1958
A fist pounded impatiently on the
front door. Someone yelled, “Let us in, Levi.” Angry men with guns paced in
anticipation, and the front porch ached under their weight. Levi sat in his
favorite chair a few feet from the fireplace, which was the only light in the
room. He knew why the men had come and nothing he could say or do would sate
their anger. These were his final days or hours. He held a small human figure
made of straw in one hand and recited the words he had learned as a child from
his “crazy” Louisiana aunt, words he believed contained power and magic. The door flew open with a wall-shaking crash
and police fell into the house, waving their weapons, expecting, maybe hoping,
for resistance. Levi tossed the doll into the fire and stood, hands raised in
the air, his shadow on the wall looking like a performing circus bear.
2014
Winter nights in
the upper Midwest, beyond the meager yellow glow of the small prairie town of Brereton,
are as cold and black as the bottom of a covered well. A lone pair of headlights
bounced up and down on a rutted gravel road, capturing swirls of snow as they strained
to cut through the heavy darkness. The driver, Josh Helms, grimaced after a
swig of whisky from a bag handed to him by Gavin Larson, who gladly took back
the half empty bottle and tilted it up for another gulp. The truck’s side
windows were frosted, and Josh lowered his a few inches to gaze into the raw black
void of a North Dakota night.
“Damn, it’s hard
to see. Why didn’t we just do this in the daylight?” asked Josh.
“What fun would that
be?”
“It’s snowing,
dark as shit, and about 20 degrees outside. Somehow ‘fun’ doesn’t quite capture
the moment.”
“Hey, I brought
whisky so shut up.”
“And the key. Your
old man’s gonna be pissed when he sees it’s gone.”
“He’s passed out
by now. I’ll put it back on the counter when we get back. Besides, there was
nothing on the envelope. It could have been meant for me.”
“Look. There’s the
house up on the right. Damn dawg, it’s creepy.”
Captured in the
bluish white lights of the truck was a farm house, at least the skeletal
remains of a farm house, it’s clapboard siding dark and moldy with age, windows
covered in grime, and vines crawling up it’s two story exterior like the
tentacles of some terrestrial octopus. Josh pulled his truck to a stop and
grabbed the bottle from Gavin.
“Why is there even
a lock on the door? A person could just break a window and crawl in,” said
Josh, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Surprised no one’s done it.”
Gavin looked down
at the silver key in his palm with the name “Hastings” engraved on it. “I don’t
know, but it’s like some kind of invitation. There was a photo with it, but my
old man took it before I could see what it was.” He smiled at his friend and
adjusted his tan UND baseball cap. “It’s all just too damn crazy to pass up.”
The young men
stepped out of the truck into the frigid night air. Gavin turned on his
flashlight and inspected the drooping remnants of a front porch. “Nobody’s
lived here for a long time.”
“Like out of some
horror movie. Maybe this—.”
“Don’t you wuss
out on me now, Josh.” Gavin walked cautiously up the steps to the front door. “Weird.
It looks like the lock is brand new. Come on.”
Reluctantly, hands
deep in his jacket pockets, Josh joined his friend next to the door. A sudden
gust of snow swirled around the two, perhaps a subtle warning, but Gavin
slipped the key into the lock and turned it with a click. Flashlight in hand,
he pushed the door in and signaled for Josh to follow. After the two
disappeared into the darkness, the door slammed violently shut behind them, violating
the deep-space quiet of a moonless prairie night.
Winnie Larson
wiped the kitchen counter with a sponge in one hand and held her cell to her
ear with the other. The plump, rosy-cheeked woman wore a concerned expression.
“I know he’s
twenty years old, and I don’t normally keep tabs on him, but he’s usually good
about texting me if he’s not coming home. I don’t know where he went. He was
with Josh. I’m not trying….”
She paused at the
kitchen window. In the middle of the freshly frosted front yard was what looked
like a snowman, although she couldn’t make out any details. Whatever it was, it
wasn’t there last night.
“I’ll have to call
you back, Sis.”
A down coat pulled
around her ample waist, untied boots plodding across the yard, Winnie
approached the strange sculpture cautiously. It was a crude replica of a man
with a frowning face. A knife was buried into one eye with red dye dripping
down from the wound like blood. Confused, Winnie finally noticed the cap on the
snowman’s head. It was a tan UND baseball cap stained with dark red blood. Her
screams sent a tree full of blackbirds flapping skyward.
