by Barry Napier
I can’t do this.
But then he remembered the two bodies he had seen floating in the water in that last chamber. He saw the bloated skin and that damned smiling cartoon shark. He saw the countless other remains beyond, victims of Douglass Pickman from the past—victims from God only knew how long ago.
And then he could go on.
And then he had to go on.
Cooper came out of the cramped tunnel, pushing the bags out ahead of him and then collapsing on the floor. He lay there for a moment, fumbling with the book bag and taking more water. He felt like crying but knew that it was not only stupid, but a waste of energy.
He took a series of deep breaths and thought that he might actually be able to fall asleep if he just stayed there, unmoving. After a few hazy moments, he checked his phone again. It was 11:06.
He got to his feet, hefted the garbage bags, and pointed his trembling light ahead where the darkness welcomed him. But somewhere further ahead, there was light and fresh air. And that all the motivation he needed.
***
It was 11:48 when he came to the area where the Pickman Cavern tour had ended. He looked down over the ledge to the floor five feet or so below. One garbage bag at a time, he leaned down and dropped it. Each bag rattled like some sick baby’s toy. Blessedly, neither of the bags tore or burst open.
He made his way down to the bags, pleased to find that it was much easier getting down the ledges and rock wall than it had been to scale it. He wanted to sit there and collect his breath again, but when he saw the gray glimmer of the guardrails and the stairs embedded in the rock floor against his flashlight beam, he forgot about rest.
He was close. Almost there. He took up the bags and clutched at the flashlight as if his life depended on it.
He continued forward and when his feet touched the man-made metal stairs that so many tourists had once walked on, he knew he was going to be okay. His footfalls echoed in the caverns around him, pushing him forward.
On one single occasion, he thought he felt a slight scratching sensation along the side of his neck. It was accompanied by a soft blast of chilly air that seemed to come out of nowhere.
“That you, Pickman?”
He got no answer. Nor did he wait for one.
Cooper walked forward, his eyes set straight ahead as he looked for signs of natural light.
***
Cooper came out of Pickman’s Caverns at 12:34. When he saw that the garbage bags weren’t going to fit through the portion of the barricade that he had made for himself, he used the sledgehammer that had been waiting for him to make the hole a bit wider. Each swing was like a tiny little spark of flame along his shoulders.
With both bags pushed through, Cooper stepped out into the forests and sank to his knees. He threw the backpack and the flashlight to the ground and scrambled for the water. He left a small amount of the bottle for later, knowing that his job wasn’t done.
He lay down on the ground, listening to the forest. He could hear no surefire signs of activity anywhere nearby. He thought he heard the buzzing of a boat engine somewhere, but that meant nothing to him.
I could go to sleep right here, he thought.
But he knew he didn’t have time. He got to his feet slowly, picking up the shovel. He tucked it under his right arm and then picked up the garbage bags one last time. He started walking to his left, further away from the visitor’s center. He had no idea how the hiking trails wound through the grounds and didn’t want to get caught, so he didn’t walk very far. When he could no longer see Pickman’s Trail behind him, Cooper set the garbage bags down and took the shovel in his hands.
Before he started digging, he once again listened for any nearby activity. Satisfied that he was alone, he took up his first shovel of earth and started digging a grave for Douglass and Victoria Pickman.
30
He got back to his motel just after four o’ clock that afternoon. He was sore everywhere and there were blisters on his hands from the digging. When he got into the shower, he cursed himself for not buying gloves during his shopping trip. He stood under the shower and let the heat work into his muscles.
He went over everything in his head, making sure he’d not missed a step. He’d dug the grave about four and a half feet deep. He would have preferred to go six feet but the four and a half had nearly killed him; at one point, he could no longer feel his left shoulder.
The four and a half feet had been more than enough to contain the garbage bags. Once he had pushed the bags into the grave, he had poured the remaining salt around them. He’d then filled the grave back in, scattering the remaining fill dirt around as best he could. He’d then tossed the shovel deeper into the woods and walked directly back to his car where he had barely been able to talk himself out of taking a nap.
Luckily it had not been towed. And because he replaced the plates right away, no one gave him a second glance as he drove out of Saddleback Campgrounds.
He hadn’t missed a step. According to everything he knew and everything he had ever seen in his old line of work, Douglass Pickman should now be gone for good.
Cooper remained in the shower even after washing himself, standing under the hot water until it started to turn cold. He thought of the two bodies he had seen down in the caverns, floating in that dark water, and wished he could have brought them back. As grotesque as it seemed, Cooper wished he could give the Blackstocks and the Owens at least some kind of peace.
Still, he intended to do the best he could in that regard.
***
When he knocked on the Blackstock’s front door, he did so quickly. He eyed the decorative wooden sand dollar, recalling what had happened the last time he had laid a hand on the Blackstock’s front door. He was too tired and emotionally drained to go through any sort of vision. Even if it was something as cheesy as little Henry waving at him with thanks from some mountaintop in the afterlife, Cooper wanted none of it.
