I started reading through the statements. The basics were that a group of teenagers had congregated at the grounds of the old mental hospital, which is how all the best horror movies start. They were playing “Truth or Dare,” which seemed more like an excuse to go off with the opposite sex and let loose some teenage hormones.
The one thing that was hard to miss was how many times Poca Dohasan’s name came up. She was the one who went off with Archie on a “dare.” She also left the party with him, driving off in his Studebaker Lark, and was the last person to see him before he disappeared. Combine that with her being in the last photo of Bette Hastings before her accident, and I realized that her knack of being in the center of controversy started long before she took over as chief.
She wasn’t the only one. My new best friend, Woodrow Hastings, was up for the award of best supporting actor. In a fit of jealous rage, he hunted down Poca and Archibald in one of the abandoned buildings of the mental hospital during their “dare,” and an altercation ensued. According to Poca’s statement, Woodrow attacked her with a knife, forcing her and Archibald to flee. Much different from the affable charmer I recently played golf with.
“I don’t want to be cynical, but is it possible that the Rockfield PD circa 1959 might have looked the other way when it came to Woodrow Hastings, being that he came from the richest family in town? I mean, he did attack the victim minutes before he vanished.”
Rich looked at his watch, hoping I’d get the hint. “First of all, we don’t even know that there was a victim. Nobody knows what happened to Archibald—for all we know he could have just run away, and used this curse stuff as a diversion.”
Back then it was easier to get off the grid and hide, but it still seemed rather unlikely to me that he could remain that way for over fifty years.
“It’s possible, but the fact that he was recently attacked, and Poca’s statement about seeing a man on the bridge, tells us that the likelier outcome was a crime. Yet the police chose to treat it like a runaway situation.”
“I have no idea what the police mindset was, but there was a week-long search of Rockfield and surrounding areas. And while Woodrow did confront them, he was also seen by multiple witnesses being nursed back to health by Vivian Bardella, after Archie had hit him with a fire poker. And if Hastings was involved, why would Poca create that story about the figure in the bathrobe? There’s never been any love lost between those two.”
A good question, but this was my interview. “What about Bette Hastings?”
He looked confused. “Bette? She was like twelve years old at the time. And if you continue to read, you’ll find that she was in Los Angeles that night with her mother and father, attending the World Series game that night. And for those people who are convinced that the Hastings family must be behind it, Joseph Hastings Jr., the oldest child, was in prep school in Maine. So they were all accounted for.”
“I was referring to Bette’s accident—not that she might have been involved. It had the same curse-like elements to it, so that alone connects it.”
“Since Bette came away from that accident with brain damage, and can’t communicate, I don’t think we’ll ever know what happened that night.” He again looked at his watch.
Before he left, something he said popped into my mind. “What did you mean: those people who are convinced the Hastings family must be behind it?”
“I’d love to sit around and discuss the past, but unfortunately I get paid for the present. But if I was investigating the Archibald case, which I’m not, the first thing I’d look into is a potential land deal between the Hastings and Archibald families that hit a snag, and left some bad feelings. In the meantime, if you figure out who kidnapped the Lindbergh baby I’ll be at the fair.”
That would explain how Archibald was connected. It also would give the Hastings a motive. But on the other hand, Poca seemed to be the one with the better opportunity, having been the last one to see him. But I was becoming convinced of one thing—these events of the past were affecting the present. They were somehow connected, and by more than a ghost in a bathrobe.
As Rich walked away, I had one more request. “I want to see the police report on the Bette Hastings incident.”
He looked back to me with a puzzled look. “There was no police report. As far I know, it was an accident, and the police weren’t involved.”
This surprised me, but the more I thought about it, especially how the Hastings’ family power could have played into all these investigations, my surprise dwindled. I decided that I would need a fresh look at this case anyway, and any reports from back then would be contaminated in one way or another.
I glanced at the photo that was taken just hours before Bette’s accident, which included Vivian and Poca. Then I thought of Woodrow Hastings. If there was a connection between the events of the past and last night, they were the links.
Chapter 15
The moment I stepped into the house I felt like I was back at college. The smell of beer and nachos permeated the air, and my roommates were planted on the couch, engaged in an intense video game battle.
“Where have you been all day, J-News?” Byron asked, his eyes never leaving the screen.
“Had some research to do this morning, and then I spent the afternoon at the fair.”
“Nacho?” Carter offered, shoving a tray in my direction.
“No thanks. Have you guys been in here all day?”
“Carter won’t let me leave until he wins, so we might be here a very long time.”
My worst nightmare was coming to life.
“No Gwenny-poo tonight, J-News?” Byron addressed me.
“Sunday is her big day at the paper—she’s basically there from dawn to dusk.”
“Shouldn’t you be helping her?”
Shouldn’t you be back in Charleston planning a wedding? I wanted to say, but decided not to jab at that fresh wound. “I used to, before she decided that I was bringing down her productivity, and she sent me away.”
They got a good laugh out of that one.
I pulled the cord out of the wall, ending their game, and the laughter stopped. “What the hell are you doing!?” they both shouted.
