Hallowed Horror

by Mark Tufo

“Okay.” Bridger motioned toward the screens. “How’s it look on the monitors?”

  Maria finished scooping up the larger chunks and slipped out of the room. Bridger stepped in and Jerrod shrugged. “Staring at them is making my eyes cross.”

  “Take a break. The motion detectors are active. The sensors are all on. I’ve got the system set to ping me if anything goes off.” He held up his smart phone.

  Jerrod sighed. “Fine. I’ll be in my study.”

  “Be sure and pull the blinds.” Bobby glanced at the monitors.

  Jerrod shot him a dirty look as he left the safe room. It was just a few feet down the hall from his study. If anything truly went to hell, he could be back in there so fast that any bad guys would have to be quick to get the drop on him. He felt the risk was worth it as he stepped into his favorite room in the house. He still couldn’t help but feel the loss of his memorabilia though as he glanced at his collection. The self-righteous bastards had no right to barge into his home and steal what was rightfully his. He HAD paid for those items, after all.

  He had to force himself NOT to look at the blank spots in the case as he took his favorite chair behind his desk. Jerrod sat back and tried to relax. His nerves were shot and he felt it to his core. That’s the only thing that could explain the tricks his mind was playing on him. He knew he wasn’t losing his marbles. Nobody in his family had ever lost their marbles; so he couldn’t be.

  He leaned over and grabbed the scotch and poured three fingers into the crystal glass. The first drink was always a sip to prep the tongue and palate. He breathed in the vapors and the smoky flavor. Then he tilted the glass back and downed the drink, letting the amber liquid burn its way down his throat and into his gullet. It was time to numb his mind of horrible thoughts.

  36

  As the deputies and the researchers came straggling into the sheriff’s office, Scott was finally shutting down and about to leave. His conversation with Doc ran longer than he had expected and he was more than ready to call it a night, but seeing what was left of his night crew and Constable Gregory, he decided to stay and hear what the hell happened. Jon helped a limping Eckerson walk in and to his desk where he promptly fell into his chair.

  “Are you okay, Jeff?” Scott approached him slowly.

  “Just a bad sprain,” he replied. Brenda rushed to the coffee mess and started scooping ice into a plastic bag to help reduce the swelling for him. “I almost wish it had broken though. It would heal faster.”

  “So what the hell happened out there?” Scott asked.

  Foo gave him a sly grin and tossed something at him. Scott fumbled to grab it and came up with a heavy duty SanDisk Memory Card from one of the mobile video units that they had installed in every police car.

  “You wanted evidence of a ghost. There it is.”

  “What?” Scott stared at the memory card. “How?”

  Justin patted Scott’s shoulder. “Jon was smart enough to turn on the video from his truck while we were out there.”

  “Caught everything on it,” Denise groaned as she sat in her chair. The sleeve to her uniform torn at the shoulder. “I feel like I was thrown into a building.”

  “That’s because you were,” Sanders said.

  “Oh. Yeah. I forgot.” Denise grinned. “Scott, I either want a raise or a uniform allowance. Chasing crack heads is one thing, chasing ghosts is another.”

  Ben poured a cup of coffee and leaned against the wall. He eyed Dr. Whynot, “I know I’m too old for this shit, but I don’t see how you academic types do this.”

  Calvin shook his head. “Believe me, this isn’t the norm.” He turned to Ginger. “Do you want to go get your arm checked out?”

  “Not right now,” she said softly. “It’s really sore, but it doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as it did. She did a good job with it.”

  Denise turned to her. “It’s in place, but you’re going to be prone to dislocating that same shoulder from now on. You really should have physical therapy to strengthen the connecting tissues.”

  “I’ll see a doctor in the morning.” She carefully stretched and yawned. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

  “Wait? So it’s over?” Scott asked. “You’re telling me that it really was a ghost?”

  “Watch the video,” Jon said. “Jeff reviewed part of it on the way over here, and it was all captured.”

