by Greg Walker
"We...Mary and I, just returned from the woods. The Big Woods, up past the cornfields. We found something up there that we need your help with."
If he hadn't been studying Burroughs so intently, Eric might have missed the hard press of the fingers together that made the tips buckle before relaxing, the slight widening of the eyes, the brief pause in the rhythmic rocking of the chair. But then it passed, and Eric wondered if he'd imagined it. He didn't like the uncertainty that the response invoked in him. But he pressed on.
"Pastor Burroughs, there are bodies of children buried up there. At least a half-dozen, maybe more."
Now Burroughs did react, but reasonably now given the news. He slowly sat forward, leaning on the desk with his hands, nearly stood up. His eyes were pained, stunned, glancing back and forth from Eric to Mary, who now regarded him with a sad but steady gaze and nodded.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," Mary said. "We saw the bones. We want you to talk to the police."
"How... how did you find them?" Not suspicion, but the need to know details, to fill the mind with trivia to allow it to adjust to the new situation without feeling the full hammer blow all at once, Eric thought.
So they told him everything, Eric's meeting with JT, and then the hike up into the woods. By the time they'd finished, Pastor Burroughs had moved to a window, which also provided a view to Adam's Woods looming just beyond the parsonage. He held his hands behind his back, and they trembled. For a long time he stood there, as though visualizing the effects from this revelation unfolding outside, engulfing his town. Finally he turned around, and Eric thought he looked frail, that what he'd seen had aged him and he wondered now if they'd made a mistake. But then Burroughs' eyes hardened, the trembling stopped, and when he spoke his voice was even. The warrior had again emerged that Eric had met after dinner.
"I'm going to have to ask both of you a favor. For a few days, at least, please don't tell anyone else about this. I will go to the police, but I want some time to pray, to ask God to prepare these people for what's coming, and also to ask Him that justice will prevail...which might mean the revelation that one of their neighbors is responsible for this. And Eric, you realize that this might also have something to do with your brother? I can't believe, God help us, that there are two murderers in our midst."
"Yes, Pastor. I do. Mary and I have even thought that it could be John Thomas Groves." Saying his full name, like an assassin, seemed more appropriate now.
"Yes, perhaps," Burroughs said, but without conviction. Eric felt that he'd dismissed the idea out of hand. Why?
"Thank you for coming to me first. I appreciate the trust you've demonstrated, and I assure you I will do everything I can. I need, first, to be alone. As the Scripture says, 'we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places.' And so this is where I must start."
After a brief pause, Eric nodded. Mary took longer, eyeing Burroughs, who endured her appraisal without comment, unblinking. Finally she nodded too.
They left without speaking, Mary seeking and holding his hand on the way out. They rode back to the bar to get Eric's vehicle, both keeping their silence on the way and exchanging a perfunctory kiss before parting. He asked if she had noticed anything peculiar about the Pastors' reactions, but she couldn't recall anything, admitted she'd been too distracted. She left for her office, but Eric doubted much work would get done today, knew she needed to be alone and respected that wish, wanted the same thing himself. He considered going to see JT, but decided to wait. If his childhood friend was playing some sort of game with him, he'd rather the police call his hand.
Pastor Patrick Burroughs waited until he heard the door shut, and then the engine of Mary's truck start and then fade as they drove away. He sat down heavily in his chair, and put his head in his hands. Could this be true? Despite his doubts, he fervently hoped there were two murderers in the town. Because it changed everything. He couldn't pretend otherwise. And no matter what the consequence, he wouldn't.
Perhaps God had not been content to reserve judgment until his death, he so foolish and presumptuous in believing it would keep until then. No, perhaps the Almighty had allowed him these years to repent, and in growing tired of his arrogance sent that judgment in the form of a murdered boy's brother to unearth all that had been concealed, both what he had already known and what he hadn't until now; Adam's blood crying out from the earth for justice. No, not a solitary voice, but a chorus. He had been blind, so why not deaf as well?
He wanted to fall on his face and ask forgiveness, but how could he do that when things, at least that within his power, had not been resolved? So then he had to go, and ask him, to find out the truth. He needed to talk to Isaac. He needed to talk to his son.
Chapter 14
Sean waited in the field for some time, to see if the ghosts would return. He wanted to speak with the sad boy again. If he focused solely on him, he could endure the rest. But the things that they said disturbed him. The man would take his name? He would know soon enough what that meant? He feared the answers but hoped the boy could tell him. Or help him somehow.
Their appearance had been the first change since the man had mounted his staircase. Did it mean the end of this was near? He considered going back to his house, to sleep, but what good would that do? Still, he couldn't sit in the field all night. That made even less sense. He needed to do something.
He could still see the light of the church steeple. Maybe God would listen if he went inside, if he kneeled before the altar. Perhaps he hadn't done it right, outside of the building on his bicycle. He stood up and walked on stiff legs through the field to the church, which lay on a small dirt road accessed by walking behind his neighbors' house.
