by Matt Cole
Chapel looked hard both to the left and to the right. He saw nothing through the almost solid swirl of snow. He pushed gently on the accelerator and eased the Lincoln out onto the road, tires crunching along the snow-covered pavement.
Then the road just started sinking and fell in.
There was a squeal of brakes, no blaring horn, only the sudden smashing impact and the impossibly loud cries of screeching metal. The car lurched to the left, the back end swinging around on the wet, slushy pavement. The impact threw Chapel against his seat belt so hard it cut off his breath. The unmarked cruiser spun like a child’s top, whipping almost a full 360 degrees as the back end flew into the sinkhole. Chapel’s head snapped back when the car crunched to a halt. As suddenly as it started, it ended, leaving complete silence except for the rapid clicking of ruined motors cooling in the night’s grip. Gary Chapel blinked, his hands still clutching the steering wheel, trying to form a thought.
A dull throb pulsed in his neck. A warm wetness and a sharp, stabbing pain rose up from his right knee. His mind at long last centered on a single word: accident. He had cut his knee. He would live. Faint light strayed from the lamps surrounding the driveway. The impact had devastated the passenger-side door; glass gone but for a few jagged shards, the once stately cruiser now a mass of twisted metal, torn leather, and ripped fabric. Snow blew in through the broken window.
He radioed in about the sinkhole and his near slip into it.
“We have at least six other sinkholes being reported on in the county, over,” Dispatch came back to him with.
“Is it the weather causing them?” Chapel radioed back.
“Unknown, over.” Dispatch responded. “I’m hoping we don’t get any more calls, but I’d be surprised if we don’t, over.”
The sinkhole caused a fifty-foot section of the eastbound travel lane to collapse.
Emergency crews responded without delay and people began to gather to get a look at the huge hole. Road crews began the process of constructing a temporary travel lane on the westbound side of the roadway with the help of uniformed officers.
With all the commotion and excitement, no one, including Chapel, saw Arlene Balleza pass around the crowds and make her way to 1420 South Douty Street.
Dale Norris, head of the emergency crew, spoke with Gary Chapel, saying, “It makes you think with all the storms we’ve had, but I don’t see the typical things you see with a weather-related slide, you know, where you see a big mudslide or something like that. This one appears to be just a collapse.”
“Just a collapse?” Chapel shot back. “This collapse nearly swallowed me and my car whole.”
Pennsylvania Department of Transportation (PDOT) personnel were on site to examine the area and agree on the stability of the earth in the vicinity of the sinkhole.
Dale Norris said, “PDOT contract crews are here at the location and are prepared to begin repairs as soon as a course of action has been determined. The roadway will remain closed until those repairs can be made. I don’t know if you can do anything else, Detective.”
Gary Chapel nodded and watched as his cruiser was being towed away.
“Need a ride?” Dale Norris asked.
“I’ll catch a ride with a uniform officer,” Chapel responded. “Thanks.”
“All right, you’ve had a helluva a night. I say that calls for a drink,” Norris said.
“So, there’s nothing I can do to help out?”
“We’d just ask for the public’s patience, because, you know, our number one priority is their safety, and we don’t want to put traffic back on a roadway that may not be stable. We have several other of these holes around town also,” Norris replied.
“Yeah, dispatch mentioned that,” Chapel said. “Where are the others located?”
“Here, I have them marked on a map,” Norris offered, pulling a map out of his truck.
“Just as I suspected,” Chapel muttered.
“What was that, detective?” Norris questioned.
“Nothing,” Chapel added. “I won’t need a ride. I’ll walk.” As darkness fell, Chapel finished up the long hike to the house, his original destination before the appearance of the sinkhole. He had a feeling that many questions could be answered there.
Chapter 25
After Arlene had surveyed her surroundings to make sure that the coast was clear, she entered the underbelly of the house through a utility entrance under the old garage. As she ducked through an open section of police caution tape, she could see the bustle of traffic high around her roaring in excitement over the sinkholes.
