Shades: Eight Tales of Terror

by D. Nathan Hilliard

  “Depends on where it is,” the Sheriff replied. “I want to go straight to the cabin first, since I figure that’s the best place to get answers. But it might help to know where the trooper went ashore, and it sure won’t hurt to know where another boat is available if we need it.”

  The deputy nodded without answering, his narrowed eyes never leaving the tree line.

  “Besides,” Carl continued, “I want to go ashore close to the shack so it don’t look to Luther like we’re trying to sneak up on him. He’s already crazy enough without us giving him even more reason to start shooting.”

  “So this Luther Cole is really crazy?” the younger deputy asked. At the ripe old age of twenty, Pete Sawyer had been on the force for a mere six months. And since his family moved up from Houston only five years earlier, he barely counted as a local.

  “So I hear,” Carl muttered as he motioned Earl to start moving the boat along the shoreline. “I only met the man once, and that was fifteen years ago. I arrested him for hunting quail on Eli Cooper’s property without permission. He didn’t put up a fuss, just paid his fine and left. I think he may have said six words the whole time. ‘Course, he still lived with his nephew back then.”

  “What happened?”

  “His nephew died, leaving him the last surviving member of the old Cole family…the one the county’s named after. He never seemed interested in running a farm or anything, and now I wonder if he was capable. He always lived with a member of his family until the last one died. Then he just up and disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Yep, he just packed up a few things and abandoned the family property. Nobody was quite sure what to do about it. Especially since the land was paid off. They eventually found some distant relative in Oklahoma who saw to it the taxes were paid, and after about six or seven years the courts handed it off to them. Meanwhile, Luther turned up living in a little lean-to down on Hollow Creek.”

  “What was he doing down here?”

  “Who knows? Fishing, drinking, shootin’ coon… The folks in Oklahoma gave him some money in a bank account, just to make things extra legal involving the land, but he hardly ever came into town to get any. And since there wasn’t much of a way back into this neck of the woods until the lake started filling up, he almost disappeared back here.”

  “Almost?”

  “Yep. He had a way of turning up from time to time and causing trouble. Usually, it was hunting on some farmer’s land. Then I’d have to come running out, but he’d be gone by the time I got there. Small stuff like that—annoying as hell, but I never thought he was dangerous. Then he built that shack up on Deerhunter Hill, and things seemed to get odd.”

  “Odd?” The young deputy watched the trees slide by in the mist.

  “Yep, he didn’t show up on people’s property so much anymore, but sometimes other hunters would run into him.”

  Les Patterson snorted.

  “You’re using the term ‘hunters’ a little loosely there, Carl.”

  “Yeah, okay,” the Sheriff laughed. “I mainly mean moonshiners. They had stills back here in the boonies before the lake came in, and sometimes they would come across old Luther. Apparently some of those encounters got sorta strange. Then word would kind of filter back into town…and the word is he’s been losing his marbles back here.”

  “What do you mean?” Pete asked.

  “Well, the story is Andy Johnson caught him fishing near his still, wearing nothing but his long johns, and his face and chest were all smeared with charcoal or something. Then Taylor Morris and his boy were out coon huntin’ when they spotted Luthor dancin’ in a circle, buck nekkid, up here on Deerhunter Hill. They said he saw them and started yelling, but it was all gibberish.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah.” Carl lit a cigarette and continued to watch the shore. “I hiked out here to this shack after that, just to see if he was alright, but he wasn’t around. I waited half the day, but finally gave up and went home. I’ve done it two other times after similar incidents over the past few years, but I guess he sees me coming and hides till I leave. He’s been starting to worry me, since the recent word is his last few encounters with the moonshiners have gotten nasty.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Nothing specific.” The Sheriff took a long pull on the cigarette, then squinted at the glowing end as he dredged up the memories. “Just vague rumors. I heard he may have traded shots with Colin Peese across Hollow Creek one night, but nobody would admit to nothing. Then, about six months ago, Abner Coffey shows up to town with a big bandage around his head and one ear missing. He says he got drunk and fell out the back of his pickup while his boy was driving down a gravel road. But the word is he caught Luther Cole messing with his trout line on the San Lupo, wearing nothing but a dead deer for a cape, horns and all. When he yells, Luthor rushes up and clubs him four or five times with this stick he’s tied a rock to, then runs off.”

