August's Eyes

by Glenn Rolfe

  Dr. Soctomah gave him his address. Five minutes later, John pulled up in front of the house.

  Dr. Rik Soctomah’s house was a cute dark blue cape. A little garden with tomato plant cages sat in the center of the front yard. There was also a beautiful bed of red, purple, and orange flowers lining the front of the home.

  Dr. Soctomah opened the door as John reached up to knock.

  “Come in,” Dr. Soctomah said.

  The home’s interior was covered in Native American décor, like what he had in his office. Jewelry, decorative baskets, and lots of intricate wood carvings.

  “Join me in my reading room.”

  Bookshelves lined the walls. John thought of Sarah. She would have been in heaven surrounded by so many books. He could see her reading in the red recliner in the far corner, her feet tucked beneath her, a steaming cup of tea at her side, or even writing at the desk near the large window.

  They sat next to each other on the futon in the center of the room.

  Dr. Soctomah handed John a mug of black coffee and took up a spot next to him.

  “Sorry,” Dr. Soctomah said. “I ran out of cream this morning.”

  “Black is fine, thank you.”

  “So, why do you think it happened?”

  “Because I’m a fucking idiot. I was so drunk.”

  “Forgive me, but was it someone you know?”

  John nodded.

  “Someone Sarah knows?”

  “Indirectly,” John said. “It’s a co-worker.”

  “I’m not going to justify or make excuses for you,” the doc said. “But under the right circumstances, people are known to falter. Unfortunately, it sounds like you may have found yourself caught up in the perfect storm. Therapy can often act like a net dragged along the bottom of a lake. There are so many things that have settled down there all covered and cozy in the sand deep down below the surface. When we commit to going in for that dive or allowing the net to be dragged, all that stuff down there gets disturbed and floats up. What we get are all these issues that are suddenly out of place and that can initially cause a lot of mixed feelings. It can and it’s meant to unleash a lot of locked-away shit, pardon my language. It seems to me, the stress at work, between that of the job itself, combined with the rough relationship with your supervisor and possibly the feelings you may or may not have admitted about this co-worker, certainly could cause the dreams that are keeping you from sleeping well. You take all that with what we were able to disturb from your lake, and how quick it’s all been—”

  “Doc,” John said, “I truly wish that were it.”

  “Well,” Dr. Soctomah said. “Yes, then there’s Sarah and the want for a baby.”

  “There’s more.”

  “More?”

  John explained everything he and Pat had witnessed or found out about the green van, Ethan Ripley, Alvin and Llewellyn Caswell, as well as Sarah’s dream research.

  The doctor’s eyes squinted, his gaze someplace else. “Hmmm.”

  “What is it?” John asked.

  “Do you remember the photograph at my office that you asked about?”

  “The one at Fairbanks Cemetery? Yes.”

  “Around the time of that photo, there was a man in the tribe, a bad man. He worked with malevolent spirits. In particular, the Luk, or Wolverine as he’s known. The Wolverine is a wicked deity. A monster. This tribesman was excommunicated. He, along with a handful of his followers, moved deeper into the woods. It was believed he cursed the land and promised eternal unrest. When James Spears and his men arrived a few months later, it was thought that this dark shaman’s curse had sent them. Many of my ancestors believed the Wolverine had possessed the war hero and coerced him into the slaughter of those who tried to defend their homes.”

  John didn’t know what to say. He’d encountered so much evil in so few hours, it seemed like it was all building to something spectacularly horrible.

  “I came back to Spears Corner. I was drawn here. My family, the few who survived James Spears’s takeover, wound up in Bear Island only to succumb to the smallpox outbreak there at the time. My mother, my sister and her children now reside at the Pleasant Point Reservation. We are all that remain of my people from the photograph you saw. I chose to return to our original home here in Spears Corner. I felt there was something undone here.”

  “You think this all has something to do with what? The curse?” John asked.

  “If there were sour ground anywhere, it would be here in Spears Corner.”

  “But what does any of that have to do with my dreams?”

  “Dreams are a gateway to the spirit world,” the doc said. “The shaman I mentioned, he delved into places beyond our realm. Places we are not meant to tread. Not the way he intended, at least.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at.”

  “What if this Graveyard Land of your dreams is one of these tainted spirit realms?”

  “Is that possible?” John asked.

  “Judging from what I know and what you’re telling me, I think it’s time we stop asking about what is or is not possible.”

  Dr. Soctomah was right.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Dr. Soctomah’s idea that Graveyard Land could somehow be real was unsettling to say the least. The night was just beginning to fall as John headed home. There was no word yet from Sarah, and the thought of going home where he would just climb the walls or drink himself into a stupor, wasn’t enticing. Being there without her would compound his problems and drive him over the edge. Hitting up the bar was out. He imagined running into Kaitlyn again.

  No thanks.

  He was coming down the Hallowell-Litchfield Road, slowing as he crawled by Crescent Cemetery. This was the coolest, and one of the oldest graveyards in Spears Corner. There were two sections divided by a small pathway that led up a slight hill in the back to the older section. He pulled the car to the shoulder of the road opposite the cemetery, killed the engine and got out.

