The Love Interest

Landing a recurring role in the “Young and the Restless” was a dream come true for actress Tonya Curtz, as well as the beginning of a living nightmare. Only days after her initial appearance on the show, she began noticing a man at too many places during her day for it to be a coincidence, and was concerned she had a stalker.

The man looked to be in his mid-twenties, her age, with intense dark eyes that seemed too wide open to be a natural expression. It was almost as if the stare was intended to frighten her. Was he just a star-fixated fan with too much time on his hands or something else? People on the set were sympathetic, but couldn’t offer much useful advice.

That evening, as Tonya closed up her second floor apartment before bed, she glanced out a front window and was startled to see the man standing across the street in the shadows just beyond the glow of the street lamp, staring up at her. This is too much, she thought to herself, and called 911.

A half-hour later, there was a knock at her door. Assuming it was the police, she rushed to answer it, but instinctively looked through the peephole. For an instant she stared into the bulbous black eyes of her stalker, then yelped and jumped back.

“Go away,” she screamed. “The police are on their way.”

Tonya barricaded herself in her bedroom and called the police again. Ten anxious minutes later there were more knocks on her front door, but she could hear the police announcing themselves and sighed with relief.  They hadn’t seen anyone, but would patrol the area more often than usual throughout the evening.

Tired and surly, Tonya walked through the backstage area of the set to make up the next morning. Candi had her sit in a chair and began transforming Tonya into her pampered rich girl character, Eve Corbett, while telling sleep-inducing stories of her love life. Candi was working on her closed eyes when Tonya heard the voice of one of the shows producers, Paul Conklin.

“Tonya, I’d like you to meet our newest cast member and your new love interest on the show, Thomas Volker.”

Tonya opened her eyes and found herself staring at the smiling face of her stalker.

“A pleasure to finally meet you,” he said.

Ping

Ping.

The soft chime was just loud enough to raise Sheri Collins from the depths of sleep toward consciousness. She pushed herself up on her elbows and squinted, trying to pierce through the early morning darkness of the bedroom. The only light was a dull white glow from her phone on the bedside table. Propping herself up with pillows, she focused on the message she’d just received. It was from her fourteen-year old daughter Kate.

“Mom  My ride bailed on me. Can you come pick me up?”

Sheri frowned and began typing.

“Why are you out so late?”

Ping.

“Please just come pick me up. I’ll explain. Corner of Woodland and 9^th.”

What choice was there?

“I’ll be there in 15. Look for me.”

Ping.

“K”

GPS was taking Sheri downtown into a dark, unfamiliar part of the city, and it wasn’t helping her mood at all. Bright window displays gave way to warehouses and fenced lots topped with razor wire.  Sheri jumped when the GPS lady announced that her destination was 100 feet ahead. She slowly pulled up to the intersection of Woodland and 9^th and scanned the area, but saw no signs of life. I’m going to kill her, thought Sheri, who then pushed on the horn twice. The industrial wasteland around her was unnervingly silent, but she thought she caught something moving to her right.

Ping.

She locked the doors and turned back to her phone. It was a text from Kate.

“Mom where are you?”

“I’m here. Where are you?”

Ping

“In my bedroom. I’ve been calling out for you.”

“That can’t be. What’s wrong?”

Ping.

“Noises in hallway.  God, please let that be you coming into my”

“Kate? KATE?”

The Baker Family Reunion

The paring knife slipped off the tomato skin and cut a half-inch slice into Meg Baker’s thumb.

“Shit,” she hissed, sticking her thumb in her mouth.

Her boyfriend Sean called from the living room. "You okay?"

“No,” she mumbled, walking to the bathroom like an oversized toddler.

Sean stood in the doorway as she tried to bandage herself.  “This family reunion is driving you nuts. You haven’t gone to one in five years. You hate your family.  Why is this one any different?”

“My father is sick. We don’t know how long he has, but he was the only one who ever showed me a bit of love and kindness. I just want to see him before he…”

Sean watched Meg fumble with the bandage. “Here, let me help.”

