Keeper of the Lambs
Page 1
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Books by Dr. Sue Clifton
Keeper of the Lambs
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing
Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The blades on the two oversized fans hanging on either end of the ceiling stopped abruptly and then turned the opposite direction, whirring louder and louder, threatening to chop up whatever or whoever was beneath them if they fell. Charlie covered his eyes and rocked forward and backward. Harri and Teesh hugged him, putting their bodies tight against him to shelter him from the terrifying happenings. The camcorder flew off Harri’s lap and landed at her feet, but she made no attempt to retrieve it.
Hank stopped playing and grabbed Cayce in a bear hug to prevent her from being cast off the bench as it vibrated and then levitated, rising at least five feet off the floor.
What happened next proved to be the shocking conclusion to the horrific scene. A large, dark fog appeared on the walkway that looked down from the second story. It moved stealthily toward the stairs, making its own whirring sound like a mass of huge, nasty, black flies beating their wings in rapid succession. Then the beating turned to deep bass, drumming more like a cave full of bats than tiny flies as the black mass moved down the stairs and approached the dazed onlookers.
Books by Dr. Sue Clifton
Available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Sisters of the Way Series
THE BREATH OF SPANISH OAKS
KEEPER OF THE LAMBS
~
Daughters of Parrish Oaks Series
THE GULLY PATH
UNDER NORTHERN LIGHTS
HEART OF THE BEARTOOTHS
MOUNTAIN MISTS
WINGS ON MOUNTAIN BREEZES
Keeper of the Lambs
by
Dr. Sue Clifton
Sisters of the Way, Book 2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Keeper of the Lambs
COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Dr. Sue Clifton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Mainstream Paranormal Rose Edition, 2019
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2661-0
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2662-7
Sisters of the Way, Book 2
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
TO NYOKA,
my real-life sister and researcher who traveled with me to haunted hotels, ghost towns, and even cemeteries, looking for the perfect ghostly settings and material for this “Sisters of the Way” series.
I never apologized to you for chasing you through the house with that butcher knife when we were nine and ten years old—you know, retaliation for the numerous times you jumped out from behind doors and scared the “bajiggers” out of me? WELL, DON’T HOLD YOUR BREATH! APOLOGY NOT FORTHCOMING!
Just remember—that line in Keeper of the Lambs is true! I WAS the one who crawled “under the house when we were kids, during snake season, to drag out the stray dog’s puppies,” one of whom (the prettiest one) you claimed immediately!
Ditto to the words written on my favorite Hallmark cup you gave me, the one that has been sitting on my desk for decades: “When I think back on the way I treated you when we were young, the mindless jokes, the cruel taunts—IT CHEERS ME RIGHT UP!”
I need new material and settings for future books! Pack your bags, Sista!
~Sue
Acknowledgments
My thanks to the Cole family, owners of the Thomas House, Red Boiling Springs, Tennessee, who introduced me to little ghost girl Sara many years ago. Everything Sara does in Keeper of the Lambs is something I, and others, have witnessed at the Thomas House. Whether you believe or not is your choice, but Sara is real!
I also would like to thank Montana and Texas artist Janet Olson for explaining and demonstrating the Plein-Air technique and for acting as my consultant answering any questions about Piper’s painting scenes. Any mistakes made in these descriptions are mine alone and are due to my total lack of artistic ability.
~Dr. Sue
Prologue
Bar None, Idaho
1928
The bent, frail woman circled the cemetery, choosing not to take the short path to the grave she visited every day, even under a scorching summer sun, through mudslides brought by spring or fall drizzles, or in blizzards that threatened to bury her. As the woman walked, she kept her head hung low, her chin buried in her stiff, high-necked, black bodice. She knew in this position she would be unable to see the small transparent figure of a young woman dressed in a white lace dress who paced around the grave of her own baby, her voice crying in delicate, restrained sobs so soft they were barely audible.
The older woman’s eyes stared down through the dark veil at her black lace-up shoes that crunched with every step like the rhythm of the deep bass of a church hymn sung solo with no melody, no joy—a somber reminder of her many sins. Trying to clear her mind, she trudged on. The snow fell thicker as she neared the spot up the valley where her little treasure, Sara, lay resting, free of the stomach aches plaguing her short seven years of life.
The mourner refused to look up at the monolithic Jesus she had custom ordered from San Francisco and paid an additional ten prices to get transported across desert and mountains. The statue was an afterthought to the unnamed children buried in its shadows in a common grave. All this was for show, a bribe to convince God not to take Sara. But the bribe had gone unacknowledged, and Sara had been taken from her.
