by Barry Napier
“Interesting.”
“Not really,” Sam said. “If you live around here long enough, the pirate crap gets boring. Every restaurant, every putt-putt golf course. Even those damned decals on the back of tourist’s cars.”
Cooper laughed, having seen his share of those decals since he had arrived in Kill Devil Hills two days ago.
They remained silent as Sam turned off of the highway and into the lot of Cooper’s motel. He felt like had and Sam could talk a while longer, even if it was nothing more than exchanging thoughts on the weather. Sam seemed like a relatable guy—something Cooper had not noticed yesterday.
“Thanks for the ride,” Cooper said. “Let Jenny know that I hope her headache gets better soon.”
“It will. These things come and go. She’ll be better by tonight.”
“I hope so. But tell me honestly…do you think her headaches have anything to do with the activity in your house?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said. “I’ve wondered about that myself.”
“Well look, I’m in room twenty-eight. If there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to call. Okay?”
“Will do. Thanks.”
With that, Cooper stepped out of the car. He gave a wave of appreciation and watched Sam Blackstock pull back out onto the highway before walking to his room. On his way, he pulled his cell phone out of this pocket, hoping that he had maybe missed a text or call from Stephanie.
But there was nothing.
He pocketed the phone and entered his motel room. Knowing that Stephanie had been here this morning and was now simply gone made him feel profoundly lonely. It was a feeling he had grown accustomed to over the years, specifically after leaving the FBI and the shadow organization that had recruited him, but it never got easy to handle.
He closed the door behind him and, as was his norm, closed himself off to everything outside so that he could think about the parts of the world so often shrouded in shadows.
17
With the rest of the day at his disposal, Cooper found himself with nothing to do. The fact that he was at the beach made it very hard for him to stay in his motel room, so he ended up taking his laptop to a small pier-side bar where he enjoyed two dollar beer specials and a bottomless shrimp plate for five bucks. All in all, not a bad lunch.
The bar was fairly crowded considering that it was only 1:30, so Cooper chose an umbrella-covered patio table along the edge of the pier. He connected to the bar’s WiFi and did a little more research. This time, however, he wasn’t interested in pirates and caves. What Sam had told him had given him a bit more to go on, but Cooper wasn’t quite certain that was the route he needed to take.
Not yet, anyway.
It was amazing how rusty his research skills had become since he had been steadily at work on his second book. Now, knowing that there was no paycheck and a great degree of uncertainty about his future, he found research tedious and boring no matter what the subject matter was. He figured that if Stephanie had still been there, she’d likely be a huge help with the research end of things.
Thinking of her, he pulled out his pay-as-you-go cellphone and dialed her number. It rang four times and then went to voicemail. He considered leaving a message but hung up before the beep.
Disappointed, he turned back to his laptop and started trying to uncover some path of research that might shed some light on why the area of beach containing Mary Guthrie’s house and the two black rocks might be haunted. He did a random search on deaths in the area but found very little at first. As he had expected, the bulk of deaths in the area came during the summer. A few were the result of car accidents as tourists started filling up the roads. But there were also a few drowning deaths, most of which were surprisingly not very close to shore but further out. He found stories about people having scuba diving accidents, falling off of party boats, and even a rather grisly fishing accident. But there were not many reports of people drowning near the shore.
Still, there were enough to sift through. By the time he was on his second beer, he had found something of a groove. It was nowhere near the trance-like states he had often enjoyed in the handful of years before his disappearance, but it made him remember what it was like.
He had very little trouble finding stories on Henry Blackstock. The stories he read all verified what the Blackstocks had told him: Henry had been there one moment and gone the next, as if the tide had sucked him down with spiteful intent. While there was no hard proof, it had been assumed that he had fallen in shallow water and then pulled out by the undertow. His body had never been recovered.
Cooper knew that he was limited with just the internet at his disposal and figured he might have more luck at the local library. But he quite honestly didn’t feel like going through all of that. He kept having to remind himself that he was no longer the Cooper M. Reid that pieced books together, using lurid facts and morbid histories to weave his narratives together. No…the research he was doing now was for something much more substantial. In this case, he hoped he could help the Blackstocks get some sort of closure in regards to their son and the paranormal events occurring in their home.
Even without a library’s deeper resources at his disposal, he discovered five other drowning deaths that had occurred in the last seven years. In addition to those, there were three other stories about close calls where someone had been pulled out to sea and rescued by a lifeguard or fast-thinking family member. He figured that there were many more instances of this occurring that simply hadn’t made the headlines. While none of the articles on the drownings gave a specific location, one of them did describe the area as being “on a stretch of beach beyond several rental properties, bordered by a rocky hillside on the west end of Kill Devil Hills.”
As far as Cooper was concerned, that was pretty damn accurate to the same locale he had been checking out—the same place where Henry Blackstock has been sucked out to sea.
And the same location where he had seen that grisly apparition.
