Asylum Lake

by R. A. Evans

  The light fell on Ken Reed’s bludgeoned body. His face, neck and chest were slick with blood. The phone rested on the floor beside his outstretched hand. It too was bloodied. The Deputy scanned the room and saw the streaks and spatters that covered the walls and furniture and even the television. Looking down at the lifeless body, he instinctively reached down to check for a pulse, although clearly, there was no need. As his fingertips touched the fresh blood and the cooling flesh, he jerked his hand back.

  Griggs followed the trail of gore deeper into the house as it led down the hall. Thunder rolled overhead as the wind picked up intensity, sending sheets of rain beating down on the roof and against the windows. Occasional flashes of lightning accompanied the thunder. And, as much as Griggs cringed at the sight of the carnage those lightening flashes revealed, it was what may be waiting unseen in the shadows that sent a cold stab of fear into his heart.

  Buck Tanner had seen a lot in his 20-plus years in law enforcement. As a young deputy in 1959, he had been the first on scene to a wintry twenty- three car pileup. The stark contrast of the warm blood melting into the cold snow had been almost more than he could take. Luckily, instincts and training took over and it wasn’t until hours later after he had returned to the relative privacy of the station that the shakes and tears erupted.

  The worst, however, had been a farming accident. Although not uncommon in rural communities, this one had been especially grizzly. It was the summer of 1964, his first as Sheriff, and he had been called out to Dick Reynolds’ place. The old man had set off with his grandson in the combine harvester at sunrise. They packed jelly sandwiches, pears from the tree in the backyard and a jug of water. They weren’t expected back until late in the afternoon.

  Shortly after 7:00 that evening Mrs. Reynolds had grown worried and put in a call to the station. By the time the Sheriff had rolled up in his cruiser, a group of five or so neighbors and friends were loading into trucks to drive the fields looking for the pair. Buck climbed into the passenger seat of Dale Watson’s truck and for an hour they drove down the dirt gullies and tracks of the farm’s four hundred acres. Dusk was falling when they stumbled upon the boy. He was walking aimlessly through the fields, his face red and wet with tears.

  It took some time but as the boy led them back to where the combine was parked they coaxed the story out of him. His grandpa had run into a rock or something and got out to see if he could move it away. The combine was old and stubborn and, much like the old man himself didn’t take kindly to starting and stopping.

  Dick left it idling and went to work digging the rock out of the dry earth. His grandson, just a few weeks shy of his eighth birthday, quickly became bored and restless in the cab of the great reaper. All of those levers and buttons started looking a bit too interesting and before he knew it the combine was roaring to life and once again spitting plumes of black smoke into the air.

  In no time, the rotating thresher blades began to shuck the skin from Dick’s bones like so much ripened corn from their husks. His screams echoed across and in between the rows of corn, causing great flocks of crows to take flight with shouts of their own. The boy hit the kill switch and jumped from the cab only to find bits and pieces of his grandfather clinging to stalks of corn four rows deep in every direction. The reddened teeth of the reaper smiled menacingly at him as he ran screaming into the stalks.

  Now, seven years later, Buck stood staring down into a bathtub filled with…God knows what, and for the first time since that muggy summer night in the cornfield felt his stomach clench, and despite the cold rain clinging to him, beads of sweat spilled over his brow. He removed his Stetson and wiped his already damp forearm across his slick forehead.

  The beam from his flashlight rose from the butchered remnants in the tub to rest on the single blood-scrawled word on the tiled wall above. The air whistled out of him in a whisper, “I’ll be God damned…”

  His mind raced to connect the dots. At the sight of that word scrawled in blood an odd sensation of déjà vu washed over him. I’ve seen this before, he thought.

  As he stood in the dimly lit bathroom on the verge of clarity his world went black, courtesy of a nine-iron to the back of his head.