Once inside the small, trash-strewn, dampened and horrid smelling confines of the basement, Arlene scanned the area around her again. She was home. Seeing that no one had followed her and that it was safe to proceed, she hurried along through the garden of discarded crime scene tape, finger print dust, rotted boards, broken glass and used rubber gloves until she had reached the hole covered in a pile of rubble. Again, Arlene took a look around and when she was finally convinced that all was safe, she began to uncover the hole once again. She had unusual strength and it did not take her long to create an opening that she quickly slipped down into the darkness that led underground.
From the outside window looking down into the basement, Detective Gary Chapel watched in stunned amazement at Arlene Balleza’s behavior.
He waited for her to enter the hole before he made his way inside the basement. He removed the remnants of the window and board that had once covered it. Chapel placed his foot on the sill and lowered himself down.
Chapel next eyed the hole that Arlene Balleza, the real estate agent, had disappeared into. Drawing a deep breath, retrieving a flashlight from his pocket and checking his service revolver, he took a quick look down in the hole before entering it.
When only Chapel’s head remained above ground level, he held on to the top of the hole with a white- knuckle grip. With his free hand he pulled the cover back over the hole and continued the climb down until his feet were firmly planted.
As soon as Gary Chapel’s feet hit the root and dirt tunnel beneath him, he immediately went into a defensive crouch and drew his weapon, hoping that if there was a monster down there with him he would be ready for it. He saw nothing but darkness.
The detective crawled through the dark tunnel until his heart pumped acid into his veins, making the muscles in his thighs, calves and feet burn. He exhaled; his breath hung in the cold air like a rain cloud. Then he crawled some more. Chapel was lucky his instinct guided him through the darkness of these tunnels which prevented him from seeing too far in front of his face.
Only when his body could not withstand any more of the abuse, did he stop for a rest.
As Chapel sought to catch his breath, he eased back and rested his head against the crumbling, dirt wall of the tunnel. That wasn’t right, kept ringing inside his head. Why was Arlene Balleza down in a tunnel under this house? Was there really a monster down here?
The detective was convinced that something was in the tunnels and not just him and Arlene Balleza.
It was something that should hide in dark places, something that had no place being up-top, on the outside, all the way up there with the regular folks.
It was then, as if he had forgotten and all of a sudden remembered, all the old urban legends he’d heard over the years, things his grandfather had told him when he was a little boy on his Gramp’s knee and he thought the old man was ancient, older than dirt.
He remembered stuff he had heard at school—from kids and teachers, things he had overheard as a cop in coffee shops and bars, out on the street...and under it. Those were the worst ones—the one’s he’d heard about down here. And yet this was his home; this was the place he felt safe. He had sworn to protect the citizens of Strafford and monster or not he damned well was planning to do just that.
In particular, he remembered a story of a creature called Deros, one of the oldest living creatures who lived underneath Strafford. At the time he
thought that maybe the old story by a even older man who liked to talk to his own hand was just trying to freak the “new kid” out as a part of Gary’s rite of passage to acceptance in his new home. Still, the grizzled man’s story about a little girl’s disembodied head screaming through the tunnels un-nerved him due to the man’s flair for vivid details. For weeks after that, Gary would move very cautiously through the fields and tunnels on this side of the town, half expecting something from an old horror movie to jump out from every blind corner he went around. And when the old rusted pipes that ran along the sides of the tunnels would creak and emit inhuman groans that emanated from throughout the entire tunnel system, Gary’s fear would erupt into a dread, and he would then run that led him haphazardly into sections of dark tunnels that were unknown to him in order to escape the sounds.
Not too bright nor brave for a ten-year-old back then, but that seemed like a lifetime ago to Gary Chapel. After being a cop on the streets for over eight years now he was a man now, wily, street-wise, always ready with a broken bottle to slice into flesh if some newbie got out of hand down here.