Two weeks later, Meg found herself in the backseat of a cab heading toward her childhood home, the home where she spent the worst years of her life fighting with her parents, friends who tried to help, teachers and just about everyone else in her life.  She was going back to face the alcoholic mother who tried to have her committed when she was fifteen, the relatives who clucked and rolled their eyes at the mere mention of her name, and her dying father, not perfect, but the best of the lot.

Meg pushed the doorbell and within a few seconds she was facing her mother, Janet, who stood in the threshold scowling, eyes red and face flush from alcohol. “What are you doing here?” she asked. The air between them filled with wine fumes.

“I invited her,” called out Robert, Meg’s father, from the top of the stairs.

Without saying a word, Janet turned and walked back toward the kitchen. Don motioned for Meg to join him upstairs. He sat on the edge of the bed as Meg plopped into a chair in the corner.

“I’m really glad you made it, honey,” said Don, smiling.

“Yeah, so is Mom. She’s brimming with joy that I’m here.”

“Don’t let her get to you. She’s always cranky these days. You must be thirsty.” Don opened the door in his bedside table and pulled out a bottled water, holding it out to Meg. “Need to keep hydrated.”

“Thanks, but—“

“It’ll help with the jet lag.”

Meg took the water from her father and drank. “Okay. So how are you feeling?”

“Oh, I have good days and bad days. Today’s one of the better ones, mostly because you’re here.”

“Thanks.” Meg tugged at her collar. “Do you have the heat cranked up? Warm in here.”

“No. Are you okay?”

“Dizzy all of a sudden.  Can’t keep my eyes open…”

In what seemed like only a moment later, Meg was straining to bring the room into focus. Her head throbbed and her clothes felt strange, sticky. There was something in her right hand. With effort she raised her arm and saw her fingers clasped around a large butcher knife covered in blood. Her clothes were also covered in a sticky red goo. Heart thumping in her chest as lines started to converge, Meg forced herself up and out into the hallway.  She stopped at the top of the stairs. Lying motionless and face down in the entryway below her as if floating in a pool of blood was her mother. Meg sank to her knees and moaned.

“Ah, you’re up,” said Don, entering from the living room. The shock rendered Meg speechless. She opened her mouth but only emitted another groan. “You killed them all. Well, that’s what the police will believe. Mentally disturbed young woman comes home to a family reunion, there are arguments and…she snaps, murdering everyone except her father, who barely survived.” He held up an arm with bloodstains on his shirt. “I’ve been planning this since the day you left home. You’re wondering why. Why did he do this to me? Fact is, I hated everyone here as much, if not more, than you. A bunch of drunk, backstabbing hypocrites. Now they’re all out of my life and I can start fresh.”

“I thought you were the one who loved me,” whispered Meg.

“I do, baby, but real love is above all about honesty. I know this is hard to hear, but you’re damaged goods, Meg. It’s clear your life isn’t going anywhere and nothing constructive will come of it. On the other hand, I still have a lot to offer the world and a lot to accomplish. Thanks to you, my new life starts today. I know that at some point you’ll understand all of this and be happy for me.”

“You’re not dying?”

Police sirens grew louder. Don peeked out a small window in the door. “No, honey, I’m not dying. This is my rebirth. So, they’re here.” As he opened the front door, a heavy weight suddenly landed on Don’s back. The cops walking up the steps watched in horror as Meg’s knife cut a thin dark slit across her father’s neck, and the Baker family reunion officially came to an end.

Getting Away With Murder

Friends are overrated, Thomas Grayson would often think to himself, using it as an excuse to spend yet another night lost in his laptop monitor instead of going out and engaging other human beings. Bored with Facebook, Thomas jumped to YouTube and began scanning video descriptions. Something in the “Recommend” category stopped him cold, a video with his name under it, Thomas Grayson #4. It had been posted three days earlier and already had over a thousand views. The name of the poster was “GAWM.”

