by Brian Keene
It was one in the afternoon. She’d been here since eight thirty that morning. She’d intended to be there for an hour or two, tops. Check in with her editor, Miles. Then do some research, familiarize herself with background for the story, interview Ken Ripple, write it up and turn the article in. After that, all she’d have to do is wait for the direct deposit to hit her checking account. Sadly, what was supposed to be a quick fact-finding session had turned into much more.
Maria closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. She had a headache, and it didn’t look like the pain would subside anytime soon. She sipped cold coffee from a Styrofoam cup and sighed. The area the Ghost Walk was located in had a lot of history—far more than she’d ever imagined. Every article she uncovered led to three more. So instead of jotting down a few notes, Maria found herself unraveling a dense, spiraling series of events, folklore, and local history.
Maria started by researching LeHorn’s Hollow, but quickly determined that the stories associated with it actually included far more land than the hollow itself. The woodlands surrounding the hollow contributed to the folklore. The forest was over twenty miles wide and encompassed five different townships. Most of it was untouched by the explosive development that had marred other parts of the state. The land was owned by many different people—farmers, the Gladstone Pulpwood Company, various local governments, a paper mill, and the State of Pennsylvania. LeHorn’s Hollow had sat almost in the center of the woods, surrounded by cornfields, until a massive fire destroyed the hollow and some of the surrounding countryside in 2006. She remembered the fire. It had made national headlines at the time, even warranting coverage on the cable news channels. Eventually, accidental arson had been determined as the cause. The perpetrator was never caught.
All sorts of supernatural phenomena were associated with the forest—crop circles, ley lines, strange balls of light, unidentified flying objects, mysterious sounds, trees that seemed to move on their own, and a roster of creatures that would make any cryptozoologist salivate with delight, including numerous sightings of a large black dog with red eyes. The locals called it a hellhound. In the early nineties, a group of researchers from Penn State decided to investigate some of the paranormal activity. They discovered strange pockets of magnetically-charged ground scattered throughout the forest.
There were stories about the hollow long before it had even been LeHorn’s Hollow—anecdotes from before the time of William Penn and his fellow white men. Before the endless waves of German, Irish, Dutch, Quaker, and Amish settlers. The Susquehanna Indian tribes had considered the land to be “bad ground,” and avoided it altogether, refusing to hunt or dwell there. They thought it was cursed; believed that the hollow was infested with demons and that a portal to another world lurked beyond the trees. Their only documented usage of the hollow was as a place for their criminals and insane. According to legend, none of those who’d been banished to the hollow were ever seen again.
Apparently, that continued to the present day. Maria found numerous accounts of missing persons from over the years—hunters, hikers, teenagers, and a logger for the pulpwood company. All of them had one thing in common: they’d last been seen in the vicinity of the hollow.
There were deaths, too. A group of deer hunters perished when their cabin burned down in 2000. A state surveyor was found dead atop a tree in 1990; the official cause of death was listed as a heart attack. A little girl had been murdered by a child molester inside the surrounding forest. The killer, Craig Chalmers, abducted the girl three days after making parole on a similar charge. He was captured alive, babbling about demons. He told State Police investigators that the forest was full of monsters trying to kill him.
And then, of course, there was the most famous murder and disappearance of all.
Nelson LeHorn himself.
Depending on the source, Nelson LeHorn was either a simple farmer teetering on the edge of bankruptcy and divorce while the modern world encroached on his home, or a powerful witch devoted to dark folk magic, or both. Public opinion seemed split. Whatever he was, in 1985 LeHorn killed his wife, Patricia, by pushing her out of their attic window. He’d supposedly believed that she’d had sexual relations with the devil. After the murder, he promptly disappeared before police could capture him. He’d been missing for over twenty years, despite a sizeable reward for information leading to his arrest. His three children were adults now, and had forsaken their heritage. They were scattered across the country—a son in a Northern Pennsylvanian prison, a daughter in Idaho, and another in New York. Maria found notes from other reporters detailing their attempts to interview the children, none of whom had ever consented. They refused to talk about their father or their mother’s slaying.
