August's Eyes

by Glenn Rolfe

  The Ghoul wanted Sarah and Patrick, the pseudo son, but August suspected he knew the Ghoul’s perverse reasons for that. Patrick, though a bit older, was the type the Ghoul loved.

  August might be reprimanded, but if John was the ultimate prize, the man’s wife was the linchpin, not the boy. And he knew just where to find her.

  He instructed Alvin to head toward Route 126.

  A few minutes later, the van crept up behind the Subaru, closing the distance in a blink of an eye. She was pulled over in the dirt parking lot of a closed roadside market.

  They rolled to a stop behind her. Alvin put the hazard lights on and honked the horn. August ducked behind Caswell, watching her eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “Call to her,” he whispered to Caswell.

  * * *

  Sarah’s eyes were scratchy and swollen. The tears wouldn’t stop. She wanted more than anything to be angry at John. She had every right to want to set flames to every memory, every lie, every selfish thing he’d ever said or done. This topped them all. But it wasn’t all his fault. She had been the one pushing him to do the impossible. She’d given him the cold shoulder because he wanted to protect them from the inevitable crushing disappointment and hurt that would certainly linger for weeks if not months to come when their attempts to make a baby inevitably failed again. If anyone was being selfish and thoughtless, it was her. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she was just kicking the shit out of herself because it was easier than just admitting she didn’t understand what the hell was going on. The tears welled up as a car horn blatted out, scaring the shit out of her.

  She clutched her chest with one hand as her gaze darted to the rearview mirror. A van rolled to a stop, its hazard lights blinking. The driver waved a meaty hand out the window to get her attention.

  Sarah’s hackles rocketed sky high. She was pulled over in a vacant lot on a quiet road. She was vulnerable to anything.

  Keep your head on straight. Act tough but stay ready.

  She rolled down her window and stuck her head out. “Is everything all right,” she asked.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the man said. “She just quit on me. Lucky this lot was here and I could just let her coast off the blacktop there. Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a phone I could use to call for a tow would ya? I been meanin’ to get me one of those space phones, but, well, I just ain’t done it yet.”

  Something about the man’s face unnerved her. Something sour in his beady eyes.

  Stop it, she chided herself. You’re being ridiculous. Maybe he really needs help. Just call the tow for him and then you can go.

  “I do have a cell,” she called back. “Let me get you taken care of.” She pulled her head back in the car and snatched her phone off the passenger seat. She searched tow companies near Spears Corner. Several popped up. Just as she clicked on one for Rollins Towing, a strong hand clenched her wrist, spilling her phone to the floor.

  She hardly had time to gasp before something that felt like a cement block slammed her in the face and smashed her into oblivion.

  * * *

  August watched as Caswell opened the door and hauled the woman out, slung over his shoulder. He passed the van’s open driver’s side door and went to the waiting arms of the back-cargo area. August’s wicked grin welcomed her.

  “Take the car,” he ordered Caswell. “Get rid of it somewhere where it won’t be found for a few days.”

  The ugly man nodded and closed the doors.

  August bound the woman’s wrists and ankles behind her back with duct tape. He wrapped one of Caswell’s bandanas around her mouth. She didn’t rouse.

  Caswell and the Subaru were already gone when August climbed behind the wheel, clicking off the hazards. A large, newer truck pulled up behind him. The driver, a burly looking fellow, stepped out and approached his door.

  “Hey, saw ya had your hazards on. Is everything okay?” he asked.

  August cranked the engine and dropped it in Drive.

  He caught a glimpse of the man noticing that the driver of this vehicle most certainly wasn’t okay.

  August heard the man mutter, “What the fuck?” just before he sent dirt flying from under the Dodge’s tires and darted away.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  John dialed Sarah’s cell but got the voicemail, which wasn’t a surprise. She never answered her phone while she was driving. Next, he tried Janice, Sarah’s mother. With each unanswered ring, his hands trembled more and more while he paced a hole in the floor. He needed to know that she was all right. She could be as pissed at him as she wanted, but he couldn’t help but think something bad had happened while he was out.

  “I don’t think she’s looking for you.”

  “Hello?”

  Janice’s voice.

  “Janice, it’s John. Can I talk to Sarah?”

  “John? No, she’s not here. Last I knew she was heading to see you.”

  His heart hammered.

  “John, is everything all right?”

  He pictured Sarah crying as she drove down the street, distraught, emotional, not paying attention as she approached a stoplight, a car – a van – t-boning her car—

  “John?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “We just, we had a bit of an argument—”

  I confessed to cheating on your beautiful daughter, who has never done a damn thing to hurt me.

  “—and I just wanted to make sure she was okay. Can you please have her call me when she gets there?”

  “Of course, John.”

  “Thank you, Janice.”

  “You two will get by this,” she said. “I know you two love each other. We all have bumps in the road. The best couples always fight for their togetherness. It doesn’t come easy. Nothing worthwhile ever does.”

  “Thanks, Janice. I mean it. I appreciate that.”

  “I’ll make sure to have her call when she comes in.”

  “Thanks. Goodbye.”

  He hung up and tried Sarah’s cell again.