Sam answered the door. He was dressed in business attire, his tie slightly unknotted and askew. He looked tired and out of sorts.
Apparently, Cooper looked worse.
“You look like hell,” Sam said.
“Feel sort of like it, too,” Cooper said. “You guys got a second?”
“Yeah. Come on in. I just got home from work.”
Sam led him upstairs to the living room where Cooper sat in the same chair he had been in two mornings ago, explaining who he was. It felt like it had happened weeks ago.
Jenny was standing by the stove, making something for dinner. It smelled like roasted chicken and an assortment of herbs. She waved at him, adjusted the burner, and joined them in the living room. Cooper got the sense that even without saying anything, Sam and Jenny knew that he had news. Perhaps he was wearing it on his face, mixed in somewhere among the exhaustion and aches.
“Want a beer or something?” Sam asked.
“No thanks,” Cooper said. “I just wanted to stop by to let you know that I think your problems are solved. I don’t think you’ll have any more ghosts in your house.”
“What happened?” Jenny asked.
“I found Pickman’s remains and buried them properly. His daughter, too.”
“Did you…,” Sam asked, pausing to take a moment to make sure he wanted to ask the next question. “Did you see any other remains?”
“No,” Cooper answered. But he could recall seeing Henry and the discolored swimming trunks all too well. He simply didn’t see the point in putting the Blackstocks through anything else.
“Thank you for your help,” Jenny said. She looked like she might start crying at any moment, but she looked happy, too. “You’re sure this is over?”
“Fairly certain, yes. There is one thing I would like to tell you. I don’t know if it will help you deal with Henry’s death or not, but it couldn’t hurt.”
“What’s that?” Sam asked.
“I believe that the children I communicated with at Mary Guthrie’s house—including Kevin Ow
ens—were all victims of Pickman. I know it sounds insane, but all signs point there. I also don’t doubt that these were the same children you heard here in your home. The girl you heard was named Amy, by the way.
“I also believe that he had some sort of hold on them. He was trapping them there in the dark with him. When you heard them here in your house, they were trying to escape him. I think you heard laughter because they were happy to be away from him, even for a short period of time. In the end, I think he always found out and took them back.”
“Do you think you freed them?” Jenny asked. “The kids, I mean.”
Cooper was glad to hear not the slightest hint of doubt in her voice.
“I do. With his remains relocated and buried, there should be no sort of hold over them.”
The Blackstocks nodded, looking at one another with tears in their eyes.
“So Henry…he’s at peace?” Jenny asked.
Cooper had no idea. While he knew that ghosts absolutely existed and, therefore, cemented his belief in some form of an afterlife, he didn’t know what constituted a soul being at rest. But that wasn’t what Jenny Blackstock wanted to hear.
“Yes, I think he is,” Cooper said. He hoped it was true.
Jenny nodded, wiped a tear away, and walked back to the stove.
The slight smile of gratitude Cooper saw just before she turned was all he needed. He filed it to his memory, certain that he would need it if he ever hoped to help others in the same way he had helped the Blackstock family.
31
After leaving the Blackstocks, Cooper walked down the lane to Mary Guthrie’s house. When he stepped onto the porch, he noticed the envelope and the small box sitting on the welcome mat. Written in plain cursive in the center of the envelope was: Mr. Reid.
Picking up the envelope, Cooper knew that knocking on the door would be useless. Mary wasn’t home. She’d already gone, leaving her house for the tourists. He opened the envelope and withdrew a letter than confirmed this. He stood on Mary’s front porch, the ocean whispering to him from behind her house, and read the letter.
Mr. Reid,
After the events of last night, it became clear to me that there is something larger at work here than I could ever fully grasp. It scared me in a way that I was unprepared for. I called the moving company right away and told them I needed to move immediately. I am currently watching them pack up the last of my things.
I trust that you have taken care of what you needed to. I saw it on your face while you were here. You looked determined and unafraid. I am so confident that you handled your business and will return unharmed that I have left a gift for you. I hope you might make use of it in the future.
Wherever your journey takes you, I wish you all the best.
Sincerely,
Mary
Cooper tucked the letter into his back pocket and picked up the box. He opened it up and smiled when he saw the contents.
He reached inside and took out the small velvet pouch that held Mary’s Scrabble tiles.
He took the pouch back to his car and then drove directly back to his motel. Evening was winding down; restaurant lots were filling with the dinner crowd and he could see the speck-like shapes of people strolling on the beach, enjoying an afternoon by the sea. He watched it all blaze by in a haze, feeling the day’s burden weighing him down.
Back in his room, Cooper placed the tiles on the bedside table and glanced at the clock. It was 6:45.
He was fast asleep before another minute passed.
***
He slept for ten hours, waking up with the clenching roar of hunger in his stomach. As he got dressed, he realized that he hadn’t eaten a single thing since the McDonald’s drive-thru yesterday morning.
