Dean's hand was shaking so badly that his soup was splattering the table.
“Every last bit, boy. I told you. We don't waste ‘round here.” Jeb said. “And that goes for the rest of you too! It's almost like you don't want any dessert!”
Patrick thought that the last thing he wanted was any kind of food these people had to offer. Grudgingly, he finished his meal with the rest of them.
Grandpa stood up and surveyed the room. “Jeb, you've really made a mess, boy.”
“Yes, sir,” Jeb said. “Hope it didn't ruin your appetite.”
They both laughed.
Elmer arrived at the Early County Sheriff's office in the dead of night. The violent, ugly weather seemed to have followed him. Sitting in the car, Elmer's hands were shaking. He knew what was coming, and he knew what had already happened. That was how things always were for Elmer, and nobody ever believed him… except for a strange old man in a hospital room.
Elmer watched the wiper blades dodge tediously from left to right and back to left. There, beyond the windshield, was a man in the building, sitting at a desk. He took a deep breath and turned off the ignition.
Elmer had parked directly in front of the small building, but he still managed to get soaked on the way to the front door. A small bell chimed to announce his entrance.
Clearly startled, the deputy set down his magazine and removed his feet from the top of his desk. “C-can I help you, son?” He stood up, straightening his uniform.
“I need to speak with the Sheriff. It's an emergency.” The rain came down harder.
“Well, now. Sheriff Stanton is out right at the moment. What can I do for ya? Name's Deputy Benny Dumear.” He held out his hand.
“I'm sorry, sir,” Elmer said. “But this isn't your burden. Sheriff Stanton needs to hear what I have to say.”
Benny began to protest but when he saw the headlights approaching outside, he realized that the sheriff had returned. “You got your wish, kid.” He ambled over to the coffee maker and turned it on
The door chimed again and in walked a rugged man, an old-school type of sheriff, spurs and the like.
“Kid’s here to see you, Paul. I wasn't good enough,” Benny said, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
The sheriff glanced at Elmer. “Damn, you're tall. You play basketball?”
“No, sir.”
“Shame. You might wanna think about it. Could be a real opportunity. I mean, if I was in your shoes—”
“Sir. People are going to die.”
Stanton patted the chair across from his desk. “All right, you've got my attention.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I really hate the term “preachy” to describe me, or anything I say or stand for. I didn't pick this life or these circumstances. Trust me when I tell you that I am the last person who would ever be expected to change his ways. But things happen to people. Sometimes, there just isn't a reason for violence. It's something I live with, thinking about human nature. Thinking about my Southern Baptist upbringing. I sit down with nothing but my thoughts, and I think, are we all created equal, really? Because I don't know how that works. What does it mean to be created equal when you have babies born without eyesight or children who get cancer?
I think what I'm saying, is that something wasn't right with those folks out in those woods. And I just can't comprehend how it could go on for so long. I can't accept it. Those people out there, they were created equal to you and me, right? Were they really all playing with a full deck? What is it about that thought that bugs me so much, that I'm supposed to believe that I am capable of such heinous crimes as a human being, while still being considered “above” other animals?
The rain dripped and trickled down through the roof of the hellish shack in the woods. Dean had turned a cold shade of blue, and Patrick, John, and Sam were having their own panic attacks.
“You know what,” Jeb said. “I'm just gonna say it, Pa. I don't think these boys deserve any dessert. That ain’t how I was raised, getting awarded for being an asshole.”
Pa slammed his fists on the table and let out a croaky laugh. “No, Jeb. I don't reckon they do deserve anything sweet. Take 'em to the storage area. Any of 'em tries anything stupid, kill 'em. I think they know you're serious though.” He eyed Dean's leg.
Dean’s leg.
It lay there on the table, blood still spurting from the stump onto the vomit-covered surface.
“Alright, boys. You heard Pa. Getcha asses up now, let’s go!” Jeb said, wiping his nose on his stained sleeve.