On reaching the church, he peered cautiously through the windows into the sanctuary, afraid that one of the man's twisted scenes awaited him inside, dead penitents sitting in the pews holding hymnals, their mouths open to sing songs frozen forever in their gaping mouths. But the church, while dark, seemed abandoned. He went around to the front and tried the knob. It turned in his hand, and he stepped into the foyer. An empty coat rack lay on his right, and without thought he ran his hand through the hangers - all unused but one still holding a coat whose owner would never come back for it - to make a noise in defiance of the silence that smothered the town. It sounded something like discordant wind chimes, and he almost laughed at the sheer pleasure of it.
Moving further into the foyer, it opened up into a room that ran the entire width of the front of the church, divided by the main sanctuary doors straight ahead. On the right was the small church library and a rack that held bible tracts. To the left were arranged a circle of chairs for an adult Sunday School class. He walked up to the double doors that sealed the sanctuary off from this area, and peered through the glass. Nothing but darkness and silence.
A soft click and a whoosh of air accompanied the opening of the doors, and Sean now stood at the back of the sanctuary. He walked down the aisle past the empty pews toward the communion table at the bottom of three steps. On the platform above was the pulpit and the choir loft. Centered behind them, the baptistry lay hidden behind closed drapes.
Sean knelt down on the blue carpeting worn from the feet of those collecting offerings and passing out bread and grape juice for communion, from married couples presented as man and wife for the first time and pallbearers carrying out the dead for their last journey.
"Help me," he said in a quiet voice. "I don't know where else to go. Please. Can you kill him, or send him away?" He tried to think of something else, but there was nothing else. Either God would hear, or He wouldn't. So he waited, afraid to move, trying to ignore the frustration and anger growing in his heart as the silence stretched and God remained silent. He feared that He would see these feelings and turn away in disgust, perhaps already had. But it was so unfair. What did He expect
? He opened his mouth to shout in anger, but instead a choking sob escaped. His unnatural maturity fell apart. He wept bitterly, and felt despair settle into his heart with the weight of concrete beginning to set.
Sean heard the soft click of the door and immediately stopped crying. He began to turn around but he knew who it was and stopped. He waited. If the man could step inside the church, then maybe God hadn't heard because He wasn't here anymore, had left when His worshipers had gone. And Sean's faith, weak and tossed about like a ship on the waves, hadn't been enough to make Him stay.
But if God wasn't here, the man was. He turned around, and saw his shape like a shadow without anyone to cast it, motionless just behind the last pew. He felt angry again. Frightened too, but nothing new there.
"Go home, Sean. There's nothing here to help you. I'm leaving for a while, but I'll be back for you soon. My work here is almost done and then we'll go."
Without knowing he meant to, Sean said, "No. I'm not afraid of you." And for that moment he wasn't. Weary, angry, hungry, yes. But not afraid.
The man shuddered and took a step backwards, and his shape became less distinct, blurred at the edges, almost melting into the natural shadows in the dark church. He cried out, but with a sound that no human being ever made; a guttural sound that scraped and vibrated in Sean's mind and the fear came back in a wave that nearly caused him to faint.
The man’s shape resolved, crisp and distinct in its darkness. A low growl emitted from his throat and he leapt forward.
Sean released his own scream and ran along the front of the pews to the side door. He burst out of the exit just beyond, was now outside and still running. But where could he go that the man couldn't reach? There was no time to think. He heard the door bang open behind and knew that if the man caught him, he would be as dead as everyone else. Or worse. He almost stopped, wanted it to be over but couldn't make himself quit. Because he had hurt the man. He understood that. And knew it had been when he had cast out the fear, but it seemed to be attached on an elastic band that snapped back and stung. He tried to recreate the moment but found only terror thick and congealed throughout and kept running.
His course led him to the woods, and he ran blindly down a path. When he saw it, the shape of a building already dilapidated on its completion, he knew he had planned to go to the cabin that he and Jake and Randy had built. It seemed a stupid thing to do and the only thing to do. He heard the snap of branches from behind, the man silent, saving his strength for the chase. Sean ran harder, his lungs bellowing air as fast as he could use it, surprised he had gotten this far and decided that whatever had happened in the church, the man still hadn't fully recovered. Sean jumped over a fallen tree and reached the cabin. Nothing to be proud of - just a building thrown together from whatever scraps of wood and metal that had been available - but he was proud of it just the same; built with their own hands and sweat, built with secret meetings in mind and anticipation of having a place all their own, now the most beautiful architectural achievement on the planet. He grabbed the doorknob, opened the door on its squealing hinges, and flung himself inside.
