment, photographs that meant nothing, corroded machinery, unfashionable clothing; the list went on and on.

He cleared it all out.

The photographs and tools were put away. The rest of the stuff went into garbage bags and charity bins. The bags were thrown next to the garage. The bins were placed in the hallway, close to the exit. Once the basement had been cleared, he unhinged a door, knocked down a pair of walls, removed some baseboards, and pulled out the carpet. The sub-floor beneath the carpet was moldy and rotten. He lifted half of it, exposing the concrete floor beneath.

That’s when he made his discovery.

Dan licked his lips.

He was alone, and had gotten a fair amount finished so far. If his wife had been with him his accomplishments would have been cut in half. He would have been subjected to a twenty-minute debate regarding every worn-out pair of shoes. Dan hated that. Working was hard enough without dealing with a committee, and that’s what Sandra seemed to be at times like this. A committee. She was a good woman, no question. The girl was an intelligent sweetheart. She had the face of a model and a body that could make a Playboy photographer hot under the collar and hard under the zipper. But at times like this, look out. Everything was a discussion. Everything was questioned. That’s why Dan took the week off work; he wanted to get to the cottage a few days sooner than Sandra and get things done.

If he had known that he would never see her again––never even talk to her again––he would have done things differently. But he didn’t know. He figured he’d enjoy a few days on his own and life would continue on, just like before.

He was wrong.

Dan approached this thing he had uncovered beneath the carpet, still rubbing his chin.

It was a door, a trapdoor in the floor.

Its size: two and a half feet by two and a half feet, give or take a few inches. Looked like that famous cellar door in the Evil Dead movies, without the medieval chains strapping it down. It had a small hole you could slide fingers into, which seemed to be the handle. The hinges were rusted brown and the unstained wood was faded, knotted, and looked almost grey in color.

Dan put his fingers into the slot and pulled.

The door was heavier than it looked so Dan repositioned himself into a sturdier pose and tried his luck again, putting more muscle into it this time. The door unlatched. He opened it slowly. Hinges screeched and squeaked. A dull metal casing was exposed and a nasty, stale odor crept into the room. Once the door was at a ninety-degree angle, a dark hole in the floor came into Dan’s line of vision; it looked like an open throat in the earth.

Muscles straining, Dan grunted, but the hard part was over. He let go of the handle and stepped back. Gravity pulled the door the other way and the trapdoor stopped in the air with a CLINK.

He wondered why.

Walking around the opening he found his answer: there was a chain. It connected the door to the floor. The chain was old, rusted and thick––not quite medieval, but still fifty years past its prime. It had big one-inch loops and seemed perfectly suited to chain Cujo to his doghouse.

Daniel looked down the dark hole, somewhat amazed. There was a ladder attached to one of the four walls. A dusty light switch sat next to it.

Pit, he thought. Is that what this is? A pit? Why is there a pit in my basement? And what’s down there? Anything good? Anything valuable?

Dan smiled.

Valuable. He liked the sound of that.

After walking around the opening several times, Dan thought about the cottage. He figured it to be a hundred and some odd years old. What if the previous owners were hiding treasures? Or what if the previous owners didn’t even know the pit was there, and the items in the cellar (assuming there were items in the cellar) were not worth a few hundred bucks, or few thousand, but a few million? Was it possible? Could he be standing at the brink of incredible fortune?

Dan’s eyes narrowed.

Sure it was possible. Anything was possible. Building a dream house with Popsicle sticks was possible, but was it likely? Was the cellar loaded with gold and silver artifacts from Kings and Queens a hundred years dead? No, of course not. Not here. Not in Cloven Rock. The basement was probably filled with rats, dirt, spiders, and dust… and a large bucket filled to the brim with sweet fuck all.

Still, the pit was an interesting find.

An interesting find indeed.

 

 

2

 

Dan headed upstairs with his mind racing. He entered the kitchen and snagged a beer from the fridge. The ice-cold Corona was delicious, even without the taste of lime. He drank half the bottle and washed his hands and face in the kitchen sink. Being so dirty, he needed to do more. He needed a long shower and a wardrobe change but technically he wasn’t finished working. The sub-floor was only half pulled up, rolls of carpet were leaning in the corner near the staircase, and he hadn’t even begun yanking the ceiling down. All said, he was only half finished today’s job. Still, the work portion of the day seemed to have ended, or if nothing else, put on hold.

He kept thinking about the pit.

What was down there?

Dan threw on an old and faded t-shirt, one of his favorites. He thought it was cool looking and it fit like a glove. The shirt had a drawing of a demon with its wings spread wide and it said BLACK SABBATH in long gothic letters. In a smaller font near the bottom of the shirt, below the demon’s evil grin, it said 666 - HEAVEN & HELL. It was a throwback item, a reminder of a time in his life when he didn’t care about insurance policies, the stock exchange, real estate, investment funds, and all the other things that helped him turn his quarters into dollars, his assets into prosperity, and his wealth into his own personally restricted freedom.

He stepped outside with his Corona in hand, gazing into the sky. The heat from the sun was beginning to ease and the wind was blowing mildly. Looking at his watch, he contemplated his next move.

It was a little after four-thirty. He was hungry and would soon need food. But that wasn’t a concern, not yet anyhow. Up until this point the plan was this: finish gutting the basement and go into town for dinner. But was that still the plan, or had things changed? His predicament was simple yet he didn’t know what to do.

Dan walked across the gravel driveway and opened the garage door. Sunlight entered the space. He spotted a flashlight sitting on his workbench and couldn’t help thinking it was just what he needed.

As he picked it off the bench, something else caught his attention: a kerosene lantern. It was old, red, and slightly rusty. He wondered if it would come in handy.

Sure, he thought. Might as well grab it, just in case.

He lifted the lantern from a hook on the wall and shook it back and forth. Kerosene swished inside; the lantern seemed about half full.

“Good enough,” he whispered.

He finished his beer and sat the bottle on a bench. He left the garage with the flashlight in one hand and the lantern in the other. Once he was in the kitchen he clicked the flashlight on and off, insuring that it worked. He opened the fridge, snagged another beer, cracked it, and drank. A moment later he lit the lantern with a wooden match. At first the lantern didn’t work; the wick was dry and stubborn. But after a bit of fiddling and manual persuasion the lantern worked just fine.

Dan entered the basement, walked past the rolls of carpet, the planks of baseboards and the scattered tools. He approached his new discovery with a smile. He felt like a kid again, a kid at Christmas. Oddly enough, he recognized it too. There was no wondering why; he knew. This was the first time in twenty years he had received a gift that could be anything. Sure, it might be nothing, but that was part of the reason he felt so giddy.

