by Jack Castle
“Really? If it’s a supply depot, how come they had over nineteen laboratories in there?” Turning back towards Hank, “The entire basement floor was essentially one big test lab.”
Hank’s interest piqued. “If that were true, why bring all these alien artifacts up to Alaska, out here in the middle of nowhere?”
The firefighter’s smiling face immediately turned serious. “In case something went wrong.”
Behind the fireman in the distance two men wearing scuba gear exited the building. Jeb Sutton, who was already standing outside, greeted them. One of the divers removed a wet revolver and flashlight from his mesh sack. Hank could just barely make out the diver’s words over the sound of the idling trucks. “We didn’t find any victims in the pool and we didn’t find any severed heads.”
Jeb, silent, just kept nodding. Every once in awhile they’d all look over at Hank but he could only hear snippets of their conversation. At one point, he did hear Jeb tell them, “I don’t know, he seems like a pretty solid guy to me. He certainly handled himself pretty well in there when Wanda came at him with the knife.”
This seemed to satisfy the divers and Hank heard one of them say, “Okay, Jeb. We’ll keep searching. Here’s his gun.” The older diver, the one with a gray mustache and salt-and-pepper crew cut, dropped it into a Ziploc bag.
The younger of the two divers added, “Yeah. He might want to clean it.”
No one laughed. The older diver told him, “Get back in the pool, Michael.”
After the divers walked back into the building Jeb joined him at the back of the ambulance.
“Well?” Hank asked, his tone more impatient than he intended.
“Well … they didn’t find your attacker in the pool. And they didn’t find any body parts either.”
“What about footprints leading out of the pool?”
Jeb shook his head. “Only yours.”
“What about blood in the doorway? The severed head was dripping.”
Jeb stared at him, probably searching for a measuring rod to gauge his sanity. “Sorry Hank. Other than poor Wanda. They didn’t find anything you described.”
Now Hank stood to face him. “Now Jeb, I know what I saw. When I got out I probably sloshed a lot of water on the floor but I remember the head in the doorway. Maybe the guy moved it when he left? Did they check everywhere?”
“Yeah Hank. They did.”
“No blood at all? Anywhere? How is that possible?”
Jeb seemed to consider a moment before answering. Then he sighed. “I believe that you believe you saw it.” Jeb hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Do you think maybe it’s possible you just slipped by the pool, fell in and hit your head or something? I mean, after what happened with Wanda upstairs, and then falling in that mess; I know I’d be freaked out.”
Hank stared at him evenly. “I don’t exactly freak out that easily.”
Jeb sighed a second time and Hank watched goosebumps rise on his arms — he’d abandoned the parka he’d worn as it had been soaked in Wanda’s blood, and for all the sun out here, Hank agreed, there was definitely a chill in the air. “Yeah, that’s what I figured too.” Jeb said softly, “As much as I’d prefer to think you’re crazy, the problem is, I do believe you, which means we got ourselves one crazy son-of-a-bitch on the loose.”
“What about the woman? She didn’t look homeless to me.”
“Wanda? She’s a bit eccentric, and a recluse sometimes but certainly not homeless. She married a fisherman about twenty years back. The old salt went down on his boat doing what he loves three seasons ago, but his insurance policy left her quite the inheritance.” Jeb kicked a rock with the toe of his shoe. “Real shame the ole’ girl ended up like that.”
Hank watched two State Troopers leave the building and head for their respective patrol vehicles. Clearly the search was winding down and more urgent matters needed tending too.
“What was she talking about, anyway?” Hank struggled to recall. He then snapped his fingers. “Something about little doctors?”
“Yeah, that’s what I heard, too,” Jeb answered, then noticed the troopers departing. “Closest thing we have to a doctor around here is ole Doc Clemens, but small he ain’t.”
“Any idea of what she was talking about then?”
Jeb started to say something then stopped. Realizing Hank was still staring, he answered, “Not a one.”
