by Anthony Izzo
She lived two blocks over in a mansion on Main Street. It had once belonged to a prominent surgeon. Had a turret on one side of the house that reminded Chris of a battlement. If her father had his way, there’d probably be archers waiting to shoot at him.
Hope answered the door. She looked beautiful. Tank top. Shorts. Hair in a ponytail.
“You look great,” Chris said.
“I do? I didn’t even put makeup on. But thanks.”
“How long is your dad gone?”
“Don’t get any ideas. If my father thinks you’re up to something, he’ll have you hung at the traffic circle.”
She came up to him, put her arms around his neck. He leaned in and kissed her deep. She smelled great. Like coconut suntan lotion. She flicked her tongue into his mouth.
She broke off the kiss. “We’d better stop.”
“Um, yeah,” Chris said.
“Did you hear about the murders?”
“Where?”
“At the park. Joggers. I heard my dad on the phone. It was on the news, but they didn’t tell everyone that supposedly the guy cut the jogger’s head off.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. My dad’s friends with one of the cops who was on the scene. Want something to drink?”
They moved into the spacious kitchen, which was dominated by a granite-top island big enough to land a fighter jet. “Yeah.”
Hope went to the fridge and pulled a bottle of Dr. Pepper from a six-pack. She handed it to Chris. He unscrewed the cap and it hissed. He took a drink. “Cut the guy’s head off, shit.”
“Dad said the guy’s girlfriend saw the whole thing. And the killer disappeared. What if it was Him?”
“The Walking Man?”
Her eyes lit up. Hope regularly scoured websites about urban legends looking for info on the Walking Man. She’d even found some musty books at a library sale with a few references to the Walking Man in them. “Since we’re bringing it up, I saw someone walking home from Tully’s.”
“Where?”
“Near the house.”
He didn’t have to say which house.
“What did he look like?” Hope said.
“Hard to tell. It was creepy, though. I got the hell out of there.”
“We should go up to the house,” Hope said. “Check it out.”
“That place is falling apart. We might fall through the floorboards.”
“We survived the Richardson Complex.”
“Yeah, until that ceiling in the old psych wing almost came down on our heads,” Chris said.
“Where’s your sense of adventure? I wonder if he’ll mark four victims, like last time.”
Hope had filled him in on all things Walking Man. “Those girls that got killed in the sixties? The guy that killed them got the chair,” Chris said.
“The guy that got the chair? Dean something. He saw someone up by the caves. Cops didn’t buy it.”
Chris took a swig of Dr. Pepper. “He had blood all over his shirt. He killed them, Hope.”
“September fifteenth, nineteen ninety. Guy driving home from the night shift sees a tall figure cross the road. Long coat. Floppy hat. Describes the guy as zombie-like.”
Chris snorted. “Probably a homeless guy.”
“How many homeless guys you see in town? And there was the stuff that went down in oh-three.”
She had him there. Their town probably had some sort of ordinance in town against the homeless. “Some kids get killed, doesn’t mean it’s the Walking Man.”
“Let’s check out the house. What can it hurt? I’ll go alone if I have to,” Hope said.
Chris sighed. “All right. We’ll check it out.”
She came over and threw her arms around his neck. “Best boyfriend ever.”
“We’ll go tonight,” she said. “This is gonna be cool.”
That night, Chris came and picked up Hope, who had a whole backpack ready go, which didn’t surprise him. “What you got there?”
“Bottled water, granola bars, two flashlights, batteries, a poncho, a first aid kit and my dad’s hunting knife.”
“Planning on sleeping over?” Chris said.
She adjusted the straps and repositioned the pack. She had a big smile on her face and he knew she lived for stuff like this. In the fall they were going to explore the abandoned Central Terminal downtown and a few of the old grain mills by the river. Hope was thinking they’d run into a lizard man in one of the tunnels under the mill. Supposedly someone had seen a seven-foot-tall humanoid creature down there. Chris doubted it, but if it made Hope happy, he was down with it.
“Your parents would kill you if they knew we were doing this,” she said.
“Never mind them. Hey, we should check out the old slaughterhouse, too.”
“Why not?”
“Let’s go there first,” Hope said.
“Surprised you haven’t been already, urban explorer,” he said.
“Tough to sneak out, but with Dad out of town,” she said, and waggled her eyebrows in an attempt to look sinister.
“That’s not a good look for you.”
“Shut up. I found something out about the slaughterhouse. It’s a surprise.”
Like the power plant, the slaughterhouse had been the subject of debate for years; Chris’s father had been one of the people leading the charge to have it torn down. There was a vocal group in town who argued for preserving it somehow. It dated back to the 1880’s and nearly everyone in town had a relative who’d worked there in the hundred years of its existence.
Chris didn’t know why you’d want to preserve buildings that still carried a faint whiff of blood and shit, but people got crazy about historic preservation.
There were a series of massive brick buildings at the center of the property. There were metal chutes leading into the building, the death walk for thousands of cattle. Rotting fences had formed the animal pens, and those seem to go on forever. A six-foot fence surrounded the entire property.