Beneath a grim
charcoal sky, a procession of cars with their lights on made its way slowly
down Main Street in the direction of Skjeberg Cemetery at the southern edge of
Brereton. In the third car behind the hearse sat a somber Scott Schuster, a
gifted young native of Brereton who left town three years earlier to attend law
school at the University of Iowa. He’d grown up across the street from Gavin
and the two had been closer than most brothers. Scott had been in a black state
of confusion ever since his aunt called him to tell him that Gavin and Josh had
both been murdered, their bodies found in a barren corn field east of town. In
the 134 years since the town’s founding there had only been one murder, and in
a single night, two young men out of a population of 800, were killed. On top
of that, there were the horrific methods used. Gavin had been stabbed
repeatedly, with the knife left stuck in his right eye socket. All of Joshes
fingers were hacked off as well as his penis, and he was left to bleed to
death. As intelligent as he was, Scott could not conceive of this level of
brutality.
Wisps
of snow began swirling down during the graveside ceremony, coating the
shoulders of the mourners and providing one additional layer of cold gloom to
the proceedings. On his way back to his rental
car, Scott heard a familiar voice behind him. He turned to see former classmate
Cindy Brule approaching wearing the first smile he’d seen since he arrived. Despite
the circumstances, she betrayed a vibrancy and youthfulness that brought a
small bit of warmth to a bitter day.
“I
was wondering if you’d be able to make it,” she said, putting a welcome hand on
his arm. Hazel eyes, waves of autumn red hair framing a pale, freckled face,
Scott was already thinking about rescheduling his flight out of Grand Rapids
the next day.
“Cindy.
Wow, it’s great to see you. When did you get in?”
She
lowered her eyes and her cheeks flushed. “I never left. I manage Dell’s Café
now.”
“I
didn’t mean—“
“No,
it’s okay. I’m really glad you’re here. We’re all in a state of shock so it’s
nice to see an old familiar face.” Unexpectedly, she put her arms around Scott
and hugged him. “Sorry. I’m feeling pretty emotional.”
“Don’t
be sorry. It’s an unbelievable tragedy. I was trying to talk Gavin into coming
to Iowa City...” His voice trailed off.
“Scott,
I know this is forward, but have dinner with me tonight. I want to hear stories
about when we were kids. We can go to Jackson’s Landing.”
He
nodded yes, knowing that they both needed to avoid being alone.
The
two reminisced over dinner, shared wine at Cindy’s house and had awkward,
healing sex. Cindy was gone to work when Scott got up at 10:00. She left a note
on the kitchen counter describing where to find the coffee and bagels, and
ended it with a small heart. This was unexpected.
Coffee
gurgling, a bagel in the toaster, Scott sat down at the kitchen table with his
phone ready to change his flight when he noticed a pile of mail on the table. On
top were a square blank envelope and a silver key etched with the name
“Hastings.” The name was familiar to him, as it was to most long-time
residents.
Levi
Hastings was a recluse who lived in a house on the edge of town during the
1950s. Many in Brereton assumed Levi was mentally ill and kept their distance
from the hulking, mysterious man. Children were cautioned by their parents not
to be out late at night in case you meet up with Levi Hastings. In the summer
of 1958, the battered body of a young girl, Alice Cumberland, was found in
brush in the vicinity of Levi’s house. She had been molested numerous times and
beaten to death. Suspicion immediately turned toward the hapless hermit and,
despite his claims of innocence, he was arrested by local police based solely
on the proximity of the body to his house. The parents of the young murder
victim were well liked and well respected, and a palpable anger boiled up among
men in the town as they nursed beers at The Lounge. This ugly disruption of the
American dream could not be allowed to stand, and the next day, as the sheriff
drove Levi out of town heading south to Grand Forks, his patrol car was stopped
by a group of ten men with rifles. They took Levi out of the car, forced the
sheriff to turn around and go back to Brereton, and then marched the resigned suspect
into the brush. Levi’s body was never found, and no charges were ever filed.
Dell’s was almost empty when Scott walked in
and he wondered how Cindy could keep the doors open. Small town America had
been decimated by the 2008 financial crises and it wiped out a lot of local
businesses like Dell’s over the ensuing years. Looking stressed as she talked
to one of the teenage waitresses, Cindy’s posture changed immediately when she
noticed him walking to the counter and sliding onto a stool. She set a coffee
cup in front of him and filled it.
“Good
morning,” she said with a knowing smile.
“It
is good, isn’t it?”
“You
going to be able to stay a little longer?”
“Yeah.
I got that all straightened out. Hey, I hope you won’t get pissed at me for being
snoopy, but I noticed the key that had “Hastings” etched in it. What’s that all
about?”
The
smile disappeared and Cindy busied herself adjusting the salt and pepper shakers
on the counter. “It was in my mailbox a few days ago. I don’t know what it
means. Do you?”
“No.
Well, we all know the story of Levi Hastings and the little girl, but—“
“You
know they found the real killer,” said the young waitress in passing.