  Lionel’s world was quickly unraveling. Bodies and their assorted parts were now strewn across the entire house. He vacillated between tears and laughter as the voice inside his head screamed instructions. The man from the garage was still alive, although barely so. The steak knife had broken off in his chest. But the garage was full of tools and the screwdriver was sharp and fit nicely in Lionel’s small hand as it tore into the man’s flesh. The lad’s swinging arm had eventually tired from the effort.

  The man moaned as Lionel dragged him by his ankles through the kitchen and to the basement steps. It took some effort but he found the strength to kick him down. His limp body rolled to the bottom where it landed with a moist and sickening thud.

  Once the first deputy arrived, the voice assured him more would be on the way. Lionel hid in the linen closet and watched through the louvered door as the second officer slowly made his way through the house. The voice screamed in fury as the man passed in front of the closet on his way into the bathroom. Her blood is on your hands! You let them take her! The price for blood is blood!

  A short while later Lionel sat quietly on the floor in the twins’ room, careful not to further disturb their desiccated butterfly wings. The golf club rested beside him, its steel shaft twisted and slick with blood. The voice in his head had grown quiet, leaving him alone with his thoughts and quite exhausted.

  When Griggs found him asleep and drenched in blood he assumed the boy was merely one more victim. The deputy wrapped the boy’s limp body in blankets and cradled him in his arms until the State Police arrived. Deputy Frank Griggs was the only one to walk out of the house that night. Young Lionel and Sheriff Tanner were brought by ambulance to the small hospital in Cadillac, forty-five minutes north of Bedlam Falls.

  While they went north, John Tanner was rushed south by ambulance to the nearest trauma center two hours away in Grand Rapids. To keep him alive, paramedics wrestled the rain-slick roads as well as the deputy’s assorted stab and puncture wounds.

  As for the Reeds, the following morning they crossed the threshold of their home one final time in a parade of black plastic bags.

  Power was restored to the area shortly before dawn. Neither the streetlights nor the unexpectedly warm November sunshine could break through the darkness of the storm’s aftermath as the fear of a nameless and faceless killer among them settled over the citizens of Bedlam Falls

  In the days that followed, it became increasingly difficult to separate rumor from truth. Theories pinned the bloody handiwork on everyone from a lone drifter strung out on drugs to a satanic cult that had graduated from animal sacrifice and cattle mutilations. Each rumor seemed more outrageous than the last, yet still contained enough plausibility that they spread through the small town like wildfire As much as opinions varied, there was one area of general agreement; Deputy John Tanner was one lucky son of a bitch, even if he had yet to regain consciousness.

  Sheriff Buck Tanner was released from the hospital, against doctor’s orders, with a fairly serious concussion and more than sixty stitches keeping his torn scalp pieced together. Thankfully, the Stetson had made it through the ordeal slightly crumpled but no worse for wear.

  Buck was unofficially coordinating the investigation from his son’s bedside in Grand Rapids. With two-thirds of local law enforcement out of commission, the State Police had increased patrols in the area. This was both a blessing and a curse, while it provided much needed support for the acting Sheriff Frank Griggs. Small towns are notoriously private and the presence of more outsiders only ratcheted up the anxiety level, as he tried to restore some sense of order and safety.

  The Collins boy, as he was later identified, appeared to be the unfortunate victim of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He seemed to be gripped by shock in the afterm
ath of what he had witnessed and could provide nothing in the way of details. Griggs had tried unsuccessfully to interview the boy both at the hospital that night and then the following day after he was released to go home. Aside from the fairly deep gash on his right palm he was physically uninjured. The extent of his mental trauma, however, had yet to be established. Lionel remained silent.

  They were lined up in a solitary row at the front of the Grace Resurrection Church; larger caskets on each end sitting in silent protection of the two miniaturized ones in the center. To the relief of most and the disappointment of a curious few, their flower-laden lids were closed and sealed.

  A large photo taken the previous Christmas stood to the side on a wooden easel. The glossy image of Ken and Joanna Reed holding their small children dressed in bright greens and reds for the holiday season provided an odd juxtaposition to the dismembered remains that most imagined resting inside the satin-lined boxes.