It might be nothing; might be anything.

Way better than a birthday present, no doubt.

For Dan, the yearly gift exchange had lost its magic long ago. No matter what he received, he always had an idea what the gift would be––a book, a shirt, a pair of shoes, a coffee mug. After a while it didn’t matter; it was all the same crap. Year after year he received things purchased at the mall, or online, or wherever. Yawn. And year after year he knew the price range by considering the person that offered the gift. Double yawn.

Yeah, this was different all right. This was invigorating.

He sat at the edge of the pit with his beer at his side. Drops of water rolled off the bottle. He put a foot on the ladder. The ladder creaked, sounding like a loose floorboard. He wondered if it was stable. The more weight he put on the ladder the more it creaked, but not in a bad way. It seemed secure enough; it seemed okay.

Dan turned the flashlight on and pointed the light down the hole. He couldn’t see the bottom. Slowly, carefully, he stood on the ladder. The rung cried out more now than before but it didn’t waver, didn’t budge. He turned the flashlight off, slid it into his front pocket, lifted the lantern, and began his descent. Immediately he noticed the change in the air: the space was colder, the unpleasant odor was strong. The pit smelled like mold, like earth, and like something else, something he couldn’t put his finger on.

The lantern wobbled and bounced off the ladder a few times. The flames danced and flickered but they didn’t go out. Climbing wasn’t easy, he discovered, but it wasn’t impossible either. The fingers in his right hand––already sore and bleeding from tearing the basement apart––felt tight and strained as they wrapped around the rungs. The fingers in his left hand felt even worse as they juggled between the rungs and the thin metal handle of the lantern.

The walls seemed to glow; the shadows were strong and sharp.

He descended more––eleven, twelve, thirteen rungs into the pit. Now fourteen. Now fifteen. Surely the bottom couldn’t be much further away.

He pulled the flashlight from his pocket and turned it on. As he pointed it beneath his feet he illuminated a large spider’s web, the biggest he had ever seen. After a slight pause, Dan returned the flashlight to his pocket and continued his descent. Rung after rung he traveled. His fingers burned. Spider’s webbing clung to his clothing. His patience wavered, but only for a moment. And in that moment he considered returning to the surface, but he had to wonder what would happen next. Would he think about the pit until he tried his luck again? Probably, so what was the point of giving up so soon? He couldn’t leave this mystery unsolved––no way, no chance. He had to keep going, keep climbing, for every rung he passed increased his curiosity and amazement. He was getting hooked on exploration, and so far he loved the adventure.

He kept climbing.

And climbing.

What is this, he thought, a bottomless pit?

The consideration seemed less absurd with every passing breath. But it was absurd. It was. The pit couldn’t be bottomless. It just couldn’t be. Bottomless pits didn’t exist.

Who would build something like this, he wondered, and why? Was the pit a part of the cottage originally, or had the cottage been built on top of this vault for some reason?

And how deep is it?

It wasn’t a cellar, Daniel decided. It was a shaft, a coalmine. But that didn’t seem right either. Mines were thick and rough, opened by explosives. This was more like a secret tunnel or something, made with concrete.

It’s getting cold down here, he thought. Really cold!

If there was one? What kind of thinking was that? Of course there was a bottom. There had to be a bottom. There was always a bottom!

He rested the lantern on a rung and leaned it against the wall. He was tired of hauling the bloody thing around; his fingers were killing him.

He descended a few more steps and stopped again. He was in the shadows now. It was dark… really dark; he didn’t like it.

“Hello,” Dan yelled loudly. His voice echoed off the walls; the repeated word became quieter and deeper in tone.

He heard something foreign and unfamiliar, like a high-pitched voice, like whispering or squeaking; he wasn’t sure which. Not surprisingly, his childlike wonder slipped away and was replaced with boyhood fear. His arms sprouted a thousand tiny bumps. His chest muscles tightened and an arctic shiver rolled down his spine in a rippling wave.

“Hello,” he said again. And this time his voice was quieter, more timid. He heard something else, the pitter-patter of feet, lots of feet. Sounded like an insect... maybe, a really large insect––one big enough to wear a leash. Clickety, clickety, click.

He didn’t know what he was hearing, but he was afraid now, very afraid; of this there was no denying. Like a child, he was afraid of the dark, afraid of his own shadow. Or was this fear more logically grounded? Was there something inside the pit with him that was deserving of these emotions? Something dangerous?

And for no reason at all, he wondered if he would ever see his wife again, never thinking for a moment that the answer might actually be no.

 

 

3

 

There was a moment, brief as it was, when Daniel thought he would faint. His fingers loosened, his knees became weak and his head started to sway. He imaged his feet being yanked away from the ladder by large muscular hands.

If he fainted, how far would he fall exactly? Ten feet? A thousand feet?

He didn’t know. More than that, he didn’t want to know.

He remembered once, when he was eleven, he had fallen from a tree and landed flat on his back. His lungs felt like they had been stomped; the wind was knocked out of him. The whole world seemed to stop and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stand. Looking back, he got off lucky. But how lucky would he be this time? How lucky would he be if he fell ten stories and his ribs exploded as his legs shot through his shoulders?

This adventure was over. Daniel was gettin’ the hell out of dodge while the gettin’ was good.

Moving up two rungs, he grabbed the lantern.

He heard the sound again: Clickety, clickety, click.

That did it. He was racing up the ladder now; his muscles were straining and his knees were pumping. Suddenly the air seemed warmer, fresher. It tasted cleaner. Within no time at all he was nearing the top, the exit. A terrible image came to his mind: the door slamming shut, trapping him in the pit with… with…

With what?

Just what the hell was he so worried about?

Didn’t matter. He wanted out. And he wanted out now.

He reached the top and scrambled free of the hole, plunking the lantern down in the first spot he found. He looked around the room. Nothing was altered; nothing had changed. His beer was sitting by the hole untouched, drops of water clung to the glass. The room was destroyed; tools were everywhere, rolls of carpet sat near the staircase.

Everything was exactly the same.

He pulled the flashlight from his pocket, turned it on, and pointed it into the pit. There was nothing to see, nothing at all.

