“Grief does funny things to a person,” Dillon continued, “and when you have an expansive amount of money to fill a void you think you have, then a habit begins to develop. Most addicts have some sort of sob story. I’m sure you’ve heard a few.”
Mark nodded in agreement, although the only first-hand experience he had with any sort of addict was the alcoholics he would book for D.U.I.s. Dillon stood up shaking his empty cup, and reentered the house. Mark decided to wait on the questions he had for them. Dillon seemed to need to vent, and, while Mark was on the clock he could tell that, at least for Dillon, the isolation of the town was eating at his brain, so Mark decided to put the pen and paper away to talk more with the man.
“Are you sure you can’t have one, Sheriff?” Dillon asked, as he stepped out of the door. Mark looked down at his watch, the hands beckoning four o’clock.
“Mark, call me Mark.”
“Mark. Well Mark, of the Acadian Springs Police Department, would you like a bourbon on the rocks?”
“I probably shouldn’t, but what the hell?” Mark responded, letting the level of professionalism wane. Dillon smiled, handed over his drink to him, and Mark took a sip. After a quick trip back inside, Dillon returned with his own drink and sat back down next to Mark. He began to feel calm around Dillon, a weird sense of kinship with someone he knew nothing about. Years had been spent in the church, as myths about gays had been shoved down his throat, and here he was being as cool as cucumber with one.
“Cheers,” Dillon said, raising his glass in Mark’s direction, and he returned the gesture with a clink of their glasses, “It’s not the best bourbon in the world, but it does the trick.”
“Doesn’t seem too bad,” Mark replied, “Better than the stuff I normally drink.”
“I’d hate to ask. So what’s your story? Why are you in this god forsaken place?”
Mark was taken back by the conversation suddenly turning to him and he was unsure how to respond. As comfortable as he was with Dillon, he didn’t want to overextend his professionalism much further in fear he’d be reprimanded at work, but the bourbon was causing a reaction inside of him, his nerves becoming numb to his sensibilities.
“I grew up here, born and raised.” Mark finally spouted, his wall coming down, “Just never got around to exploring other possibilities.”
“It’s never too late for other possibilities. I mean look at us, we moved to a place where the entire town hates us.” Dillon laughed again, trying to lighten the mood.
“The town doesn’t hate you, they are just uncomfortable with the unknown.”
“Your friend doesn’t seem uncomfortable, just purely hateful.”
“I wouldn’t say Terry is my friend. We’ve just known each other for a long time.” Mark said, taking a large gulp of his bourbon. It burnt his throat the entire way down but it was working its magic to loosen him up, “Terry’s just old-fashioned.”
“Old-fashioned, my ass. Did you see my house this morning? There’s still a fucking stain on the floor from the blood.”
“We’re still investigating and, believe me, Terry is number one on my list.” Mark replied, trying to soothe over the situation. Dillon finished off his bourbon and set the glass down on the ground between them. It was obvious the man was starting to feel a buzz, his agitation coming in waves.
“Anyways, back to you.” Dillon said abruptly, changing the subject. Mark was relieved as he had been enjoying the conversation up until that point.
“Some people never leave their hometowns, I’m one of them, I guess. Plus, Denise and the kids really like it here.”
“Oh yes, the wife. High school sweethearts, I’m guessing?”
“Yeah, been married almost twenty years. Crazy how time flies. Hell, my son is going to be seventeen in May.” Mark couldn’t believe the information he was divulging about himself to the stranger, but no one besides Terry in recent memory had taken an interest in his life. Mark had an impulse to pull out the picture of his family in his wallet, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a text message from his wife, wondering where he was. He didn’t want to cut his visit short but his phone buzzed a few more times, interrupting their conversation.
“Speak of the devil, I guess that’s my summons,” Mark laughed, standing up and stretching his limbs. He could sense a change in Dillon as his impending departure and he thought it strange. As he was beginning to walk away, he felt Dillon’s hand grab his arm. He stopped and looked back, as fear flooded Dillon’s face.
