“Jesus Christ,” he mumbled. Not again.
With as much conviction as he could muster, he called out from the base of the tree.
Deputy York gripped his gun and called out again. His feet seemed remarkably heavy as he trained his eyes on the winding staircase that led up to the tree. He inched his way forward and climbed the first set of steps. The woods were dead silent. No birds singing and no rabbits or squirrels scampering through the brush. Nothing but complete and utter silence. He cleared his throat and called out a third and final time, albeit, with much less conviction.
No response. He hesitated and suddenly saw a clear picture of himself holstering his weapon and turning away.
Yes, he could see that very well.
AFTERWARD
Talking Ill of the Dead
THEATRE OF THE BIZARRE. The World’s most read and talked about source for disturbing and weird news. Online edition, August 29:
Welcome to the middle of Nowhere. A little town in Nebraska called Chaplin Hills, which I’m officially re-christening the Capitol of Flyover Country. Seriously, I’ve filed the necessary paperwork. This tiny berg is the home of one of the most bizarre stories we’ve covered in years. An alleged serial murderer by the name of Peter Alan Taylor was found dead in a tree house. Yes, you read that right—a tree house. Peter Alan Taylor—or as his friends (if he’d had any) might have called him, PAT—had racked up a known body count of three unlucky souls. I know what you’re thinking: only three? But if you can believe the rumors (and I know you can, Kind Reader) then rest assured that number is going to rise exponentially in the coming weeks and months. In fact, one person close to the situation suggested a final number in double digits as almost a certainty.
As of now, here are the unlucky three: Victim number one is believed to be Taylor’s own boyhood friend, Brandon Grant, whose remains were found buried in the accused’s garden. The victim was born and raised in Chaplin Hills, but after joining the Marines out of high school, bounced around the south-western part of the country, including, California and New Mexico where he leaves behind a pretty wife and young son. Victim number two was Robert “Robby” Crane, from Golden, Colorado. Robby was an unemployed telemarketer, who for reason’s unknown, was estranged from his parents and his six brothers and sisters. Last but not least, we have Clint Howe, from Fort Morgan, Colorado. Clint was the operator of his own small engine repair shop, and he leaves behind a long-time girlfriend. According to the report, the body of Clint Howe was found in the trunk of Peter Taylor’s car. We can only speculate as to what the madman was planning to do next. Sad to say, but everyone connected to this case is preparing for the death toll to rise before this story is put to bed.
And finally, for the man of the hour, killer Peter Alan Taylor, the exact cause of death is being heavily scrutinized. One thing is for certain, this case is surrounded by no shortage of strange rumors. The official report lists “blunt force trauma” as the cause of death. Who caused the trauma, you ask? That has yet to be reported. Was it an accident? Unconfirmed. One rumor kicking around the web is that the victim’s neck was broken and his hair inexplicably turned white. Very strange indeed.
If that’s not bizarre enough for you, this tree house was also the scene of an accidental death nearly three years ago. In that case, the tree house owner—a billionaire real estate mogul named Taggard—allegedly fell down the tree house stairs and broke his neck. An investigation (and I use the word “investigation” extremely lightly) of that incident ruled it as an accidental death. This reporter is no expert, but I might suggest burning that tree house to the ground before the body count rises any further.
Although the answers surrounding this case seem to be few and far between, I think we all can agree that the death of pervert Peter Alan Taylor was worth the cost.
That’s it for this week’s Theatre of the Bizarre, and I for one, refuse to spend another minute thinking or writing about this freaky story from the butt-crack of the country. If you find yourself traveling across this great land, do yourself a favor and steer clear of Chaplin Hills, Nebraska. On second thought, try skipping the whole state if you can. I know I will.
Until next time,
I’m Editor-in-Chief, Harry Stampor,
Logging Off.
Book Three
Chaplin Hills:
The Longest Night
CHAPTER ONE
Part One: Home Movie
Leo stands in front of the camera, chest nearly pressed against the lens. The camera’s mic picks up the rustling of fabric and his ragged breathing.
