Applewood (Book 1)

by Brendan P. Myers

  Applewood

  Brendan P. Myers

  Exigua Publishing

  Boston ● St. Petersburg

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.

  Applewood

  Copyright © 2014 by Brendan P. Myers

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  bpmyers.blogspot.com

  First Exigua Edition: September 2014

  Cover art “Landscape with Apple Tree” by Levi Wells Prentice

  Interior art “WeirdTalesv30n4pg419 Shunned House” by Virgil Finlay - File:Weird Tales volume 30 number 04.djvu. Licensed under Public domain via Wikimedia Commons

  Here there be monsters…

  One

  Moon finds a body—Dugan comes home—In the days of my youth—Stephen Harris has a headache—In the sweet, summertime, summertime—Cupid, draw back your bow—The Fourth of July—Uncle Dan comes to visit—Diversions—Halloween

  1

  Moon Finds a Body

  It was 10:25 on a Friday morning in late March when the highway worker happened upon the body, halfway down a small incline in a shallow wooded area by the side of the road. Sergeant Lombard of the Grantham Police Department, who’d been on the scene for only a minute or so, stood by silently while Officer Wilson filled him in on the details. The highway worker himself was just a seventeen year old kid, performing his last few hours of community service left over from a joyride last year.

  “Kid says he went into the woods to take a leak,” Wilson began, though Lombard had already deduced that much. Rorschach patterns of damp liquid decorated most of the boy’s pant legs. He had looked away before attempting to read anything into them. Instead, he glanced down at his watch and noted that twelve minutes had passed since the call came in.

  Smith and Wilson were the first on the scene, located at the halfway point of a one-mile stretch of State Route 135 that bisected the central Massachusetts town of Grantham. The State Police had been notified, of course, and they would take over from the locals as soon as they came careening in from their barracks four exits down the highway. Lombard expected them at any moment.

  He glanced up to see the sun had gone in and the sky was now a haunting gray, with low clouds moving swiftly across the horizon. Zipping his coat against the chill, he recalled wistfully that the first tease of spring had come and gone over the past few days. The morning forecast warned that a new blanket of snow would begin falling sometime later this afternoon. It was expected to continue through the weekend.

  Walking a few paces toward the woods on his left, Lombard scanned the shoulder before stopping a moment to kick the ground with the heavy heel of his boot. Raising his head, he glanced down the highway and noticed the mounds of litter exposed during the recent warm spell. He thought it long past time to bring back the crying Indian.

  After signaling Wilson to continue attending the young man who found the body, he motioned Smith to come join him before speaking for the first time.

  “Show me,” he said.

  Smith nodded and led him away from the shoulder and into the dense patch of woods below. The two walked ten or twelve paces before Smith stopped to put his arm across the Sergeant’s ample midsection. Lombard saw it after another moment. It was half-hidden by a large tree limb, felled during one of the late winter storms. He moved closer to get a better look.

  The victim was young, maybe eighteen, a male Caucasian with medium length brown hair. His head was bent back at an impossible angle. Most of his neck and the right side of his torso had been ripped away, as if he’d been involved in a gruesome industrial accident of some kind. The translucence of the remaining skin made him appear more washed up floater than roadside murder victim. His eyes were gone, leaving only empty sockets to stare directly toward the two cops. His mouth was open in a silent scream.

  “Whaddya think?” Smith asked.

  Lombard began moving clockwise, giving the body a wide berth. At twelve o’clock, he looked up toward the highway. Through the low branches, he could see Officer Wilson beside the highway worker. Even allowing for the garishness of the boy’s fluorescent clothing, Lombard knew the sparse woods offered little cover for murder.

  “Looks like he got his neck broke,” Smith said, “before the animals got to him, I mean.” Lombard nodded.

  “What couldda done that, Sarge?” Smith asked in a hushed voice. A moment later, as if to himself, he added, “And where’s all the blood?”

  Getting no response, Smith looked across at Lombard and was shocked to see that the color had drained from the usually unflappable Sergeant’s face. His skin had turned a sickly shade of gray, and despite the cold, beads of sweat had broken out across his forehead.

  Before Smith could speak, they heard the sound of oncoming sirens—a whole parade of them. The cavalry has arrived, Lombard thought. “Let’s go.”

  The two made their way out of the woods back to the side of the highway. From there, they watched a half-dozen blue and gray state police vehicles come screaming to a stop. They were trailed moments later by an ambulance, and an unmarked vehicle Lombard knew from long experience belonged to the coroner.

  A State Police Captain emerged from the vehicle closest to Lombard and began barking orders at the platoon of officers. From this moment on, Lombard knew that he and his crew were officially bystanders. About the time they began rolling the gurney from the rear of the ambulance, the State Police Captain finally approached.

  “Officer Lombard, good to see you.” The two men shook hands.

  “Good to see you again too, Captain Jenkins. Just wish it was under different circumstances.”

  Lombard glanced over to see Wilson had been relieved of his babysitting duties and was coming to join his brother officers. Half a dozen troopers now surrounded the young highway worker, and all of them looked to be in a very bad mood. Probably the kid’s worst nightmare, Lombard thought. But he also knew they weren’t going to find anything there.