Curious, he clicked on the video and was suddenly looking down on a city street at night. The camera was following a woman walking down a sidewalk, then cut to a daylight segment of a woman walking to her car. They looked to be the same person, but Thomas couldn’t be sure until a third segment appeared. It was night again and the camera operator was filming through a window looking into a house. The same young woman was sitting on a couch watching TV. Her bare feet were propped up against the coffee table and she appeared to be eating popcorn. The video ended abruptly and Thomas felt both confused and frightened.

He watched the three other videos and found the pattern to be the same, with each one following a different woman as if someone was stalking them. Why was his name on these videos, he wondered? News articles he’d seen of a suspected serial killer in the city rose to the surface in his mind and his palms grew damp. Here were videos of someone following various women. Could they be victims? Prospective targets?

His mind started racing. Maybe somebody was trying to frame him. But who and why? He didn’t know enough people to have enemies. Should he call the cops?

After a fitful night, Thomas slogged through his morning routine. He tapped away at the laptop on the kitchen table in between sips of coffee and found that a new video had been posted during the night, Thomas Grayson #5.  Afraid to watch it and afraid not to, he finally clicked on the title. The camera followed a young woman through the aisles of a grocery store as she shopped. It then cut to the same woman carrying bags into her small house.

Three solid knocks on the front door sent a surge of adrenalin through his veins, and a second one hit when he opened the door to a man in a suit and two uniformed police officers.

“Detective Vince Anselmo. You Thomas Grayson?”

Thomas wanted to slam the door shut and run. “Yes. What’s this all about?”

“We have a warrant to search the premises. Would you mind stepping back, Sir?”

Detective Anselmo and the two cops brushed past Thomas. “Wait. What’s this all about? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

The Detective stood in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen. “So what are you doing on your laptop? Posting another video? How fucking stupid can you get?”

“No, no. You don’t understand. I didn’t post those videos. Someone else put them there.” Something was horribly wrong.

“Hey Vince,” called a cop coming down the stairs holding a GoPro camera in an evidence bag. “Found it sitting on top of his dresser, and there’s a coil of rope.”

Detective Anselmo shook his head as he pulled out his cuffs. “Jesus, Grayson. You have to be the world’s dumbest serial killer. You’re under arrest for murder.”

“No,” shouted the now panicking Thomas. “I didn’t kill anybody. I…I’m being set up.”

The cuffs clicked shut around Thomas’s wrists as he continued to protest, and a police officer guided him outside to a waiting squad car.  As the house grew quiet again, the YouTube page on Thomas’s laptop refreshed. A new video had just been uploaded by GAWM…Chad McNair #1.

Retribution

His back killing him, Joe Garner looked over at the small redbud tree in its plastic pot with contempt as it waited for him to finish the hole he was digging in the backyard. He could feel the blisters forming as the shovel pierced another inch into the dense soil, but then something in the hole caught his eye. He’d encountered roots and small pebbles, but this looked different. Bending down for a closer examination, Joe squinted, trying to make sense of something completely out of context. He was looking at a woman’s finger.

Two hours later, there was a backhoe in the yard, several uniformed officers and a young detective named Conrad, who was overseeing the excavation. Joe and Ellen watched from the back porch as the machine spewed black smoke and groaned while clawing slowly into the Garner’s lawn.  Soon, the cops waived off the bucket and entered the large gash in the yard to examine the body. Detective Conrad climbed out of the hole and approached Joe and Ellen holding out his phone. He showed them a photo of the victim’s face.

“Either of you recognize her?” he asked.

“No,” responded Ellen quickly. “I’ve never seen her before.”

“Mr. Garner?”

“I don’t know who that is,” he said, his neck now crimson red.

An ambulance took the body away and the uniformed cops left a short time later. A grim Detective Conrad sat at the kitchen table with Joe and Ellen sipping a Sprite.

“How long did you say you’ve lived here?” he asked.

“Twelve years,” replied Joe.