He snapped the top of his computer down and looked out to the ocean. He started to get his thoughts into order, sorting through what was important and what was probably not. The connections were there. There was coincidence, and then there was eerie certainty. Never one to jump to conclusions of any kind, Cooper was beginning to feel the latter in regards to what was happening on the beach beside Mary Guthrie’s house.
He considered grabbing another beer but thought that it might be best to remain as clear-headed as possible for the remainder of the day. It was only two thirty, and he still wanted to drive out to the campgrounds to see if there was anything to Sam’s story about the old caverns.
Cooper paid his tab and headed back out with his laptop under his arm. As he made his way to his car, he began to feel a creeping sort of certainty coming over him. He had felt it several times before when he was on the brink of discovery. It was almost like a sixth sense, similar to hearing a phone ring and being absolutely certain that there was bad news on the other end. It was a sensation he had tried to explain in a Rolling Stone interview when he had been at the height of his popularity—about a year before his disappearance.
He’d used the phone metaphor in that interview but as he climbed behind the wheel of his car, he didn’t think that description did it justice. Now, he thought it was more like feeling someone lightly tap you on your shoulder and when you turn around, you find that there’s no one there at all…but the tapping continues.
The source of the tapping was simply waiting to be discovered before it was going to let him see it.
He pulled out into traffic and started formulating a plan as to how he might find that source.
18
It took a bit of driving, but Cooper managed to find the locations of the only two active campgrounds in the area. One was located off the beaten path, away from the beach and hidden in the scraggly undergrowth of forest that sat on the other side of the highway from the countless beach businesses and sandy shores.
&n
bsp; He quickly learned that this campground was likely not the one he was looking for. It was primarily nothing more than hiking trails, a small pond, a battered playground, and a few bare patches of ground that were branded with the burn marks of campfires past. The grounds were overgrown and badly cared for. Cooper wasn’t at all surprised to see that there were only two campers and a single van using the grounds.
He wasted no time on these grounds, sensing from the layout and neglect alone that it had probably never boasted anything that might even remotely resemble a tourist attraction—even if that attraction was really nothing more than a big hole in the ground.
Twenty minutes after leaving, he passed a billboard on the side of the road that informed him of the second campground. The board was simple and rustic, made of wood and faded paint. It read: SADDLEBACK CAMPGROUNDS. CAMPING, FISHING, SPORTS, FUN! 6 MILES AHEAD.
Cooper drove towards the campgrounds, noting when he passed the side road that would lead him to the Blackstock and Guthrie houses. He set his odometer to zero, wanting to clock the distance between the houses and the campgrounds. Unless the caverns were fairly close to the houses and the black rocks, he didn’t see how the two could be connected. But if he had learned one thing in his time researching the paranormal—and even before that, in his more formal time with the FBI—it was to not make assumptions about anything. This was especially true when the target you were after was abstract.
And if the thing he saw on those rocks last night wasn’t abstract, he didn’t know what was.
He approached the campground and found that the entrance, like the first campground he had investigated, was on the side of the road opposite the beach. When he turned in, his odometer read 4.6; there were nearly five miles between the grounds and the black rocks.
Right away, Cooper could tell that this campground was much better maintained that the first one he had seen. The grass was trimmed meticulously along the entrance road, the sides of which were bordered with elegant pieces of what looked to be driftwood, set into lackadaisical patterns. The entrance road was less than a quarter of a mile long and came to an end at a fork in the road. To the right, there was a small white building that served as the visitor station. To the left, another road began. Wooden arrows told him that campgrounds, playgrounds, and fishing were located down this road.
He toyed with the idea of stopping by the visitor’s center but thought it might be best to get a basic lay of the land for himself. Besides, he didn’t feel like listening to an over-enthusiastic guide tell him how great the campgrounds were.
Cooper took the road to the left, passing more beautifully manicured grass. Patches of beach sand were sporadically placed within the lawn, one of which had a volleyball net strung up. Roughly one hundred yards down the road, the trees suddenly took over and Cooper felt like he had been transported to some picturesque lane in the country.
A few thin unpaved roads began to appear on the side of the road. Rustic wooden signs with embossed white letters pointed down each one, boasting various activities: camping, fishing and kayaking, disc golf, and hiking. Sam had told him that the cavern attraction had shut down years ago, so he wasn’t expecting to see a sign for them.
He narrowed his choices down, assuming that caves and caverns wouldn’t be located directly near areas where fishing and kayaking were in high demand. And he didn’t think any state park in their right mind would place open campgrounds near a known cave system. That led Cooper to believe that if there had once been a cavern-type attraction on the grounds, it had probably been somewhere along the hiking trails.
He stopped his car, turning around at the mouth of the road that led down to one of several disc golf courses. He headed back towards the road that led to the hiking trails, rethinking his decision to not stop by the visitor’s center first.
He found the road and turned down it, glad to see that it was smooth and mostly flat despite not being paved. Within a few feet, he saw a car pulled to the side of the road with one of those pretentious runner decals on the back glass, letting the world know the distance of the marathon they had run.