  The sun had begun to dip and lit the sky up in a brilliant crimson that gave way to blood-red orange. It was a gorgeous fiery mix as a backdrop to the graveyard. After crossing the road, he walked through the tall concrete pillars that served as the entrance and walked between the newer graves near the front. Peter N. Dunbar, died August 9th 1977, followed by Helen Peacock, died August 30th 1981. Okay, so they weren’t that new, but goddamn it, why did he always have to see August death dates….

  Pat’s voice echoed in his head. It’s too much to be coincidence.

  John walked to the rear of the front cemetery. The grassy pathway out back slanted before him in a deep shade split by slivers of the amber sunset slashing through the trees.

  It would be dark soon. Did he really want to be out here?

  Was this one of Caswell’s graveyards?

  Great, it was either be spooked out of his mind or guilt-ridden and depressed.

  Two shitty choices, but at least being out here was a distraction. He didn’t know if he’d qualify it as a good distraction, but it served as one, nonetheless.

  As he crossed over to the hill that led to the older cemetery, a quick succession of snapping twigs and scuffling feet came from his right. He stopped and squinted into the growing shadows.

  He was freaking himself out now. There was no one here but him.

  He carried on until he came to a tree that looked familiar. He’d been here before, but…it was in his dream. Staring at the old, towering Oak before him, he recalled August sitting at its base, watching John and One Eye and keeping his creepiness to himself for once, for the most part.

  Was that in his journal? He couldn’t remember if it was from before or not.

  Why am I here?

  Avoidance, distraction covered both of those, but was it something else?

  This fucked-up supe
rnatural shit was silly. Dreams were just dreams. Sure, they can be rooted in real life, but they don’t show up in real life.

  “What if this Graveyard Land is a tainted spirit realm?”

  Movement behind one of the taller monuments caught his eye.

  John stepped behind the medium-sized monument closest to him and peeked around the corner.

  Could be some dumbshit kids out here fucking around. Or….

  Crouched down, he waited. The darkness around him deepened.

  He considered calling out but thought it better to conceal his whereabouts. Why give this person the drop on him? He was suddenly taken back to when he and the neighborhood kids would play The Russians Are Coming. Hiding from any headlights that came down the road, pretending it was the Russians like in that movie Red Dawn. If they got spotted, they were caught. Had Ethan ever gotten to play?

  Why couldn’t he remember the kid?

  Night had fallen. Here he was alone in the cemetery, creeping around like a weirdo.

  John started to rise when the movements came again.

  “Looking for me?”

  August’s voice startled him, making him squeal like a ten-year-old at a monster movie.

  John flopped backward, banging his head on the gravestone behind him. A sharp pain burst to life as August’s silhouette, standing over him, faded to black.

  * * *

  When he opened his eyes, he was surrounded by fog.

  Graveyard Land.

  He sat up, looking for August and One Eye, but this time, he was all alone.

  Johnny climbed to his feet and tried to figure out which way to go. Could he actually explore by himself? An inner voice commanded him to see it all, to take in everything he could. Familiarize himself with every inch of this place, map it out. Without August or One Eye to interfere, he could get the true lay of the land.

  As Johnny wandered through the mist, he got the sense that someone was watching him.

  Walking on, Johnny didn’t notice the growing number of eight-legged critters gathering in his wake.

  He was focused on finding out more about this damn place. Besides the Graveyard Land sign, he couldn’t recall seeing any others. Back home, every cemetery had a name that was presented on a plaque or rockface – Spears Corner had its own idea of sign making. Crescent, Babbs, Sampson, Spears, Tillersons, Fairbanks…his town had tons of the stone placards. If this were Spears Corner or some catawampus dream equivalent, there would be signs.

  The fog swirled and swarmed the grounds, spreading out, growing thicker by the second. As Johnny moved forward, a dim light in the distance beckoned him, a lighthouse guiding him in. Mesmerized, he heard a muffled voice in his mind warning him of the anglerfish and its predatory illusions in the depths. He could be devoured at any moment, but the promise ahead was too enticing. He was ready to go into the light and be swallowed.

  John was out here on his own. The shadows threatened to sink poisoned hooks into his soul and spoil him for all eternity. Still, he went forward.

  Was he afraid? Yes. Would he falter? Hell no.

  The answers were here. He needed to reach the house….

  Shapes began to pass through the fog. Johnny stopped. A chorus of whispers came to life, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  “Hello?” he called out.

  More amorphous shapes accompanied more movement. The whispers increased.

  One passed close enough for him to see. It was a boy about his size, but he was…naked. They all were. The boys of Graveyard Land were here…all of them…and they were frantic.

  And they were coming for him.

  Johnny spun and crashed into One Eye. He was naked and crying.

  “What’s going on? What’s happened?” Johnny asked.

  One Eye shook his head.

  “Are you okay?”

  Bruises appeared upon his flesh in deep purple blossoms. Dark, viscous fluid seeped from the boy’s ruined eye. His lip split, produced more of the dark fluid.

  “I c-can’t…I can’t…” One Eye stuttered.