Jesus’ outstretched arms embraced a throng of marble children, all with slanted eyes, who looked out of place in the mostly Anglo cemetery. Words from Mark 10:4, dialogue spoken by Jesus, were written along the statue base. The lady in black shortened the verse, locking one phrase in her mind and on her lips as if the repetition might somehow relieve her
own suffering:
“Suffer the little children to come unto me…Suffer the little children to come unto me.”
She whispered the words to the breeze playing through the surrounding forest—gloomy background music, harp chords strummed in a minor key. Her conscience primed her search for justification and forgiveness for past transgressions. Over and over the same sermon, “seek forgiveness,” played in her mind like the few old worn-out hymns sung by the miners’ women in the small rustic log chapel. He, the man she had always loved, had built it so his precious young wife would have a place to kneel and pray after she accepted his God. He stopped attending the church after his wife died and refused to pay for its upkeep—his effort to punish God for taking his wife.
The woman in black had promised to rebuild the church now standing as blackened, burned timbers—another attempt to bargain for Sara’s life, but she never carried out the promise. After God took her baby, the woman severed all contributions to any church and shunned the one remaining church, refusing it as a site for Sara’s final goodbye. Sara’s service was held in the hotel parlor instead. Now the woman realized her only hope of seeing her Sara again was in the afterlife rejected along with any belief in God.
I need to go to heaven and be with my baby again. Please, God, don’t punish me more! I swear I believe! I’m even talking to You!
As the woman slowed and glanced toward the transparent figure that hovered over the grave of her own child, she momentarily forgot the pure thoughts she was pretending in case the Heavenly Being was watching.
I love him more than she did!
She wrung her hands, not to aid circulation in the frigid temperature, but in the gesture that had become habit, her symbol of validation replacing her remorse for past transgressions.
I took care of him—still take care of him, like I took care of Sara.
She turned her gaze from the small figure. Her thoughts softened as she neared her destination, and purity of thought returned to overpower her contempt for the small white shadow.
Suffer the little children…Suffer the little children.
She mouthed her thoughts in rhythm to the wringing of her hands. Her footsteps quickened, turning to strides as she came in sight of the precious mound of dirt lying just out of His shadowy reach.
“Haven’t I paid my penance by taking care of him all these years?” She lifted her gaze and screamed the words at the gray heavens and then at the figure of Jesus. Then, as if afraid He would move His gaze from the babies buried beneath His shadow to her, she dropped her eyes to the ground again and altered her stride to a quick but quiet gait the rest of the way to the child’s grave.
Dropping to her knees below the pure white angel tombstone she had added just for her own little angel, she brushed away the white as if afraid the child would be chilled by the first snowfall. As she swept the flakes, she cried, tears forming icy paths to her quivering, downturned mouth. Unable to keep up with the thickening flurries, she spread her body across the grave and wailed—a long, mournful sound that reverberated through the cabins and buildings mostly empty now. The sound had been heard for so long the townspeople, what few remained, had grown immune, if they had ever cared at all.
“My baby! Child of my child!” Raising her gaze from the grassless knoll, she screamed at Jesus, who continued to gaze down, ignoring the ravings of the crazy woman.
“When will my suffering end?” Again, her tears poured, springs of human misery.
“Suffer the little children…Suffer the little children,” she repeated, attempting to redirect her thoughts. Then she buried her face in the grave. Pounding the snow-flecked mound with her gloved fists, she moaned a cry not human, the last replay of this daily ritual. She glanced up from the ice patch formed by her tears and rose to her hands and knees, hastily retreating backward on all fours in a tangle of black satin and lace. Hordes of blue, rotating circles approached from the mass unmarked gravesite, the spot where Jesus cast His protective shadow on clear days.
The mourner’s eyes reflected terror, but she could not move; her escape route was blocked! Her back was pressed tight against a nearby tombstone crudely chipped out of sandstone for some person of insignificance—her description of everyone in the cemetery with the exception of Sara. As the blue orbs swarmed around her, she swatted at them as if surrounded by bees. Then she recognized the tiny slanted eyes in each nucleus, all enraged. The woman covered her face with her arms, her scream replaced by one last gasp for air as she curled into fetal position.
****
Idaho, the Present
He whistled in short shallow breaths in an attempt to restrain his crazed excitement. Then, unable to contain his exhilaration any longer, he leapt across the rocky terrain as surefooted as a mountain goat. His adrenaline pushed him back toward the long, black SUV, a vehicle much too similar to a hearse.
Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war, with the cross of Jesus going on before.
The lyrics danced through his head, threatening to escape his lips and bombard the serene mountain setting.