“What?”
asked Scott.
Ignoring
Cindy’s scowl, the waitress went on. “After Pastor Gains died a couple of years
ago, someone found stained gloves and a child’s hair barrette hidden in his
house.” Cindy took the coffee pot to the lone table with a customer. “They
checked the DNA and it belonged to the little girl.”
“Pastor
Gains?” said Scott with a confused look. “But isn’t he….”
The
girl smiled slyly and nodded in Cindy’s direction.
Scott
didn’t bring up the subject until that evening as he cleared dinner dishes from
the table.
“Cindy,
I’m sorry about all of this Hasting’s stuff.”
She
rested her elbows tiredly on the table. “It was a shock. You can’t imagine what
it’s like finding out your grandfather, a Lutheran minister no less, is a child
killer. And that an innocent man…”
Scott
came over and knelt down beside her. “I know, but it’s ancient history. Damn, I
just seem to be stirring things up. I probably should have stayed in Iowa
City.”
“Don’t
say that,” she said, resting her hand on his. “I’m glad you’re here.”
At
two in the morning, Cindy’s phone rang. She went into the bathroom to talk, but
Scott was awake when she returned and sat on the edge of the bed, holding her
knees to her chest.
“Cindy?
What’s wrong?”
“You
remember Doug Willits?”
“Sure.
Played basketball. He got Wendy Larchmont pregnant senior year and…last I heard
he was working his father’s farm.”
“My
cousin is a deputy sheriff. They found Doug’s body tonight. It was hanging from
the limb of an oak tree in Heritage Park.”
“Did
they find—“
“Yes.
There was a snowman in his mother’s front yard, complete with a noose around
its neck.”
Having
the morning free while Cindy worked, Scott began searching the Internet for
something that might shed light on what was happening in his hometown. He found
a pad to start mapping out the bits of information he was uncovering, but
needed a pen. He looked around and started rummaging through Cindy’s junk
drawer in the kitchen. Digging towards the back his fingers found a photograph.
He pulled it out and set it on the counter. The photo was of a group of men in
hunting clothes holding shotguns. The clothing had Scott guessing it was the
1950s. In the foreground were more than twenty dead pheasants lined up on the
ground. It was obviously the bounty of a day’s hunting. It took a minute, but
Scott recognized most of the men in the photo from his childhood. There was
Karl Larson, Pastor Glenn Gains, Ed Willits, David Berglund, George Helms, and on
he went mentally ticking off names. Between the two individuals he couldn’t
identify was a man in the back caught in another hunter’s shadow and
unrecognizable. Scott turned it over and there was a short handwritten note.
Guess who’s back in town, Cindy?
He
glanced over to the pile of mail and noticed the key was gone. A sudden sense
of panic clenched around his throat and he dressed quickly and drove to the
diner. It was nearly deserted and worse, he did not see Cindy.
“She
came in for a little while, but said she needed to go see someone. Didn’t look
too good…like she was coming down with something.”
Scott
started his car and pulled out onto Main Street. The connections between the
Hastings incident over fifty years earlier and the key and the photograph were
still hazy but slowly beginning to come into focus. There was a connection that
ran threw the recent murders leading to the Hasting’s house.
As if just waking
up, Scott found himself parked in front of Cindy’s place, although this wasn’t
his original destination. His heart rate shot up and his palms grew damp when
he noticed the snowman the middle of her front yard. He got out of the car and
approached the effigy warily. This latest creation was another human figure,
but where the face would be there was only a large red stain. Lying next to the
monstrosity was a shotgun.
Overcome
with panic, Scott ran to his car and steered in the direction of the Hasting’s
house, tires squealing as he made his way out of town. The car bounced
violently on the rural gravel road, but he soon caught site of the dark house
in the distance and pressed the accelerator down even further. Reaching the
crest of a small rise, he caught site of something lying in the road. He
slammed on his breaks and slid to a stop in a cloud of dust and flying rocks
only a few feet from the object. He got out and went to the front of the car.
It was Cindy’s lifeless body.
“Nooo,”
he moaned in disbelief, putting a hand to his forehead.
He was suddenly
sick to his stomach, in shock, and as much as he didn’t want to, he walked
slowly around the body. Just as with the snowman, Cindy’s beautiful face had
been blown off and there remained only a bloody, raw mess.
Scott
sat on the back step of an ambulance, his head buried in his hands. The lights
of several squad cars swirled around the flat, desolate landscape, as officers
photographed Cindy’s body and searched the area for clues. A deputy sheriff
approached Scott with a cup of coffee.
“Here,”
said dour officer, holding out the cup. “Warm yourself up.”
Red-eyed
and pale, Scott looked up and accepted the coffee.