“I think I’ve got a better way to spend your Sunday night. I have a little reconnaissance mission to go on, and I need my team.”
“About time we got the band back together,” Carter said. “Where we headed—Ukraine? North Korea?”
“No—much more dangerous than that … we’re going to Zycko Hill.”
I watched Carter help Byron into the backseat of my Jeep, and was saddened by the look of helplessness on Byron’s face. He’d spoken defiantly about walking again, fighting to recapture his independence, but with each passing day that started to sound like wishful thinking.
I drove out onto Main Street, then turned onto Zycko Hill Road and followed the winding dark curves until I came to the Samerauk Bridge. I parked on the side of the road and got out.
Carter helped Byron out of the vehicle, and placed him in his wheelchair. Once secure in the chair, the look of defeat left his face—he was once again in control. I had a feeling this internal battle was what contributed to his fight with Tonya, and his subsequent banishment. But that was an issue for another day.
We peered down over the railing of the bridge. The darkness made it impossible to see the river below, but we could hear it rushing by. This past year I had viewed this place solely through the lens of Noah, but after what I’d learned today, he was just one of many who had died tragically here since the Samerauks placed their curse.
I set the scene for Byron and Carter—it’s Sunday October 4, 1959. Thomas Archibald, eighteen years old and star athlete at Rockfield High is driving toward the bridge when he sees a bright light, followed by a faceless man in a bathrobe appearing on the bridge. He tells his passenger, Poca Dohasan, to run back to the party they’d just left, and to warn the others of what they saw. That was the last time anyone had seen Archie.
<
br /> “Déjà vu all over again,” Carter said, quoting the great philosopher Yogi Berra.
“So you think what happened to those kids last night is related to this? It just sounds like teenage mischief to me,” Byron said.
“I’m sure of it.”
“And what makes you so sure?” Carter challenged.
“My gut.”
I had their attention—my gut instincts had been right way too many times over the years to be discounted.
Chapter 16
You can read all the books and police reports you want, but unless you’re actually there it’s hard to get a true sense of an event. That’s why I brought us here tonight—to return to the scene of the crime.
The incident took place in October, so the temperatures were likely a little cooler than tonight. The bridge had been updated a few times since—the guardrails were wooden back then and much lower.
We retraced the quarter mile that Poca ran from the bridge to the abandoned mental hospital to warn the others. Today it was Lefebvre Park. We made our way through the parking lot, and walked across the baseball fields where I once achieved Little League glory, and up a slope of grass to a covered picnic pavilion. My eyes had adjusted to the dark—the near full moon was now guiding us.
A circular, fort-like structure stood next to the pavilion like a silo to a barn. The Tower, as it’s known, was three stories high, and was originally constructed by the Samerauk Indians as a lookout tower. When the tribe was evicted from their land the tower was kept and used to spot any “residents” who might be attempting to leave the lovely “resort.” These days it offered a great view of Rockfield and surrounding towns. It even had one of those coin-operated telescopes similar to the ones you might find atop the Empire State Building.
But for our purposes, The Tower marked the spot where Rockfield teenagers would meet up on Sunday nights back in 1959, just as they did the night Archie went missing.
I started climbing the cement stairs to the “lookout” area on top. Carter picked up Byron’s chair and carried him up the winding stairs. And in case we didn’t notice how impressive a feat of strength it was, he flexed for us after setting him down.
I used my knowledge of the architectural plans I’d seen at the Historical Society to describe the way things might have looked in 1959. I pointed out that the grounds of the mental hospital, which was made up of five hundred acres and sixteen buildings. It had over four thousand patients at its peak, but by the night Archie went missing, the number had dwindled to the low hundreds.
Byron opened his iPad and began doing some research. The thing that kept coming up was the horrors that had taken place here—electroshock therapy given without anesthesia, psych surgery, frontal lobotomies, demonic possessions.
As we continued to take in the view from The Tower, I explained how on a “dare” Thomas Archibald and Poca Dohasan went off to one of the abandoned buildings to do what teenagers have been doing since the beginning of time.
“Wow,” Byron said, still glued to his iPad.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I just searched Poca Dohasan. Not only is she still around, but she’s the current chief of Samerauk Tribal Nation. I didn’t know women were allowed to be chief … I’m impressed.”
I was in high school when she took over from her father, Chief Vayo, becoming the second-ever female chief of a Native American tribe. It was the first time I could remember Rockfield being mentioned in the national newspapers, and I thought that was pretty cool. I even made a scrapbook of the newspaper clippings, which is probably stashed away somewhere in my parents’ basement.
Before Byron could finish hailing the progress of women in the workplace, Carter took a look at the screen, and decided to set them back a few decades.
“That’s one hot chief—I’d like her to smoke my peace pipe, if you know what I mean.”
“Ease off the gas pedal, Big Ugly. By my calculations, she’d be over seventy today. A little respect for our elders—she’s probably someone’s grandmother.”
“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, women only have three ages—still hot, used to be hot, and never was hot. And this chick is still hot, hot, hot!”