  This time it went straight to voicemail.

  John put down the phone and walked out the door, down the steps, and fetched his cigarettes from their hiding space.

  The spiders crawled back into his mind.

  As much as he wanted to convince himself that the illusion was the result of his dumb ass going out in this heat without drinking an ounce of water, leading to the dehydrated state of delusion, he knew better. After the incident here in his yard he thought of the pale face in the shadows that night, or seeing August or someone who looked like him by the fence outside the breakroom window at work and now this…he was either ready to be committed or…something truly horrifying was going on.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  What Pat uncovered about the kidnapping of Ethan Ripley was far worse than he ever could have imagined. And he had to tell John. Maybe the fact that it was suspected that his friend had been abducted by a notorious serial killer would jar his memory.

  He waved to Ms. Davis as he flew out the door. He’d placed the newspapers in a neat pile, but hadn’t bothered putting them back in order and in their boxes. He hoped she’d forgive him. Stepping out the library doors and hurrying down the stone steps, Pat scanned the street for the ugly green van. If it was lurking near, it was out of sight. The thought did nothing to ease his anxieties, but looking for the danger was half the battle. His eyes were wide open. He picked his bike up from the bush out behind the building where he always dropped it – no one wanted this ugly BMX, it had seen much better days – and started past the nearby police station and city hall. He wondered if Deborah was working today. Did she know anything about Alvin Caswell or his family? She looked old enough to at least have heard something about the family’s dark side.

  He’d been at the man’s house. Stood in his presence, even pissed him off. And he was still here. Pat co
unted his lucky stars. Although he had no proof the graveyard caretaker was the one following him and harassing him, deep down, the voice that knew was louder than hell.

  Had Alvin known about his cousin Llewellyn? Had he seen anything? Had he helped him in any way?

  * * *

  Pedaling for all he was worth, Pat made it to John and Sarah’s in record time.

  He found John smoking on the porch.

  “Back already?” John muttered.

  Pat dropped his bike and took the proffered cigarette from John’s hand.

  “You told her, huh?” Pat said, sparking the smoke to life.

  John, shoulders slumped, nodded and hung his head, his gaze trained on the cherry at the end of his cigarette.

  “Shit, man. I’m sorry.”

  John waved him off. “It’s my own damn fault.”

  Pat didn’t want to dismiss the man’s pain or grief or shame, but if he didn’t spill what he’d discovered, he’d probably explode.

  “Listen,” he said. “I came back because I couldn’t stop thinking about the van and about what you said Caswell said to you.”

  John cocked his head up.

  “About the kidnapping?” Pat clarified.

  “What about it?”

  “Have you ever heard of a serial killer called the Ghoul of Wisconsin?” Pat asked.

  “I’m not the cult killer guy you are. I know Bundy, Dahmer, Hannibal the Cannibal, that’s my extent on those guys, but I’ll bite. Who is he?”

  Pat thought John had to know one of those was fictional, but he let it slide. “Okay, so check this out,” he said, instantly forgetting that he’d been paranoid as hell on the ride over and feeling the thrill that regularly coursed through his body when he talked true crime. “For, like, six years, this creep kidnapped, raped, and murdered dozens of boys in Wisconsin.”

  John’s head lifted at the word ‘kidnap’.

  “Right,” Pat said. “This guy is every Chester the Molester you ever thought of as a kid. He was liked by neighbors and seen as a fairly successful business guy. I can’t remember what he did for work, but I guess he made donations to the local church and library, that kind of shit. Behind the scenes though, he truly lived up to his name. He was a ghoul. When the cops finally came down on him, they discovered more than twenty bodies, almost all young boys between, I don’t remember exactly, something like twelve and sixteen. In his confession tape he cried. Not for getting caught or for what he did. He said, ‘You can’t take me away from my boys.’”

  “Jesus,” John said. He sparked another smoke.

  “Wait, you haven’t heard the most insane part yet.”

  “I don’t know, that’s all plenty fucked up if you ask me.”

  “His name was Llewellyn Caswell.”

  Pat took a drag from his own cigarette while John let that sink in.

  “Caswell? Like, what? Is he related to our creepy Caswell?”

  Pat nodded. “And that’s not all. He’s from here. That house Alvin lives in, that’s Llewellyn’s childhood home.”

  “What are you saying? Are you saying—”

  “Wait,” Pat said. “It’s never been proven, but it’s suspected that the kid you said Caswell mentioned, Ethan Ripley, may have been one of the Ghoul’s last victims.”

  “How? You said he lived in Michigan?”

  “Wisconsin,” Pat corrected him. “But according to an interview with Caswell in August of 1994, Llewellyn’s mother died, and he came home for her funeral.”

  John sat back. “I need a drink.”

  “One of the articles I read today said it was very possible. The timeline fits. Llewellyn Caswell, the Ghoul of Wisconsin, was home here in Spears Corner when Ethan Ripley was taken and killed.”

  “He was here with his cousin.”

  “It doesn’t mention Alvin Caswell in anything I saw, but I think we can assume so.”

  Never in his wildest dreams had Pat ever thought he might have a chance to be involved in any way whatsoever in a huge true crime event.