“We have to make it work here, Sheriff.” Dillon said, his voice shaking.
“We are doing all we can. Just try to remain calm.”
“I leave in a couple weeks for a few days, and I’m worried about Ashton being here alone.”
“He’ll be fine, I can come check on the house daily if you’d like.”
“Please. He’s not taking any of this too well.”
Mark shook on his agreement, and walked down off the porch, as he felt Dillon’s eyes burn into his back. He knew that the men were scared to be in a foreign place where they were being attacked, but it was his job to ensure they felt safe and he made a pact with himself to see that they did. Back inside his patrol car he searched through his glove compartment for mint gum, knowing well enough that Denise would have a conniption if she smelt the slightest bit of alcohol on his breath. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dillon still standing on the porch, watching him. He waved goodbye before rolling down the driveway.
The kids were home when he arrived, Marsh locked in his bedroom and Amelia on the couch playing a game on her cell phone. She barely acknowledged him as he entered, but he bent down and kissed her forehead anyway. He continued his trek through the house, his wife was in the kitchen beginning dinner.
“Where have you been?” Denise asked, not even looking up from the skillet.
“Just finishing up some paperwork.” He hated to lie to her but knew she wouldn’t understand the entire situation. He was worried what her reaction would be if she knew he had spent an hour just hanging out with Dillon, and he felt a duty to keep any more unwanted attention away from the men. He went upstairs and changed out of his uniform, switching to more comfortable clothing. As he passed Marsh’s door he wanted to knock and check on him, but figured if the boy’s door was closed, it was for a reason. He remembered being a teenager, trying his best to get “alone” time as much as possible, so he continued down the hallway and back downstairs to sit in front of the TV.
Dinner was finally finished and everyone began to congregate in the dining room as their plates were made. Denise made them all hold hands at the table, saying a short prayer, but Mark kept his head up, not comfortable with religion at the moment. No one noticed Mark’s dishonor, and as Denise finished the prayer, he pulled his hands away quickly. Mark observed Marsh. The boy seemed down, more quiet than usual as he ate his food. Amelia, on the other hand, was her normal self and hadn’t stopped talking since they began dinner. Mark listened intently, laughing at his little girl as she talked about school and anything else that came to her mind.
“Pastor Terry was here today!” Amelia finally exclaimed, and Mark shot a questioning look over to Denise, as she wiped her mouth with a napkin. After the day he had, Mark didn’t want Terry anywhere close to his house or his family and he internally became furious.
“He stopped by to see if I could do Sunday school, Ms. Breaux is still feeling ill.” Denise finally said, feeling the tension coming from the other side of the table. Mark could read that his wife was not completely truthful in her explanation, but stayed silent not sure of what Terry had told her from his interrogation earlier.
“We’re not going to church on Sunday,” Mark finally said.
“And why is that?” Denise inquired. She set her fork down waiting for his reasoning. He wasn’t sure how to reply, as most of the conversations between him and Terry had been kept from his wife. She wasn’t aware of the accusations against Terry, as far as Mark knew,
but until the investigation clearly showed Terry as the culprit he didn’t want to speak up against him.
“I just thought maybe we could have a family day or something,” Mark lied. He noticed Marsh had perked up hearing that his father didn’t want to go back to South Belle, and Mark felt right in his decision. Denise went back to her dinner as he watched the gears turning in her head. He was curious about the conversation she had with Terry earlier, wondering if he had alluded to the fact that Mark had taken him in for questioning, but she didn’t say anything about it.
“Well you don’t have to go, but me and the kids will,” Denise finally said, as Marsh sank bank into his seat. Mark felt helpless as he eyed Marsh’s demeanor but knew that he couldn’t fight with Denise on the matter. Amelia seemed to enjoy the church and, up until last Sunday so did Marsh. So, to Denise, there wasn’t a reason to deny them, but Mark knew better.