  “You can see me do daredevil stunts like you never thought possible. I can fly!” Jeff grinned. “Without a cape, too.”

  “I flew too,” Justin said.

  “I did it first,” Ben countered.

  “Yours didn’t count. Nobody was watching you,” Jeff said. “Besides, you just flew to the top of the church. I flew plumb out to the pasture.”

  “I flew further than all of you,” Justin whined. “Not to mention, the damned bois d’ arc tree…” he whined, showing off his arms and pointing to the deep scratch on his face.

  “Oh, you’re such a baby,” Jeff said. “You can still walk.”

  “Stop it!” Scott yelled. “I need details.”

  Ben jumped slightly when his phone vibrated. He pulled it out to see the missed call and message waiting. He checked the number and saw that it was Ms. Mattox and almost dismissed it, but decided to check the message anyway. Stepping into the interrogation room while the others filled Scott in, he held down the ‘1’ button for his phone to autodial his voicemail. He listened to the brief message, concern worrying his face.

  Checking the time stamp on the call, he checked his watch. Nearly an hour had passed. He debated whether to call her back at such a late hour…then pressed redial.

  *****

  Jerrod Miller poured another scotch, his eyes having difficulty focusing as he sloshed the expensive single malt across the top of his desk. He set the crystal decanter down a bit too hard and chuckled as he attempted to stab the matching stopper into the top and missed too many times. Shaking his head slightly, he knew that he was quickly approaching being drunk, but he didn’t care. He had a madman trying to kill him, a madman under his roof supposedly trying to protect him, the police had become the robbers and had stolen his property right out from under his nose while he sat there and watched them, and now it felt like he was losing his fucking mind. He needed to get falling down, slobbering, shit-faced schnockered.

  Miller leaned back in his chair and held the cut crystal glass up to his face and stared at the liquid inside. “Why can’t life be more fair?” He spun his chair around and stared into the cabinet where his missing pieces were. “It’s not right.”

  He lifted the glass to his mouth and took a sloppy gulp. He set the glass down and tried to stand up. It took a little bit longer than he expected, but he was able to finally get to his feet.

  “Oh, I feel good…but I feel like shit.” He looked around the study. “The room is…wonky.” He shook his head again trying to clear it. “I know I should be buzzin’ but I didn’t drink that much…” he trailed off as he turned and stared at the sliding glass door. He saw his own reflection shift shapes like a carnival mirror and he tilted his head.

  Why isn’t the rest of the room changing like my reflection is?

  Jerrod stepped closer and stared at his reflection and watched his features come into focus. He stared at the image staring back at him, his eyes scanning his own features. He lifted his hand to the glass and when he touched the reflection of his face, the flesh melted from his reflection like wax from a candle when a torch is applied. To his credit, he didn’t run or scream; nor did he hide from the image before him, rather he stood and watched as the flesh, muscle, blood and tendon melted from his reflection, leaving nothing but the skull smiling back at him, his gold crown standing out amongst his white teeth.

  “No, this can’t be real.”

  Fear ran through him, but it was fear of losing his mind. With all of the strange events happening lately, he didn’t want to lose his mind. He liked having his wits about him. It made him who he was, and even though he knew he was
an ass, he liked who he was. He wouldn’t change who he was if he could because then he wouldn’t be him. He’d be somebody else. You can’t be true to yourself if you’re acting like somebody else. But then he had another thought, What if I’m NOT crazy?

  Jerrod let out the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding and with morbid curiosity turned his head slightly from side to side, his eyes scanning the skull in the glass door. When he lifted his gaze to the black dead sockets that once held his eyes, they began to glow red. The red fire growing in intensity until he stepped back and inhaled sharply to scream…but the scream never came.

  *****

  Maria sat in her room and wept. She didn’t know why she felt such deep sorrow, but somehow she knew that everything was coming to a head. She couldn’t put her finger on any one thing that gave her a reason to feel such a way, but it was as tangible as the air she breathed. She knew that very soon her entire life would be turned upside down and she feared it would be as heartbreaking as when she lost her husband.