He had some chilling memories of being up top when he first got to Strafford, Pennsylvania. Memories that still made beads of cold sweat spider down his spine and a look of child-like fear freeze his gaze whenever he allowed them into his head. Memories of disappearances by some of his classmates and of…animals! He remembered that there were also reports back then of similar sinkholes.
How had he forgotten all of this? Perhaps his mind blacked all of it out in an attempt to save him from the painful memories.
Now, panting in the underbelly of the city like Jonah in the guts of the whale, he felt that way again—too young and too green to be here, the reek of naivety coming off him like stale sweat. Gary Chapel was a little boy again, hiding beneath the covers from the monster under the bed, pissing himself rather than putting one foot out and onto the floor in case something grabbed: the teenager wondering whether or not to take the shortcut through the cemetery just to make it home on time or take the well-lit way and be roasted alive for being late.
Damn it, he was a Dauphin County Sheriff Department Homicide detective and a grown man now.
* * * *
A few minutes later Deena Hopping parked in front of Arlene’s house on Cricket Lane, climbed out, and made her way around the side of the house to the back—where she had seen the hole previously.
The air was cold, creating a fog much thicker in the narrow space between the buildings; she waved it away from her face only to have it fold back around her like a pale, gossamer curtain. She stayed close to the house, finding her way by feel to the rail of the back porch. The back door was by and large unlocked, on the sensible assumption that no one would be stupid enough to bother ripping off Arlene Balleza.
The hole was covered over. At least she’d avoid falling into it in the dark.
Deena went up the steps to the porch, avoiding the third step, which squeaked ever since she could remember. Light streamed through the back window, but could not penetrate the dank-smelling fog and cold, moist air. The whole state was mildewing, she thought, and needed a good clean prairie wind to blow the haze away.
She felt for the knob, opened the door, and stepped into the kitchen, which was a little startling in its hard-edged light and its cleanliness. It was cleaner than she had ever seen it, with no dirty dishes in the sink or bits of food rotting under milky water, and no smell of excrement.
She saw the basement door and wondered…
Deena stood at the basement door, praying it could be dislodged by nothing short of a tank. But a half-hearted tug opened it, letting out warm, dry, fresh air.
She stepped out on the landing, turned on lights, and looked down. Deena felt a sense of nervousness and sweat building up on her brow.
She took a step, stopped, and paused as a result of her nerves. What could possibly be down here? It couldn’t be worse than a deranged lunatic with kidnapped women and a dead body cooking on a stove. She reached the bottom and stepped down on the tile.
There was nothing in the basement that seemed out of the ordinary. No bodies, no monsters, no holes in the floor, and above all else, no smells.
She started back up the stairs, aware of the basement at her back, anxious to get out; but halfway up, something else occurred to her, and she had to turn back.
Deena needed to take another look just to calm her fears that Arlene was hiding something from her.
That done and again seeing nothing unusual, she turned back and went the rest of the way up the stairs. At the door, some of the old panic returned. She was suddenly sure the door would stick and she’d hear the click-clack of toe bones, metatarsus, metacarpus, all the small and large bones…all hundred and whatever of them…coming at her across the tile.
But the door opened easily, and Deena stepped out into the kitchen and saw only darkness.
She did not see Arlene hiding in the darkness or the shovel she held as she swung it at Deena’s head.
Thud!
Deena continued to see only darkness.
* * * *
Deena’s left wrist was raw—bruised by the handcuff that was welded to the cot’s leg. The skin was scraped and broken even though she’d used the corner of the blanket her attacker had left for her to give her some cushion as she flung her weight away from the cot, trying to weaken the weld. Her head ached and she was certain it had bled but was now dried. Her right wrist, at the other end of the handcuffs, was relatively unscathed.
Don’t think about it. Keep trying to get free. Time is running out. Whoever hit me and put me here with be back soon. You know it.
She was sweating, Salty drips running into her eyes and down her cheeks despite the frigid temperatures.
But the leg of the cot was starting to give a bit. Deena was sure she felt it and if she could just keep at it, she would be able to get free. Right?
It was taking too long.
Would there be enough time?
Can you do it?