Stumbling, Patrick, Sam, and John got to their feet. Dean was hunched over the table, unmoving. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
Jeb came across the room so fast that Sam let out a small gasp. Grabbing Dean by the back of the neck, he yanked his head up and stared into the boy’s eyes. “What did you say, nigger?”
Defiant, Dean looked at Jeb. The blood draining from his face, the way his body was cold and shaking, Dean didn’t feel human. There were so many things going through his mind at that point, and as his friends all stood around and watched the exchange, completely powerless, Dean knew they were the best people he’d ever met.
Dean, considering Jeb’s hard face, he said, “I said, fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me.”
Jeb took a step back. Turning, he eyed Grandpa, who still sat in his large chair on the other side of the room. “They don’t always cooperate, Jeb. You know that. Don’t take it so hard. But I told you what had to be done.”
“No!” Patrick said. “Dean, listen… Dean. Just come with us, we’ll help you up, come on.”
Dean didn’t reply for a moment. A tear trickled down his face. “I can't do it, Patrick. I won't. Don't you see what's going on? We fucked up coming out here. I'm sorry, but I won't give them the satisfaction.”
Jeb stepped toward Dean slowly, seeming to size him up. “It’s unfortunate that you don’t want to comply,” he said. “Because Pa means what he says when he tells me to do something.”
“Dean, come on!” shouted John.
“Shut up!” Jeb snarled. “It’s too late for him. And if any of you try to interfere, you’ll be next.”
Dean looked up at the mountain of a man with defiance, but he didn’t move.
Jeb closed his hands around the boy’s throat and slammed him into the kitchen wall. His friends screamed, and Patrick—ignoring the warning—bolted across the room in an attempt to claw the man off Dean, but Jeb backhanded him so hard that he collapsed onto the floor.
Dean’s eyes were bulging in his head. His remaining leg kicked in the air a foot above the ground.
“That’s right,” Jeb said. “Try to kick, little piggy. Try to fight it.”
Dean’s arms flailed wildly but he couldn’t seem to fight back. John pulled Patrick up and thought, We could just leave right now. We could just run out the door and keep running forever.
But they didn’t run. They wanted to help their friend but were unable to do a thing. Frozen in fear, they heard Dean’s windpipe get crushed.
“I gotta say, kid, whoever put you up to this must really hate me,” Stanton said as Elmer Davis finished his story.
The storm outside had calmed, and Elmer sat staring out the window in silence. He watched the rain roll down the glass before answering, “I don't know what you mean, sir.”
“Yeah,” he said. “’Course. No, it's not the first time someone has tried to tell me some stories about the Goatman, in case you were wondering. It's not funny, kid. But I have to give it to you, you've got balls coming in here like you did. Most people just call.”
Elmer sat forward in his chair. “What is the Goatman?”
“Listen—”
“No, you listen. I don't know what you think I'm talking about, or what kind of game you think this is, but I'm not making up lies here. And I'm not going to have you blow me off.”
Stanton crossed his hands and pursed his lips.
The phone rang, and Benny answere
d it.
He looked down at his desk. There was the notepad he had taken when he talked to Floyd at the gas station. “Could you give me a description of the kids?” he asked Elmer.
“I told you their names. I know what they look like.”
“Well?”
“There's five of them. Three white guys, average build. One is half-black, half-Asian. All about my age. There's also a younger one; he's white too.”
He looked down at his notepad again. Five? Floyd had only mentioned four kids. Sure, he had said one was mixed, but he had only mentioned four. He looked at Elmer. “Okay,” he said. “Well, tell me what you suggest I do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
After watching Dean's lifeless body drop to the floor, they were herded down into the cellar where the door was locked with a chain. Patrick, John, and Sam stood motionless.
“We just watched our friend die,” John said, the words were cold in his mouth.
Sam was crying.
“Yeah,” Patrick said. “We did.” The shock gripped him like an anaconda squeezing the life out of a rodent. He found it hard to breathe.
