Maddie Ann s Playground

by Mackenzie Drew

  He fell to his knees and raked his nails through the damp earth, forcing his stiff fingers to get a grip on the keys. Like staccato punctuation marks to terror, he jumped in the car, shoved the key in the ignition, and then started the engine. He put it in gear, made a U-turn in the road, and slung gravel as he shot out of there like a lunatic. Oh my God, what…what the hell just happened? he questioned, doing 90 on the turnpike. Tom shivered with shock. He knew no one would believe him. Jake was going to laugh his ass off. Suddenly and with perfect clarity, Tom understood what had happened to those six girls. He needed more information about the cemetery, something that could reveal its origins. He headed for the library, where he could look at old documents and read the history of this evil place.

  Wiping his face with his hand, he checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. A tiny, bright handprint oozing blood bloomed across his left cheek, like a strawberry birthmark. He shuddered, recollecting how it got there, but he merely wiped the blood away with a handkerchief and went inside the library. He walked up to the librarian to ask for help.

  “Excuse me, Miss, where can I find documents on the origins of Old Creek Cemetery?” he asked, looking down the stacks beyond the desk.

  Six nearby heads popped up. Swallowing thickly, the librarian gave him a hard stare and replied, “Sir, I believe everything we have on that subject is downstairs in the archives. You are more than welcome to go look. They're filed by date. I'm afraid I can't leave the desk, but someone downstairs can help you.”

  As he descended the narrow circular stairs, a huge old woman came out of nowhere and blocked his way. “Excuse me ma’am,” he said politely, stepping aside to let her pass. “Go right ahead.” She just stood there. He thought she might be hard-of-hearing and repeated, “Uh, Ma’am, I can’t get through, could you let me pass, please?”

  “No, I can’t let you do this,” she said.

  “Why not?” he asked standing up straighter and feeling his blood pressure rise.

  “Because you don’t know what you're getting yourself into by gaining knowledge of that evil place. It’s the worst nightmare you'll ever have,” she explained. “If you leave now, there's hope for you yet.”

  What the hell….? Tom furrowed his brow. “What do you know about Old Creek Cemetery? Tell me then, if you don't think I should read it. It's important I know what's going on out there,” he explained. “I'm trying to solve the murders of six young girls. That's how important this is.”

  The woman breathed out heavily and looked as though she shrunk, like a deflated balloon. She grabbed his hand and led him downstairs to a small desk in front of a locked door. “Sit,” she ordered, pointing to a folding chair. He did.

  She lumbered behind the desk and sat hard in a large padded armchair that squeaked beneath her bulk. “Have you ever heard of the Curse of Old Creek Cemetery? Nobody leaves alive,” she said ominously, her close-cropped helmet of hair shining silver in the single overhead fixture.

  “How can that be?” he asked. “There's no such thing as a curse.”

  “No one has used the cemetery for burials since the nineteenth century. There is a legend that whoever goes into the evil grounds cannot leave, but must pass grueling tests. Most fail and die, becoming black souls, but there are exceptions to this rule. If a person is allowed to leave by passing certain challenges, their lives change forever. Whoever makes it through the ordeal become living human slaves of the spirits that live there,” she explained. “The stronger you are the longer and more drawn out the torment.”

  “So, if you happen to get out, then does that mean they control you from inside their world? Is that what you are telling me? What about others like me seeing spirits on the outside?” Tom asked. Gooseflesh covered his entire body.

  “It's been known to happen. They have appeared to normal people such as yourself, usually to lure their next victim in. Some of them can appear human. Oh, I almost forgot about their queen. In the year 1885, a child named Maddie Ann Watson died. (I thought the priest called her his great grandmother. If she died a child, how could she have kids herself?)Her father became undisputed King of the Underworld, and he gave her this place for a playground. They say she is ruling the grounds to this day.” She leaned back in her chair and adjusted her garter. “There. That's better. Anyway, I can recall my mother telling me the story about her. This adorable little five-year-old died because the two girls who were supposed to watch her left her alone on the farm to follow some boys into the barn. Somehow she managed to fall in a well shaft and that’s what killed her,” the old woman explained.

  “So you’re saying a child is responsible for all the kidnappings, murder, and mayhem taking place in this town?” he asked with disbelief. “I think I saw her today. Maddie Ann. She touched me.” He put a hand to his cheek where it burned from her imprint.

  “I knew immediately you'd been branded, and there is no way to stop her at this point. But if you must—here, if you want to get the biography on Old Creek, you can see a picture of her.” She grabbed a set of keys hanging on a nail, selected one, and got laboriously out of her chair. She waddled over to the lock and opened the door to a large room with labeled boxes on the shelves.

  He didn't argue with her but stepped into the room and lifted down the box she indicated, then placed it in the center of her paper-strewn desk.