“All right, I guess that’s it. Let’s get this show on the road.” Leo walks backwards, still facing the camera, until his whole body is in the shot. He sits down on a cheap hotel chair and stares directly into the camera.
“Well, here I am,” Leo raises his hands, gesturing about the room. “The Best Western in Sidney Nebraska. The film maker in me wanted to shoot this in that damn tree house, but I don’t have the stones for that … not anymore.” He sighs and looks off camera.
The video skips as though it has been edited, which it had. Leo continues, “Mom … Dad, I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything. I know I’ve been an asshole. I don’t know why I do that.” He shrugged, forced a smile and wiped a tear from his eye. “You guys are great, and you deserved better than this. What a hell of a year, huh? That goddamned movie of mine,” he says, shaking his head.
It’s evident that the frame skips again as Leo has now changed positions. There is a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his hand, not to mention a pistol in his lap.
“Dad, I love you. We don’t say that enough, and I’m sorry. I know you love me; I know it. And Mom, this isn’t your fault. You were always there for me, and you deserved a better son. I’m sorry I wasn’t that. I love you, Mom. I’m sorry for everything … I’m saying that a lot aren’t I? Sorry.” He shrugs into the camera, voice almost faltering. “But it’s true; it really is … I’m sorry. So, so sor—” Leo’s eyes go wide and they dart about the room. Stealing a quick glance over his shoulder, he jams the cigarette in his mouth and snatches up the pistol from his lap. On screen, the curtains ruffle slightly. It could have been the air conditioning. It could have been something else.
There is another break in the film. When Leo returns, he is visibly rattled. His blond hair sticks up in random greasy spikes, and the lines on his young face are much too deep. It is the look of fear. The weariness, regret, and sadness are still there, but now pure child-like terror is at the forefront.
His eyes dart around the room, but they eventually return to the camera.
“I have to cut this short. I don’t have as much time as I thought.” He looks down to his feet and takes a deep breath. Finally, he looks back into the camera, “I thought it might be easier out here … you know, by myself, away from family, friends …” He shakes his head slowly. “I was wrong on that one. I … it’s so—”
Another skip in the film.
Leo continues, his voice an octave higher and the words practically tumble from his mouth. “I can’t run from this anymore. It won’t stop. No matter what I do, it won’t stop. I’m going crazy—I am crazy—but it’s going to end tonight. It has to. This isn’t a suicide … I mean, I am going to kill myself, but not because I want to. Don’t ever think that. Mom, Dad, don’t ever think that, okay? I’m scared, and this is the only option I have left. I wish it wasn’t, but it is. It’s coming for me. No matter what I do … it’s coming. If I let it get me … it’ll be much worse than this.” Leo raises the pistol in front of the camera. “This is just easier. Less pain. And who knows; maybe I’ll piss it off in the process? A guy can hope, right?” He tried a smile, but it was no use.
Leo flinches and then looks over his shoulder. Jumping out of the chair, he walks quickly off screen, this time away from the camera. The camera continues to roll. Leo comes back into frame and props a chair against the closet door. The tape skips a beat, and then Leo is gone. Half a
second later, the video returns and Leo is back on the stool, tears rolling down his face.
“Mom, Dad, I’m so, so sorry about … about everything. I love you. You did nothing wrong. I’m a big fraud, that’s all. It’s that fucking movie, man. I wish I could explain it, but you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Leo stares into the camera, eyes wide, manic, his jaw muscles working, the pistol still in his hand. “What’s coming for me can’t be stopped. I know that sounds stupid to you, but it’s true. I came all the way out here so when this is finally over it might not harm you. I hope not, anyway. I’m probably cursing the poor maid, or whoever finds me, but I didn’t think about that until I got all the way out here and, well, shit, it’s too late now. Besides, I didn’t know what else to do. I just wanted to protect you guys. I love you both. I’m so sorry. This isn’t your fault.”