Ahead, he saw a small marker sticking up from the ground that read Echo Trail: 3.5 MILES. A thin footpath began beside it, faintly etched out in the ground. Several yard past that on the other side of the road, another marker read Hubbard Trail: 1.7 MILES. As he made his way down the dirt road, he saw several other markers like this. He passed two more vehicles along the road, pulled over by these markers.
A mile and a half down the road, he came to a marker on the right side of the road that also had a larger sign beside it. He had seen several of these in his travels, particularly in the south in area where the Civil War was still highly revered. The sign was made of marble, standing perhaps three feet out of the ground. On it, two paragraphs had been written in bold black letters.
Cooper stopped the car and got out. He walked up to the sign and read it.
Pickman’s Trail (1.4 miles)
Pickman’s Trail is not necessarily beloved for the hike it offers. At less than a mile and a half long, the real treasure to be found rests at the end of the trail: Pickman’s Caverns.
Pickman’s Caverns once attracted tourists and history lovers of all kinds. These historic caverns are where fabled thief, pirate, and murderer Douglass Pickman hid away in 1759 when angry locals chased him down following his involvement in a robbery and the murder of at least seven locals during the heist.
The caverns were closed in 2007 due to safety hazards, but the legend of Douglass Pickman’s bloody legacy lives on.
Cooper grinned nervously at the sign and then, without a second thought, started down the thin trail that wound between the marker and the historical sign. He knew nothing about Douglass Pickman and had never heard the name before. He imagined that a tour guide bringing curious people to the caverns would have explained the history in better detail.
Cooper figured he could always look it up later. For now, he had a hike to endure.
***
There were signs of use along the trail, but it was evident that it had mostly gone forgotten over the last few years. He saw a granola bar wrapper, an old soda can, and a tattered plastic bag partially covered by the debris and dead foliage along the ground. Apparently, the grounds crew had also forgotten about Pickman’s Trail.
It wasn’t a very scenic trail, offering only scrubby trees, briars, and tall weeds that had started to creep through the forest floor. The overhang of branches over his head from the few taller trees provided a slight shade, but not enough to keep him from sweating. He walked on, listening to the natural sounds of the forest, struck by how it felt like a different world out here, totally removed from the beach.
He came to the end of the trail, finding that it stopped in the form of a dead end. Directly in front of him there was a slight rise to the ground, where fragments of rock jutted out of the earth and pointed upwards, creating a miniature leaning wall. It was perfectly cradled by softer earth to all sides except in the few areas where the slate colored rock peeked through.
Slightly to the left, several boards had been bolted to the rock. There were eight two-by-fours, nailed to what looked like several sheets of plywood. All of it had been bolted into the rock, sitting slightly askew. The wood looked secure but slightly aged. A black metal sign had been applied to the boards, reading DO NOT ENTER in large orange letters. Some genius had used a black marker underneath the sign and added: THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID.
Cooper walked up to the boards and checked the edges. It was secured tightly, but he found that he could slide his fingers behind a few warped areas along the back of the plywood base. He got a grip on the right side of the makeshift wooden gate and pulled as hard as he could. Be braced his feet and pulled back until his shoulders and back ached. The wood creaked and moaned at the force, but the plywood was simply too strong.
He gave it another try, putting everything he had into it. This time, the first sheet of plywood splintered and cracked but
it was not nearly enough to budge the wood.
Panting, he looked at the boards and rolled his eyes. In the past, when he’d been working for the government, a simple call would have resulted in a team showing up with crowbars and axes or anything else he’d need. With a sigh, he ran his hands over the boards, pressing against them and looking for any area that seemed weaker than the rest.
It all seemed pretty solid, but within a few seconds, none of that mattered. He felt his head getting slightly swimmy and the boards felt almost amorphous beneath his hands. He suddenly became aware that a vision was coming—just like the one had had seen involving Henry Blackstock when he had rested his hands upon the Blackstock’s front door—and tried to prepare himself for it. It came fast, sweeping across his mind like sand blown across the plains by a hurricane, and he saw
—a tall tour guide taking a group of twenty or so through an opening in the side of the rock wall. The entrance to the cave is lit by two small lights that had been installed in the floor. Beyond that, there is a very slight drop to the ground. The tour guide points these out and as the tourists file behind him, watching their step, a series of stairs and guard rails come into view. Small lights have also been installed along the stairways. The tour guide takes several steps down and within a few yards, the cavern opens up, allowing more room. Ahead of him, there are more stairs, some wooden and bolted into the rock, and some made of metal. The stairs lead further down as the earth opens up wide beneath them—
This vision was not nearly as powerful as the one he’d experienced involving Henry Blackstock. But still, it had been rather powerful. He’d seen the tour guide in great detail, right down to his black moustache and the beginnings of gray at the corners of it. Someone in the tour group had been wearing a North Carolina Tarheels tank top. The man beside the Tarheel fan had sported a long tribal band tattoo on his left arm.