“Creepy, right?” Hope whispered, taking the pack off of her shoulder. She unzipped it and took out two flashlights, one red, one blue. She handed Chris the blue one.
He clicked it on. They crossed the parking lot and reached the fence.
“There’s a section cut in the fence,” Hope said.
“Thought you were never up here,” he said.
“Well, I checked it out. You didn’t think I’d stay completely away, did you?” Hope said.
Hope felt around the fence and pulled back a section where the fence had been cut. She peeled it back far enough for them to slip through. She went first, sliding in sideways, and Chris followed.
They approached the first building, walking parallel to one of the cattle chutes. Someone had dumped some old tires in one of them.
Hope hopped over the half wall and dropped into the chute.
“Hey. Be careful,” Chris said.
“Quit worrying, old lady.”
She followed the chute, and before she could get too far, Chris hopped over and dropped down. The place was creepy, and he imagined how the animals must’ve felt going to their doom, where they’d be smashed over the head or have their throats cut. “Where’s this go?”
“The door where the cattle went in is covered with loose plywood. Jonah White told me that. He comes up here to smoke weed,” Hope said.
“White’s a burnout. Hope he’s right.”
They came to the piece of plywood and Hope set her flashlight down. She wiggled her fingers between the brick and the plywood, gave it a tug. “Help me, huh?”
Chris set his flashlight down as well. He gripped the plywood and pulled. It came loose without much of a struggle. The chute had been cut away to allow the plywood to cover the opening.
Chris picked his flashlight up and shined it inside. The chute continued beyond the wall, a dormant conveyor belt on the floor. They followed it and at the end, climbed through an opening. Chris looked around and saw huge machines. There were hoo
ks hanging on chains overhead. The floor was stained with brownish remnants of blood.
“I know they were animals, but this is kinda creepy,” Chris said.
Hope said, “They used to have guys spraying the floor with hoses. My grandfather worked here before the war. Some days they couldn’t keep up with the blood.”
“Nasty.”
“Think of that next time you have a burger,” Hope said.
“I will, then I’ll have a second burger.”
“C’mon, I think I know where I’m going.”
He followed Hope across the killing floor and they found a metal stairwell surrounded by iron railings. A chain was draped across, as if that would keep out explorers. Hope ducked under the chain and it swung, squeaking in the empty building.
“Do you think you should go down there?”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” she said.
He shook his head. There was no changing Hope’s mind once she was set on something. “At least tell me what we’re looking for.”
“A tunnel. My grandfather mentioned it. The workers weren’t allowed to go near it, but it’s there.”
She descended into the darkness, her flashlight bobbing. He ducked under the chain and followed her down the steps. His skin broke into goosebumps. He was cold, but it also felt like a hundred spiders were dancing up his spine.
They came to a landing, turned, and descended a second set of stairs.
A grease-smudged sign on the wall read: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
They followed a long corridor. Overhead were pipes and wires, spider and cobwebs crisscrossing between them. He saw more than his share of dead rats. And a dead cat, its pink guts exposed and glistening.
Hope made a few turns and they ended up in a room with a large boiler at the center. He swung the beam around the room and saw something piled in the corner. It looked like old rags and as he drew closer, Chris realized they were clothes. There was a pair of men’s running shorts and an Under Armour t-shirt.
They were wet and dark. Along with the running gear were two more t-shirts. One of them said Star Wars on it. They, too were wet. He spotted liquid pooling on the floor beneath the clothes; it was blood. No doubt.
“Hope, we need to get the fuck out of here,” Chris said.
“What’s wrong? Look! I found the door,” she said.
“There’s bloody clothes over here.”
He heard rapping on a steel door. He wished she’d quit screwing around. This was serious.
“I hear something on the other side,” Hope said.
“Come here and see this.”
A moment later, she appeared at his side and put her beam on the bloodied clothes. The sparkle that had been in her eye turned into a flat glaze. “Omigod, they’re soaked with blood.”
“I told you,” Chris said. “What’s on the other side of the door?”
“I thought I heard footsteps from behind the door,” she said.
“We’re getting out of here and calling the cops,” Chris said.
“I felt like someone was listening behind the door,” Hope said.
“Where does it go?” Chris said.
“To the house. His house. It runs under the woods. There used to be a hotel here. The tunnel connected the hotel laundry and the main building. It burned. The Wilson Meat Packing people bought the land on this end. The house was built where the hotel laundry used to be.”
Chris said, “Pretty long damned tunnel.”
“I’ve seen enough, let’s go.”
They made their way to the stairs and climbed back up. A few times Chris swore he heard someone following. They sounded like they were hanging back, just enough to tail Chris and Hope, but not enough to be heard. “I think someone’s following.”
“I hear it too. Go faster.”
They reached the chute and climbed back inside. When they were outside, Chris took a deep breath, relishing the fresh air.
Both Hope and Chris broke into a jog and didn’t look back until the slaughterhouse was far behind.
1968 – Tom Harwell
Tom Harwell looked up at the monster. The paint, once white, had gone gray, and the gardens were turning brown. He hadn’t asked for this house, but it had been in the family for generations, and now it was his. Had been for the past five years.