Dan stood up and walked in a circle with his heart racing, his blood pumping, and his face gone flush. He felt like laughing, or crying, or maybe even screaming half-heartedly with his hands waving in the air like a contestant on The Price is Right. He wasn’t sure what to think. His emotions were hypersensitive and illogical. He felt like a child again, afraid of the monster hiding beneath the bed with dagger teeth and a hunger for killing that couldn’t be quenched. And that wasn’t him. That wasn’t Daniel McGee, friend of the environment, lover of classic rock, cousin of James McGee––the Terror of Martinsville, killer of the innocent.

Dan closed his eyes.

Why am I thinking about James again, he wondered. Am I not freaked out enough without recalling the shame of my family tree?

Scared of my own shadow, he assumed. And why? There’s nothing down there but a bunch of rats.

No, not rats, he thought. Bats! Of course! That’s what I heard; that’s what I saw. Bats!

Dan put a hand on his forehead and smiled. How could he be so foolish? How could he be such a baby?

Now he understood what had happened: he yelled, a couple bats squeaked and took flight and that was all, nothing more, nothing less. And another thing: the pit’s floor had to be close. It just had to be. Ladders don’t go on forever. Only a fool would think otherwise.

He looked down the hole one last time before turning away, shaking his head back and forth.

Bats.

He felt better, however, bats or no bats, he wasn’t going down there again. Not alone anyhow. Nobody even knew where he was. What if he fell? What if he got hurt? What if the ladder broke? He’d lie on the pit floor with his legs smashed into a thousand pieces as rodents drank the blood that poured from his wounds. In short: he’d die. And even if he didn’t die, even if his wife Sandra figured out where he was hiding (with his legs smashed apart and the blood draining from his body) that wouldn’t be until Friday night at the earliest. This was Monday. He didn’t want to be in a cold dark tomb with rats and bats (and God only knows what else) for the next five days. No friggin’ way.

Dan left the basement, satisfied with his decision: he was done for the day.

He considered calling his wife but couldn’t. He had forgotten his cell phone at home and the house line inside the cottage wasn’t connected.

Oh well. No worries. He’d give Sandra a ring later somehow.

He showered, and my-oh-my did it feel good. Good for the body; good for the soul. Afterwards he threw the same faded t-shirt on again, figuring it wasn’t that dirty.

He jumped into his car, headed for Cloven Rock.

On his way into town, he drove past a long row of homes, an empty field, and St. Peter’s church. The church had a tall steeple and a pair of gargoyles above the front door. On one side of St Peter’s was a cemetery. The trees near the back of the necropolis seemed as old as the hills. A windmill sat near a wooden bridge that had been designed for horses, not cars. Beneath the bridge, water stumbled over rocks that crayfish and minnows called home.

The other side of the church didn’t have a graveyard, but a house. It was built with large, multi-colored rocks, rather than brick. And inside the humble abode, which looked clean, pleasant, and not the least bit disorderly, lived Father Mort Galloway. (And Galloway sat alone, always alone, forever alone, drinking his favorite gin and killing time by the glass. That’s what he did most days: killed time. The priest had lost his faith, which had become so common among priests his age that it almost seemed fashionable. But he wasn’t the first to lose faith in the church, nor would he be the last. His faith was lost years earlier, after his parents died in a boating accident that claimed the lives of more than two hundred men, women, and children. It was hard to speak of God after a slap in the face like that; nevertheless he tried. Some days Galloway wondered if he ever really had faith. And some days––not many, but some––he figured the bulk of his faith would return. It was a nice thought, even if it seemed like a lie. But lying was nothing new for a priest like Galloway; he did it every Sunday in front of many, and every day in front of few. His entire life was a lie at this point, a lie he didn’t know how to escape. What kind of life could he have after so many years of priesthood? Exactly, what kind of job could he possibly hold down?)

Dan drove on, passing another row of houses.

Walking next to a ditch was a boy with a fishing rod in one hand and a box of tackle in the other. He might have been ten years old. Might have been younger. Looking at the child was like seeing a living postcard.

If Dan was to summarize the reasons he liked Cloven Rock in a single image, a simple portrait of the boy with the rod might be it. Cloven Rock was a link to another time, a time before technology became king and the communication age turned the entire planet into a global village.

Being in the Rock was like having a life transfusion: out with the city, in with the town. He wondered why he shouldn’t stay in the Rock ‘til the end of his days, which oddly enough, had already arrived.

 

 

4

 

Dan drove along King Street, parked against a curb, walked past the Laundromat and the Post Office and entered Cloven Rock’s weekend bar of choice: The Big Four O. It was owned and operated by two brothers: William and Roger McMaster. The McMaster boys were Cloven Rock’s answer to Ernie and Bert, being that both men were pushing fifty and lived together in the same house.

There was a pretty girl standing behind the counter that Daniel didn’t recognize. Looked about twenty-one. She had dark hair and nice features. She wore tight, charcoal colored jeans, a thick black belt, and a black dress shirt. There were two buttons attached to the breast pocket on her shirt. One button had a picture of Nostferatu with his fangs pointing out and his hands in the air like animal claws. The other button said THE SEX PISTOLS in scary pink letters.

She approached Dan with a dimpled smile, saying, “What can I get you?”

Now that the girl was facing him he could see her makeup was understated and pale, accented with black eyeliner. Combining that with her wardrobe gave her a minimalist Gothic look.

Maybe it’s a new style, Dan thought. Punk light.

“You new here?” Dan asked politely.

“No, not really,” the girl said, tapping a glossy fingernail on the counter top. “I’m a Cloven Rock girl, born and raised. I lived here until I went to university, just outside of Martinsville. I’m back now. You a seasonal regular?”

“Spelled the same and everything. But for the record, with ‘Cameron’ being one of the oldest clans in Scotland, the name was making the rounds before her time. Know what I mean?”

“Me… I’m not picky. Beer is beer.” Cameron opened a bar fridge and lifted a Corona from the rack. She cracked the bottle with an opener she kept in her back pocket and placed the drink on the bar. “You need a lime?”

She looked wholesome when she smiled, like a girl you could introduce to your mother. Dan figured if she downsized the Gothic look she’d be perfect, if such a thing existed. Not that he hated the way she looked. He didn’t. But still, the dark and mysterious facade didn’t quite fit Cameron’s personality. She seemed more conventional somehow.

Cameron reached beneath the counter, snagged a menu, and handed it over. The menu was old and nasty and needed to be thrown away.

She approached a man and a woman sitting in a booth on the far side of the restaurant. They were in their seventies; the only other customers in the pub. The man was Jay Hopper of Hopper’s Gas. He wore a tweed jacket and smelled like after-shave. The woman was his half-sister Emily. Her hair looked like a white ball of yarn. They were having a bite to eat before Jay worked the evening shift.

