Dark Omen: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel

by Erickson, J. R.

  “Sure thing,” the bartender, whose nametag said Frannie, told her. “And if you haven’t been yet, Presque Isle Park is the place with the best views.”

  Bette looked at her, startled.

  The park where Peter Budd had fallen to his death. The park Weston and Crystal had visited so recently.

  “Is that far from here?”

  Frannie shook her head. “Less than a ten-minute drive. Follow the coast road and it ends right there at the park. Some beautiful hikes, but make sure to wear comfortable shoes.”

  “Thanks,” Bette told her.

  After Frannie returned to the bar, Bette flipped open an album. The first page revealed a five by eight photo of Matt Kelly. It looked like a senior picture. Matt wore a collared shirt, and his shaggy hair had been tamed and tucked behind his ears.

  The boy bore an even more striking resemblance to Weston Meeks in the large picture. It wasn’t the same man, not at all. Matt was young and fresh faced with bright green eyes. But his wavy blond-brown hair looked similar to Wes’s. They had similar strong square jaws and wide smiles that revealed slightly imperfect teeth. Matt had a small gap between his two front teeth. Weston didn’t share that trait.

  Beneath the picture, printed in bold letters on white, it said: Matt’s Senior Picture — 1974.

  Bette flipped to the next page. She saw Matt straddling a motorbike. His younger sister, Lisa, sat in front of him. More pictures followed. Matt wedged between his two parents as an adolescent, holding a very serious-looking puppy covered in brown and black spots in his arms. Bette saw pictures of Matt lying on the floor as his younger brother and sister crawled over him. Pictures of Christmases, Easters, Fourths of July with Matt holding up sparklers and wearing a blue, red and white t-shirt that matched his younger siblings’.

  Halfway through, she came to dance and prom photos. The last one in the book included a young Greta Claude. Her hair was short, a pixie-style cut that highlighted her large gray eyes and sharp, bony face. It was an odd hairstyle for the 1970s, when most girls had kept their hair long and straight. Other pictures of Matt’s friends revealed as much. Greta wore a long black dress that hugged her narrow frame. It made her pale skin look ashen and her light hair almost white.

  The next page included Matt, Greta and their school friends. Again, Bette noted the contrast between Greta and the other girls. Greta’s peers wore long pastel dresses, some with fuller skirts or shoulders. Their hair hung long, and a few of the girls sported the puffy curls that would appear in heaps during the eighties.

  Matt’s all-American boy appearance only added to the strangeness of Greta. He wore a white tuxedo and a mischievous smile. Greta’s mouth was set in a thin line, and she narrowed her eyes at the camera.

  Bette wondered if the person behind the lens felt unnerved by the intensity of her glare.

  She flipped through the rest of the book and started on the second album. This one included newspaper clippings carefully pressed behind the clear pages.

  The first showed a grainy picture of a forest trail. The headline, Local Boy Slain in Bishop Park, jumped out in black block letters.

  “I remember that.”

  Bette looked up, startled at the sound of Frannie’s voice.

  “Sorry to be nosy,” Frannie apologized, sliding Bette’s food onto the table.

  “Did you know him?” Bette asked.

  Frannie nodded.

  “We weren’t friends. Matt was a jock. You know how teenagers love their labels.” Frannie rolled her eyes. “I was in the band and took art classes. Lot of good those talents did me.” Frannie laughed, gesturing at the bar.

  “Such a waste of life… I don’t have kids myself, but I have two nephews and I love them more than my dogs, and damn if I don’t love those little fleabags something fierce. I can’t imagine what his parents went through. They were on the news a lot the first couple of years. His mother could barely speak. It was just terrible.”

  “What did kids at school think happened?” Bette asked.

  Frannie frowned and touched the article, shaking her head.

  “I heard a lot of rumors. A few kids said he’d gotten involved with drug dealers and they murdered him over a debt. For a while, people were saying maybe he was seeing some other guy's girl, and the boyfriend killed him out of jealousy.”

  “But he had a girlfriend, right?”

  Frannie scowled and nodded.

  “Frannie, I need another Bud when you get a second,” a man at the bar called.

  “Give me a minute,” Frannie told Bette, hurrying over to the bar, pulling out two glass bottles and setting them on the counter in front of the guys.