  She debated calling her son, but what would she say that he wouldn’t think his mama was crazy? She tried to get control of this sea of emotions but the turmoil was too much. She literally felt lost as she rocked back and forth, wrapping her arms tighter and tighter around herself.

  Between the sobs, she would listen and prayed that she wouldn’t hear anything, although she knew that it would not be pleasant when it came. The anger, the pure rage that was directed toward Mr. Miller would be spilled out upon this house in ways that she had only read about in the Bible. She had begged to leave, but was assured she would not be involved, her presence was a requirement somehow. She need only stay in her room and keep the door locked.

  So she sat.

  And cried.

  And prayed.

  *****

  Colonel Murphey sat alone in his house, staring through the darkened interior to the entry of his living room where he was certain the red eyed demon was going to come back for him. He had dared to mention it to a trusted colleague and now, he felt in the very marrow of his bones, that it was on its way to finish him off. He could only imagine what horrors awaited him before the creature with hellfire eyes dragged him kicking and screaming to the depths of hell. And so he sat trembling in the dark, pistol in hand, eyes glued to the entryway.

  A noise had him jumping in his seat, hands jerkily thrusting the pistol out towards the sound. With adrenaline pumping and sweat popping out on his forehead, he found his breath catching in his chest. “Who’s there?” he shouted.

  He continued to stare toward the source of the sound, afraid to blink. Slowly he scanned to either side of the area, the barrel of the pistol shaking as waved it back and forth. Exhaustion set in and the weapon felt so heavy, slowly pulling his arms down.

  A cat outside his window squalled in the night trying to attract a mate and he jerked the weapon back around to his side thrusting it at the sound. Adrenaline rushing back through his system as the sound frightened him back to attentiveness. “Go away!” he cried. “I didn’t do it!”

  Murphey shifted in his chair to better see the window, the light from the moon casting eerie grey shadows across the room. He knew that soon sunlight would crest the horizon and another day would dawn. Perhaps then he would be safe to sleep a little.

  Sleep. A foreign idea at the moment, but his body craved it, his limbs ached for it and his mind felt as though it were running through thick mud from the lack of it. Yet he couldn’t help the fear that nagged the back of his mind, warning him that if he dared close his eyes, he’d not be allowed to open them again on this plane of existence.

  He stifled the yawn that crawled up the back of his throat and settled the pistol back into his lap, his head bobbing as he struggled to keep his eyes open. Alex Murphey’s vision went fuzzy as he continued to stare at the open entrance to the living room, his legs trying to go to sleep as he shifted in his chair.

  He felt his mind slow as his energy continued to drain, his mind shutting down from lack of sleep, his body worn out from the constant adrenaline rushes then the shock of apathy afterward. The rollercoaster of fear and trying to settle down afterward was washing his body in a chemical soup that was making him physically ill. Having not eaten all day from the fear, and adding the stress of this night, had left him a total mess. His blood sugar was bottomed out, his muscles were cramping, his head was throbbing and he had acid creeping up the back of his throat. He was tempted to put the barrel into his mouth and pull the trigger himself just to avoid what he knew was coming.

  Alex felt his body shaking and it took a few moments for him to realize that he had begun crying. He wanted so badly to simply curl up into a ball and cry himself to sleep, to find a dark place to hide and wait until it was safe to come out. If his parents were still alive, he’d go to his mother and curl up in her lap, but she had been gone for years.

  A loud bang in the hallway jerked him back and he tried to snatch the pistol from his lap. He fumbled with it, finally snatching it into his trembling hands and fighting to pull it back up into his control before it hit the ground.

  “Who is that!” he screeched in terror as he swung the weapon around toward the opening to the hallway. “I swear to God, I’ll blow your fucking head off!”