  Reverend James Collins rose from his seat behind the pulpit and stood in quiet introspection as a hush fell over the congregation. Presiding over a funeral was always difficult – especially when children were involved. But the fact that his child should by all accounts be resting in a box beside them weighed even more heavily on him.

  It was only by the grace of God. He thought and glanced into the overfilled pews where Lionel sat quietly. Too young for so much tragedy, his heart grieved. Lionel had not only endured the recent tragedy, but the suicide of his mother the previous summer. Her passing had taken more from Lionel than merely her presence; it had taken the best part of his young soul, leaving a void that nothing seemed able to fill. He was now just the shell of the happy child he had once been.

  Although months had passed, the painful memory of that morning was still very fresh in the reverend’s mind. He had left shortly after sunrise to share a bit of scripture with Homer Goode. The long-time church deacon had taken a nasty spill while picking up his pipe tobacco at Dell’s, leaving him with a broken hip and unable to do most anything for himself.

  Normally, the entire family would make the trip across town packed into their tiny green AMC Gremlin. Melody would bring a casserole and do a bit of cleaning while Lionel poured over Homer’s old cigar boxes stuffed with photos and souvenirs from his time overseas fighting the krauts and wops in the First World War. The Reverend had to explain to Lionel what the “krauts and wops”, as Homer so fondly referred to them, were actually the Germans and Italians with whom the allied forces had battled and eventually defeated.

  That final Saturday, however, Melody had a touch of whatever bug was going around and wanted nothing more than to stay in bed. Lionel agreed to stay home with her, against his mother’s wishes, and the elder Collins set off in the Gremlin alone. He had considered staying home himself, as things around the house had been more than a little strained for the past few weeks. Lionel’s newfound sullen attitude had Melody worried, and her own recent mood swings had caused a fair amount of friction between the normally happy couple.

  He pulled away from the curb wishing he could turn the clock back just a few weeks to a time before things had started to unravel at home. Fishing with Lionel, he smiled, thinking of the last time he could remember things being…normal. He sighed as he looked into the rearview mirror and watched his house slowly fade from view.

  The Reverend’s visit with Homer was cut short by the unexpected appearance of Buck Tanner at the door. The Sheriff lived across the lake from Homer and since the old man’s fall the lawman stopped by now and then to check on things. Collins wasn’t anxious to get home, but seeing the view of the lake through Homer’s kitchen window reminded him of that fishing trip with Lionel. Maybe all the boy needs is some father-son time, he thought and then excused himself with a handshake and promise to return the following Saturday. His spirits remained hopeful until he turned onto the street that led home.

  With each passing block his stomach tightened into anxious knots. Just as the white Colonial came into view all his thoughts of a happy ending out on the lake vanished. There was no fairytale ending to this, he knew. Something dark had crept into their lives and its hold over his family was only tightening.

  Collins parked in front of the house and killed the ignition. The minutes ticked by as he sat in the car debating what he would be walking into. Chances were good that Melody would be in a foul mood. Moodiness often followed her headaches. It was a routine that was quickly wearing on him; and Lionel too, as the boy’s moods had been unpredictable, as well Clutching his antique Holman Bible, which dated back to 1865, the family heirloom weighed just over five pounds and was covered with rich gold-embossed leather. The Reverend stepped from the car into the sunshine and let its warmth wash over him.

  The walk from the car to the front door gave him just enough time to collect his thoughts and mutter a brief prayer under his breath. The windows were open throughout the house and he could see the curtains in the front room dance in the late morning breeze. Given the current state of family affairs, he didn’t expect to hear conversation, but was anticipating the monotonous tones of the radio or television. Instead, he was greeted by a near-deafening silence as he opened the screen door. It snapped shut behind him with a sharp bang that echoed throughout the house.