The man reached the cabin just behind him and caught the door before it could bang shut. Sean cringed in but stood in defiance, emboldened by having a place to make a stand, a place that belonged to him. He lifted his fists, determined to at least do something before he died.
Instead of entering, the man let go of the door and it closed, rebounded once and then settled. Sean could hear only his own ragged breathing. He couldn't be sure, as it had happened so quickly, but he thought the man had gone soft around the edges again before the door had blocked his view, that he had registered an expression of agony from the hidden shadow of his face. He listened for a noise to reveal the man's position. Sean's heart beat wildly in his chest.
"Come on, you bastard!" he shouted. This time he felt no shame at cursing. The man was this and more.
In response, he heard the cry again as in the church, but louder and longer, rising to a pitch that rattled the little cabin. Sean shook and covered his ears, terrified at the fury unleashed. But there was also something else there. How could he not know, as he'd become the world's leading expert in the past few days; he heard, felt in the air thickened with it, the rage, but in a shade slightly less than pure. Tinted with fear.
Somehow, in this cabin, he was safe and he laughed out loud. The man's wail ended abruptly, and Sean quieted and listened once more, trying to hold his breath which burst as his depleted cells demanded more oxygen. He waited minutes that became years. He heard nothing at all and dared to hope that the man had gone, maybe even returned to hell. He stood against the far wall, away from the door, his spine nearly in contact with it.
Through one of the many cracks in the warped and mismatched boards, directly behind him, in a whisper terrifying in its intimacy, the man said, "You belong to me, boy. Come out now and I'll kill you quick. Make me come in and get you, and you won't believe the pain."
He spun around and an eye peered at him through a gap between two boards. Entirely black - pupil, iris, and in place of the whites - but within the prick of a highlight, a glowing ember deep inside. Deeper than any eye could possibly be. Sean tried to speak, to laugh again, do something to break the spell as he peered into the devil's abyss itself and knew he could never win against those depths. Maybe appeasement was his only chance, the game over and the only options to lose big or lose bigger.
"He's a liar. He can't come in here."
Sean jumped, breaking contact with the eye and feeling an instant lightening of his heart. He turned to see the speaker but he already knew.
The ghost child from the field.
Chapter 15
Eric drove south towards Pittsburgh on route 79, Mary riding in the passenger seat. Their initial attempts at conversation had bogged down beyond the first few sentences, and now the only sound was the radio playing hits that spanned three decades, one of those stations with the name of a guy, this one called JOE. He occasionally heard her singing softly as she watched the unremarkable interstate scenery roll by.
Eric had decided to skip town for a while and let Pastor Burroughs unveil the small cemetery plot in the woods, would rather not be there in the midst when the first sucker punch knocked the wind out of Lincoln Corners. Not that recovery would be easy or inevitable. He had weighed the pros and cons of staying versus leaving, knew that no matter which choice he made, his reappearance just prior to the discovery would be marked and weigh heavily on Arnie Fisk and his followers - who might even materialize in the wake of this. He needed to get away from it for now.
He thought about calling his parents, but what good would it do? Just cause them sleepless nights and new tears. If the police arrested someone, then he would explain everything and buy plane tickets for them to fly up, if they wanted.
When he had called Mary to explain his choice to go back to Pittsburgh, she had surprised him by asking to go along. And now they drove - the sky brilliantly blue and the colors of autumn overtaking the summer greens - but silently and with the space between them filled with what they'd seen, as by unearthing the bodies they had disturbed their spirits as well, and they journeyed in the car with them. And Eric knew that this was almost the truth of it.
Looking at the single innocuous cloud within his field of vision, he found it somewhat amazing that evil could exist on beautiful days like these. But he, and so many others, had learned to mistrust perfect skies through which airplanes could fly purposefully into buildings. He had known long before that, learned on a perfect August Saturday afternoon. And every perfect day failed to deliver on its promise to someone, a cerulean sky filling with storm clouds in the guise of billowing smoke visible from satellites or dark red mud at the edge of a swamp, or whatever personal form it took.
Eric turned his attention back to the road just in time to see their exit, and within a half hour they sat on the couch in his apartment drinking iced tea picked up at a convenience store just outsid
e the city.
"I'm sorry I'm not much company, Eric," Mary said.
He slid over and put an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him and laid her head on his chest. "Don't be sorry. There's nothing to be sorry about."
"Yes there is. When we were driving, I started getting angry with you. Because I thought that if you had stayed away, those kids would never have been found and life could have stayed normal for me and everyone else. And I know how selfish that is, and I apologize. Especially because it's not true. I'm glad you came back."
"No apology necessary. I understand. When Adam died, I started thinking of things like that, even got angry at my mom for making him shut off the TV and go outside with us. I think it's easier to find someone or something to blame than to accept that stuff like that...like this...can just happen and we can't do anything about it.""Maybe. But I'm still sorry. Sorry for those kids, most of all. And Adam."