Maria took another sip of coffee and grimaced. There were grains floating in her cup. She drained it, crushed the cup in her fist, and tossed it into the trash. Then she continued poring over the clippings.
LeHorn had supposedly practiced powwow—a rustic mix of magical disciplines, folklore, and Judeo-Christian teachings and mythology. The same superstitious beliefs were known as hoodoo in the Southern states, but here in Central Pennsylvania, it was called powwow. Its history was as mixed as its structure. The Susquehanna Indians had a form of shamanism called pawwaw. When the first German settlers arrived in Pennsylvania, they brought with them a magical discipline called Braucherei. Over time, the two beliefs mixed, and became known as powwow.
Powwow practitioners relied on a book by John George Hohman called The Long Lost Friend. First printed in 1819, this was the primary powwow sourcebook. Its material was derived from many different sources, including the Hebrew cabala, African tribal beliefs, German mysticism, Gypsy lore, Druid ceremonies, and ancient Egyptian teachings. The book offered an eclectic range of cures, spells, and magical protections. There were remedies for everything from pink eye to cholera to parasites in livestock. Maria guessed that none of the recommendations were approved by the American Medical Association. There were also numerous spells, chants and incantations, complete with symbols and lists of ingredients. Two other tomes that were usually included in a powwow library were a three-volume set by Albertus Mag-nus entitled Egyptian Secrets, and The Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses, which was supposedly based on magic and cures that Moses learned while he lived in the house of the Pharaoh.
Powwow doctors, who cured their patients using magic and methods from The Long Lost Friend, were mentioned in several articles. They had been quite prevalent in the area up until the late sixties. Many of the county’s older residents visited powwow doctors before consulting a physician. Nelson LeHorn had been just one of several well-known powwow practitioners in the area. Others had included Nelson Rehmeyer (murdered in the 1930s for his copy of The Long Lost Friend); a woman who lived along the Susquehanna River named Mary Knowles, considered a witch by her neighbors, who’d passed away in 1941; and an Amish resident of neighboring Lancaster County named Amos Stoltzfus, who’d died in 1980.
What Maria found most surprising was that in a county with a population of over 373,000 people, powwow was still practiced in some of the more rural parts. She shook her head. How could anybody still believe in this superstitious nonsense? Especially today, with all of the advances in modern science and medicine? Growing up in Paramus, there had been no magic, no witch doctors. Instead, there were shopping malls and boutiques, espresso bars and cafes, cell phones and community activism. Here she was, a three-hour drive away from home, and it felt like she’d gone back in time. Yes, York, Pennsylvania, had all of the luxuries that Paramus, New Jersey, had offered, but beneath that veneer, there was a weird, backwoods mentality. It was depressing, and yet, she wanted to know more. Maria was fascinated with LeHorn. The entire tragic story would make great fodder for a true-crime book. But what she discovered next was even more bizarre.
Alive or dead, Nelson LeHorn had remained an enduring, if somewhat infamous, figure. For years following his disappearance, there were purported sightings of him in the hollo
w and surrounding woods, but subsequent searches turned up nothing. Others reported that they’d seen his ghost walking among the trees. But otherwise, things quieted down again. There was the occasional UFO sighting or encounter with a hellhound. Usually these reports involved couples who’d gone to the hollow after dark, looking for a secluded spot to party or get amorous.
Then, in the spring of 2006, things heated up again. A witches’ coven took up residence in the hollow, practicing black magic rituals and worshipping LeHorn as a deity. They were involved in several murders and disappearances, including several people connected to a local author named Adam Senft.
