“Not that hairy. These guys are wearing fur coats.”
Johnathan chuckled as he checked the size of the boot against his own. The boot was large, but anything was better than the one he wore. The hole was so big he could wiggle a toe through it.
Tugging off the soggy boot, Johnathan pulled on the dry one. Finally he had a good pair, even if one were black and the other a worn brown.
Grabbing a gunny sack, they piled the acquired goods inside, and picked up the dead men’s rifles. Abel led Johnathan towards the back of the barn, where, in the high weeds, the unconscious young boy lay. A large goose-egg sized welt shined across his forehead and his hands and feet were tied together with the strap of his own rifle. The boy looked no more than thirteen.
“Should ‘ave killed ‘em,” Johnathan said.
Abel didn’t reply.
“He’s your problem now.”
“What am I supposed to do with ‘em?” Abel asked.
Shrugging, Johnathan said, “Put him in the barn. He’s your prisoner.”
“Damn,” Abel responded, kicking the ground.
The last thing the troop needed was a prisoner to lead around. More so, Abel knew that he was stuck outside. Spending a night indoors, warm and dry, was something that he had not done since he enlisted.
Handing his rifle to Johnathan, Abel bent down and hefted the boy over his shoulder. Weighing less than ninety pounds, the boy was a miniscule weight, but the dank smell of wet fur hit Abel in the face. Grumbling to himself that he should have broken the boy's neck when he had the chance, he headed toward the barn.
Available US:
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Available UK:
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Welcome to Plainfield
CHAPTER ONE
Songbirds called out happily to a morning sky filled with clouds made of cotton. The cool breeze cutting through Spritland cemetery reminded Evelyn Hartley that winter had left. Though the warmth of the sun caressed her face telling her spring was here and summer was on its way.
Rocks crunched underneath her black penny loafers as she stepped around thick clumps of bright green grass, which grew around twiggy bushes sticking out between the black bars making up the four foot tall fence surrounding the cemetery.
Interspaced along the graveled road tuffs of weeds sprouted towards the sun, flourishing since the last freeze. With every step she ran a hand from one cool bar to the next of the black wrought iron fence separating the sleeping dead inside from the occasional car that sped by without a thought.
In no hurry to get home from her baby sitting job watching the Spencer twins. Evelyn brushed her long auburn colored hair back over her shoulder. Looking through the fence at the multitude of gravestones standing in the cemetery, she gazed through the fence at the multitude of gravestones standing in the cemetery, reading the names carved in the simple blocks of rock. Many of the names worn away, leaving the dead lost to time while other grave markers were sturdy edifices proclaiming who lied here and had a life and a loving family.
At the head of the graveyard, a small white church stood before the square entrance of the cemetery. Its low roof and squat structure sat on lonely property. Stain glass windows were set darkly in the walls of the church. Waiting for Sunday’s service to come and bring life to its doors. Evelyn knew no service would be coming this Sunday or any other. The pastor had moved on, as had the congregation, for new prosperity and happier surroundings.
She continued to walk along the road. While a, 1949 Ford Sedan pulled out onto the gravel road from a small barren lot acting as the parking lot along the rear end of the Spritland cemetery.
Slowly the Sedan followed, its dull paint showing years of wear, along with spots of rust eating at its edges. Evelyn heard the crunch of gravel and the slight squeal of rusted brakes as the Sedan slowed to a stop. She stopped and turned to see who drove up. Unable to could not see through the windshield for the suns glare against the glass was a bright blinding spot making her squint slightly.
Slowly the dusty driver side window rolled down. Stepping toward the car, Evelyn looked in and recognized the familiar dirty and worn plaid hunter’s cap with its woolen ear flaps turned inward. Beneath the cap, long ears with pudgy lobes were set on a round head with short cropped graying hair sticking out like bristles on a brush. A sharp nose, rounded at the end stood out against the driver’s gaunt cheeks and slightly drooping eyes, clearly showing the driver’s lack of sleep and haunted spirit.