“Thanks.
Anything yet?”
“Nothing
conclusive, but we checked the shotgun at her house and it had been fired
recently. We should be able to get prints off of it. Did she own a shotgun?”
Scott
shrugged. “I don’t know. We were just starting to…get reacquainted. There’s a
lot I don’t know about her.”
“How
about you? Own any weapons?”
Scott
scowled. “No.”
“Haven’t
found her car yet. So you wouldn’t know why she’d be out here by herself?”
Scenarios
flew around Scott’s head like startled bats in a cave. “No,” he decided. “I don’t know why she’d be
out here.”
“Why
were you here?”
“I
was just taking a drive. That’s all. Trying to visit some old haunts from when
I was a kid.”
The
sheriff’s expression made it clear he didn’t like the answer, but after a few
more general questions he told Scott he was free to go.
That
night, Scott sat in a chair in the dark living room of Cindy’s house, a hand
clutching a bottle of vodka, his thoughts lost in the blackness surrounding him.
Although he hadn’t put all of the puzzle pieces together, Cindy’s death made
him realize that the Hasting’s house was the epicenter of the horror his hometown
was experiencing. Someone or something was luring people to the house with the
key and the photo, murdering them, and then torturing their loved ones with the
snowmen. The “why” was still the maddeningly elusive question. A quarter of the
bottle now coursing through his veins, Scott settled on a solution to the
dilemma, and he rose unsteadily to his feet to carry out his plan.
A
half hour later, Scott pulled up in front of the empty, crumbling Hasting’s
house. He stumbled to the trunk where he grabbed a five-gallon gas can, carried
it to the porch of the house and began splashing gasoline around the front
door. After emptying the can, he stepped back a bit, struck a match on the side
of a box, and threw it onto the porch. Orange blue flames instantly flared up
and Scott had to move back even further as the fire intensified. The weathered
dry wood burned quickly and soon the entire front of the house was engulfed in
flames.
Back
in his car, he watched the inferno grow for another moment, put the vehicle in
reverse and drove back to Cindy’s house. Fifteen minutes after his return, he
heard the wailing siren of the town’s only fire truck heading in an easterly
direction. The house would never survive, he assured himself, and neither would
the killer. He showered and went to bed not really caring if the local cops
could put two and two together, which he highly doubted.
It
wasn’t the worst hangover he’d ever had, but the headache was distracting as he
packed his bag for the flight back to Iowa that afternoon. Cindy’s relatives
would have to deal with house, and he wasn’t up for another funeral. It was a
cold, oppressive day with low grey clouds a person could almost reach up and
touch. Scott threw his bag into the trunk of the rental car and started backing
out of the driveway. He was out into the street about to shift into drive when
he noticed the little faded red flag on Cindy’s mailbox was up. Okay. There was
a choice here, he knew, to either drive off and put the ugliness of this visit
behind him or…. He pulled the car over and went to the mailbox. Inside was a
small square blank envelope. Hands shaking, he opened it and removed the silver
key and the photo. The photo was the exact same one that Cindy had received,
only the man whose face was in shadows was now circled in red. Reluctantly, his
body perspiring despite the frigid temperatures, Scott turned over the picture
and read the note.
Grandpa Gavin Schuster. Not the ringleader,
but a willing participant. August 3, 1958.
Participant? He
read the date again and it suddenly all clicked. This was the group of men who
had kidnapped Levi Hastings and killed him. His uncle was one of them. They murdered
an innocent man.
Dust and gravel
flew up behind Scott’s Forerunner as he struggled to keep it on the road. For
some unexplainable reason, he didn’t go into a state of head-exploding shock
when he came over a crest in the road and saw that the Hastings house was
exactly as it had been before the fire. It was just another bizarre event in a
long sequence of bizarre events. He turned and braked to a wheel-locking skid
in front of the house, finally stopping a few feet from the porch. Scott got
out and went to the rear of his vehicle, reemerging with an axe in one hand,
the key in another, and a face creased by rage. He stood at the front door for
a moment, then briefly looked back over his shoulder as if saying goodbye.
The lock clicked
and he walked into the darkness.
The door slammed
shut behind him.
Soft
morning flakes drifted down and settled on the town of Brereton. An elderly
woman wrapped in layers of clothing against the cold walked tiredly up a path
through the middle of Skjeberg Cemetery. She stopped at a grave and bowed her gray
head, praying silently over a lost loved one. On the slow journey back to her
car, something caught her eye and she left the path to inspect the headstone of
Gavin Schuster, who died in 1989. Someone had built a snowman just in front of
the marker. It was the form of a human, but the round snowball head lay on the
ground, and next to that was a blood-covered axe.