“We're going to die,” Sam said.
“No,” Patrick said, finding his breath. “No, we have to find a way out. We're smarter than they are.”
“Are we?” John asked. “Because we just stood and watched our best friend get murdered. We didn't even try…” He broke off in tears.
“We did try. You know it,” he said.
He began feeling his way around in the dark. The floor was dirt; there were no tools or weapons hanging on the walls, nothing of any use to them anywhere. He walked up the stairs to the cellar door. He shook it, but it wouldn't budge. The chains rattled. He sat down on the cellar floor next to his brother and tried to think.
Benny got off the phone and told Stanton that he was heading to check on an accident scene.
“Who called it in?” Stanton asked.
“Some guy said he thought he saw a car behind him spin out of control. Says he wasn't really sure ‘cause it was raining so hard. That's why he didn't stop, he says.”
Stanton let out a small sarcastic laugh, “Let me know if you need me.”
The deputy nodded and walked out into the rain.
Turning the sheriff’s attention back to the problem, Elmer said, “What I'd suggest you do is go find these kids before they're all dead.”
Stanton sighed and stood up from his desk. Walking to the coffee-maker, he asked, “Do you want something to drink?”
Elmer was furious. “No, I would not like something to drink. What do I have to do to get you to listen to me?”
“Calm your horses, kid. I'm getting something for the road. And you're coming with me. We're going to go catch the boogeyman.”
Deputy Benny Dumear turned on the radio in his cruiser as he was leaving the station. Sighing, he put the car in reverse. Accidents were becoming increasingly frequent in the area, and he was usually the one who had to work them. He didn't even ask anymore. But tonight, he didn't mind it so much. He'd rather be out doing something than sitting at the station and listening to some lunatic kid ramble on.
The town was dead at this hour, not that it was ever what you could call alive and jumping, but his drive was a short one with the lack of traffic. The windshield wiper blades worked furiously, but the visibility was still poor. With one hand on the wheel, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out his secret pack of Marlboro reds. If his wife, Melissa, ever discovered that he had been smoking again, she'd kill him. He'd like to think that the job put so much stress on him that he deserved a little break, but he knew she was right. Even so, he lit the cigarette and inhaled.
The cruiser breached a hill, and Benny saw tail lights through the sheet of water on his windshield. Flicking the headlight beams to high, he slowed the car and peered out through the glass. A blue Pontiac Sunbird sat in the ditch. A sign reading Speed Limit 40 had been knocked almost completely over, bent at its base where the car had struck it.
He parked his car on the other side of the sign and turned on his flashers. Opening his door, he threw his cigarette into the ditch and stepped out. The rain pelted his clothes and water ran in a stream from the brim of his hat. He pulled his flashlight from its holster and shined it at the car.
“Hello?” he called. “Is anyone hurt?”
Stanton let Elmer sit in the front with him. He was starting to think the kid might not be lying to him. That didn't mean he wasn't a loony, but he was pretty sure Elmer at least believed what he was saying was true.
“So,” he said, “where to?”
Elmer shifted in his seat. “I don't know,” he said, looking at the floorboard. “The woods. They're in the woods somewhere.”
“Well that sure narrows it down.”
Elmer reached for the door handle. “You know what? I can go find someone else who actually wants to do the right thing. I don't have to listen to you belittle me. This isn't funny.”
“Okay, okay, I know where the campground is. We'll start there.”
“Thank you.”
“I said, is there anyone there?” Benny called again as he approached the Sunbird. The engine was dead, but the car still had power. The cool rain fell hard on the sweltering ground, and steam billowed around the vehicle. He shined the flashlight into the backseat. There was some blood spatter—not a lot, just a drop here and there.
He called out again, “I’m here to help you.”
Please let it not be too bad, he prayed. He’d seen too many gruesome scenes, and his stomach wasn’t feeling exactly fantastic.