“Hi, Eddie,” Evelyn said, recognizing the face and thin form of Edward Gein, or Eddie as he was called by the locals in the town of Plainfield. The small farming community where he had grown up and now did odd jobs as an adult.
“Hello, Evelyn. What are you doing out here?” Ed said with a smile showing slightly yellowed teeth just a little bit brighter than his skin.
“Just got done watching the Spencer boys,” Evelyn replied, flipping her sparkling hair once again over her shoulder.
Ed’s eyes moved away from her face to the golden flecks sparkling in her hair. Then down to the white button down shirt she wore and the matching green and white plaid dress that stopped just above her knees. Then slowly to her white bobby socks and shiny black penny loafers. If anyone else had looked at her way, Evelyn would have been creeped out.
She could hear her mother’s voice in her head telling her Eddie was harmless and simple, whatever that meant. But as he licked his dry lips, Evelyn did feel a little bit of worry in the pit of her stomach.
“Want a ride home?” Eddie asked.
“No thanks, it’s a nice day for a walk.”
“You sure? I’m going your way,” Eddie said giving a nod up the road.
“No.., well.” Evelyn replied, knowing not to take rides from strangers. However Eddie was not a stranger. He was Eddie Gein, a friend of the family. He had babysat her and her brother, Tim, numerous times before she’d turned thirteen and mother decided she was responsible enough.
Smiling, Evelyn nodded and skipped around the front of the Sedan. Reaching across the bench seat, Eddie popped the lock and opened the door for her. She caught the opening door and jumped in.
Closing the door, Evelyn glanced through the dirty windshield then to Eddie. The salt and pepper stubble on his face looked rough as sandpaper. And he smelled, funny. Sort of old and something else Evelyn couldn’t put her finger on. A smell she encountered when her parents had taken her and her brother to see her Uncle Paul after he’d lost his leg in a car wreck.
Pushing in the brake and clutch, Eddie put the car into drive. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Gnarled knuckles, spotted with hair, showed years of hard work growing potatoes on his family farm.
The dirty white vinyl of the bench seat showed its age and wear. A few small rips poked out at the seams. She could see no trash on the floor, but when Evelyn moved her feet, particles of dust rose, bringing up a sour scent. Sniffing, Evelyn figured Eddie needed a bath. Old people smelled like that.
“What you doing out here?” Evelyn asked while sunlight sporadically crossed the interior of the car through the trees overhead.
“Oh, just visiting a few old friends,” Eddie replied.
As they moved along the gravel road, Evelyn looked out the dirty window. Eddie looked toward her, his eyes caressing the curve of her face. Licking his lips, Eddie quickly reached out. Grabbing her by the neck, he quickly struck her head against the dusty dashboard.
Dazed, Evelyn tried to raise her hands in defense. She was too late for Ed drove her head into the dash again and again until darkness enveloped her.
Unconscious, Evelyn crumpled toward Ed on the bench seat. Feeling her soft hair, he liked the way the sun played through the windshield on her. Looking up and around himself, Ed pushed Evelyn t
o the floor on the passenger side.
Sure she was out. Ed began to whistle while he turned the corner with his prize on the floor of the front seat and something special in the back.
Waking with a jolt, Kay Stanley sat up on her bed. Holding her head, she could feel the bursting pangs of a migraine coming on. Not sure if the headache was from the horrid dream she had, or one too many Miller Lite’s the night before.
Across the room, sitting on a rickety TV tray, a small fifteen inch television played the morning news with a too cheery blonde-haired reporter rambling on about a pile up at the intersection of Fish Hatchery Road and Highway Eighteen.
Pulling the tangle of sheets away, Kay crawled slowly out of bed. She swung her feet over the side and touched the floor, a cold shock of goose bumps moved up her legs. Rubbing her arms, she stood and stepped over to the oak dresser standing against the wall that separated the small bedroom from the living room.
Picking up a beat pack of Marlboro’s, Kay looked in the little square opening and one lonely cigarette called up to her, smoke me. The cellophane crinkled in her fingers as she pulled the last cigarette out of the package and then crumpled the wrapper and tossed it into the trash.