Adam Senft had lived in the area all his life. By 2006, he’d had some national success as a midlist novelist. He’d written three mystery novels: When the Rain Comes, Cold as Ice, and Heart of the Matter. Senft was inextricably tied to LeHorn’s Hollow, and not just by acquaintances whom the coven had murdered. On the night the forest fire destroyed the hollow and some of the surrounding acreage, another murder victim had been found in Senft’s home. A homicide detective named Ramirez cleared Senft of any wrongdoing, but Maria was unable to find a conclusive follow-up on who had committed the crime. Ramirez retired soon after, and moved to south Florida. She made a note to track down his contact information, if possible. He might have more background information not available in the archives.
Six months after the fire and the murders, Adam Senft killed his pregnant wife, Tara, in the exact same manner that LeHorn had murdered his wife twenty years earlier—by pushing her out of the attic window. At his trial, Senft claimed that the baby was half human and half goat—the malignant offspring of a satyr. He’d killed his wife to prevent its birth. He also claimed that the creature had been summoned by none other than Nelson LeHorn. Despite the best efforts of the district attorney, Senft’s defense lawyer was able to secure an insanity plea—something that was normally very difficult to do in the Pennsylvania court system. He was remanded into the custody of officials as a “forensic”—basically criminally insane—patient and currently resided in the White Rose Mental Health Facility in East York.
Nelson LeHorn had murdered his wife because he believed she’d slept with the devil. Adam Senft had done the same because he believed his wife had slept with a satyr. The psychoses were remarkably similar. Could both be linked to the hollow’s Goat Man mythos?
Maria was intrigued. There was far more she could do with this story than just a fluff piece in the local paper. The possibility of a true-crime book, or even a series of them, was tantalizing. The more she uncovered, the greater the possibilities became.
Her headache forgotten, Maria glanced at her watch. She still needed to meet with the Ghost Walk’s own er, Ken Ripple, later that evening. It took her another hour to make copies of all the articles. By the time she was done, she’d decided on her next course of action. She’d finish the write-up on the Ghost Walk and get it turned in on time, but then, she’d start collating her information and put together a book proposal.
She also decided to track down Ramirez, the detective who had originally cleared Senft in the first murder, and then try to secure an interview with Adam Senft himself. She anticipated a lot of red tape with the security hospital, but was sure she could cut through it. Maria had been lucky enough to nurture some professional relationships and contacts among several individuals employed within the county’s medical system.
Maria packed up her copies and hurried out of the newspaper’s offices without saying good-bye to Miles. She whistled on her way through the parking garage. Her headache had vanished. For the first time in a long while, she felt excited by an assignment. She couldn’t wait to dig deeper. Her gut told her that there was more to this story—a hidden narrative woven between the newspaper articles and records. The public details were dark, no doubt, but she suspected that beneath the surface, it was even darker.
CHAPTER FIVE
There was no danger of Richard Henry being missed, but Sam Freeman and Rhonda Garrett had families and friends who would note their absence. Like some of the others among the Thirteen, such as Ob of the Siqqusim, Nodens had the ability to pick through its victim’s memories and experiences before it devoured them. It had done so with Sam and Rhonda, scanning their lives and the moments leading up to their arrival at the doorway. The teenagers had arrived at the hollow that morning in Sam’s car, a Mustang GT. The vehicle was parked at the edge of the forest, along with those belonging to the other volunteers. Nodens had Rhonda retrieve the car keys from Sam. Then, to prevent discovery, Nodens sent Rhonda to move the automobile while Richard and Sam stood guard around the circle. There were too many humans in the woods now. Sending its pawns out to collect more of them was too risky. If they abducted another, it might arouse suspicion. They could be overpowered.
Instead, it would wait. Nodens knew patience well.
Nodens was hungry. The desire to totally consume these three, to drain their physical forms of energy, to snuff them out like candles, was strong. It was hungry. But not yet. The other sigils needed to be removed first. The doorway must be opened. Then it would feed.
The sun began its descent. In a few hours, darkness would reclaim the forest.
And in a few more days, when the walls between the worlds were at their thinnest, Nodens would do the same, and then spread out into the world, bringing eternal darkness in its wake.