“You know one thing you never told me. What happened to the Rakewell building? Why was it abandoned in the first place?”
“Apart from the war being over? Dunno. One day the townsfolk woke up and found the place empty. Everyone had simply left. Near as anyone could figure, they all left during the night. A few days later a cargo ship arrived, packed up everything and shipped it all outta here.”
Hank could tell Jeb knew more than that but decided not to press him for now. He made a mental note to follow up on the young fireman’s conspiracy theory. Maybe Wanda wasn’t seeing doctors but maybe left over signs of the scientists? His mind pictured lab coats hanging on long dead coat hooks, or photos of the original staff.
Interrupting his trip down alien conspiracy lane, Jeb asked, “Why don’t you have Ophy give you a ride home? If you like, I can pick you up tomorrow morning and you can fill out your report then.”
“Sounds good but I think I’ll have her drop me off at the station so I can grab my own car. Driving up to the house in an ambulance might not go over so well with Sarah and the kids.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that.”
Before the old timer could turn to walk off, Hank added, “Thanks for backing me up, Jeb.”
“Sure thing, Hank. Least I could do for the new sheriff.” Jeb smiled sadly then said a few words to Ophy out of earshot before moving back towards the building.
Ophy told him, “Be a few more minutes, hon. You might want to start thinking about what you’re gonna tell that pretty wife of yours.” And she too was gone.
What the hell am I going to tell Sarah? He wondered exactly how much he should say about his little misadventure. She and the kids loved it here; so serene, and their beautiful home with a deck overlooking the bay. It was perfect. They hadn’t even finished unpacking yet.
Really, what did happen to him anyway? Jeb said there were no traces of the naked guy. No severed head or headless corpse. Not even footprints or signs of blood. Maybe it was exactly like Jeb figured; he hit his head on the bottom of the pool and imagined the rest. As for the firefighter’s alien conspiracy theories, they were probably exactly that, goofball theories.
Great, I’m either insane or we’ve got a crazy naked killer on the loose.
As Hank waited for his ride, and debated his sanity, he couldn’t see the glowing yellowed eyes studying him intently from the shadows of the treeline. The head was at least two-and-a-half times the size of a normal head, and covered with bristling hair. Its mouth had huge fangs, each easily over three inches in length — and dripping with fresh blood.
Chapter 11
Emma’s Hotel Room
The nightmare jerked Emma awake and she jolted upright. Her head throbbed from the frantic pounding of her heart and fresh memory of the scarecrow man. She found one hand clutched so tightly to her chest it felt like a vice-grip.
This must be what a heart attack feels like.
When her heavy breathing finally began to subside she scanned the room. In the flickering light of a corner lamp, she realized she was no longer in her crappy little foreign car. Instead she was sitting up in a small modest bed with thick wooden corner posts. The room’s walls were logs, like a wooden cabin, but she suspected the dwelling was much larger than a simple cabin. Instead of a modern light there was a gas lamp on the wooden nightstand whose flame eerily glowed. In place of a television was a large ceramic water pitcher and matching wash basin perched upon a small table against the wall.
The room did not look familiar.
Where am I?
Emma threw back the moist bed sheets and discovered she wore only a nightgown right from the Victorian age. She was forced to wonder who had dressed her, and where her clothes were. Hopefully, it hadn’t been… Her mind shied away from that thought and she decided action was better than thinking about it. She swung her legs over the bed to jump to her feet, but her legs felt as heavy as lead. Taking it more slowly, she was able to stand and could already feel the blood circulating back into her legs. Her bare feet slid across a plank wood floor.
The wind outside rattled across the glass window and drew Emma’s attention. The shade was heavily stained and was accompanied with a stale unpleasant odor.
Gross.
She did not want to touch the stained curtain, but with thumb and forefinger, she carefully peeled it back from the frame. It was dark outside, but a bright orange moon shone in all its glory. She had never seen the moon so bright, almost as bright as the sun. An old-timey clock on the wall showed five-past-midnight.