Ignoring the Surgeon General’s warning about smoking, Kay stepped into the single large room which acted as living room and kitchen. Moving over to the counter separating the small kitchenette from the living room, she picked up a blue Bic lighter. Flicking the roller, she sparked a small yellow flame. Bringing the hot flame to the end of the cigarette, she inhaled quickly, igniting the tobacco and pulling the soothing smoke deep into her lungs.
Running her fingers through her hair, Kay looked over the tiny living room. Sparsely furnished with a beige chair, blue couch, and dented coffee table with cracked squares of beige inlaid title. Against the back wall a large television on an oak cabinet filled with movies.
Turning into her small kitchenette, Kay walked across the cold off-white linoleum tiles and went about feeding her second addiction, caffeine. In corner of the counter next to the sink sat her over used coffee machine.
Grabbing the half full steaming glass pot from the burner, Kay filled a deep blue mug that had acted more times as a cereal bowl than a coffee cup. Walking back through the kitchenette to her bedroom, Kay crossed over the off-white tile to the laminate oak flooring which covered the rest of the living room and bedroom.
Passing by her bed with its piled comforter, Kay moved into the bathroom. She flipped up the lid of the small white porcelain toilet, pulled her black panties down with one hand, squatted, and took care of business. While she sat there pulling on the cigarette and sipping the hot brew, Kay could hear the drawl of Channel Eighteen’s news anchor, Veronica Hamilton, welcome everyone back from the last few minutes of commercials.
Not having to see the news anchor to picture her, Kay thought Veronica’s voice didn’t match her dark skin and mound of perfectly quaffed hair. Clearly not the normal image of a news anchor one would think of. Though the southern twang that hung on every vowel gave Veronica the spark one needed to catch the attention of anyone flicking through the channels.
Ms. Hamilton welcomed the local weatherman, Johnathan Bowls, who took over the segment while standing before a digitized map of Wisconsin. With a seemingly genuine smile, John went on to give the day’s forecast of perpetual sunshine through Sunday, followed by a smattering of rain, common with the month of March.
While she listened, Kay gave Mr. Bowls a forty percent chance his forecast would be correct. March was too unpredictable, especially in Wisconsin, where the snow usually covered the land until April set in. In an unusual change, the past winter had been smooth and not the freezing cold that was usually the temperature early in the year. The light snow up north had been enough to give skiers a few inches of powder to play in, while not causing the roads to be slippery with ice.
Wiping and then flushing the toilet. Kay struggled to pull her panties up with one hand. She stepped back into the bedroom to hear the weatherman move onto the national forecast. Setting the mug on the dresser, Kay opened the second drawer and pulled out a pair of dark blue jeans. She started to pull them on in a one legged hop.
Half listening now, Ms. Hamilton thanked Mr. Bowls on a warm week prediction. Kay stumbled slightly. Taking the cigarette out of her mouth, she balanced the coffin nail on the edge of the dresser, leaving the hot coal dangling off the edge. Pulling the snug jeans up, she sucked in her gut slightly then did the copper button, and then pulled up the copper zipper.
Kay pulled out one of her neatly folded tee shirts from the third drawer. Turning toward the TV, she pulled on a green short-sleeved shirt adorned across the chest with the Warner Brother’s Martian Manhunter looking angry. Standing with crossed arms, Marvin the Martian had his ray gun drawn, ready to do battle with Daffy Duck in his twentieth-fourth and a half century Duck Dodgers costume.
“This year marks the fiftieth anniversary of the unforgettable events that took place in the quiet city of Plainfield, Wisconsin. Our Jeremy White is there now with a report,” Ms. Hamilton said, wearing a cheerful smile as she read. But did not really comprehend what came across the teleprompter under the camera.
The scene on the TV switched from the perfectly quaffed woman to a young man with golden hair, standing straight as a board. Behind the reporter, Kay could see the dark clouds hanging in the sky were going to make Weatherman Bowls wrong with his forecast of sunshine.