Setting her jaw, she threw herself back into her task. Deena hadn’t come up with a better idea for escape in the short time she had been conscious and this would have to work. It had to!
Over and over again she stood up as much as her manacle would allow; hunched over since there was little play between her left wrist and the weld, then flung herself back to the cot, yanking the cuff, grinding her teeth to keep from crying out.
She had no idea how much time had passed, only the lightening of the sky from a small window gave her inkling, but the window cut into the wall high overhead didn’t offer much illumination and the cloud-covered sky allowed her little measure of the minutes and hours slipping away.
Deena only knew that whatever time she had to escape, it was not enough.
Though her head throbbed, she was no longer groggy; that could change when her attacker returned. If he came into her room she would have to act as if she was still knocked out.
Oh, God, she hoped not.
She prayed her attacker was long gone, or even better, that she could find a way to turn the tables on the attacker, discover a weapon of her own to surprise him. Let the bastard know how it felt to get hit from behind or feel the blade of a knife at his throat.
The problem was, even if she was able to free herself somehow, how would she get the drop on him? She did not know if she could restrain herself from killing the prick.
Deena knew she should somehow restrain him and call the cops.
She was no killer.
That way they could study and learn from a sicko criminal like him.
Justice for all…
“Son-of-a-bitch,” she muttered as she threw her weight against the handcuff again and felt the cold metal bite into her wrist, her arm feeling as if it would be pulled from its socket. Was this justice? Was what this sicko and others like Frank Marsden did to her and other victims, in any way fair and equitable?
Squeezing her eyes shut, Deena dug in and w
as sure, oh, God, please, that the weld was starting to give way. “Fuck, c’mon,” she whispered through gritted teeth.
Yes! Was that a move? A shift? A little one.
Oh, sweet Jesus, it had to move, didn’t it?
All this effort couldn’t be for nothing, could it?
Somehow she managed to find the strength to lean forward for a second, took in three or maybe four long breaths, felt her muscles screaming, her ribs aching, but she ignored the seductive urge to give up, to roll back onto the cot and pull the blanket to her chin to shiver alone in the dark. Readying herself, making certain the cuff was over the weld, Deena threw herself backward onto the cot again.
She couldn’t let this sicko win.
Not without a fucking good fight.
In her mind’s eye, she saw her parents; she even saw her ex-husband Joseph. She saw Maggie and Willard, and Arlene.
What would happen to all of her family and friends if she were to be killed?
Oh, God give me the strength.
She was gasping now, drawing in ragged breaths, still working at the weakening joint of welded metal. She had too much to live for to end up the victim of some nutcase.
In a flash, she thought of Joseph and her heart twisted. At some level she still loved him and at another she loathed him. She had believed he loved her, had not admitted it for a second, but oh, God, she might be wrong. His good looks, his sexy body. The way he could turn her inside out and upside down.
You divorced the asshole, stop it!
She had to give attention to the task at hand.
For the reason that her life was in danger…
For the reason that there was no way she was going to let this twisted psycho win!
Chapter 26
Using a rusty six-iron golf club as a walking stick, Mike Leopold stole across the backyard of his childhood house.
The monster and his creepy little helpers who had attacked his family, covering them in slime, practically killing them before his eyes, was still alive under the house. Although it was not controlling his thoughts anymore, it was still in his head, hiding in the back in some dark corner with just enough of a presence to let him know it was there. Mike would not do its bidding again. He was no longer a goddamned slave. The mind control had once forced him to do awful things. Well, no more; in spite of that he still felt the cold. Even with his thick jacket, layers of clothes underneath, and a stocking cap, boots, three pairs of socks, and gloves, he felt the bone-piercing cold that his few bottles of beer hadn’t been able to ward off. Damned eyeless freaks with their fish heads and stubby legs. Deros, he was the worst of the lot, the leader, but there had been others, too, who had not survived. It was amazing he was able to get away from Deros’ grasp. Those eyeless walking fish-like beings had done awful things at Deros’ urging.