A light shines over Leo’s shoulder. Headlights from the parking lot. Someone coming or going? He gives it only a cursory glance. A door squeaks off camera. Leo’s mouth hangs open and his eyes grow wide. He pushes himself deeper into the chair, raises the pistol and presses it against his temple. Before he can pull the trigger, the gun flies out of his hand and smashes into something off screen, leaving him to stare at nothing but his empty hand. “No—” Leo manages to say, raising both empty hands in a defensive gesture as smoky darkness swirls across the screen, distorting it.
A scream crescendos and then dies as the screen fades to black.
CHAPTER TWO
Part Two: The Long Night
Trent drove the Chaplin Hills police cruiser at a leisurely pace, thinking more about the tough conversation he would be having with his wife that evening than the lonely dirt road stretching out in front of him. Besides, he was off duty and in no hurry. Something in the road caught his attention.
A mirage?
No, it was a carcass. A big one. Too hairy to be a deer.
“Shit …”
Glancing into his rear-view mirror, Trent pulled the cruiser to the side of the road. He swung open the door, stepped onto the loose gravel of Harlow Road, and slammed the door closed behind him. An owl voiced its displeasure, but the carcass in the road didn’t budge. Two more steps confirmed what Trent already knew. This was Leo’s St. Bernard, Daisy. And Daisy was dead.
“Sonofabitch.”
Trent approached the giant dog and called its name. He knew it was a stupid gesture, but he did it anyway. A flock of birds returned his greeting, but Daisy would no longer be returning anything.
First Leo and now this.
That poor Barrows’ family was catching no breaks. Trent looked both ways down Harlow Road. It wasn’t a busy stretch, but he couldn’t leave her laying out here. Trent grabbed the dog’s hind legs and dragged her to the shoulder of the road. She was heavy and stiff, except her head, which lolled from side to side as she slid across the road.
“Oh, Janet, why do I put up with this?” His wife wasn’t there, of course, but Trent had found talking aloud to his wife a nervous habit. It calmed him, and he found no reason to stop now after all these years.
~ ~ ~ ~
Trent climbed the steps to the Barrows’ home for the second time in the last week. This wasn’t going to be easy, but it couldn’t be as bad as the last time. Losing the family dog was one thing, but losing your only child … well, that’s as bad as it gets. Trent knew pain, but that was the one pain that nobody should ever have to know.
He rapped on the door and, after a few moments, Donald Barrows answered. Trent was happy it wasn’t the Misses.
“Mr. Barrows,” Trent said, removing his hat.
The man nearly filled the entire doorway. Even with his boots off, Donald Barrows looked down on the Deputy. “Virgil told me Deputy Kelly was on today.”
“He is … well, he will be. I’m off duty, and I was just—”
“Do you have news about Leo, Deputy?” The large man licked his lips. Trent could see dread in his eyes.
“Oh, uh no, I’m sorry, Donny, not at this time. I have spoken with the hotel staff, and I’ve been attempting to contact the folks who were staying in the rooms neighboring your son. No luck just yet, but I will keep trying.”
“Yes, you will,” Donny said. “If you don’t have any news, why are you here?”
Trent sighed. “It’s your dog, Daisy. I believe she was hit by a car. She’s dead. I found her about a mile back … on Harlow.”
Donny stared slack-jawed at the Deputy and then looked towards the end of the porch. There sat Daisy’s food bowl. It was still full from breakfast, four hours before. “Jesus Christ,” was all the man said.
“I’m sorry, Donny. I believe she went fast by the looks of it.”
Donny shook his head. “I prayed for a reason to get outta’ the house and get away from all the …” he waved a hand over his head. “And look what I get. God’s out to get me.”
Trent had been a cop for a long time and knew when to keep his mouth shut.
“I’ll go get my shovel.”
Trent nodded. “Would you like a hand?”
“Not with the burying, that’s our business. But if you wouldn’t mind helping me lift her into the truck … she was a big girl.”
“Yes, she was,” Trent agreed. “Follow me.”
~ ~ ~ ~
With considerable effort, the two men hoisted the giant St. Bernard into Donny’s pickup. Afterwards, they stood in silence, leaning against the bed of Donny’s truck and staring at their little town at the bottom of the hill.