Nicolas Nehalem, still sitting beside Daniel, watched Cameron from the corner of his eye while pursing his lips tight and curling a hand into a fist.

Impulsively, Dan reached for his pocket. He wanted to check the time on his cell, but remembered that he had no phone. The clock on the wall said it was a quarter to seven. He scanned the restaurant’s menu, knowing what was on it, what was good, and what wasn’t worth eating. Most of the food was greasier that a machine-shop mechanic, which he feared was the reason he liked it.

Dan watched her hips moving back and forth until she was gone. She was a sexy Goth girl, a rarity for sure. Most Goth girls he knew of looked depressed, irritated, and in need of vitamin D.

The front door opened and Roger McMaster, owner of The Big Four O, came waltzing in, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He had short curly hair and a carefree smile.

“Mister McGee,” Roger said, extending his hand. “You’re back!”

Dan turned towards the man and lifted his bottle. “I’m back.”

As the two men shook hands, Nicolas Nehalem squeezed his teeth together and knocked his fist against the table. He wanted to smash Roger in the face with his coffee cup and slash Daniel’s throat open with a corkscrew. Those two fuckers were ruining everything. Why the hell did they have to be here now? Why not later? Why not tomorrow? Couldn’t they tell they were not wanted?

After slapping some money on the counter, Nicolas pushed his glasses high upon his nose and marched out the front door, cursing under his breath.

Dan smiled. “Want me to buy you a beer?”

Cameron adjusted her belt and lifted Nicolas’ money from the table. “Why yes I did. He was telling me all kinds of terrible things about you.”

Stanley Rosenstein entered the restaurant looking twenty years older than he did on the day he was in the car accident, the day the teenagers died, the day he saw the thing on the road and his life was damaged beyond repair. He ordered take-out without making eye contact with anybody, speaking with a soft and nervous tone. Life had become hard for the man; it was easy to see. He appeared to be hanging onto his sanity with his fingernails.

The steak sandwich came and Roger ordered another round.

Stanley Rosenstein received his take-out and left without saying a word, keeping his head low.

Jay Hopper and Emily paid their bill and left the restaurant, leaving a three fifty tip. And as strange as it may seem, Jay Hopper leaving the restaurant is somewhat of a turning point in this tale. Fact is, if Jay knew about Daniel’s discovery he may of said something worth considering, and the hours ahead might have played out differently. He didn’t say anything though, and the hours ahead played out worse than most people could possibly imagine.

 

∞∞Θ∞∞

 

When Jay Hopper was just an orange haired kid with a face full of freckles, he worked construction for a man named Lester Long. It was Lester’s company that built Daniel’s house and the monstrosity that was beneath it. In fact, it was the last job Lester ever worked on. Once the job was completed he moved as far away from Cloven Rock that his wife would allow, and died a few years later in his sleep.

Long story short: Lizzy Backstrom and Stanley Rosenstein weren’t the only ones that believed there were monsters living in Cloven Rock. Some of the old-timers did too. They just didn’t talk about it.

 

∞∞Θ∞∞

 

When Dan finished eating, Roger closed the kitchen for the night and sent the cook home. The cook was a man named Azul Bunta; he’d been working there for five years.

After Azul left the building, Cameron cracked a Corona for herself, counted her cash, finished her paperwork, and closed the restaurant. Sitting on a bar stool between Roger and Dan, she joined the conversation.

Dan adjusted the stool beneath him, took a sip from his bottle, and wiped a drop of beer from his chin. He said, “I came into town last night, alone. Sandra stayed home.”

“Okay. Well, I got in to town last night, like I said. I opened my place for the summer… you know, got the water running and stuff. This week I plan on renovating the basement.”

“Oh wow.”

“That’s a big job,” Cameron said, tilting her bottle outwards.

“I know it is,” Dan replied. “I took two weeks off work and I might need to take a third. I want to put a bar down there, hardwood floors. I want to make it nice, you know? I want to be able to bring friends down there.”

“Thanks. Anyways… after I removed the carpet I pulled out the sub-floor, and I found a door in the floor, in the concrete!”

Dan smiled. “Well, this is where things get weird. There was a hole in the floor. It was like a manmade mineshaft or something, a tunnel going straight into the earth.”

“Really!” Cameron almost jumped off her stood. The excitement she felt was obvious, an open book, she was easy to read. Suddenly she seemed very young. “What was down there? Did you see anything good?”

“Yeah, Dan. Tell us. What did you find?”

Dan lifted his bottle, swallowing the last of his beer. “I went down with a flashlight and a lantern. The ladder was longer than I expected it to be. I never reached the bottom.”

Cameron said, “How far did you travel?”

“You know what? It seemed really far when I was climbing. I was alone and I didn’t expect to go down so far. It was dark and cold. I thought the floor was right there, like it was a normal cellar. After a while I got worried. Nobody knew where I was or what I was doing; nobody knew I was down there. I started thinking I might get hurt or something, and nobody would find me. Then I heard a rat squeak, or maybe it was a bat. I don’t know. I just…” Feeling embarrassed, Dan stopped talking.

“Don’t worry, man,” Roger said. “Nobody should go into a place like that alone, especially if nobody knows you’re down there. You were right to get out.”

“I guess.”

Cameron said, “But tell me, how far down did you travel?”

Dan tallied the rungs in his mind. “Maybe sixty, sixty-five feet. But it felt like more. Sixty feet might not sound like much inside an open space with the lights on. But inside that shaft, I don’t know. It felt…”

“Yes! Of course! This is amazing! It’s like something from a movie! Journey to the Center of the Earth, something like that.”

Truthfully, Dan wanted to get back to his basement ASAP. His entire project was now in ‘handyman limbo’ and that made him feel both anxious and concerned. Until he knew what was down there it was hard to keep working. He could keep working, he supposed. And he would if need be, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to figure out what was going on. The very fact that the pit existed was affecting his design plans. Originally, he wanted the bar sitting where the trap door was located. Now it seemed like the area should be left open.

“Duh,” Cameron said, making a silly face. “What do you want from me? I’ve got energy. I’ve got drive. I’ve got nothing better to do, so… yeah. I’m kind of hyper about this one. Excuse me for living.”

Cameron tore into the conversation like a hungry lion. “That no-good, two-timing, cheating, asshole! Don’t get me started on him! That liar! I want to tear his balls off and feed them to his mother. He’s such a jerk! Such a stupid JERK!”