Truth was, it drained him. The acres of land took days to mow. Something always needed painting. The goddamned place had six bathrooms, and two of them had leaking pipes.
He hoped to forget about the monster for the day. The town was having a picnic to cap off a week-long celebration of its 150-year anniversary. There’d been a carnival earlier in the week, which he and the girls had missed, much to the dismay of four young ladies. He’d been working at the slaughterhouse during the carnival, slicing the horns off of steers. Beat gutting them. He hated that job.
Mary, his oldest, had watched the younger ones while he was at work. Their mother had run off last year with some hippie freak named Sloan, claimed he was starting a revolution.
So now, he had to fulfill the promise of attending the picnic. He waited outside in a white cotton dress shirt and khakis. Sleeves rolled up. Freshly shaved. “Girls!”
Mary, eighteen, came down the steps first. Followed by Sara and Emily, fourteen and sixteen. Last out the door was Heidi, his nine-year-old. He allowed himself a smile; they kept him going. The money he’d inherited from his parents was getting thin, and the slaughterhouse had cut overtime. They’d been subsisting on a lot of peanut butter sandwiches supplemented by boxed mac and cheese. Mary would be getting a job come summer, working as a cashier at Tops, and part of that would help pay the bills. Maybe fix some of those leaky pipes.
The girls piled into the wagon and he got behind the wheel.
“Dad, Mary hit me,” Sara said. “Whacked me with a hair brush.”
“That’s enough.”
Mary, tall and fair, like her mother, turned and gave Sara a death stare. “She took my journal.”
“Any more of this and we stay home,” Tom said. “Understood?”
Four voices said yes in unison.
He pulled down the long driveway. It would be the last time he would see all four of his daughters alive.
Mary Harwell had broken off from her sisters, who were currently raiding the dessert table at the town picnic. Volunteers had brought trays of brownies, cookies, and pies, which were currently laid out on folding tables under the picnic shelter. Bob Voss, one of the town selectmen, was grilling dogs over charcoal. Mary wasn’t hungry, not after she’d seen Dean Cowell in his uniform. He was shipping out to Vietnam in a few weeks.
He was a Marine. Handsome as any movie star. Those two facts combined had made her stomach a nervous coil of worms.
Dean was currently talking to Reverend White, whose face right now was roughly the color of a grape tomato. For an early May Saturday, it was hot, pushing eighty already. The good reverend was sweating like a whore in church, as her dad would say.
Dean broke away from the reverend and Mary took this as her opportunity. She tossed her hair a little, smoothed her dress, and made her way over to Dean.
“I like your uniform,” Mary said.
He turned and smiled. His hair was cut close, regulation style. There were some razor bumps on his scalp, but nothing could take away from how handsome he was. He smiled at Mary and she nearly turned into a puddle.
“Hey Mary, thanks. I like your dress.”
“It’s nothing fancy.”
“Hot, isn’t it?” he said.
“I’m kind of sweaty,” she said, instantly realizing how dumb that sounded. “That sounded stupid.”
“You couldn’t possibly sound stupid. Don’t worry, I’m way sweatier in this uniform,” he said and smiled again.
She liked him for putting her at ease. Some boys would’ve made a crude joke about B.O. “What’s the Marines like?”
“Lots of push-ups and running. The DIs scream. It’s hot as hell at Parris Is
land.”
“Well be careful over there,” she said.
“I will. You wanna get some lemonade with me?” Dean said.
She did. “Sounds good.”
As they made their way over to the picnic shelter, she realized her sisters were not there. She didn’t pay it much thought. She was focused on Dean. They were probably running down one of the trails in the town park, chasing each other. If they messed up their good clothes, Dad was going to kill them.
She glanced over and saw Dad leaning against a tree in the shade. He was sipping a drink. He didn’t talk a whole lot these days, not since their mom had run off. As two church ladies in flowered dresses passed, Dad managed a nod. One of them was Linda Gleed, who she thought might have an eye on her dad. If she did, Dad was oblivious.
Dean got them lemonades and she sipped the lukewarm, too-tart concoction, trying not to pucker up. Dean was telling her more about boot camp and that he was nervous about going to Vietnam.
They sipped their drinks for a bit, standing in silence, but it didn’t feel awkward to her.
“I don’t ship out for two weeks. Would you like to see a movie next Saturday?”
“I’d like that.”
“Can I call you?” he said.
She noticed that he’d flushed a bit, and she felt relieved; she wasn’t the only one whose nerves were lit like a sparkler. “Sure. Let me find something to write my number down with.”
“Mary,” she heard her father say. He was standing just outside the picnic shelter.
“Dad, this is Dean.”
“Nice to meet you sir,” Dean said, offering his hand.
Dad shook his hand and muttered something. “Have you seen your sisters?”
“They’re probably playing in the woods.”
“Go find them please. Take soldier boy here with you.”
Dean said, “We’ll find them sir.”
Dad gave him a salute, something Mary didn’t care for, but Dean didn’t seem to take offense.