  “What do we have so far?” Jenkins asked.

  Lombard glanced at his watch. “At about ten twenty-five this morning, that young man there discovered the body. His supervisor phoned it into us at ten twenty-seven. Officers Smith and Wilson here were the first to arrive on the scene at ten thirty-four. I arrived at ten thirty-nine.”

  “The kid got anything to say?”

  “Not much. Went into the woods to take a whiz. Came out screaming.”

  The barest hint of a frown crossed Jenkins face. “Not for nothing, but why did they call you people?”

  State cops viewed the highways as their turf, but Lombard didn’t see it that way. All of Grantham was his turf. “You’ll have to ask him.”

  Jenkins glanced around a moment, as if assuring himself his minions were doing everything by the book, before turning to address the roadside gathering of Grantham’s finest.

  “You guys got anything to add?”

  Smith and Wilson looked down at the ground. Lombard looked up at the sky. After another moment, Jenkins dismissed them all.

  “All right, then. Thanks. We’ll take this one from here. Please fax us a copy of your reports before the end of the day.” He began walking back toward the crime scene when he heard Lombard call to him from behind.

  “Captain?”

  Jenkins turned around and looked at the local cop. He’d met this one before, so he was no longer taken aback by the man’s sheer size. Jenkins recalled that he sometimes overheard people who knew him well call him, “Moon.” It was a fitting nickname for the big ma
n. He also knew that the man standing before him was a very good cop.

  “What is it, Officer Lombard?” Jenkins waited patiently for the man to speak. After a moment, he did.

  “It’s not what it looks like.”

  Jenkins put his hands on his hips before half-turning to look toward the road, where rubberneckers had slowed traffic to a standstill. He motioned one of his officers to assume traffic control before sending a nod Lombard’s way. “Thanks. But it never is, is it?”

  He began making his way back to the woods. The Grantham cops stood there until Lombard motioned that it was time to leave. Back in his own cruiser, he scolded himself for not trying very hard. But at least he could say he’d given it a shot. It wasn’t as if they were going to believe him. Grownups never did.

  A wave of nausea overcame him and he began to shiver uncontrollably. His hand was still shaking when he reached over to turn the heat up high, though he knew these tremors were not caused by cold. He closed his eyes while waiting for them to pass and began making plans. First, he had some calls to make.

  This was the reason they had all stayed in touch for…what was it, twenty? No, twenty-five years now. Time flies, he thought. The time had finally come to bring the old gang together, because it had started again. His own worst nightmare come true.

  When his shakes finally receded, he allowed himself a smile when he remembered that at least one good thing would come out of this.

  It would be good to see his old friend again.

  2

  Dugan Comes Home

  Dugan watched the towering Mobil sign loom closer, just across the highway and off to his right. Blinking hard, he rubbed his eyes and began making his exit just as the first pink hint of the approaching dawn showed itself through the low cloud cover. At the end of the curving ramp, he took a right and then the quick left into a well-lit service station. He shut off his car to close his eyes for a few moments and listen to the sweet sound of nothing at all. Shaking off his weariness, he stepped into the chilly air of the late winter morning.

  As he pumped, he moved his head in circles, stretching out tired muscles. He heard the occasional whoosh of a car or truck speeding down the highway below him. Looking up, he saw an empty field of yellowed grass across from the station and recalled the sound of homemade rockets and the laughter of little boys.

  Turning his head, he glanced toward the station itself and realized that nothing remained of the place he remembered. There was a two bay garage on the left with cars parked outside awaiting service. To the right of the bays was a 24-hour convenience store, with a tricked out Dodge truck parked beside it. After hanging up the pump, Dugan opened his car to remove some loose paperwork before making the short walk to the convenience store.

  The smell of strong coffee that greeted him made his empty stomach churn. He saw a counter to the right, shielded from the front doors. The young clerk glanced up to nod a bored greeting before returning to his newspaper. Dugan returned the nod and followed his nose to the coffee station. After fixing himself a strong cup—black with three sugars—he reached into a glass case for a coffee roll.

  Gagging at his first stale-sweet bite of it, he managed to wash that down with hot coffee before eating the rest in two bites. He refilled his cup and grabbed a second roll before heading toward the counter. He considered purchasing a few more supplies, but decided he had enough for now. Packed in his car were the last of his groceries: cereal, powdered coffee, loose packets of oatmeal, a box of crackers. A small cooler held half a bottle of tomato juice, a few cans of generic soda, and a half block of jalapeño cheese.

  The clerk looked up at his approach and moved his newspaper off to the side. Dugan took the kid for about nineteen. Rail thin and liberally pierced, he had blond hair in a ponytail. Beneath a short-sleeved shirt with the Pegasus logo, he wore a more seasonable long sleeve black thermal top. If you believed the nametag, his name was Duane.

  “Howya doin’ this morning?” the kid who might be Duane asked.

  Grateful for human contact, Dugan thought a moment before replying, “Pretty good, all things considered.” He put his coffee and pastry down on the counter.