“Yikes,” Dan said. “Sorry I asked. Let’s find a better topic, okay?”

“Yes, please.” Roger said with a groan. He had heard it all, several times. The last thing he wanted was to have Cameron bitch about her ex again.

“His name,” Cameron said, “is Paul LaFalce, in case you run into him. He works at Hopper’s Gas over on the 9^th Line.”

“Jay Hopper was just here,” Roger interjected. “Sitting in the corner. He’s a nice guy; big football fan.”

“I know who Jay Hopper is,” Daniel said.

“Yeah, whatever,” Cameron spat, taking back her story. “Paul pumps gas for Jay. And he’s a prick. He screwed Missy and Bridget and he’s dating an ugly whore named Julie Stapleton.”

“Okay, Dan said. “I understand. He’s an asshole and he cheated on you. Got it.”

“More than once! Way more than once! He didn’t just cheat on me. Apparently he was doing every girl in Cloven Rock, again and again… the bastard! OH! He makes me so mad!”

Roger said, “Cam. Please, honey, no more. Okay?”

Cameron didn’t listen. “I kept thinking it was me, you know? He wouldn’t touch me; he wouldn’t talk on the phone. I couldn’t understand!”

“Cam, honey. Please. Calm down.”

Daniel put his hand on Cameron’s arm, and with the kindest voice he could muster, he said, “If you don’t shut up about your boyfriend you won’t be invited to my place. You’ll have to sit here alone, crying by yourself until your eyes dry up and fall from your head. Is that what you want?”

Cameron was stunned. As her jaw unhinged, she said, “What?”

“You heard me. You’re more fun when you don’t think about old ghosts. Go back to being hyper and crazy, would you? This side of you grosses me out. It makes me feel bad.”

“It’s like that, is it?” Cameron asked, smiling.

“Yes,” Daniel said, mocking her with his voice. “It’s like that. This conversation is…” Dan paused, trying to find clever words. He settled with, “Is not the droids I’m looking for.”

Dan nodded. “I’ve got two Wookies, a Jawa, and a big bag of light-sabers, hiding in my basement. Do you want to help me find them or cry about the gasman? It’s your choice.”

“I don’t like you,” Cameron said playfully.

“I don’t like you, either,” Dan said, flaunting his used car salesman smile. “But it’s nice to see you know about Star Wars.”

This man, she decided, was hilarious… and completely full of crap. He probably liked The Sex Pistols more than she did. And not only that, he had drained her anger away almost magically. He was a Jedi, that’s what he was. He was a shit-disturbing, mind-altering, Jedi.

Acknowledging this, Cameron realized something: she liked Daniel. Yes, he was too old for her, ten years off the mark from her point of view. But he was funny and cute, maybe even hot. He looked cool in his Black Sabbath t-shirt; his hair was dark and his muscles were strong and lean. He was city, not country. He had character, and baby, that shit mattered. From what she had seen, Dan was sensitive, smart, and able to read people perfectly. He was fun to be around, too.

She liked him all right, liked him a lot. And she was single now, looking for love, a little remuneration to help ease the pain of a terrible break-up. Maybe she needed a man in her life, not another boy. Maybe she needed someone like Dan. Was it possible the attraction was a two way street? She thought that perhaps it was.

Silence claimed the room.

Roger disrupted it: “Should we get going?”

Cameron heard the words, but their meaning did not register. She was thinking about Daniel now, wondering if she could find a way to get him alone.

 

 

5

 

Nicolas Nehalem sat in his car across from the Laundromat, eying The Big Four O. He had a squirrel lying on the seat beside him. He had driven past the rodent, then decided to go back and scoop him up. The poor little guy was still alive, gasping for air, and squealing in pain. The squirrel had been run over by a truck. Its back legs were crushed. Intestines were sticking through a long grisly tear in its stomach. Its tail was twisted awkwardly. A little pink piece of meat hung from its mouth, surrounded by fur that was sticky with blood.

Nicolas felt a connection with the rodent, and named him Fuzzy.

But it wasn’t Fuzzy that brought Nicolas to The Big Four O. It was the girl behind the counter: Cameron.

She captured his interest a week earlier.

Rewind: Last Wednesday Nicolas had lunch at The Big Four O and Cameron served him. He ordered a hamburger without the bun, three hardboiled eggs, and a glass of chocolate milk. She said it was a strange order. He said she was beautiful. She smiled politely and walked away. When she returned, Nicolas said, “What’s your name?” She told him. Nicolas smiled and said nothing more. And as the day wore on, Nicolas repeated her name over and over inside his mind. It was rattling around his thoughts for hours. Cameron, Cameron, Cameron… All at once, it was decided: he would fill his empty cage with Cameron.

Fast forward: Nicolas was excited.

Inside the car, he pressed a button. The automatic window rolled up. He hit another button. The window rolled down. This went on for over ten minutes, and all the while the squirrel wheezed and cried and felt more pain then most people can imagine.

Then something happened, something that made Nicolas smile with delight: a fly landed on the steering wheel and when Nicolas slapped it, the fly fell onto his lap. The insect was stunned, but alive.

Delicately, carefully, Nicolas lifted the fly by its wings. This was so good it was making him dizzy. He had a fly, a squirrel, and soon he’d have Cameron too.

How lucky can one man be?

He kissed the fly and petted it and held it by its legs; and when nobody was looking he opened his zipper, pulled his pants to his knees and pressed the insect against his manhood.

“That feels good,” he groaned psychotically.

After a moment he looked out the window. The coast was still clear. He pressed his shoulders deep into the seat, tightened his muscles and licked his lips. And when he grew tired of his strange little affair he placed the fly onto his tongue and sucked it down his throat.

Fuzzy gasped and Nicolas picked his nose. When his nose began bleeding he licked the blood from his finger. He liked the taste of blood. Sometimes he would bite his fingers just to taste the juice inside. Sometimes he’d cut his babies fingers off for similar reasons.

Inside the restaurant, lights dimmed.

It seemed as though Cameron was getting ready to leave.

Nicolas pulled his pants up and started the car. He put a hand on Fuzzy and Fuzzy bit his finger. The bite didn’t bother him. It didn’t make him upset. He imaged himself as a God and the rodent was one of his many creations, and he was a merciful God, powerful and tolerant, compassionate beyond comprehension.

Today he’d fill his empty cage.

 

 

6

 

Roger scribbled a note on a napkin and left it in a place that was easy to see. The note said:

 

Hey William, guess who’s back in town? Dan McGee!

Cam and I have to gone to his place for a while.