  “Damn!”

  “Yeah,” Les interjected, “so if you don’t want to get your skull cracked today, or shot by a guy running around with his johnson hanging out, I recommend you look sharp. By the way, there’s the trooper’s boat.”

  Carl brought his mind back to the present and peered through the fog where Les pointed. He spotted the vessel, a short distance into the trees.

  It bobbed gently on the water where the missing trooper must have moored it to a low hanging limb. The craft appeared more modern than the antique Earl had brought down the river to transport them. It also looked empty, but the sheriff could see no sign of violence or anything else amiss…other than the fact it should have brought the trooper back to town yesterday evening. Its presence confirmed the man never left the island.

  “Ah hell,” the sheriff sighed. “Well, that’s it then.”

  “’Fraid so,” the senior deputy grunted. “And this means Luthor is still on the island too. I guess he either don’t know how to use a boat, or he just don’t feel like running and hiding this time.”

  “Let’s hope it’s the former.” Carl checked his rifle and glanced over at the younger deputy whose face now tightened into a pale mask.

  He hated pulling the kid into something like this with so little experience, but circumstances forced his hand. Roy Palmer was out of town on vacation, and Ernie Gillis nursed a broken foot at home. That left him and two deputies to cover all of Cole County. So, like it or not, Deputy Pete Sawyer was about to get his feet wet.

  Carl stared across the water at the empty boat a moment longer, taking another draw on his cigarette while he considered the situation. He could feel the eyes of both his deputies on him as they waited to hear his next course of action. The Sheriff pulled the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it out into the fog.

  “Oh well…” He watched the ember land in the water and snuff out. “Whatever happened, it didn’t happen here. Earl, go ahead and take us up to the head of the island near the shack and we’ll get off there. I guess it’s time to see if Luther’s home.”

  ***

  The shack squatted between two trees, a dismal assemblage of planks, plywood, and corrugated metal.

  Carl peered around the tree he leaned against and surveyed the area around the building for any signs of life. Off to his left, Pete snugged himself up against a tree trunk of his own. The youngster clutched his rifle to his chest, his wide eyes fixed firmly on the Sheriff. Carl made a mental note to keep an eye on him. Les had slipped off into the mist to check around back of the structure, and the Sheriff now waited for him to return before taking any further steps.

  The shack didn’t have a rear exit, but that didn’t mean Luther couldn’t have already been hiding out back—waiting to open fire once they closed in on the building and bunched up. Carl Gartner had made it through WWI by being smart enough to avoid falling for those kinds of tricks, and he knew Les learned his own lessons in the war against the Nazi’s. And thinking of all the fresh faced boys like Pete who never made it home from those w
ars made Carl feel slightly guilty for bringing the kid on this venture. But the young man signed up for this, and when you wear the badge…

  “Pssst! Sheriff!”

  The sheriff started, then glanced over to see Pete nodding in the direction of the shack. Embarrassed to be caught woolgathering, he looked around the tree to see Les had reappeared and now moved his way up the side of the structure till he squatted by the front corner near the door. This meant the rear of the house was now clear of threat, and it was time to move to Step Two.

  He signaled Les to let him know he saw him, then stuck his head further around the tree and hailed the house.

  “Luther! Luther Cole! This is Sheriff Carl Gartner! I need to talk to you!”

  He pulled his head back around the tree in a hurry and grimaced, waiting for the blast of a shotgun.

  Nothing.

  With a long exhale, and a glance over at the pale-faced youngster, the Sheriff tried again. He hated this part of these kinds of things. Hell, he hated all parts of these kinds of things. A man could get killed doing this. And the fact he should have been home eating deviled eggs and watching the Cotton Bowl only made it worse.

  “Luther! We don’t want to hurt you! We just want to talk! We need to know what happened yesterday. If you can hear us, give us a yell so we know you’re listening.”