“I don’t understand this world anymore, Deputy.” He went silent after this, but Trent could tell there was more. He kept his mouth shut and waited for the man to continue, and after a long while, he did. “The guns and the drugs. Hell, even our own damn kids are running around with pink hair, metal in their faces or giant holes in their ears. Jesus, I don’t … it’s too much. I don’t get it. Maybe I ain’t smart enough to get it.”
“I think you’re plenty smart enough, Donny, but I can’t argue with you. Things are definitely changing.” As if to accentuate this, the midday sun disappeared behind a rolling black cloud, which looked more like a column of greasy smoke. Both men looked to the sky as a cold breeze buffeted the woods to the east.
“Storms coming.”
~ ~ ~ ~
A storm was coming indeed.
The weather forecasts were predicting sixty miles an hour winds and freezing rain, and that was just the start. The sleet was already coming, and Trent had to flip on his windshield wipers. It had been a mild November in Nebraska so far, but it seemed that was about to change. Trent turned his cruiser off Harlow Road and onto 13th, noticing his back wheels slipping on the already icy street. He had been driving in this weather his whole life, and he simply steered into the slide without even thinking about it. Trent knew that everyone wouldn’t be so lucky today and guessed that Officer Kelly would no doubt be on fender-bender duty all day. He thought of Donny digging that grave in the cold dirt, sleet pelting his sad, pudgy face. The poor bastard would probably catch pneumonia.
Trent’s cell phone rang. SHERIFF STONE flashing on the screen. “This is Deputy York.”
“Yes, Trent, this is Virgil. Are you busy?”
“Not overly. Just came from the Barrows’ house. Thought I’d cruise down main and top off my mug at the Texaco station before heading home.”
“Donny Barrows’ house?”
“Uh, yeah. The only Barrows in town.”
Virgil huffed into the phone. “Why the hell didn’t they mention this to you if you were just out there?”
“I don’t know. Mention what, Sheriff?”
“Just turn around and head this way. I got a fresh pot on. I’ll top you off for free.”
“Roger that,” Trent said and hung up. He sighed. Virgil couldn’t make a good cup of coffee to save his ass.
~ ~ ~ ~
Trent rang the doorbell. Inside, he could hear Virgil hollering for him to come in. Virgil had been the Sheriff in C
haplin Hills since time out of mind. He had been born in Chaplin Hills, and he would die in Chaplin Hills. Everyone knew this because Virgil had uttered that sentence in every speech he’d given over the last three decades. It wasn’t a senility issue, although Virgil Stone was in his eighties, it was just a quirk of his. The Sheriff was a man of many quirks. One of which was his aversion to offices. He did most of his police work from his kitchen table, which was where he sat now. Stacks of mail, two boxes of Nutter-Butter’s, (one open, one not) several newspapers—including the Chaplin Hills Register and the Rocky Mountain News—covered most of the table space.
“Grab a cup and have a seat.”
Trent followed the sheriff’s orders. “What’s going on, Sheriff?”
“Who the hell knows? Mrs. Barrows has been on the phone with me all morning. Something about a video mail, or some shit … whatever the hell that means. Supposedly from Leo.”
The Sheriff didn’t have a computer in his house. Said he had been doing the job for a lifetime without the need for a stupid “TV with a brain”. Trent and Deputy Kelly had handled the computer duties from their office in the Courthouse downtown. Trent stirred his coffee, staring at the old man sitting across from him. “Is this about that kid’s movie? That horror movie he made?”
Leo had gained some notoriety over an indie horror movie he made the previous year. Neither Trent nor the Sherriff had seen it.
“No, I don’t think so. She said both her and Donny got one of those computer emails or whatever they’re called. It was a video.”
“What’s on it?”
Virgil pulled a cigar out of the pack in his shirt pocket and lit it up. “Not sure.” He lit the tiny cigar and blew cherry-scented smoke across the table. “She said it was from the hotel room. The one up in Sidney where they found him.”
The Complete Bleaker Trilogy Box-set Page 21