You should come. We’ll be in the basement (don’t ask).

~Roger.

 

Dan watched him write. “Is your brother going to see that?”

Roger nodded. “His time is divided between home and work. He usually pops by after we close. Sometimes he cooks. Sometimes he checks inventory and makes sure things are turned off. It’s his routine.”

Roger went behind the bar, pulled beers from the fridge and placed them in a bag. Dan and Cameron stepped outside. Roger turned off the lights, stepped outside, and locked the door. Dan and Roger jumped into Dan’s car and drove, making a pit stop at Roger’s place for more supplies. Cameron followed.

Inside Roger’s garage they found two more flashlights, one 25-foot extension cord, one 20-foot extension cord and one 15-foot extension cord. They also found two 500-watt work-lights in Roger’s basement; each of them had a yellow casing and was designed to blast a serious amount of light into dark places.

“Perfect,” Daniel said. He looked at Cameron and quickly looked away. “This stuff will help for sure.”

Roger made a joke about sending him the bill as Cameron toyed with her hair. They returned to their cars and drove to Cameron’s place.

Cameron changed vehicles.

They drove on.

Dan noticed a car in the rearview mirror, following along like it was heading to the same destination. It seemed unusual but not extraordinary; he wondered if the car was following on purpose. A moment later the car pulled off the road and disappeared from view, which seemed to answer his question.

Once they arrived at Dan’s cottage they went straight to the basement.

Roger carried the extension cords and the flashlights. Dan carried the work lights. Cameron carried the bag of alcohol in one hand and a radio in the other. When Roger asked what’s the radio was for, she replied, “So we can listen to music, stupid.” Dan laughed and Roger said, “Very funny.” Dan opened the trapdoor with a grunt as Cameron plugged the radio into an outlet. A song by Joy Division came on, making Dan wonder if Cameron enjoyed anything from her own era. Cameron turned the volume low and approached the pit with a smile. All three of them looked down the hole. And when they saw the darkness that seemed to have no end, nobody said a word.

 

 

7

 

Nicolas followed Cameron’s car, humming along with a song on the radio. When Cameron made a pit stop at Roger’s place, he turned the radio off and drove around the corner. He parked, waited, and followed them once they were driving. When they stopped at Cameron’s place he slowed but kept moving. Through the rearview mirror, he watched Cameron change from one car to the next. This wasn’t good. He wanted her to be alone at some point soon. Following them undetected could only become harder now that they made two pit stops.

He turned the car around, waited a few seconds, and followed Dan’s car to Stone Path Road. He knew Stone Path very well. He lived on a small, nearly uninhabited loop called Stone Crescent, and the two streets were attached. Stone Path Road and Stone Crescent were shaped like a lollipop on a stick. Stone Crescent was the lollipop. Stone Path was the stick. This meant both streets were a dead end, and there was no way for Cameron to escape without him knowing. No way at all.

Cameron was trapped.

Nicolas pulled next to the ditch, turned his engine off and let Dan drive away. He waited a few minutes, giving Cameron time to settle down, get comfortable, and kick off her shoes. During this time he lifted Fuzzy by his broken legs and squeezed the rodent as hard as he was able.

Still clamping his fingers like a vice, he changed gears inside his mind. Nicolas smashed the rodent against the dashboard three times, causing animal innards to explode against the window and floor. Guts splashed everywhere. Now Nicolas’ feet were kicking, his mouth was wide open and his glasses fell to his lap. He slapped the animal’s mangled body against the passenger’s seat repeatedly, bouncing it against the padded fabric.

Suddenly he was furious.

His face turned red and his eyeballs quivered like he was having an epileptic fit. Screaming, he crushed the rodent’s body against his chin and inhaled the wild scent with a loud and noisy snort. Blood dripped from his fingers. It ran down his face and neck. After a few seconds he blasted the tiny creature’s body against the steering wheel like a slave driver cracking a whip. Fuzzy snapped in half. The rodent’s head, chest, and his two front legs flew through the air, smacked against the windshield, and fell onto the dash. Gore hung from the exposed ribcage like pasta.

Nicolas looked at the mangled legs squished between his fingers. Anger, frustration, and excitement, became diluted with feelings he didn’t understand: loss, despair, misery, confusion. The emotional overload was too much. He began crying. His face turned red and his bottom lip launched into the foxtrot.

“It’s not fair,” he exclaimed, loudly. “It’s just not fair!”

When he was done with his brief, yet psychotically expressive bout of mourning, he rolled down the window and tossed Fuzzy’s legs outside. They hit the ground with a SPLOTCH and rolled in the dirt. He lifted his glasses from his lap, wiped the dribbles of gore from the lenses, and placed them on his teary-eyed face. He started the car and drove, ignoring the string of intestines that was clinging to his hair and the blood dripping from his chin. He didn’t care how he looked––driving down Stone Path Road with his fingers strangling the steering wheel and guts rolling off his stubble, but he did consider shooting himself. He also considered setting the town on fire, and wondered what it would be like to go on a nice, big, killing spree.

The upper half of Fuzzy sat on the dashboard near the steering wheel, lying in a small pond of blood. Black bubble eyes stared lifelessly out the window, still looking very much alive. Drops of purple and red waste blemished the glass, framing the animal’s body with macabre style. And as the animal’s mouth slid open one final time, and the car’s wheels rolled towards their destination, Nicolas wondered if there was such a thing as rodent heaven. If so, the squirrel was surely there.

 

 

8

 

It was Roger that spoke first. “Wow,” he said. “Just… wow.”

Dan couldn’t help but agree. Looking down such an unusual hole was astonishing. “See the light switch attached to the wall? It doesn’t work.”

“Yeah but… ” Dan trailed off, reflecting on the fact that he didn’t reach the bottom earlier. He considered the value of the hammer. It wasn’t worth much, ten bucks maybe. Still, he couldn’t help thinking he’d soon buy a new one.

“Don’t you need that Dan?” Cameron mocked. “It looks important.”

Dan smiled. “We’re going down there, remember?”

“Oh,” Cameron said with a grin. “That’s right! I forgot! You’re so smart!”

Roger rolled his eyes.

Daniel dropped the tool. All three of them listened. Seconds slipped past and nobody heard a thing. In time, Roger stepped away from the edge saying, “That is one deep hole.”

“Seems that way, doesn’t it?” Dan replied. “Know what? You guys should chill out a minute. I’m going to the garage to grab another extension cord.”