  “Melody,” he called as he walked through the living room and into the kitchen. The remnants of his breakfast still cluttered the counter; half-filled cup of coffee and toast crumbs. He continued on through the house and approached the back stairs leading to the second floor.

  The muffled sound of whispers greeted him as he began his climb. At least they’re talking, he thought and smiled. His mood instantly brightened as the steps creaked beneath him with the weight of each step. The stairway opened into the hall. He turned left to Lionel’s room, peering into the empty space through the open door. Retracing his steps, he returned down the hall and past the stairs. The master bedroom door was closed. The whispers were louder here, although still unintelligible.

  “Honey,” James called, grasping the handle and pushing the door open. For a moment his mind could not process what lay before him. The bible fell from his hands and landed at his feet with a thud as his mind raced to grasp the image that greeted him.

  The large antique light fixture was ripped from the ceiling, its twisted metal and exposed wires dangling precariously over the bed he shared with his wife. Looped around the base of the fixture was a belt; the opposite end of which was cinched tightly around Melody’s neck. Her body swayed slowly back and forth, the tips of her toes bloodied as they traced lines through the shards of broken glass that covered the rumpled bed sheets. Lifeless eyes bulged from their sockets as a silent scream split her lips. Her swollen tongue lay blue and unmoving from the corner of her mouth.

  Lionel sat on the floor under the window slowly rocking back and forth. His incoherent muttering was lost as James’ cries for help shattered the silence; echoing through the open windows and into the blue skied morning beyond.

  Less than six short months later, Reverend James Collins stood before his parishioners and tried, once again, to give reason to something beyond reason. His gaze shifted from Lionel and moved to the caskets before him; a lone tear spilling down his cheek. It landed on the dog-eared pages of his great-grandfather’s worn Bible spread on the pulpit before him, falling across Ecclesiastes III with a silent splash. When he spoke it was in a voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried throughout the small church with a soothing strength and powerful purpose. “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal…”

  During the Reed’s funeral Lionel could feel the eyes boring into the back of his head as he fiddled absentmindedly with the plastic band that encircled his wrist. The voice in his head did its best to reassure him that everything was alright, but Lionel knew from his interviews with Deputy Griggs that the man just wasn
’t convinced by what he was hearing or not hearing for that matter.

  He did his best to stay focused on his father, but instead found himself stealing glances behind him in hopes of catching sight of the deputy. Rather than the deputy however, he caught the gaze of an odd man seated near the back of the church. A poorly fitting shirt hung loosely around the man’s thin neck and the black suit he wore had definitely seen better days. He wasn’t a member of the church, nor could Lionel recall seeing him before, but the man smiled and nodded at him with familiarity. It made the boy’s skin crawl.

  Fortunately, Lionel’s father was nearing the end of the eulogy. The homily was a familiar one and it brought a smile to the young man’s face as he closed his eyes and envisioned red wings spreading out under the lifeless bodies of Joshua and Jacob Reed. He listened to the words his father spoke and imagined soaring among the clouds on blood-red butterfly wings.

  In the tall grasses of a wide valley a lone caterpillar crawled slowly about the base of a large tree. Like countless caterpillars before, this caterpillar’s entire life had been spent traveling from the small pond on the eastern end of the valley to this very tree on the slopes of the western hills. The caterpillar often wondered what happened to its brethren who had climbed up the mighty Oak only to never return.

  The caterpillars had agreed among themselves that the next one who was called to the dizzying heights of the tree would come back and report to the others what lies beyond.

  Not long after, the lone caterpillar found itself drawn up the tree by nature and began to make its way slowly skyward. After some time the caterpillar found itself out on a large leafy limb overlooking the valley. Here, in the comfort of the tree, the sun shined brightly. It had been so dark on the ground in the shadow of the Oak and the view from within the tall grasses of the valley floor were far less beautiful. As the caterpillar looked down on where its friends still toiled on the ground it smiled and then slowly drifted off to sleep, exhausted from its long journey.