“Harvest Moon,” she muttered, recalling the term from her youth on her parent’s farm.
Mesmerized by it, beautiful yet somehow scary and foreboding, she imagined that somewhere there was a wolf baying at the orange disk in the sky. She could see her room was on the second floor of an old wooden structure resembling an old hotel, but beyond that she could only see thick mounds of puffy gray and white snow dotting the tree-line of a coniferous forest.
As she stood there, dark clouds swallowed the moon and soon heavy flakes of snow drifted through the night.
Turning from the window she noticed an antique phone hanging on the wall. It was like the kind she had seen in old western movies. In fact, if she hadn’t seen them in the movies, she’d never have known how to operate the antiquated device. Moving over to it, she picked up the receiver at the end of a thin cord and held it to her ear. She spoke hesitantly into the mouthpiece. “Hello, Operator?” There wasn’t even a dial tone. She immediately felt foolish. Most likely the contraption was nothing more than a novelty item put in the guest rooms. She decided she was more comfortable with the idea that this was a hotel, a bizarrely themed one admittedly, but this definitely wasn’t the secret lair of a creepy scarecrow man.
She was about to hang up when she heard faint breathing.
“Hello?” she said tentatively.
The breathing grew in intensity, going raspy, like sandpaper grinding wood. Emma felt her anger growing and slammed the phone back down hard enough to break it. She was tired of playing games. She headed for the door.
As she approached the door, a chill washed up and down her spine. Instinctively, Emma knew with every fiber of her being she did not want to open this door. She examined the lock. The keyhole was old — the kind that used a cast iron key. She knelt down and put her eye to the hole. Part of her expected to see the same black soulless eye staring back at her as she had in the harbor bathroom, but she saw only an empty hallway.
Emma pressed on the thumb latch, and after giving a few tugs on the door, she found it locked. Anger and perhaps a bit of panic swelling in her chest, she banged the palm of her hand on the door and yelled for help but between knockings there was no answer.
“Damn it.”
She turned back to the room. She didn’t see anything capable of smashing down the heavy door. Then she realized there was a drawer in the night table that she’d missed on first inspection. For a brief moment she questioned her sanity because she was certain there had been no drawer beneath the flickering oil lamp. Opening the drawer, she found only a solitary item. An iron key. A brief maniacal laugh escaped her lips. The key certainly wasn’t one of those fancy new motel card key locks that you swiped — Nope, plain ole’ garden variety cast iron.
Her fingers fumbled for the key, and before she lost her courage, she moved back to the door and shoved it in the lock. When she turned the key she was rewarded with the sound of a heavy deadbolt sliding free. Emma froze. Another chill tap dancing on her spine. The door latch had been cold to the touch and she was suddenly aware she could see her own breath.
Before opening the door she detected a faint odor that permeated in the air. It was growing stronger and staler by the second. She caught herself leaning forward and lightly whiffing at the door like a dog sniffing out an intruder on the other side of the wooden barrier. Her mind conjured up foul images of a hospital room gone bad, — blood-stained walls, torn bodies laying about, wheelchairs and gurneys knocked over, and outdated hospital equipment, particularly an electro-shock therapy console, still humming, ready for use.
Emma quickly released the handle.
Now where the hell did she get that thought from? Why did it feel so familiar? Her hand refused to move back towards the latch.
This is crazy. I can’t stand in the room like this forever.
With a nervous laugh, Emma finally stretched out her hand towards the door once more.
When Emma finally pulled open the squeaky door, she didn’t find a hospital gone wrong, only a quaint and rustic corridor. A long blood red carpet occupied the middle of a lonely hallway, and the walls were lined with more gas lamps. She peered to the left and then to the right. To her left, a staircase, and to her right, an elevator at the end of the corridor. The elevator was a welcome sight. It was the first modern convenience she had seen since awakening. There, she was right; this was just a themed hotel.