  “You can’t what?”

  “Please, don’t make me…I don’t want to….”

  One Eye wasn’t speaking to him. His gaze was somewhere else.

  The whispers of the other boys swelled around him in the thickening fog.

  “Come on, get up!” Johnny shouted at the strange kid. He grabbed the boy’s wrist and began trying to pull him to his feet.

  “NO!!!!!” One Eye screamed. Johnny let go, startled. “Puh, puh, pleeeeease….”

  Hands began to clutch at Johnny’s shoulders. He twisted away from them, reaching once more for his friend.

  One Eye focused on Johnny. A grotesque smile split across his wounded mouth. “Leave me here, Johnny. Save yourself. It’s what you always do.”

  Johnny let go of One Eye’s arm, too stunned to respond.

  The others fell upon the boy.

  Stumbling backward, Johnny did what he always did.

  He ran.

  * * *

  John awoke beneath the moonlit sky.

  “What are you doin’ out here?”

  Sitting up, he stared up at Alvin Caswell.

  His skin tightened; his head felt fuzzy. It took a minute for John to realize where he was and why he was there.

  “I saw your car on the side of the road,” Caswell said. “When I seen that you weren’t in it, well, I decided to make sure you hadn’t found yourself in some trouble. You all right?”

  John touched the sticky spot on the back of his head and looked at the blood on his fingers.

  “Say, you got a medical condition or somethin’? I find you like this again, I’m gonna start to think you got a thing for lying with the dead.” Caswell’s gross grin appeared. “You ain’t funny like that, are ya?”

  “What? No,” John said, getting to his feet. He stumbled and had to hold on to the gravestone to steady himself.

  Caswell reached for him. “Careful there, fella,” he said.

  John pulled his arm back. “I’m fine,” he said, more forcefully than he’d intended. He didn’t want Caswell touching him.

  “Sure,” Caswell muttered. He touched the front of his pants, rubbing himself. He caught John watching him and smiled.

  John averted his eyes. “Thanks for checking on me,” he said. “I better get home.”

  He hurried past Caswell, who was still touching himself.

  John started toward the path to the front cemetery. Caswell followed him, humming a tune.

  John didn’t look back. He didn’t like having Caswell this close to him, especially in this back half of the graveyard. How long had the man been standing there before John woke up?

  He picked up his pace and was nearly running by the time he crossed the street to his car.

  The clock on the radio said it was shortly after midnight.

  Jesus.

  Hanging his head, he reached back and touched the bloody wound. It hurt like hell, but he didn’t think he’d need stitches. He patted his pockets for his car keys but came up empty. The little cup holder he sometimes set them in was empty, as well.

  “Shit.” He looked toward the cemetery and saw Caswell heading straight for him.

  He was about to lock the door when he noticed what the man held in his hands.

  “Figured ya might need these?” Caswell said, stepping to the door and handing over the keys.

  “Yeah,” John said. “Thanks again.”

  “I figure that’s two you owe me,” Caswell said.

  “What’s that?”

  “All the rescuin’ I’m doin’ for ya, I’m startin’ to feel like I might be your guardian angel.”

  “Oh, yeah….” John gave a weak laugh. He just wanted to get away from him. He needed to get the hell h
ome.

  He started the car. “Thanks again, have a good night,” he said, putting the car in Drive.

  “Oh, I will. Got me a little girlfriend waitin’ for me at the house.”

  John didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just nodded and pulled away. He didn’t believe the creep. He didn’t want to imagine the kind of woman who’d be willing to get close to the guy, let alone set foot in that house.

  * * *

  When he got home, John checked his voicemail. There was nothing. It was way too late to call his mother-in-law’s. He’d have to try in the morning. He poured himself a whiskey and swallowed down a couple Tylenol for his head.

  Looking into the bathroom mirror, he tried to see how bad the wound was. The blood was already crusting up around it. He warmed a washcloth with hot water, wrung it out and lightly patted the self-inflicted injury. The thought that Caswell could have been standing in the cemetery the whole time he was knocked out sent his skin crawling with goose bumps. There was someone there who’d startled him to begin with. He’d impossibly thought it was August, but it had to have been Caswell, right? If that were true, he’d left John lying there unconscious for hours.

  Another thought occurred to him. He couldn’t have dropped his keys. They had been in his pocket. Caswell had touched him. The fucking bastard had gone through his pockets and taken the keys.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he said aloud.

  He wasn’t about to head over there now, not in the dark, not to that house. He’d have to confront the man in the light of day.

  After pouring himself another drink, John took to his couch, ready to put this awful day behind him.

  PART FOUR

  A Murder of One

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  August opened the door to the shed and slunk in to check on Sarah. Her red, tear-stained eyes went wide as he stepped inside, the light of day shining in behind him. She made quite the fuss behind her gag. August glided over to her. He enjoyed her fear. She turned away, refusing to look at him.

  “It’s fine,” he said. “I know I’m not a handsome devil. I am, however, a devil of sorts. We’re going to do something very special tonight, you and I. I hope you’re as eager to see Johnny as I am.”