After dinner, Mark went to the garage to tinker around, trying to separate himself from his wife. He didn’t want to start an argument with her over dinner nor did he want to in front of the kids, but he wanted to grab her by the arms and scream to try to make her understand the gravity of the situation at South Belle and that Terry wasn’t the kind of person he wanted teaching his kids about love and compassion. Mark thought it was strange that Terry had stopped by his house instead of texting or calling like he normally would under the same circumstances and he wondered what secret his wife was keeping from him. It seemed a lot of secrets were hidden within their home, his own included, and he could feel their presence nearly suffocating him.
TWO
Ashton had laid in bed for nearly twenty-four hours, his body toxic from the stress of the day. He had left Dillon to deal with the police mulling around downstairs as they investigated the different possibilities and, even after they had left, his strength would not allow him to go assess the situation. Periodically he would slip into sleep, just to have his body jolt awake in a sweaty puddle. It was as if the house was an oven, trying to roast him alive, and, after several times of taking the blankets off, he unclothed completely and lay stark naked in the middle of the bed. In between sleep, he watched the day disappear in the autumn night sky, and, after several hours, he heard Dillon creep into room to finally erase the day with some rest of his own.
“Babe, you’re burning up,” Dillon whispered, as he got into bed. Ashton turned around to him, his body ached and his head began to spin as he whirled around. Dillon felt his forehead, then stood back up, “I’m gonna run you a cool bath. You don’t look well at all.”
Dillon had disappeared into the master bathroom, and Ashton could hear the water start to run. He raised himself from the bed, sheets sticking to him from the sweat. The spinning got worse, and he laid back down to await Dillon’s assistance. Ashton knew his body was fighting off something, remembering the colds he had caught throughout the years, and knew that the next few days were going to be hell. The worse thing about being sick was watching Dillon’s constant concern over his well-being. It had been years since the last time he had the flu and Dillon had stayed by his side the entire time, feeding him soup and medicine until he was better, but there was much more going on now and didn’t want Dillon to overstress.
Once the bath was ran, Dillon returned to the bedroom and helped walk Ashton into the bathtub. Ashton’s body slipped under the lukewarm water as Dillon disappeared into the bedroom to change the sheets. Although the water was meant to be relaxing, Ashton’s mind fixated on the events of the last month, and stress pumped through his veins. He couldn’t believe the predicament they were in and wanted desperately to move, but Dillon was dead set on making it work in Acadian Springs. The biggest worry he had was when Dillon went back to work and left him to his own devices in the home, worried that the Pastor would come back to exact revenge for turning him in or worse. Even without the Pastor, the strange occurrences that were happening on the property was giving Ashton anxiety and he wasn’t sure which problem was more frightening.
For a moment his thoughts faded into a fog. He was set free from the anxieties and worries. The entire house became alarmingly silent, he couldn’t even hear Dillon’s movement in the bedroom.
“Dillon?” Ashton called out, and waited for a response.
“Ashton.” It wasn’t Dillon’s voice, it was something so close to him that it was like it was right next to him whispering in his ear. The voice chilled him, the hairs on his arm raising to the horror. He looked around the empty bathroom, and he called out again, his voice echoing against the tiled walls but there was no response. The pressure in the bathroom seemed to push down on him and he pulled himself into a sitting position, his eyes seeking what was not there. A high pitch screeching broke through the silence and he grasped his ears trying to soften the sound, but the noise trapped itself in the small opening.
Finally he removed his hands from his head, the noise still present, stepped out the shower, and grabbed his towel. His eyes caught his reflection in the mirror and he realized he was not alone. Stark against the bleached white tiles, a figure, as black as a moonless night, stood motionless behind him, and Ashton’s heart fell into the pit of his stomach. He had seen the figure before, standing over him in his bed, but now in the light of the bathroom, the details of the figure ignited a primal fear within him. The only color in the figure was the two beady white eyeballs that were sunk deep into the caverns of their sockets and the figure’s mouth was stretched tightly into a menacing smirk. Its neck was attached to a bony set of shoulders, their sharp points lead to a set of outstretched tattered wings. The figure was nude, sexless from Ashton’s quick analysis, and its hands were abnormally large with gnarled fingers that were aciculate at the tips.