“I’m not an expert, but the body doesn’t look like it’s been in the ground anywhere near that amount of time.”

Joe scowled. “Are you implying something, Detective?”

“No Sir,” he responded, looking down at his hands. “I just have to go where the evidence leads me. We won’t know anything until the coroner examines the body.  Are you okay, Mr. Garner? You look pale.”

Joe tried to turn his fear into anger. “The dead body of a woman was taken out of the ground in my backyard. No, I’m not okay.”

After a few more questions, Detective Conrad left and the mood in the house was murky and uncertain.  

Deep into the night, Ellen bolted upright in bed. Joe was yelling from downstairs. She entered the dark living room and found her husband standing in the shadows.

“What’s wrong?” asked Ellen, putting her hands on his shoulders.

“There was a woman…just outside the window…looking in at me.”

Ellen hurried out the front door and returned after a beat.

“There’s no one out there now.”

“It was the woman from our yard,” said Joe.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Come back to bed.”

On two more occasions, Joe claimed to see the phantom woman standing outside looking in. After the latest incident, his body trembled in Ellen’s arms as he tried to keep himself from totally falling apart. He let out a sigh and then confessed that he knew the woman dug up in their yard, and that they had an affair, but he swore he didn’t kill and bury her.

“I know you didn’t,” whispered Ellen, letting go of Joe and giving him an icy glare. “But I can’t speak for the police….”

The Girl Next Door

“I know a game, but you gotta come over here to play.”

“I can’t without my mom.”

“Sure you can. Just walk around the fence. It’s a secret game just for kids.”

The Chase family had been in their new home for a week, but Christie was still unpacking boxes and setting up the kitchen. She glanced up from the sink and saw her six-year old son Dillon standing next to the weathered privacy fence that cordoned off the backyard, appearing to be talking to himself. Wiping her hands on her pants, Christie walked outside.

“Hey, kiddo, whatchya doing?”

“Talking to Ally, the girl next door.”

“Cool. I didn’t know our neighbors had kids. Hi Ally.” There was no reply.

“I think she went inside,” said Dillon.

“Yeah, probably. Come on, I’ll fix you some lunch.”

Over bowls of mac and cheese, Christie and Dillon sat in unusual silence.

“You’re quiet today. Everything okay?” asked Christie.

“I guess. Ally’s kind of creepy.”

“What makes you say that? I thought maybe I could invite her over here to play.”

Dillon’s eyes widened. “No. I don’t want her to come over here.”

“But why?”

“I just don’t. That’s all.”

The afternoon passed quietly. Dillon played in his room while Christie rearranged the cupboards, giving up on trying to get anything more from him about the girl next door.  Nagged by Dillon’s odd reaction to Ally, Christie decided to introduce herself to the neighbors as a pretext to see for herself what they were like.

She called up the stairs that she’d be outside for a few minutes, and then walked quickly down the sidewalk to the door of Ally’s house. Repeated knocks brought no response and when she peeked in the window, she saw the home was empty.

“There’s no one living there,” a voice called out. Christie turned toward an elderly woman in the next yard wearing gardening gloves. “Something happened to the youngest daughter in the family. Had to institutionalize her. Nasty little thing. The family moved out a few months ago and I won’t say I was sorry to see them go.”

“Thank you,” replied a confused Christie as she walked slowly back and turned down her driveway.

“Mom.” Christie stopped and looked up. Framed by the second story window of his bedroom, Dillon whispered loudly through the screen. “I told you not to ask the neighbor girl over.”

Christie opened her mouth to speak, but instead a terrified shriek escaped when she saw a pair of eyes just over Dillon’s shoulder.

The Silver Key

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.