  “You comin’ or goin’?” the clerk asked, beginning to punch keys.

  Dugan puzzled over the question long enough to notice a row of black and white monitors on the counter opposite the register. One of them focused on Dugan’s car, piled medium high with boxes and loose clothing. “Coming back, I guess.”

  The kid smiled. “We don’t get a lot of that here.”

  Dugan remembered to ask for two packs of butts to augment his dwindling supply before reaching into his wallet and handing over a twenty. “That your Dodge parked out there?” he asked.

  The kid smiled as he handed back the change. “Sure is, that’s my baby! Fixed it up my own self, too.” He turned to look back at the monitor. “Your car is way cooler, though.”

  Dugan nodded and said thanks. After pocketing the change, he reached into his jacket to remove the folded pieces of paper.

  “Lemme ask you a question, kid. Did you grow up around here?” After the boy nodded, Dugan continued, “Do you know anything about this place?” He set the paperwork down on the counter and turned it toward the kid.

  Duane squinted at the wrinkled sheets, then reached down and moved them closer. On top was an overhead satellite image that Dugan had printed from the Internet along with directions he didn’t need.

  “Okay mister, yeah, that’s right down the street,” he said, though Dugan hadn’t asked for directions. “You just take a right outta here and then take your second left.” He looked up and added, “Heck, I bet you can even see this place from there.”

  After pushing the paperwork back toward Dugan, he looked up to catch his eye. “But I don’t think there’s anything left, is there?”

  Dugan shrugged, privately asking himself the same question. Thanking the kid, he shoved the directions into his pocket, picked up his coffee and sweet bun, and made his way to the exit.

  He sat in the car a few minutes to sip his coffee and finish his breakfast. After leaving the city around 2:30 that morning, he drove straight through the night. Windshield wipers smeared away the intermittent snowfall that had kept him company through most of his journey.

  The shakes set in about an hour into the trip, forcing him to pull to the side of the road. He swallowed a handful of pills and began breathing in the way he’d been taught. It had been so long since his last episode, he had almost convinced himself he was rid of them. But those with his condition would call Lombard’s message a “catalyst.” Eventually, the shakes subsided, he regained control over his body, and was able to continue driving…

  His eyes snapped open. After a confused moment, he realized he’d been dozing. The car was still running. When he looked up and saw the brightening sky, he knew he was pushing his luck. With a queer pang of sadness, he saw the last remaining bite of sweet roll had fallen out of his hand to tumble onto the grimy floor of the passenger side.

  He waved once when passing the glass windows of the convenience store, wondering whether Duane had watched over him as he slept. More likely, the kid had already forgotten the funny looking short dude with the funky hairstyle, had put him out of his mind entirely once he’d left the store. Dugan knew better than most that you got all kinds when you worked the night shift.

  He left the station and drove another quarter mile on the quiet road. There were houses here and there, most of them occupied. When he came to a chain link fence, he slowed, coming to a stop in front of its high gate. After fumbling a moment in his knapsack, he found the set of keys his friend had supplied. Mike thought it was a bad idea for Dugan to stay here and hadn’t been afraid to say it. But he didn’t waste any time trying to talk him out of it.

  Dugan opened the padlock, unwrapped the rusted chain holding the posts together, gave the gate a slight inward push and let gravity do the rest. Walking backwards while watching it swing, he banged clumsily aga
inst the front corner of his car. Swearing, he bent down and rubbed his thigh before reaching for a cigarette. Lighting one up, he leaned against his car and peered down the gated old street.

  The ancient asphalt beyond the gate was marred with deep potholes and pitted with frost heaves. He saw a seam in front of the gate where the newer and blacker road he was on met the older and bluer asphalt of the street beyond. He remembered suddenly that when he was a kid, the streets had been blue. Bending to look closer, he saw the old asphalt was marbled with chunks of white quartz and was the color of a tropical sea. Looking again at the place where black road met blue, he decided he liked the old blue much better.

  Beyond the gate, he could discern the ghostly remnants of ancient landscaping, overgrown now with thick grass and tall weeds. Dugan remembered a time when both sides of this entrance had been cut back about twenty yards from the woods. Looking deeper, he saw a single post still standing in the middle of the thigh high vegetation.

  Throwing his cigarette to the ground, he got in his car and drove through the gate and onto the property. Getting out of the car, he pushed the gate closed. After securing the chain and padlock, he walked slowly into the weeds toward the remnant of post. He was almost upon it when he saw the once familiar sign lying on the ground.

  Long abandoned to nature, it was covered now with years of dead leaves and other organic matter. Using his right foot, he wiped away enough grime to see bas-relief letters raised against the dank and rotting wood. Crouching down, he used his hands to wipe away the remaining twigs and dirt, and read the single word written on the sign: “Applewood.”

  Decorative apples were raised against the wood on either side. He stared a moment longer before standing too quickly. Thinking he might be sick, he bent over and put his head between his legs until the nausea passed. He stood more slowly this time and walked back to the car, raising one eye toward the brightening sky before putting his car in gear.