Before things got completely off track, I continued on with the tale. Specifically the part about Woodrow Hastings crashing their party, and a fight breaking out between him and Archie. I also brought up the land dispute between the Archibalds and the Hastings families at that time.
“Sounds like the guy had a serious motive. Doesn’t seem like much of a mystery to me who’s behind it,” Byron said.
“Except for the fact that he, and the rest of his family, all have alibis. The Samerauks, on the other hand, have found convenient ways to use this curse to their advantage over the years. And oh by the way, the last person to see Archibald was Poca.”
“I truly doubt she’d do something like that,” Carter said.
“Is that based on the entire three seconds that you viewed an online photo of her?”
Carter shook his head. “Because if Archibald was willing to follow her into some haunted house, she obviously had him under her control. And when you control someone, they become an asset. You cash in assets, not kill them off.”
“How do you know he was even killed?” Byron asked.
“I don’t. But I know something happened to Archibald. When you’re eighteen, and just took a dare with a piece of ass like this Poca, the only thing on your mind is the next time you get to double dare with that same chick. There’s no way the kid ran away.”
“Why are we overlooking the most obvious possibility?” Byron said.
“Which is?” I asked.
“That there actually is a curse.”
Carter rolled his eyes. “What’s in those energy drinks you’re always guzzling—Kook Aid? Tell me a man of science like yourself doesn’t really believe in ghosts.”
“Of course I do. We have a couple that live in the restaurant,” he said, referring to his mother’s restaurant in Charleston, Mama Jasper’s. They were known for the best she-crab soup in the region, but I had no idea the house special was Casper.
“And you’ve talked to these ghosts?” Carter asked in a mocking tone.
“All the time. The building used to be a place they’d sell slaves on the underground market, and a couple of the old slave owners still live in the basement. When I go down there, they’re always ordering me around, and threatening to whip me, or sell my mother to a different family to split us up. They can’t wrap their minds around the fact that the place is now run by a black family.”
Carter laughed. “I’m not surprised that ghosts are racists—they do wear those white sheets on Halloween.”
“They don’t think they are,” Byron said, ignoring the levity. “It’s just the way things were before they went over to the other side. I yell back at them, and try to bring them up to speed on how things roll this century, but it’s like talking to, well, … a ghost.”
“Maybe you need Coldblooded Carter to come down and escort them out of the building. I’m sure they’re like most of my opponents—talk like tough guys, and then run away like little sissies when I come after them,” Carter boomed in his best wrestling voice.
“Oh, they do more than talk. All sorts of crazy stuff goes on in the restaurant—doors slamming, plates and glasses being dumped off the table, and silverware being rearranged. We brought in one of those ‘ghost experts’ to study it. We were told that they often come to life when a core of energy is derived from two competing and radical forces. And from what I’ve heard, Rockfield has had a contrasting energy of flooding-type rain to start the summer, and now a drought. So that might be a simple reason as to why this curse has returned.”
Carter laughed hysterically. “Yeah, that or there’s no such thing as ghosts and you’re talking out of your ass.”
A boom exploded over us, sounding like a bomb. Carter’s laughter came to an abrupt end, and he dropped to
the floor like we were back in Iraq. Byron looked like he wanted to join him.
I looked down at the whale on the beach and smiled. “It’s just the fireworks over the river—to signal the end of the fair.”
Carter got to his feet and dusted himself off. “All your ghost stories have got me spooked.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts?”
“Just because I don’t believe in them doesn’t mean I’m not scared of them.”
We spent another few minutes watching the fireworks from The Tower, and then we were on the move again. My trip back to that fateful night in 1959 didn’t clear things up. But as we left the pavilion, I noticed an object on the ground that might be able to shed some light on the present.
It was a hoop earring—and I knew where I’d seen it before. I slipped it into my jacket pocket, and we continued back in time.
Chapter 17
Our mental time-machine took us to the Saturday before Labor Day, 1961, when a similar incident occurred, this one involving Bette Hastings. It also featured a bathrobe-wearing ghost that was attributed to the Samerauk curse. The main difference being, we knew exactly where Bette Hastings was today.
I led them through the back of the park behind the pavilion, and we came out in the upscale neighborhood of Blueberry Bush—where McMansions had replaced the abandoned buildings of the mental institution.
Carter took a long look at some of the wealthy homes. “If this is what it’s like to be cursed, I hope someone puts a curse on me.”
I used my memory of the architectural renderings to plot out where the theater and cafeteria had been located on the grounds, along with a couple of the residence halls.
We passed quickly through the quiet neighborhood. The next sign of civilization was the large, well-lit community center, which once served as the administrative building for Farm Ridge Resort.
We made our way through the parking lot, and then to the grounds behind it, which included a walking track and a dog park. We didn’t stop until we reached a fence at the far end of the property. It was simple chain-link, about ten feet high with no restrictions that I could see, such as barbed wire. On the other side of the fence was what used to be known as Woodbury Hall, which once housed hospital employees, but for the last forty-plus years it had been the home of Bette Hastings.
Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3) Page 7