  “Let me explain who these people are,” she said as she pulled out a large sepia-toned family portrait. “You have Polly Watson on your left here who is Maddie Ann’s sister; she's about 10. The other girl standing next to her was her other sister, Rachel, 13. Then you have Seth Watson, her older brother, probably 15 or 16 here. And there in the middle, is Maddie Ann. She was around five years old when the photo was taken, right before she died.”

  He nodded in amazement at the image of the little girl he saw clinging to the gates. There was no mistaking her. He held the photo closer to his eyes. It astounded him. The longer he stared; the images stared back at him, grinning as if to kill him. Tom saw the evil in their eyes, especially Maddie Ann's eyes. When he felt the blood drain from his head, the old woman asked if he was all right.

  “It looks like the black souls marked you, young man,” she said with regret in her voice.

  “Do they have any relatives living today?” he asked.

  “Yes, I do believe they live right in Old Creek,” she answered. “There are two sisters, Seth's granddaughters. One married Judge Styles and the other married the mayor. I believe they have children, a boy each. You would have to look them up, but I think if you were to research, you could come up with their names and where to find them,” she assured him. “I think there was another nephew or cousin, but nobody knows what happened to him.”

  “You have been a wonderful help. I can’t thank you enough for this,” Tom told her. Without her help, he may have never found out the truth.

  “That’s fine, young man. And I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she replied.

  Getting up to leave, he remembered one more question and turned around, but she had vanished. Scratching his head, he climbed the stairs.

  ***

  Steve and Cindy rounded the corner of the elevator lobby and collided with a white-coated man standing at the nurse's station.

  “Where is she? I want to see my daughter,” Cindy shouted, barely stopping to take a breath.

  “Are you Mr. and Mrs. Cravens?” he asked.

  “Yes, we are,” Steve, answered.

  “I’m glad to see you. I'm Dr. Evans, Internal Medicine. Your daughter has no life threatening injuries. A broken rib punctured a lung, but we were able to inflate it and she's breathing on her own and is stable. An ex-ray confirmed that she badly broke her right wrist but should heal well with time. Most of her injuries are superficial, as dramatic as they look. I would like your permission to run more tests to make sure we haven't missed something. When treating minors, we're not allowed to perform any procedures except emergency measures to save a life withou
t the consent of the parents,” he explained. “So if you will sign these papers, we can draw blood, and you’ll be able to see her sooner.”

  Steve grabbed the clipboard and signed his name. “Can you take us to her?” he asked, filled with anxiety.

  “It’ll be a while before you can go back there. They're cleaning her up. Have a seat in the waiting room, and when the team finishes examining her, they’ll call you.”

  Once more, they sat in this waiting room awaiting news of their daughter. They chatted endlessly about how Jennifer must look after a week missing, and speculated how—and where—she survived. The wait would seem like eternity, but they had no other choice. Cindy took a seat by a stack of magazines sitting on a table next to her and fished through them looking for People magazine or a Better Homes and Gardens. Finding an old Good Housekeeping, she ripped it open and stared unseeing at the glossy ads.

  “There is no way I can concentrate on a magazine when my child is in there in God only knows what shape,” Cindy said, leaping from the seat. She began to pace back and forth across the gray industrial carpet.

  “I know dear, but you’re going to have to. And we don’t know how bad she is, so don’t assume the worst.”

  After waiting twenty agonizing minutes for some news on their daughter, Jennifer's psychiatrist, Dr. Baker, came through the doors with a frown on his face. He gestured for them to sit.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Cravens, we need to talk,” Dr. Baker said. The sound of his voice was ominous. Cindy looked at Steve with terror in her heart.

  “Before you mistake my intensions, Jennifer is doing fine. She's conscious and giving the nurses a hard time already. You can see her soon. That’s not why I asked to speak with you. Are you aware of what the State requires in cases with Jennifer’s medical history?” he asked. He flipped through the record to make certain of his information. “Because of the repeated injuries, the hospital requires for us to call Social Services in to investigate.”

  What? Neither she nor her husband abused their child. How absurd. Cindy covered her face in her hands. Then she got mad and whirled to confront the bearer of such shocking news.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Baker, but are you suggesting we beat our child?” Cindy asked, “Because if that’s your accusation, then you have us all wrong.”

  The doctor sat back in the brown upholstered chair and continued to flip through the chart. “Mrs. Cravens, I’m not insinuating anything. I’m just looking at the facts here. I’m sorry if I offend you, but this is the law. Any time a child comes through these doors with repeated injuries, the hospital is required to report it,” he said with a concerned look.

  Steve flew back in the seat and nearly toppled over onto his back. Cindy intervened and caught him before he slipped. “Dr. Baker, this is ridiculous. Ask Social Services to contact the police and they will explain this to them,” Cindy said. “We’ve reported Jennifer’s disappearances both times, and they are fully aware of what is going on. She is a repeated runaway, is delusional, and needs medical treatment.”