Standing there in a golden yellow jacket, reminding Kay more of a realtor than a newsman, Jeremy White had the usual good looks that would catch ones attention if they were flicking through the channels looking for something to watch. And the strong build of a linebacker, who hadn’t been good enough to make a living out of college football and into the pros. Holding a microphone with Channel Eighteen number below the microphones round black foam cover, Jeremy caught his signal that he was live and smiled showing chemically whitened teeth.
“Thank you, Veronica. I’m here in Plainfield, Wisconsin. A quiet town that, for most, is no different from any of the other small Wisconsin farming communities. Though fifty years ago, a middle-aged man, friend to everyone in this small community, committed the heinous act of murder and mutilation.”
The camera operator pulls back from Jeremy to show him standing at an intersection of two gravel roads. Cold farmland lay on one side of the road. Its rich earth humped in neat rows ready to be fertilized and planted. While on the other side, a plot of land stood, thick, overgrown and neglected. Years of growth of stringy bushes and trees had made the land a mass of confusion.
“Fifty years ago, a farm house stood on this land. Quiet, unobtrusive to anyone who passed by. Now, it is just an empty field. Hunting ground for locals…”
Leaving Jeremy to tell his tale of woe, Kay left the bedroom for the kitchenette and the bottle of aspirin sitting in its place in a cupboard over the sink. Vowing to stop drinking, Kay opened the cupboard and pulled the half empty clear plastic bottle down. Popping the cover off, she tossed two white capsules out of the bottle. Setting the cover loosely on top of the bottle, she placed the container on the counter and tossed the capsules in her mouth, swallowed, then took a swig from her mug.
Closing her eyes, Kay tried to will the headache to go away. After few long moments she knew the pain wasn’t going anywhere soon. Taking another drink, she stepped over to the fridge. Opening the heavy door, she bent a little to look inside. Nothing looked appetizing in the glow of the white light set in one of the upper corners. A jar half-filled with pickle spears, a loaf of wheat bread, cheese slices, and the crumpled foil wrapped burger from yesterday’s failed attempt at grilling.
Pulling open the tiny meat drawer, she fished out a chunk of Colby Jack cheese in a Ziploc bag and closed the door.
Her phone started to ring in the living room. Walking to the couch, Kay looked over the back. The phone rang again, but she didn’t see the phone anywhere. With her free hand Kay lifted a few throw pillows, one
after the other, and finally found the phone underneath the third. The black rectangle rang sharply. Kay pressed the talk button and she put it to her ear. The phones cord tugged her back down towards the couch where she had to look for the cradle stuck deep between two cushions.
“Hello,” she said, balancing on one foot, and wishing she hadn’t listened to her mother about having a hard-wired landline. Remote phones worked just as well and their bases could stay on the wall while the receiver went wherever was needed.
“Hey, K, you up?” the familiar bubbly voice of Anita Harper said on the other end.
“Yeah I guess,” Kay replied stepping over to the counter and pulling a sharp knife out of the silverware drawer.
“Work late last night?”
“Yeah, and one too many shots,” Kay replied, wishing she had stopped at one.
“You’re still up for tonight, aren’t you?” Anita said, referring to the little trip they were to take to Janesville.
“I guess.”
“You guess? Don’t got no time for guessin’. We got some ghost to rile up,” Anita said, her voice clearly excited at the thought of what they may find.
“Did you remember to pick up batteries?” Anita asked.
Breaking a chunk off of the small brick of cheese, Kay chewed loudly into the receiver, and lied, “Yep.”
“Well then I’ll be by at four to pick you up.”
“I’ll be ready,” Kay replied.
“Oh yeah don’t forget to get the batteries,” Anita said, hanging up.
Kay looked at the receiver. Anita knew her to well. Smiling, Kay hung up the phone and set the base on the counter with the empty Ziploc bag. Biting off a chuck of the Colby Jack she walked back to the bathroom and a hot shower.
Available U.S.
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Mississippi DEAD Page 7