He grabbed his phone on the way out and saw the small blinking red light, indicating that he had a new e-mail. He checked his mail and saw that he had only one new message. It was from Stephanie.
The e-mail was short and to the point. It was without sentiment, emotion, or even any sort of salutation but, as far as Cooper was concerned, spoke volumes. It read: Worried about you. Reply back to let me know you’re okay.
Cooper didn’t want to over-think it, so he responded right away with an equally simple message.
I’m good. Work done here. On to the next.
He hoped the vagueness of his message would stir her to send another one. Even if it did, he was sure she’d wait several days. And that was fine with Cooper. It would give him something to look forward to as he tried to figure out where he needed to go next.
After packing up his few things, he went into the main office and checked out of his room. When he pulled out of the lot five minutes later shortly after five o’ clock, the scene was eerily similar to the previous morning when he had been taking the steps necessary to break into Pickman’s Caverns.
He headed north with no clear reason why. It just seemed like a good idea. He had placed Mary’s Scrabble tiles in his car’s center console as a reminder of what he had done and what he was in store for his future.
Wherever he had been after his disappearance, it had altered him for the better. He had come back with the drive to help others and so far, he was one for one.
He felt the old Cooper—the pre-disappearance Cooper—rile up inside, pumping his fist in celebration. Kick ass, he seemed to be saying. Let’s keep it up. No time to stop.
There were many things about his old self that he did not like, but he agreed wholeheartedly with this.
Cooper drove on as the dawn crept up alongside him. He had no clear idea of where he was going or what he might find himself in the middle of tomorrow, but that didn’t matter. Even the approaching dawn, in its slow breach of the night, echoed this.
The road would lead him to where he needed to go and, along the way, he would do his best to slice open the darkness to let some light spill in.
More from Barry Napier
The Bleeding Room:
Some houses appear to be haunted: their ruined facades and fabled pasts lead to stories of haunts and spirits. Some houses are legitimately haunted: ghosts that refuse to leave this world behind roam their rooms and hallways trying to recapture the life that has been taken from them.
But there are some houses that go beyond these simple haunts. There are some houses that hide secrets so dark and grisly that the very essence of evil seeps from their walls. And when this evil is stirred awake, it is rarely content to stay confined to the four walls of the house in which it has grown.
"Napier paints a chilling picture of ancient, bloodthirsty evil - then brings it to life."
- David Dunwoody, author of EMPIRE'S END and UNBOUND & OTHER TALES
The Everything Theory series:
Much of Gabriel Warren’s life has been tainted by the bizarre legacy his deceased father left behind. After being tapped by a shadow government organization to investigate his father's eccentric work in the fields of teleportation, time travel, genetic manipulation, and ESP, Gabe begins to discover supernatural talents that have been locked within him for his entire life.
Continuing his father's work is the last thing Gabe wants to do....until he learns that there is a labyrinthine structure of conspiracies and sinister deals set in place that could potentially end the world as we know it.
"Everything Theory is a dark and creepy ride that takes you right into the lair of the things that go bump in the night."
-Robert Swartwood, author of The Serial Killer's Wife and Man of Wax
"The Sixth Sense meets The X-Files...Barry Napier does an outstanding job of drawing you into the storyline while teasing you with glimpses of the larger world to come. Everything Theory: Cold Compass is a veritable page turner that will leave you begging for the next book, and has all the qualities of being an epic series."
-Gabriel Beyers, author of Guarding the Healer
The Hollows:
One hundred years ago, a tragic event took place in the forests of Otter Creek. Houses were burned, p
eople were killed, and an unspeakable curse was loosed on the small town.
That curse still exists, defining and haunting numerous families. From time to time, the curse demands its due…the forests demand blood. The fathers of these affected families must disregard their hearts and heritage, forced to commit dark and brutal acts.
They have no choice but to obey. They can only do what their fathers did before them and carry their grisly offerings to a place feared by the town...a place feared by history itself. A place called The Hollows.
Nests:
The monsters came out of nowhere. Even before we starting dropping nuclear warheads on them, we didn’t know where they came from. We just knew that they were huge. Most of the population perished as a result of the monsters, the bombs, or the fallout.
Those that survived roamed the landscape for supplies or other people. Some of them discovered that the monsters left behind nests that sit upon the landscape like sunken storm clouds. And something inside is alive.
Kendra and Eric face their own trials as they seek out a rumored military safe zone. With a baby in tow and violence at every turn, the nests become an afterthought until they find themselves forced to enter one. Inside, there is only death and madness—something they will have to adapt to if they want to survive.
And be sure to keep your eyes open for future Cooper M. Reid books! Want to make sure you don’t miss out? Subscribe to Barry’s newsletter to stay informed!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Barry lives in Lynchburg, Virginia with his wife and three children. He is the author of The Bleeding Room, Nests, The Hollows, The Everything Theory series, and more. Visit him online at www.barrynapier.wordpress.com and follow him on Twitter @bnapier.