  When she returned, she again looked at the clipping.

  “The third theory, and the most popular, was that his crazy girlfriend murdered him because he broke up with her,” Frannie continued. “After his death, Matt’s best friends insisted he planned to dump her.”

  “Did that seem realistic, though? His girlfriend murdering him?”

  Frannie croaked a laugh. “Not for most sixteen-year-old girls, but the one Matt Kelly was involved with would have been my first choice. Greta Claude had a mean streak.”

  “What makes you say that?” Bette asked.

  “I took the same art class as Matt and Greta. We painted landscapes one year, and I remember Matt complimented another girl’s painting. Penny’s. The next day we came into the class and Penny’s painting was shredded on the floor. Greta did it. I know she did. Penny was just devastated. Her mother had cancer, and Penny had told everyone the day before she wanted to give the painting to her mother as a birthday gift. Instead, it ended up in the trash bin.”

  “What makes you think Greta did it?”

  Frannie rubbed her neck and looked toward the lake through the window. “I saw her. I didn’t know it at the time, and I never came forward. I regret that now. It might not have mattered, but… Anyway, I was outside practicing the trombone after school, and I saw somebody in the classroom. I figured it was Mrs. Lincoln, the art teacher. I walked over to say hello. I peeked in and spotted Greta. She was standing at the front of the room, staring at everyone’s paintings. Mrs. Lincoln had hung them to dry. I ducked before she noticed me, but the minute I saw Penny’s painting torn up the next day, I knew Greta had done it.”

  Bette frowned, trying to imagine a teenage girl shredding the painting meant for another student’s sick mother. It made her think of her own mother and Crystal.

  A trickle of despair slipped down her throat.

  “Order up,” a man called from the kitchen.

  “Duty calls,” Frannie told her. “Need anything with your burger?”

  Bette swallowed her grief and shook her head.

  “No, I’m all set. Thank you.”

  She pushed the album aside and pulled her plate toward her, but couldn’t find any desire to consume the food. After half-heartedly eating a few French fries, she returned to the photobook.

  Each page contained another article.

  Within two months of the killing, the headlines grew smaller and started to appear on page six or page nine. They detailed little in the way of new leads, and not a single one identified a suspect or person of interest.

  A few heated editorials had been clipped — angry citizens demanding justice for Matt Kelly.

  Nate Montgomery, Matt’s best friend, had written an editorial. He practically accused Greta outright, not using her name but mentioning how most murders were committed by the significant other of the deceased, and pointing out that Matt’s girlfriend had fled Marquette within weeks of his murder. He demanded to know if they all could expect to commit murder and move away to avoid justice.

  Bette wondered how Sheriff Montgomery had felt about the letter, considering his own son had written it.

  42

  1973

  Greta Claude

  “What’s that?” Peter’s voice froze Greta as she sat at the little scratched kitchen table that wobbled every time sh
e moved.

  “A project for school,” Greta lied, shoving the notebook beneath her chemistry textbook.

  She’d started in the public school the month before, and she hated it. The kids looked at her strangely, and she was behind in nearly all the courses. She stayed after most days for additional help, committed to reaching her age group before the semester break. She had to get her high school diploma as fast as possible. She had to escape from the trailer.

  Peter tugged on a strand of her pale hair. It was long, nearly to her butt. Her father didn’t permit either of his daughters to cut their hair. They were girls, and they’d look like girls, he’d snapped when Maribelle once insisted she wanted to cut her hair in the same style as the sisters from The Parent Trap.

  Greta had also liked the actresses' hair, short and blond. Hair that wouldn’t be tipped in blood if you spent the morning scrubbing the basement floor. Hair that didn’t have to be brushed ten times a day and braided or secured in some bun to keep it from tangling in the night.

  Now, as Peter touched her hair, Greta rose, sending her chair crashing to the floor.

  His face contorted and he started to raise his hand, but Dolly’s pickup truck spluttered at the end of the street. She’d pull in and catch him. Greta doubted her Aunt Dolly would leave her husband for beating and assaulting Greta, but she wasn’t a woman to mess with. She’d probably smack him with a frying pan and force him to sleep beneath the porch for a week. She held all the power, and Peter knew it.