Rain had begun to pool in his shoes, soaking his socks miserably. A bird could have taken a bath in the brim of his hat. He couldn’t see more than a foot in front of his face through the downpour. A crashing came from the tree line, reminding him of deer hunting with his dad.
What spooked you? he wondered
He approached the driver door. “Damn it!” he yelled as his foot sunk deep into the mud, causing him to drop the flashlight. He couldn’t see it, but he could hear it rolling down into the ditch. “Shit.”
His leg had sunk nearly to the knee in the mud, and he was trying his hardest to work his leg free, cursing and mumbling.
More tree limbs snapped in the distance.
He couldn’t see anything in the darkness aside from a yellow flashing on the ground from the rear of the vehicle.
“Wh-who’s there?” he called.
All he heard was the sound of the rain.
He stared into the darkness, trying to let his eyes adjust. Placing his hands on the ground for support, he pulled on his left leg again, harder this time. The hole seemed to be eating his foot. Bones cracked and popped in his ankle as he repeatedly yanked on it. Finally, with much effort, his foot was extracted from the hole, but the mud had sucked off his shoe and he could already feel the cold water soaking his sock. He stumbled forward from the force of his leg being released, slamming his face into the driver door of the wrecked car. As blood ran in rivulets from his nose, he screamed in pain. His vision was shaky, and he tried to stand, using the car for support.
When he finally clambered to his feet again, he looked like he had just emerged from the Black Lagoon. Mud caked his uniform, blood ran from his face, and he was missing a shoe. Attempting to regain his composure, he looked into the driver’s window. No one was in the vehicle—at least not that he could see. He cursed himself for dropping the flashlight and opened the door.
Carefully, he patted the driver’s seat and made sure nothing—and no one—was in it. He sat in the car and felt for the dome light. He fumbled in the darkness, but finally, his fingers found the switch and he turned on the light, almost screaming when he saw all the blood.
He was sitting in it. The steering wheel was covered in it. It even coated the beer cans littering the floorboard.
“Jesus Christ,” he gasped. “What the hell happened here?”
He decided to search the area more thor
oughly, wondering if he was going to need to call an ambulance after all. None of the windows were broken, the windshield was intact, nobody had been ejected from the vehicle. Feeling stupid, he stepped out into the mud again with his shoeless foot first. He was starting to get the feeling that he shouldn’t have touched anything at the scene.
“Hello?” he called. “Hello? I’m Deputy Dumear. I’m here to help.”
Suddenly, a high-pitched whine like a distressed animal made him slowly turn and look over his shoulder to see a creature—no, a man—kneeling in front of him on all fours. The man wore multiple pelts crudely stitched together and draped over his slumped frame. A leather mask covered his face with fur stitched on it in ragged snatches. His eyes peered through the crude eyeholes. And, on top of his head, were horns.
“Listen,” he said, holding his hands up. “Listen, now, I don’t want any part of this. Okay, I mean, listen. You can go on now. I didn’t see anything, okay?” He swallowed hard; his last cigarette tasted terrible in his mouth.
The Goatman blinked slowly. He lowered his head and bleated.
He felt warm urine trickle down his leg. His hand reached for his gun slowly. The Goatman’s head and eyes followed his hand.
“Alright now, you be good now. Okay, I’m just—” the Goatman lowered his head and rammed Benny, slamming him into the car door. He fought to hold the horns away from his belly with one hand while his other hand—the hand that was reaching for the gun—was pinned against the side of the car by a hooved hand. He tried again to push the monster off him, but the beast was just too strong for him.
Slowly, the Goatman lowered his head further, as if bowing for prayer. Benny still struggled. “Please,” he begged. “Please, I have three kids. And a…” The Goatman brought his head back up with such force that the deputy’s abdomen was torn wide open, his insides foaming from his gaping belly. He squealed like a pig as blood poured from his mouth and nose. Dropping his limp corpse to the ground, the Goatman returned to the woods.
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