Hotel or not, she still didn’t feel safe. No one was supposed to wake up in a strange room, wearing strange nightclothes, with no idea how they’d gotten there. Forgoing an elevator she might find herself trapped in, Emma crept silently in the direction of the staircase. She trembled as she passed closed doors. Surely the scarecrow man was behind one of those doors, and at any moment he’d fling one open and devour her soul.
Traveling down the hall, she noticed several oil paintings on the walls depicting life in an old frontier mining town; a rustic train crossing a gorge on a wooden train trestle, abandoned mining equipment overtaken by brush and growing rust, a rickety hardware store that would be at home in any ghost town. All the paintings were similar save one smaller one near the top of the staircase.
Contrary to the others, this painting depicted a scene of a mental hospital wing where haughty members of high society in period gowns were peering at half-naked and miserable patients on cruel display. A placard below it read:
“The Unfortunates”
Painted by J.P. Clemens, 1735
Again that flash of … what? Fear? Familiarity? Lost memories of what? Visiting her mother in the hospital? She couldn’t remember Paw ever taking her.
She forced herself to keep moving.
The staircase followed a curved wall to the ground floor and vanished into the winding blackness. At the moment, Emma would have killed for a flashlight. But as her eyes adjusted to the darkness she saw a flickering light below.
Her knees felt weak, and her body trembled, but she continued with her descent.
At the first landing she paused when she heard a loud CLUMP. Peering into the depths below, she could only make out what appeared to be a dimly lit hotel lobby.
Like at her bedroom door, she knew she could not remain on the landing forever.
She was about to take another step when she spied a shadow upon the curved wall. This brought her to an immediate halt.
The shape was easily recognizable. It was the scarecrow man. Although she couldn’t see him, his shadow was easily discernible: frayed straw hat, talon-like hands, impossibly lean form. He was just standing there.
She closed her eyes and took a few quick breaths. A loud CLUMP thrust her eyes back open. Still the thin shape remained, only this time his shadow was one step closer.
Stifling a cry on the back of her hand Emma turned and flew back up the stairs. She ran down the hallway. She
ran all the way back to her hotel room. Her door was locked. It must have locked behind her.
Where did I leave the damn key? Of course, in the lock inside the room.
One quick glance back at the stairs. The scarecrow man’s shadow neared the top step.
This time Emma bolted for the elevator, dim light bulbs at the end of the hallway flickered on and off as though breathing their last breath.
She pressed the first floor button and wrung her hands before the elevator doors finally parted. Flinging herself inside, she jabbed the button labeled 1. Then tap-tap-tapped the ‘close door’ button. After a painful moment, the doors finally began to move. As they did, the scarecrow man reached the top of the stairs, and his physical form stepped out of the darkness. He was much taller and leaner than before. So much so he ducked his head just to enter the hallway. His hat scraped the ceiling as he lunged towards her in long, purposeful strides. The gas lamps whiffed out behind him as he passed, his long outstretched arms filling the entire hallway, his claws scratching the walls as he came. As he grew closer and closer she got a look at his disfigured burlap face — his eyes black voids, completely soulless. He opened his jagged mouth and uttered a scream reminiscent of a hog in a slaughterhouse.
Oh God. Oh God… Emma retreated until she felt the elevator wall against her back.
The doors closed. Something slammed into them with a loud THUD causing her to jump. The elevator hummed, and after a slight jolt, began its descent.
As the elevator car reached the first floor, she shrank into the corner, her heart pounding her ribs as she succumbed to the fear that the scarecrow man would be waiting for her when the doors slid open.
As it turned out, what lay beyond the doors was much, much worse.
The elevator did not stop on the first floor but continued its descent to a third choice, “B”, for basement. Emma cried no, and tapped the 1 button repeatedly. The “B” above the door flickered on as the elevator slowed to a stop.