  Another bang in the hallway startled him to the point that he thrust the gun toward the hallway and squeezed the trigger. The gun simply clicked without firing and he sat wide eyed, staring at the old revolver. He thrust the weapon out again and squeezed the trigger but once more he was greeted with a disheartening click. Alex screamed at the sound in the hallway as he continued to thrust the gun and repeatedly pulled the trigger—click, click, click, click, click—until he was certain he had gone through all six rounds in the chamber at least once and not a single round had fired.

  Alex’s body slumped in the chair as he cried in anguish, the revolver falling alongside him in his limp hand. “Why won’t anything work right for me?”

  It took so much more effort to lift the weapon back up and into the moonlight so that he could inspect it. He opened the cylinder to double check…yes. He had definitely loaded it. Each cartridge has a nice dimple right in the middle of the primer.

  “What are the odds of six duds?” he laughed as he cried.

  He stared down the barrel and shook his head. “What am I thinking?” Even if something had been blocking the barrel, it wouldn’t have prevented the bullet from firing. He closed the cylinder again and pulled the hammer back then squeezed the trigger.

  Click!

  “Dammit to hell!” He aimed the gun all over the room and pulled the trigger randomly, click, click, click, click, click, click. “Son of a bitch!” He held the pistol over his head to throw it then slowly lowered it, tears flowing freely as his body racked with sobs.

  Suddenly he sobered, his mind clear. He stared at the gun in his hand and he knew. He knew what would make it work. He heard something in the hall that sounded like the twinkle of something being knocked from the hall table and falling to the floor.

  Alex laughed and lifted the pistol one more time. He pressed it firmly to his temple and looked to the opening one more time. “Fuck you! Go back to hell!” he screamed as he pulled the trigger.

  Colonel Alex Murphey painted the wall of his living room with the contents of his skull, the pistol falling to his side, and clattering to the floor.

  *****

  Constable Gregory drove code three toward the Miller Ranch, Deputy Burress following him with Sheriff Evans riding shotgun. Scott stayed on the phone the entire time trying to raise the Miller Ranch, while Brenda tried every contact number they had as well.

  Every number they could find gave a tone and the message: “The number you have called has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you think you have reached this message in error, please check the number and try again.”

  Zimmer and Sanders rounded out the crew heading to the ranch in hopes of saving Jerrod Miller from what they thought
they had already dispelled and put to rest.

  While they were headed toward Miller’s, the UCLA research team was headed back to the graveyard. Deputy Foo followed closely behind them in his SUV. Eckerson insisted on riding with Foo despite his ankle being swollen to the size of a softball and feeling like someone had taken a baseball bat to it.

  They had missed something tonight, and it was the last thing any of them had ever expected.

  *****

  Bobby Bridger stepped back into the safe room and looked at the monitors. He was just about to step back out when he paused and stuck his head back in. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He walked back over to the main monitor and stared at the pictures in front of him. The cameras were all on, their pictures playing on separate screens, but…

  “Fuck me…” he swore.

  He pulled the keyboard over closer to himself and entered the keystroke commands. Suddenly the screens went blank, showing snowy static. “Son of a bitch!” He pushed away from the screens and all but ran from the safe room, pulling the .45 caliber 1911 from the small of his back.

  “Miller!” He glanced into the study and saw Miller asleep at his desk. “Dammit, Miller, wake your ass up!” he yelled as he barged into the study. He grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and all but dragged him toward the safe room. “We’ve got problems.”

  “W-what?!” Jerrod asked as he half stumbled behind the large man. “What’s going on?”

  “Cameras are down. Somebody set them on a loop. I noticed that they were on playback when the picture was still displaying twilight and it’s nearly morning outside.”

  “What does that mean?” Jerrod asked as Bridger shoved him into the safe room.

  “It means,” Bridger stated as he grabbed the vault door and begun swinging it shut, “that somebody got inside the house and reprogrammed the security system long enough to cut all the feed lines!” He slammed the heavy steel door shut.