Seeing Things

Thunder drummed in the distance announcing the approaching storm. Detective Derrick Jeffers stood a few feet from the body of a young woman who had been stabbed numerous times. Blood had soaked through her white blouse and pooled around her torso. Hours earlier she’d gotten dressed, put on make-up, met up with friends, never imagining her night would end like this. Hands in his overcoat pockets, Derrick had hoped his last month on the job would be quiet, laid back, but now there was this, a messy homicide with a killer on the run. He thought he’d seen his last dead child, but here was a new face to forever haunt his dreams. Isolated, heavy raindrops began falling from the night sky, and Derrick got into his car, hoping someone had a tarp to cover the girl’s body.

The passenger door opened and fellow detective Dominic Vilsich slid into the seat.

Jeffers scowled. “What’s keeping the Goddamn ambulance? Oh wait, I forgot what part of town we’re in.”

“Rain’s gonna fuck up the crime scene. You find anything?”

“Just another dead black girl.”

“I’m not hearing the cheery banter of someone who’s retiring in less than a month.”

“You believe in an afterlife, Vilsich?”

“Well, I guess you could put me in the ‘hopeful’ camp.”

“I’m certain there is one because I’ve seen ghosts of some murder victims.”

“Ghosts.”

“Mmm-mm.”

“You mean metaphorically, right?”

Jeffers turned on his headlights and illuminated the dead girl’s body in a misty white halo, then quickly turned them off. “You got a tarp in your trunk?”

Cold, wind-whipped sheets of rain poured from the sky on Michael Hurst as he hobbled along the sidewalk looking desperately for some alcove or doorway in which to escape the deluge. His ragged, grease covered clothes were saturated, heavy, clinging to his frail frame like a frozen blanket. In his three years living on the streets, this was the first night he’d experienced a sense of panic.

The rain was so thick and relentless he’d become disoriented, not sure what neighborhood he’d wandered into, unable to make out any familiar landmarks. A narrow alley suddenly opened up to his right and he slogged into the dark crevice searching for some overhang that might protect him from the incessant drumming of rain on his body. Feeling his way along, he groped until his hands hit air and there was a recessed doorway. He slid in and crouched in his small cave, pulling his wet coat around him tightly. After a few moments he relaxed a bit and leaned back, but instead of his shoulders resting against something solid, he continued to fall backwards as the door opened behind him.

He was on his back looking into a dark hallway lit only by a small table lamp. Lying completely still, he waited for the footsteps of the frightened residents, screams, frantic 911 calls, but there was only the beating of the rain through the open door. Pulling himself to his feet, he quietly closed the door and hesitated again, sure there was going to be a noisy confrontation at any moment. The room he was in seemed to be a small mudroom with a bench and hooks on the wall for coats and hats. He stood at one end of a long hallway with two doorways on the left and a stairway on the right, the front door at the opposite end. A burst of thunder sent a shiver through him he thought for a moment of leaving, but the warmth and apparent emptiness of the house convinced him otherwise.

Peeking into the first room on his left, he saw a large dining room filled with dark, expensive looking furnishings and a doorway at the far end he assumed went to a kitchen. Beyond the second threshold was a cluttered but comfortable-looking living room featuring a large picture window looking out on the now dark neighborhood. Too tired to continue the search upstairs, Michael made his way to the couch, peeled off his coat and sat, allowing himself to be embraced by the cushions. His plan was to stay only long enough to dry off and let the worst of the storm pass, but he just couldn’t keep his eyes open.

It was still dark outside when Michael returned to life, but there was now a light on in the living room. Forcing himself conscious, he was suddenly eye-to-eye with an elderly man sitting in a chair several feet away. Legs crossed, the man appeared to be in his late sixties, thin, with a full head of wavy silver hair, a creased but pleasant face and eyes that were deep with more grief than joy. Fight or flight? Then the man smiled.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I haven’t called the police.”

“This your house?” asked the wary Michael.

“Yes, it is. I’m glad you found your way in out of the rain. Horrible night to be outside.”

“Listen, I’m sorry about—“

“No, no. There’s nothing for which to apologize. I’m glad you’re here.”

Michael sat up and frowned in confusion. “You are?”

“I’m an old man spending the so-called golden years in relative isolation.”

“What about friends or family?”