Roger opened the bottle. Beer foamed. He put his mouth to the opening, drank like a second year college student, and sat the bottle on the floor next to a screwdriver. Afterwards, he unraveled an extension cord and plugged it into an outlet. He tied the female end of one cable to the male end of another, holding them together with a knot. He tied the second cord to the third. Now three extension cables were connected and the knots he created insured they wouldn’t become unplugged.

Cameron said, “Maybe you should wrap the cable around the pickets.”

“Huh?”

“The pickets,” she repeated, pointing towards the staircase. “The pickets in the stairs. Knot the extension cable around a few of them so it doesn’t get pulled from the outlet in wall. It will, you know.”

Roger hung the light over the hole and when he lowered it, he kept his arms steady. As the light descended the weight in his hands increased. Soon, the light became quite heavy and he asked Daniel for assistance. Dan took the cable in his hands, relieving Roger of the full burden. The two men released more and more cable. The knots tightened. The light fell farther into the pit, slowly spinning in a circle, knocking out webs and lighting the area around it. Looking down, there wasn’t much to see: just a ladder and four walls, really. Nothing more.

“I can’t believe how far the light is dropping,” Cameron said with her eyes wide. “It’s like a bottomless pit.”

“That’s what I thought,” Daniel laughed, still releasing cable.

Soon, the cable was unraveled, all ninety-something feet of it. When the men released their grip, the strain the cable put on the pickets was more than they anticipated. The pickets bowed in the middle, threatening to snap. There was no way the cable’s male end would have stayed in the outlet without the pickets help––no chance, not in one hundred million years.

Daniel ran to the kitchen and opened the cupboard doors beneath the sink. There was a bag of sponges sitting in a milk crate, along with some cleaning materials and rags. He grabbed the sponges and closed the doors. After riffling through a couple of drawers he found a half-roll of duct tape. He took the tape and the sponges downstairs, unrolled a long piece of tape and dropped the roll on the floor. After opening the bag of sponges he pulled one out and dropped the bag onto the floor by his feet. With the line of tape against the sponge, he picked up a flashlight.

“And it’s a great idea: wrapping sponges around the flashlight. You’re going to sponge it and drop it, right? You want to drop the flashlight without breaking it.”

“Do you have a Nerf football, or better yet a beach ball? If we could deflate a beach ball halfway we could put the light inside the ball a bit, you know… giving it more protection. Or we could wrap the light inside a couple of plastic balls I guess. What do you think?”

“Not bad,” Dan said.

“We could do both,” Roger said. “We could wrap the flashlight inside the sponges and between a couple of balls. How about that Dan, do you have any balls?”

“I think so. Want me to look?”

“Yes,” Roger said, taking the sponge/flashlight/tape combination from Dan’s hand. “You look and I’ll tape the sponges to the flashlight.”

 

 

9

 

Nicolas Nehalem drove along Stone Path Road slowly, inspecting every car parked in every driveway. If the driveway was long and he needed a closer look, he parked and approached the building on foot. He was systematic and methodical. Cameron was located in a perfectly terrible position, and the only way she’d escape would be due to negligence on his part. And that wasn’t going to happen.

Nicolas found three driveways together that led onto a short, fat peninsula; he had himself a winner.

Dan’s car was located beneath the shade of a large elm tree, two hundred feet from the road, in the driveway of a summer home that looked like it cost a Hollywood fortune. The house was big and beautiful and stylishly elegant.

Nicolas walked around the house slowly and cautiously, making note of the surrounding area. He peeked through the building’s windows with care, which were strong and thick and designed to give intruders a hard time.

He didn’t see anyone inside the house, figured Cameron and her friends were either upstairs or in the basement. Either way, it didn’t matter. He wanted to wait until the evening turned to night and the sky became black.

Nicolas returned to his car, which wasn’t far from Dan’s driveway. He opened the trunk and let out a small gasp, surprised at what he discovered.

Pauline’s muscles had shriveled; her skin had deteriorated. She was exceedingly dehydrated on the day she died––the day Nicolas emptied his cage, dragging her from her shit-filled pen, screaming and crying, pleading and begging, only to have her throat slit while Olive and Cathy watched in terror.

Now she looked truly monstrous, horrific.

Her lips had curled into tight stringy worms. Her eyes had fallen into her head. Chipped arrowhead teeth pointed in all directions, encased inside her purple, rotting maw. Her hands had no fingers; her feet had few toes. Her arms and legs looked like they had been embalmed, salted, and cured. The only place on her body that seemed recently deceased was her stomach, which was a soup bowl of maggots and flies.

“Now where am I going to put Cameron, huh? Do you think I should let her ride up front? I don’t. My God, girl... you’ve been nothing but trouble since you were thirteen years old.”

Nicolas considered throwing the corpse in the bushes but decided against it. Uncalculated moves could only bring unwanted trouble. He was better off leaving her in the trunk. Cameron might not like being back there with a corpse but tough-tit said the shit, she’d get over it. And besides, home was only three minutes away.

He lifted a shotgun and a box of shells from beside Pauline’s corpse. He placed them on the gravel and pushed the carcass to the back of the trunk, making room for Cameron. He closed the trunk with a grunt, lifted the shotgun and the shells from the road, and walked up the driveway grinning.

Halfway to the house he stopped, listening to the sound of a door opening. He could hear people stepping outside. A man and a woman were talking.

Nicolas scratched his head.

Maybe Cameron had a husband. If so, that was bad. He didn’t like breaking up married couples, but he’d do it if he had to.

“Okay baby,” he whispered. “Daddy’s coming.” With his shotgun close to his chest he looked at the bloated moon, which was peeking up from behind a line of trees that looked healthy and green.

Soon it would be time for adoption.

 

 

10

 

Cameron and Daniel entered the garage. Dan clicked on the overhead light, walked past a small fishing boat, and approached a workbench.

“Everyone knows Martinsville. I went to school near there, remember? The place is famous. You didn’t know James McGee, did you? The guy that killed those people?”

“I am normal.”

“That’s not what I mean. I just… it’s weird to think you’re related to a psychopath.”

Daniel glanced at the floor. “I guess.”

The conversation wasn’t going the way Cameron anticipated. She wanted to get to know Daniel in a good way, not like this. She was hoping he’d say he had a troubled marriage and it was ending. She wanted him to be looking for someone different, someone young and energetic, like her. Instead they were talking about the Terror of Martinsville, who––as it turned out––was a close relative. Yikes. How did that happen? Somehow the conversation made a wrong turn and ended up in Horror City.

Needing to mend the verbal exchange, Cameron steered the discussion into neutral ground. “See any beach balls?”