  Somewhere out in the mist, a loon warbled his discovery of the new lake. No other sound disturbed the silence.

  “Shit,” Carl muttered from behind his trunk, “he either ain’t home or he’s holed up with his shotgun and just waiting for one of us to stick our head in the door. I should have known this wouldn’t work.”

  “Why?” Pete hissed.

  “Because he ain’t a crook or a moonshiner,” the Sheriff growled, “he’s a damned cuckoo. You can at least trust a crook to act with some sense.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. A robber or moonshiner don’t want to get killed any more than you do. But with a damn cuckoo, you don’t even know what world he’s reacting to. It’s hard to reason with a man who thinks you’re really a Martian out to steal his gall bladder.”

  “Does Les know that?”

  “Hell yeah, kid. Les knows his way around. Why?”

  “Because he’s about to go in the house.”

  “Wha…?” Carl frowned and looked around the tree again to where Pete pointed. “Dammit, Les!”

  The senior deputy had eased around the corner of the building and crouched by the ramshackle door. He gave a cautionary motion with his hand at the Sheriff, who now glowered at him from around the tree. Then he pointed at his nose while wrinkling it, and afterwards the door.

  “Aw hell,” Carl muttered, “and then there’s always the third option Luther could have taken.”

  He watched with growing gloom as the senior deputy used the barrel of his rifle to ease the front door open. If Les thought it worth taking the risk, Carl felt pretty certain the man already knew what he would find. He could see the deputy lean forward and take a careful peek through the opened crack, before shifting position and taking a longer look inside. Then the deputy stood and motioned for them.

  “Come on in, Sheriff. It’s over.”

  “Yeah,” Carl sighed and motioned for Pete to follow as he headed in. “I should have figured on that. Is it bad?”

  “He hung himself, and it ain’t pretty.” The deputy now lit a cigarette. He also started opening and closing the front door like a fan. “It’s damn weird too. But you ain’t gonna like what I found in his trash pile out back neither.”

  “The trooper?”

  “Nope, somebody else. Maybe more than one somebodies. Hard to tell. They’re just bones…and they’ve been gnawed on.”

  “Aw hell!”

  “Yep.”

  The Sheriff closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He could see the headlines now. This was going to be a total circus. When the rest of the county found out there had been a backwoods cannibal living nearby, there would be hell to pay. On top of that, there would be the almost impossible task of identifying the victim, or victims.

  “Just wait.” Les looked at him like he was reading his mind “Just wait till you see inside. It gets even better.”

  “You’re not helpin’ my ulcer, Les.”

  Carl could detect the smell of decay when he stepped up next to the door, and braced himself for what was to come. He pulled another cigarette of his own from his pocket and lit it from the deputy’s.

  “Here, Pete.” He offered the pack. “You want one?”

  “Oh no, those things will kill you.”

  “Your choice.” The Sheriff shrugged. “But it will help with the smell.”

  In truth, the Sheriff had acclimated to the smell of rot in the trenches of France long ago but it didn’t mean he liked it. He used to carry cigars for this very purpose, but Les had begged him not to send him home to Kathy smelling like that anymore. Now he settled for using those new menthol cigarettes the wives preferred.

  Carl took a deep drag on the cigarette and followed Les into the dim interior of the cabin. No point in putting it off any longer. He braced himself for the worst, but still only made it a couple of steps in before stopping and staring in disbelief.

  Luther Cole had died as crazy as he lived.

  It took a second for the Sheriff to understand what he looked at. The hermit wore only a deerskin in the form of a cape he tied at the neck. The skin included the head and horns, which Luther wore like a hood over his head. With his neck bent at an odd angle, and the hood now hanging down over his head, it made it difficult to tell the body even belonged to a human being. From the neck down, the corpse had begun to bloat, giving it a doughy shape the old man never possessed in life. Even worse, the blood had settled into the lower body, turning it black from the waist down and engorging all the extremities…

  All of them.

  “Ahhh God!” The young deputy choked in the doorway while staring in horror at the enlarged phallus pointed directly back at him.