“Friends and family,” repeated the man with disdain, standing and walking to the picture window. “I used to have friends, but they turned out to be false friends only interested in taking and not giving. The same thing with family. They were always far more concerned with the health of my bank account than my personal health. Greedy, heartless bastards, all of them.” He turned away from the window and smiled. “Sorry. You can tell it’s a sore subject. What about you? You’re obviously homeless. No friends or family to help?”

Michael looked down at his lap and his long, greasy hair fell forward, covering his face. “They tried, but I have…issues. Anger issues. Can’t hold a job, drink too much. It beats prison.”

“You’ve been in prison?”

“Two years. Hurt a guy pretty bad in a fight.”

The elderly man walked to the coffee table and sat on the edge close to Michael. “My name is Trent.”

“Michael.”

            “Michael, I don’t believe anything happens by chance. I think everyone has a purpose in life, even if they don’t realize what it is. There is a purpose in you being here tonight. Listen, my new friend, I want you to go upstairs, take a shower and shave, and I’ll lay out some clothes for you that I think should fit. And then, I’ll fix us something to eat. Okay?”

The stunned Michael nodded.

Ten minutes later, there were three loud raps on the front door. Trent came downstairs with a concerned expression and pulled open the door. Standing under the dim porch light was a heavy-set African-American man in a suit that looked as if he’d slept in it.

“Excuse me, Sir. Detective Derrick Jeffers. Sorry to trouble you, but there was an altercation at a bus stop a few blocks away and we—“

“Altercation?”

“A woman was stabbed to death. The suspect is at large and we’re letting area residents know to lock up their homes and not open the door to anyone they don’t know.”

“Like I just did.”

“Exactly”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for the head’s up. Do you have a description of the person?”
“A sketchy one. White male, six foot, thin, long brown hair. Not trying to frighten you, just asking that you use some extra caution until we find this guy.”

“Thank you, Officer. Good night.” Trent closed the door and then leaned with his back against it. “This is my lucky day.”

The storm finally began to weaken and the incessant rumble from the roof turned into a sporadic snare drum roll. The clean and dried Michael sat on the couch hunched over the coffee table eating. “This is great,” he yelled in the direction of the kitchen.

“Just leftovers. Nothing special,” Trent called back.

As Michael’s fork drew close to his mouth, the front door suddenly opened and a middle-aged man and woman entered the house, setting down dripping umbrellas. The man was bald, round and red-faced, the woman squat with a frizzy helmet of red hair.

“I told you to turn off the lights,” said the man.

“I did, Wayne. I know—“ The woman noticed Michael first.

“You know what?” asked the man, finally looking up and following his wife’s terrified eyes to Michael in the living room.

The man turned wearing his fear. “Who the hell are you?”

Michael set his fork on his plate and stood up awkwardly. “Michael. Who are you?”

“Who am I?” echoed the man. “I’m the person who owns this house.”

“No way. He’s out in the kitchen.”

His crimson face glowing, the man took a step forward, but his wife held his arm to prevent any further advancement. “That’s bullshit. I own this house. We live here. You broke into my home.”

“Now hold on. The door was open.”

“That doesn’t make any goddamn difference,” yelled the man, pulling his phone out of a shirt pocket with a shaky hand. “I’m calling the police.”

Michael’s eyes widened and he put up his hands as if flagging down a car. “No. Please. No police. I’ll leave. Okay?”

“You stay right where you are,” demanded the woman, who was now directly behind her husband. But Michael took several steps in their direction. “Stay back,” she shrieked.

The man held the phone to his hear. “Yes…yes I do have an emergency I’d like to report.”