Dan looked inside an old trunk. “If I have balls,” he said with a grin and a smirk, “they’re in here.”

Something moved on the other side of the garage window. It might have been the shadow from a tree, but Dan didn’t think so. He thought someone was out there.

Cameron took Daniel’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I had no idea you were related to James McGee.” She moved closer and her eyes widened. She squeezed his hand tighter, tilting her head to the side.

Dan may or may not have felt awkward before, but here and now… he was standing with a beautiful young girl holding hands. They were alone. And she was looking at him in a way that made him feel guilty, like he was supposed to wrap his arms around her and give her a kiss. But he couldn’t do that. He was happily married; he was in love.

But still…

Cameron’s dark hair was cut just below the shoulder. Her eyes were big and beautifully, perfectly stunning above the thin arc of her nose. Her lips were full; her breasts were neither large nor small, but just the size Daniel liked breasts to be.

These things added up.

Dan was uncomfortable, all right. Worse than that, Cameron was blocking the exit. Was she blocking it on purpose? He hoped not, but that seemed to be the situation.

What just happened? he wondered. Did Cameron hit on me? She knows I’m married. And she’s too young for me. Doesn’t she realize the age difference is ten years or more? Shouldn’t she be with guys her own age? What the hell is that crazy girl thinking?

As they entered the house, Cameron said, “Hey Daniel, want to give me a tour of your place? I’d love to see it.”

She’s on the rebound, Dan thought. She’s pissed off at what’s-his-name and now she looking for action, trying to create a moment.

“Uh… sure, Cam,” he said, playing nonchalant. But it was so strange. He remembered these moves from high school. Being older, he could see right through this stuff. Didn’t she know that? Dan cleared his throat. “I’ll give you the tour later. Right now I want to do the basement thing.”

He went straight for the basement door and made his way down the stairs, not giving her a chance to debate the matter. He was fast; quickness was his polite defense.

Cameron followed.

Smiling, Roger said, “Any luck?” He was sitting at the edge of the hole, eager to descend.

Dan shook his head. “Not really. We found a couple balls in the garage but they wouldn’t be helpful. Too heavy. Things wouldn’t be better, just different.”

“Oh.”

“You know,” Cameron said, looking at Roger inquisitively. “I have an umbrella in my car. Maybe we could use it like a parachute.”

“Naw,” Roger said. “I just wanna go down there. Screw the umbrella.” He held the flashlight, now wrapped inside nine strategically placed sponges. “I’ll carry this bad-boy as far as I can, then I’ll drop it.”

Daniel laughed too. “Damned if I know. I didn’t tell anyone I was here, and Sandra’s working ‘til Friday… so, who knows?” He shrugged. “Whatever. I’ll be back in a second.”

“Don’t be long,” Cameron said with a naughty smile.

Dan returned the smile with the naughtiness removed. Wow, he thought, turning away. She never quits.

 

 

11

 

Nicolas had watched Cameron and Daniel interacting in the garage. He was standing near the window, listening to their conversation through the glass. He caught some of what they were saying, and he didn’t like what he was hearing. They seemed friendly, too friendly, in his opinion. He whispered, “What am I going to do about this?”

This was a tough situation, one he didn’t care for at all. But what could he do?

He considered shooting the man and taking Cameron to his home immediately. Problem was, he knew there was somebody else inside the house, maybe even two or three somebodies.

What would happen when the shotgun blasted?

Those somebodies will come out, that’s what! They’ll come running, wanting to know what the fuss is about. What then? Do I shoot ‘em? Do I shoot ‘em all? Is that my plan… or is that PLAN B?

A tough spot all right. Very tough.

He allowed Cameron and the man to finish their conversation and return indoors without incident, which seemed smart.

Play it cool, he told himself. If I play it cool, the visitors will go home and I’ll be able to deal with Cameron, alone. That way, things will run smoothly.

A new idea came: maybe Cameron will want to come to my place.

That was a possibility.

She’ll want to…

But what if more people arrive? What if the house becomes a party house? What then? Do I join the party? Go home? Wait for Cameron to step outside and smash her head open with a rock?

Waiting seemed dangerous.

Nicolas considered walking in, blasting everyone in sight and taking the girl. It was a reasonable thing to do. It was practical and rational, fast and fun… but was it right?

He let the idea swish around awhile.

He had never done anything so bold before, so dangerous––walking inside and killing everyone. Wow. That was risky.

But it would be fun.

There will be trouble afterwards, guaranteed. The cops will be snooping. Might as well face the facts and figure the angles before inviting the weight of world to drop by for a visit.

Nicolas spat on the wall and watched the liquid roll down the wood. He put a finger in the wet spot, drew a happy face, crept into the shadows, and lifted the shotgun.

Somebody new was approaching.

Nicolas released a twisted grin. And as he squeezed the shotgun tight, his eyes turned to slits.

 

 

12

 

Standing on the step with a hand on each hip was Dan’s good friend, Patrick Love. Pat was a good kid, twenty-three years old, friendly. His parents had a cottage next door.

“Yeah, you too! I’m doing the cottage thing all week long. Couple pals are coming up on Wednesday, a couple more on Thursday, and a whole gang of them are coming on Friday night.”

“Where are your parents in all of this? Do they know you’re having a weeklong party?”

Pat smirked. “First of all, it’s not a weeklong party. It’s a weekend party, and yes––they know. They gave me the cottage for the week, said I could do what I wanted.”

Daniel laughed. “Why did they do that?”

“Because I finished college and I am a respectable adult now… duh. What do you think?”

“Daniel laughed again, saying, “A respectable adult? You wish, man.”

“It’s true. Believe it or not I’m done school, and this is my week to celebrate. My parents have been very cool lately. They took me out to diner, gave me a thousand bucks. They even helped me finance a car.”

Dan embellished a look of astonishment, but in truth he didn’t need to embellish much. He was impressed. Patrick was constantly impressing Dan in one way or another. “You have a car now?”

Pat stepped inside and closed the door. “In the basement? Why? I’ve seen your basement, Dan… it’s awful. Looks like Mordor down there. All you need is the Great Eye and a bunch of hairy Orcs.”

“Not any more.”

“No?”

Dan walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and handed Pat a beer. “I’m renovating,” he said. “And I found a… shit. I don’t know what to call it. A pit?”

“A pit? You found a pit in your basement? What are you, high?”

Dan smiled. “Come look.”

 

 

13

 

They entered in the basement, Dan first, then Pat.