  No sooner had the smile hit his lips than the thought of the van and one of the Caswells here in this town knowing about him crossed his mind and doused the embers of excitement. This was real. There could be glory if they could somehow prove Caswell did it, but there was also the threat of his cousin targeting them. Llewellyn Caswell burned in the electric chair in the late nineties, but his cousin was here and alive and well.

  “Wait, when did you find all this out?” John asked.

  “I was just at the library.”

  “So, you haven’t been home yet?”

  Shit.

  “Didn’t you say your mom was worried about you going over to Caswell’s?”

  “Shit, yes.”

  “Let me get you home,” John said, getting up and walking toward the front door.

  “It’s okay, Johnny, I can ride.”

  “Don’t call me that. It’s John. But too bad. I’m not letting you roll these streets with that guy out there.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Truth be told, Pat was grateful for the lift. He wasn’t sure how he was going to sleep tonight knowing the Ghoul of Wisconsin’s cousin lived in his hometown and that he’d pissed him off, unintentional or otherwise. Alvin Caswell knew who Pat was. Did he know where he lived, too?

  * * *

  When John dropped Pat off, the sun was still burning in the evening sky, the temperature still cooking those without air-conditioning. As Pat pulled his bike from the trunk, John said, “Be sure to tell your mom the truth.”

  “I will.”

  “She deserves it, and she can handle it.”

  “For sure,” Pat said. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “No sweat, Pat. Be careful okay?”

  “You too.”

  A thought occurred to him as John walked to the driver’s side door. “Johnny, er, I mean, John.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your dreams.”

  “Yeah? What about them?”

  “I don’t know, maybe it’s stupid, but have you ever seen Caswell or the van in your dreams?”

  “I….”

  He saw the wheels turning behind John’s eyes.

  “I got chased by a vehicle,” John said. “It could have been the van. I didn’t get a good look or if I did, I can’t remember. It chased me through Graveyard Land.”

  Pat shivered at the name of the place. Who named places in their dreams?

  “As for Caswell, there is a house. A white farmhouse near the furthest edge of one of the cemeteries. August didn’t want us going there. They never said who lived there, or maybe they did, I can’t remember at the moment, but it’s in my dream journal at the house. One Eye was afraid of the place.”

  Pat didn’t know why John couldn’t put it together, but he saw it clear as day. A white farmhouse by the cemetery. Caswell’s house sat right beside Fairbanks Cemetery. “Maybe your dreams are trying to tell you something,” he said.

  “Yeah, that I’m losing my shit.”

  “No, it’s deeper. The kid, Ethan Ripley. You knew him, you said something about your dreams and guilt. Maybe it’s from when you were kids. Maybe you somehow blame yourself for what happened to him.”

  “Are you sure you’re not the one seeing a shrink?” John said.

  “I don’t know, man, it all seems to be too much to be coincidence, don’t you think?”

  The front door to the house opened behind them.

  “Patrick?” his mother called.

  “Go on,” John said. “Hey, Trisha.”

  “John? Oh, thank goodness,” she said.

  Ada scooted by her legs and ran to the steps. “Paddy?”

  “I’m right here Ada.”

  “How come you gone so long?” she said. Her pouty face hit him in the heart.r />
  “Sorry,” he said. “I fell off my bike and hurt myself a little. I’m okay though.”

  “You got a boo-boo?”

  “A couple,” he said.

  “I cleaned him up and he hung at my place for a bit,” John said. “Nothing a little peroxide and soap couldn’t take care of.”

  “Well,” Trisha said, walking over to them, Ada hovering at her knees, “next time, maybe call your mother before she loses her mind thinking all the worst things have happened to you.”

  “I will, Ma,” Pat said. He picked up Ada and put her on his hip.

  “Thank you, John,” Pat’s mom said.

  “No problem. I do have to get going, just thought I’d give him a lift back. Talk to you later, Pat.”

  “See ya,” Pat said.

  “Tell Sarah I said hello,” Trisha said.

  Pat watched John’s mouth tighten.

  “I will.”

  They waved as he backed out of the driveway.

  “Now,” his mother said, “let’s talk about your punishment for scaring the shit out of your mother.”

  “Mama, you said a bad word,” Ada said. “You said shit.”

  Shit indeed, Pat thought.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  John checked his cell at the first stop sign. Still no calls from Sarah.

  She’ll call when she’s ready.

  “Yeah,” he answered aloud, “even if it’s just to tell me to fuck off.”

  After pulling up Dr. Soctomah’s number, he hit send. The man picked up after two rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Dr. Soctomah, it’s John Colby.”

  “Hi, John. Is everything okay?”

  “No, I’m sorry to be bugging you like this, but I really need to talk to you. Can we meet now?”

  “I’m out of the office. Can we set something up for later this week?”

  “Please, Dr. Soctomah. I…I cheated on Sarah. I already told her and well, I’m just…. I….”

  “Okay, okay, John. I hear you. Now, this isn’t something I would normally do, but I just put on a fresh pot of coffee. Why don’t you come by my home? It won’t be in official capacity, but I can tell you need to talk.”