Trapped, confused, his street instincts kicking in, Michael lunged at the man. The woman screamed as Michael grabbed at the phone. The smaller, overweight man was no match for the veteran street brawler, and soon Michael twisted the phone out of his opponent’s hand and stepped on it. The woman rushed for the door, but Michael grabbed the collar of her blouse and jerked her back. She fell hard against the stairs and continued to scream, in pain as much as fear. The man now had his arms wrapped around Michael’s legs. Hands free, Michael pulled out a pocketknife and began stabbing the man with ferocious downward swings of his arm until the body went limp and slid to the bloody floor. A frightened, injured animal, the woman called for help and frantically lashed out until Michael plunged the knife into her fleshy neck several times and the screams turned to gurgling pleas for life and then stopped.

“Oh my goodness,” said Trent, surveying the carnage.

Eyes flaming, Michael whipped around to face the old man. “Where the hell were you? Why didn’t you help me?”

“By the looks of things, I’d say you didn’t need any help.”

Michael dropped the knife and put a bloody hand over this mouth. “What have I done? What the fuck have I done?”

“You stopped two intruders. It was you or them.”

“They said they owned the house. It was theirs.”

“Impossible. They are trespassers and liars. You did the right thing. Go wash up and change clothes, Michael. I’ll get some things from the basement and we’ll take care of this mess.”

The bodies were bound in tarps and taken to the basement for later disposal. Trent cleaned up the blood while Michael sat on the couch rocking back and forth and sobbing. He’d killed three people that night. He was going to jail and then hell. When he opened his watery eyes, Trent was gone and the front door was open.

“Trent?” he called out, making his way slowly to the door. “Where—“

“Mr. Himmel? Someone reported screaming. You okay?”

Michael pulled up next to the first stair step, frozen with confusion. Detective Jeffers’ large body suddenly filled the doorframe and the eyes of the two men locked on each other in a flicker of stunned silence. Jeffers deftly found his weapon and leveled it on Michael.

“You. Get down on the ground. Now,” he shouted.

It took Michael a fragment of a second to decide his fate. Let the cop silence the devils. It’s on him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his bloody knife.

“Don’t do it, man,” he heard, and that was the last thing he heard.

For Detective Jeffers, another ten-hour day was coming to a close. The shooting of Michael Hurst was determined to be justified, the owners of the house in which Michael was killed were still being officially listed as missing, although it was expected that they were among the bodies found in the basement two weeks ago, and he was late for his own retirement party. He shut down his computer and stood, stretching his sore back.

“Don’t pull anything, Detective. You’ve got some partying to do.” Detective Vilsich sauntered into the pit holding some paperwork.

“Damn, boy, why aren’t you at my party?”

“I will be, don’t worry.” Dominic sat in a chair a cubicle away from Jeffers’ wearing an odd expression. “Thought you might like to hear the coroner’s final report on the Himmels, but you’d better sit down.”

“Sit down? Jackie is going to kick my ass for—“

“Sit.” Jeffers’ reluctantly complied. “Ten bodies were found buried under cement in the basement. The two newest ones wrapped up like Christmas presents belonged to the current owners, George and Glenda Himmel., as we expected. They had only been killed a short time before we arrived. The other ten bodies? Murdered at different times in the past. Some had been in the ground for over thirty years.”

“So either one or both of the Himmel’s were serial killers.”

“They’re too young, plus they’d only lived in the house for five years.

“We know Hurst stabbed three people to death, but he can’t be considered a suspect in the older murders either. He was only 27.”

“Right. Here’s where it gets interesting. Like George and Glenda, eight of the other bodies were also related to the original owner, Trent Himmel. The other two were business associates of his.”

“Okay, I met Mr. Himmel. The old guy’s a serial killer?”

Dom’s eyes widened. “The original owner.”

“Man, why are you messing with me tonight of all nights?”

“The Himmel house was built in 1945. Trent Himmel has been dead for thirty-five years.”

Jeffers’ drummed his fingers on the top of his desk for a few seconds, his chin buried deep in his thick neck, and then he stood. “Thank you, Detective, but I’m afraid I didn’t hear a word you said. You’re just another ghost, and there ain’t no such things as ghosts.” He grabbed his overcoat and briefcase and walked to the door. “I’ve got a party to go to. You coming?”