Ashton knew this wasn’t a night terror but reality, and, as he was about to scream, the figure moved its arms around him, pulling him backwards. Its fingers seared into his flesh as he was jerked into the tub, his head catching onto the faucet. The impact nearly knocked him out cold, sending bright flashes of light through his mind as a concussion took hold. Ashton tried his best to fight back, the blood from his head mixing violently with the water as he thrashed about to get his head above the water. The figure kept a strong grasp on him, and all he could see from underneath the water was red, his screams stifled by the water entering his lungs. His overall strength was giving out, his head throbbing mercifully from the impact, and his vision beginning to diminish.
Nearly unconscious, he gave one last look at the figure holding him underneath the water. Its smirk had not changed, its eyes fixated on Ashton’s body. Ashton finally blacked out, and he felt his body rising from the water. His back became cold as he was placed back onto the floor outside of the bathtub, and, from what seemed a million miles away, Dillon’s voice wrapped around him, pleading with him. Ashton’s eyes fluttered open, unable to focus, and he could see the outline of his husband over him, but behind him, a dark figure filled his line of vision and the all too familiar voice filled his eardrums.
“We’ve got you.”
THREE
Sirens and flashing lights passed by Mark’s house just as he closed his eyes. He didn’t have to check his police radio to figure out where they were headed, and he quickly dressed in his civilian clothes. His wife had slept through the commotion, and he was thankful as he slipped out of the bedroom and into his car outside. He turned on his police radio just to confirm his suspicion and backed out of his driveway to head towards Acadian Spring’s newest neighbors. He dreaded the scene he was about to witness, only getting a bit of details from his radio before he switched it off. He was starting to feel like a staple at the Boudreaux Plantation, and he feared that this wouldn’t be the last visit he would have to make.
His arrival on the property went unnoticed by the small swarm of paramedics, policemen, and firefighters alike. The circus convened at the front door, and, as Mark approached the steps, a stretcher with Ashton attached was pulled out of the house, a bloody bandage covering his head. He was
barely conscious, and Mark Watched as the stretcher was placed into the back of the ambulance. Dillon was sitting on the rocking chair adjacent to the front door, bloody from head to toe, and Mark walked over to him.
“Dillon? Are you ok?” Mark asked as the man looked up at him, his entire body shaking.
“Can you go get me a cigarette from upstairs?” Dillon asked, as he pointed towards the house. Mark agreed and headed into the house, stopping to announce himself to one of his deputies. He passed by the stained spot on the ground where the pig had been hung and walked up the stairs. Even though he had never been in the house before, he could tell where the two men had claimed their bedroom, and he went inside, grabbing the opened pack of cigarettes. Mark’s eyes glanced over the room. He saw a trail of blood leading into the bathroom, and his curiosity got the best of him. His feet carried him to the door of the bathroom, and he peered inside. The bathroom was a disaster, water and blood had mixed in the tub and formed puddles on the tile floor. After a quick inspection, he returned to the front porch, and handed the cigarettes to Dillon.
“Thank you,” was all the man could muster, as his hands quivered. He fiddled with a lighter and after a few swipes was able to light the cigarette. Mark watched him as the man inhaled the relaxing smoke, exhaling the smoke from his lungs into the night sky. The ambulance rushed off and the crowd dissipated, leaving them behind. Mark looked at the man inquisitively.
“You’re not riding in the ambulance?” Mark questioned, and the man shook his head.
“No, I figured I’d drive separately.”
“What happened?” Mark asked, the question that had been burning in his mind.
“I’m guessing he slipped. So much blood.”
The House the Devil Built Page 10