Ken nodded at Rhonda as she walked past him. Sweat ran into his eyes. He hoisted a dummy into the air. A noose was around the dummy’s neck. Ken had tossed the other end of the rope over a sturdy oak tree branch jutting out over the trail. Customers would have to walk directly beneath the hanging “victim” as they made their way along the path.
“How you doing, Rhonda? You and Sam finished up for the day?”
Without stopping, Rhonda nodded. She kept her gaze averted, staring straight ahead. Ken noticed that her shoes and jeans were smudged with dirt and ashes. More filth covered her hands and the back of her neck. Twigs and leaves dangled from her hair.
“I was looking for you guys earlier,” Ken said. “Thought maybe you’d left already.”
Rhonda didn’t respond.
Ken tied off the rope and flexed his aching fingers. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Ripple.” She kept walking, not turning to face him. “Sorry. We didn’t hear you calling for us before.”
“Well, that’s okay. I just want you kids to know how much I appreciate your help. Couldn’t do this without you.”
“It’s no problem. Really. I have to get going now. I’m late.”
Rhonda rounded a curve in the trail and disappeared from sight. Sam heard leaves and twigs crunching beneath her feet.
“Don’t mention it,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t want to in-convenience you.”
Ken noticed that she hadn’t looked at him. Hadn’t let him see her eyes. The girl’s reaction was uncharacteristic. Usually, Rhonda was friendly and outgoing. Terry called her a chatterbox. This wasn’t like her at all. She seemed sullen. Maybe she’d gotten into a fight with her boyfriend. That might explain why they hadn’t completed their tasks earlier.
“Oh well. Kids…”
Shaking his head, Ken studied his handiwork. The dummy swung slowly back and forth like a pendulum. The rope creaked against the rough tree bark. Ken grinned at the sound—it would add to the ambience. The dummy’s clothing had been splattered with red paint. He debated hiding a spotlight in the undergrowth beside the trail and positioning it to shine on the dummy, but decided against it. The sight would be more effective in darkness.
“Perfect.”
He glanced up at the sky. The sun was a red ball. The clouds glowed, tinted with orange and yellow hues. It was a beautiful sight. Ken enjoyed it for a moment, wishing Deena was there to see it with him. How many evening walks had they taken together through the woods behind their house? How many sunsets had they watched together, not knowing that those moments weren’t infinite?
He remembered one
in particular. His favorite. Early in the morning, on their fifth wedding anniversary, Ken packed a picnic lunch—crackers, cheese, fruit and vegetables, bottled water, whipped cream. He put it all in a wicker basket, grabbed a beach blanket from the hall closet, and then left the house. When Deena woke up, she found a note from him in the kitchen, telling her to get dressed and walk down to the edge of their property. She’d find further instructions along the banks of the stream that served as their lot’s boundary line. Deena found a second note nailed to a tree along the creek. That one told her to follow the trail along the brook. She kept following the notes Ken had left behind like a trail of bread crumbs until she found him. The blanket was spread out along the stream bank. They’d sat there all day, eating their lunch, swimming, making love, and then swimming again. The land was owned by the Sportsman’s Club, of which Ken was a member, so they didn’t have to worry about anyone stumbling across them. They stayed all day and when sunset came, they’d watched it curled up together on the blanket.
Now his sunsets were solitary affairs.
Ken sighed. The loneliness made his stomach ache. Tired and sore, he trudged back toward the exit. It would be night soon, and he’d watch another sunset by himself. It occurred to him that the reporter was probably on her way. Ken decided to get ready for the interview to take his mind off of things.
All around him, the shadows lengthened.
Rhonda unlocked Sam’s car and slipped behind the wheel. Before starting the vehicle, she rummaged through the glove compartment and found a pair of sunglasses. She put them on, hiding her obsidian eyes. Then she turned the headlights on and drove away, navigating winding, treacherous back roads. She passed cornfields and pastures and farm houses. The homes were shuttered for the night. Lights glowed softly behind their curtains.