  Dr. Baker sighed like he didn't believe a word Cindy told him. He kept his eyes on the clipboard continuing to write, saying 'Um huh. Um huh.” If she heard the noise one more time, she was going ballistic for sure.

  “As a courtesy, I'll contact the hospital's Social Service Department and have them contact the police. I can understand if you’re in no mood to talk about this. Meantime, why don’t you two go join your daughter in her room,” he asked. He put his hand out to shake their hands. “She's in room 420.”

  Steve nodded and stood shakily to his feet.

  As they walked down the hallway through the double doors, the relief that Jennifer was alive buckled Steve's knees. The thought of leaving her here sickened him, and he wouldn’t have it. Before stepping into the room where the nurses hooked his daughter up to tubes and machines, he stepped aside in the hallway and pulled a business card out of his wallet. He couldn't face his daughter until he knew he could take care of her.

  When Cindy yanked his arm to walk in the room with him, he pulled back and turned the opposite direction.

  “Where are you going? Don't you want to see Jennifer?”

  Steve shook his head. “I'll be there in a minute. I need to catch my breath.”

  Cindy pinched her eyes in disbelief. “How can you think of yourself at a time like this? You selfish bastard.” She spun around and entered Jennifer's room.

  “Cindy,” he called, “Wait!”

  “What?” she answered. The tone in her voice seized him momentarily. “What do you want now?”

  “I’m coming. You’re right, Jennifer is my first priority.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Cindy stood next to her daughter’s bed, watching as she slept with an IV in her arm, a cast on her wrist, and bandages everywhere, making her resemble the Mummy a bit. It broke her heart to witness the pain she endured. Just days ago, Jennifer was at home with them acting like a normal teenager. Now this.

  “Sweetheart, it’s Mommy. Can you hear me?” Cindy asked. She sat down next to the bed, caressing her arm. “If you can hear me, squeeze my fingers.”

  With a twitch of her hand, Jennifer curled two fingers around her mother’s hand.

  “That’s good, baby, now open your eyes for me,” she said as tears rained down her face.

  Jennifer opened her eyes and turned toward the voice. “Mom, is that you?” she mumbled.

  “Yes, Honey.”

  Lifting her one good arm not in a cast, Jennifer reached for her mother's hug. Cindy bent down, taking her gently in her arms.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” she whispered. “Why did you run away? Where were you, Sweetheart? You can tell me; I promise not to get mad.”

  Jennifer blinked her bloodshot eyes and turned her face against the flat hospital pillows stacked behind her head.

  Cindy ran her fingers through the back of her daughter’s head to soothe her like when she was a child. To her shock, she felt scabs lining her scalp. Whole chunks of her once stunning chestnut locks were missing.

  “Jennifer, your father and I have been so worried about you. Please, tell me where you went?”

  Looking straight into her mother's frightened eyes, she said, “Father Donovan took me…he's evil. He locked me up. He was going to give me to the demon.”

  Surprised to her core, Cindy's eyes widened. “Father Donovan? The priest? You're joking! We were at St. Theresa's just two days ago.”

  “I know. I heard your voices and tried to escape. He caught me and dragged me back. You have to believe me.”

  Cindy clapped her unsteady hands over her mouth, bolted to the bathroom and threw up. She wiped her mouth and took a deep breath, then darted down the hallway to the nurse’s station yelling for attention. Banging on the counter with her fist, a nurse flew around a corner to see what the loud commotion was about.

  “Ma’am, please. The patients need quiet to rest. Are you in trouble?” she asked.

  “No, my daughter….” Trying to catch her breath, Cindy staggered and saw black enclose her as if she was about to faint.

  The nurse rushed out from behind the counter. “Ma’am, what's wrong?”

  Cindy dissolved into tears and could barely speak what she was trying to say. Almost apoplectic, she blurted, “It’s Jennifer. Father Donovan, the fake priest from St. Theresa's, is the one who kidnapped her and beat her. Please, you have to call the police.”

  The nurse dialed 911. As Cindy paced the floor back and forth in front of the nurse’s station, Steve got off the elevator. He saw the frightened look on his wife’s face, and rushed down the hall toward her.

  “What’s the matter? Oh God, it's Jennifer, isn’t it?”

  She nodded, and all the color drained from his face. Cindy sobbed and mumbled, “Donovan had her all this time.”

  “Donovan, the creepy priest? I knew it! Damn it, Cindy, I knew the guy was weird.” Banging his fist against the wall, he turned, leaning his forehead against it.
“I knew there was something about him I didn’t trust, but no, you insisted he was a saint. And why? Because he made you believe he was a man of God? More like a minion of Satan. Give me a break.”

  She placed her hand on the small of his back. “It was an honest mistake, you have to know that. He seemed so caring and concerned, and trustworthy. He blinded me by his kindness, and I thought he could help us,” she explained.

  “Now you know what a beast he is. All this time, Cindy, he had our child. She was there in the church when we were. If I could get my hands on him right now…let’s just say he wouldn’t be walking so upright.”