  “Easy, Pete,” Les chuckled as he lit a kerosene lantern hanging nearby with a match. “He don’t mean nothin’ by it. He’s just happy to see you.”

  The young deputy swallowed twice before turning green and fleeing the doorway. The two older men watched him go, then looked at each other.

  “Les,” Carl sighed. He rolled his eyes as he listened to the sounds of retching coming through the wall. “Sometimes I think you have a real mean streak in you.”

  “He was gonna blow sooner or later anyway.” Les grinned and walked back over to look at the corpse. “Better to get it over with. Let’s see what we got here.”

  “You do that, I’m trying to get a count of all these animal skins on the wall. Ol’ Luther was quite the hunter. We got coyote, raccoon…here’s a bobcat…a few possum…and huh? Aw no… crap…”

  “Lemme guess…a scalp.”

  “Yeah,” the Sheriff sighed. “Two of them. How did you guess?”

  “All the arrowheads.” The deputy nodded at a shelf and table littered with pointed pieces of flint. Most were arrowheads but some were obviously for larger weapons. “And he’s got a homemade tomahawk over there in the corner next to his shotgun. It looks like Luther thought he was some kind of injun shamen or something. But speaking of the shotgun… ”

  The deputy retrieved the double barreled twelve gauge from the corner and broke it open. He extracted the two shells and stared at them for a moment before looking back at the body with a frown on his lean face.

  “Something wrong, Les?”

  “Not wrong,” the deputy grumbled, and examined the body again, “so much as odd.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, this shotgun has been fired once. One shell spent and the other still ready to use. Now if you look, you can see Luther took a bullet through the arm here and got grazed on the side here.”

  “Uh huh. So?”

  “So…” Les stared at the
floor in thought. “It looks like the trooper got two shots off at Luther here. Luther got one shot off himself. Then he comes back here sometime yesterday afternoon or evening and takes a short hop with a shorter rope. But look at this…”

  Les handed the spent shell over to the Sheriff.

  “…this is bird shot. Now I sure wouldn’t want to get hit by it, but it ain’t exactly lethal unless it’s pretty close range. Close enough a trained state trooper should have shot a lot straighter than he did before Luthor pulled the trigger.”

  “You’re assuming the trooper shot first.”

  “Maybe so.” The deputy looked back at the hanging corpse with a frown, “But if he didn’t, then Luther didn’t make a killing shot and retreated under fire. If that happened, it means the trooper may still be alive here on the island somewhere.”

  “You think it’s likely? If he was alive, he should have either left the island, or at least yelled at us when we circled it.”

  “I doubt he’s alive,” Les mused, “but we better hurry and check.”

  “Yeah,” Carl sighed, “I figured we would find his body here, or not at all…what with Luther having all night to dispose of it. But since things didn’t turn out that way, we better get a move on. It’s going to be getting dark soon, and we can come back and finish up here by lantern light.”

  ***

  Forty minutes later, the search concluded.

  “Well, shit.” Carl tilted back his hat and stared at the body impaled on the tree. “I guess that settles that. Y’know Pete, if you keep that up you’re gonna strain something.”

  The sheriff held the beam of his flashlight on the corpse while he glanced over at the younger deputy. Pete straightened from his second bout of vomiting in one day and looked apologetically back at his boss. Carl couldn’t exactly blame the kid, the scene was pretty horrific, but he felt it was always best to show coolness under pressure for the new recruits. Still, he felt thankful to have the cigarettes to settle his own stomach.

  Killing the trooper must have caused Luther to work up an appetite.

  The half nude body hung impaled on a jagged, broken off branch protruding about three feet from the trunk of the tree. Carl tried to imagine how the madman had done this, especially since the branch sat about seven feet up the trunk. And the effort required to drive even a sharp object like the thick branch through the man’s back so it came out his chest must have been impressive. At least it meant the poor man had already been dead when Luther started tearing bites out of his legs… there were large chunks missing from the thighs, and he had stripped them to the bone from the knees down. But that bothered Carl in its own way as well.