Spurts of air burst from his lips as if from a freed, untied balloon, always the same tune whistled after the fulfillment of a mission; his breathing followed the animation of his body as he lifted his arms toward heaven. His jubilation never waned; his rush peaked as he tore loose the top two buttons on his shirt using only his thumbs, being careful not to soil his shirt with his red-stained, dirty hands.
He opened the door behind the driver’s seat and, with one sweeping motion, thrust in the tool that had buried a wealth of sin and sinners, careful not to hit the prized cargo bound in the back. Again, he lifted his arms to heaven and laughed the laugh of a madman proud of the blood on his hands as he both hummed and whistled another stanza of his battle hymn. Then, lowering his arms, he slid into the driver’s seat, never losing his momentum.
“At the sign of triumph, Satan’s host doeth flee; on then, Christian soldiers, on to victory.” His melodic tenor filled the night as he stretched his arms to the vehicle’s ceiling and belted out his song of war and victory.
Resuming his humming of loud, sharp notes, he pulled down the sun visor and stared into the mirror behind it. With the certainty of one who had accomplished this task many times before, the killer opened his shirt and outlined the diamond shape that contained a thick cross. He colored in the empty spaces of the tattoo with the rest of the victim’s blood before wiping the excess on his shirt. Staring with wild eyes, mesmerized by his own reflection, he finished his solo aloud.
“With the cross of Jesus go…ing…on…be… fore!”
The killer held the final note longer, waving his hands in the air as if directing an unseen choir of angels…or demons, and then clasped his hands together on the wheel and lowered his head into them.
With eyes closed, he whispered the words in hushed, reverent tones, and when finished, clutched the wheel for a few more seconds before lifting his eyes. He stared at himself in the mirror as if seeking additional reassurance and smiled with the satisfaction of a job well done. The killer repeated aloud the same words as he looked past his reflection toward the back of the vehicle.
“A necessary waste…a justified killing for the sake of the lambs. Not murder, which would imply innocence. Others must be eliminated. I am the Keeper, armed with truth and the sword.”
****
“What’s happening? Where am I?”
The questions screaming in the girl’s mind were audible only as a deep-throated moan.
The scarf, soggy with her tears, was tied so tightly it felt as though her eyeballs were being buried in their sockets. Her nose was running rivers, and her mouth was sealed shut with duct tape. Her whole body—arms, legs, torso—and even her head were bound tightly to the gurney-like bed. The girl could only swallow her sobs of anguish and fear as she listened in the darkness from the back of a vehicle she knew must be a van or a large SUV.
The girl—all five feet, four inches of her—lay fla
t on her back. She stretched her fingers to search for Johnny, but she could only reach out an inch or two. Without the use of her senses of sight and touch, she resorted to using “Grammar Sense.”
Her favorite grandmother had been an English teacher. Hence, the clever grandmother name. Grammar had gone blind at the age of fifty, but being an optimist, said her blindness only heightened her other senses. The two often played the girl’s favorite game, “Grammar Sense,” in which she would blindfold herself and describe everything she was experiencing, matching her sensations to her grandmother’s real-life ones. Her Grammar had died a few months ago, but she was always in her granddaughter’s thoughts.
Grammar, are you with me? I’m scared.
In her mind, the girl could hear her Grammar’s reply: I’m with you, Billie. You are strong, smart, and brave. You’re a survivor. Never forget this. Use your strengths, Granddaughter.
Billie swallowed the sob trapped in her throat and pretended she and Grammar were being driven to an undisclosed location by Billie’s dad, who often shared in the game with his daughter and his mother. Billie could feel her grandmother’s fingers entwined with her bound ones as they began their imaginary move, hand in hand, through the secret location, using the senses available to them.
“Use the senses you have, Billie. What do you hear? What do you smell?”
Billie listened. She heard the hum of the car’s motor—a heavy, powerful sound. “It’s an SUV, not a van; it’s one of the big ones like a Suburban.”
Billie sensed smooth pavement as they traveled along, not speeding, but not going too slowly.
A main road, then.
Something rattled beside her, like an unbalanced tool was hitting against the side of the vehicle. The driver was silent…a good thing, she hoped.
She opened her nostrils a little and took a shallow breath. Her surroundings reminded her of her dad’s garage where he worked on the vintage truck he was restoring.
“Older vehicle…no new car smells. Oily…dirty… definitely a working man’s vehicle…dirty work. Pine scent but not real pine…one of those cheap, smelly pretend tree things that hangs from a mirror…one bought recently because it smells strong, masking other smells. Light smell of diesel like a lot of ranchers burn in their vehicles.”