  He pulled his lips away from his yellowed teeth and lowered his hand.

  “You’ll get yours,” he hissed before stomping towards the back of the trailer and slamming the door to the master bedroom.

  Greta shoved her books and notebook into her bag and wrenched open a kitchen drawer. She pulled out the silver-handled shears and stuffed them into her bag.

  When she burst onto the porch, Dolly was just climbing out of her truck. She held a small brown sack in her hands. Cigarettes, probably, and a loaf of bread to make bologna sandwiches. The meal they ate five out of seven nights every week.

  Dolly narrowed her eyes at Greta before she brushed past her toward the door. She didn’t ask how Greta’s day had been or where she was going. The screen door swung shut without a word from her.

  Greta walked the cracked road out of the trailer park and turned onto Highway 41. It was the major thoroughfare into Marquette.

  Cars passed. A pickup truck filled with guys honked. One of the men, scraggly and unshaved, leaned out the passenger window and whistled.

  Greta ignored them, her legs propelled by the rage bubbling in her abdomen.

  She wanted to hurt someone.

  Peter.

  She wanted to hurt Peter. Lift the scissors and stab him over and over until he was unrecognizable, until he was a heap of blood-soaked meat.

  An orange Ford Pinto pulled onto the shoulder of the road before her.

  Greta stopped and watched the driver’s door open.

  A young guy hopped out. His sandy hair brushed his shoulders, and he wore ripped jeans and a blue Aerosmith t-shirt.

  “Greta? Hey.” He lifted a hand, his big smile faltering when she didn’t return the greeting. “Do you need a ride or something? I’m just heading into town.”

  Greta studied him for several more seconds. Her anger had caused her vision to blur and go black at the edges. She struggled to place him.

  His name slowly drifted up from the red coiling mass in her head.

  Matt Kelly from Mrs. Lincoln’s Art Class. Matt was the star of the class. He drew elaborate pictures of comic book figures, but he excelled in all of their subjects.

  The week before, Mrs. Lincoln had asked her students to paint watercolor flowers. Most of the class had produced prints that looked like colorful blobs. Matt had painted a tree filled with different flowers: roses, daisies, and orchids. It looked like something in a gallery.

  “Yeah, sure,” she said, staring at the ground as she walked to his car.

  Matt ran around the car and pulled open the passenger door. He grabbed a stack of textbooks from the seat and shoved them in the back.

  Greta slid into the car, balancing her bag on her knees.

  Matt climbed behind the wheel, brushing a hand through his wavy hair. He smiled at her, and she saw a dimple near his mouth. His eyes were big and brown. They reminded Greta of an orderly from the asylum that many of the patients affectionately called Colantha after the asylum’s prize-winning heifer, who’d been buried on the grounds in 1932. It was partially the orderly’s size that earned him the nickname, but mostly it was his soft brown eyes — cow eyes.

  “Is this your car?” Greta asked.

  Matt shook his head. “I wish. I just turned sixteen last spring. I’m saving up for a car but I’ve got a ways to go. This is my mom’s car, but she lets me drive it if I run errands when I’m out.”

  Greta gazed through the windshield, watching the oncoming cars approach and then whiz by.

  “So, umm… how are you liking Marquette?” he asked.

  Greta didn’t look at him but tightened her hold on her bag, thinking again of the scissors tucked inside.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Fine? Really?” He chuckled. “It’s like the most isolated town on the planet. Most of the kids here are dying to get out.”

  “Are you?” she asked, turning to look at him. “Dying to get out?”

  He blushed and shrugged. “Kind of. I want to go to Michigan State when I graduate. Ever been there?”

  Greta shook her head.

  She’d barely left Traverse City, barely left the grounds of the Northern Michigan Asylum before that long desolate drive to Marquette.

  “My dad teaches at Northern. Both my parents want me to stay here, but…” He shook his head. “Nah, I want to see the world, you know? Like in Easy Rider. I want to do that for a year. Get a bike and ride all over, maybe see Arizona and California.”

  “On a bicycle?” she asked skeptically.

  Matt laughed and slapped the wheel. “On a motorcycle. You’ve really never seen Easy Rider? That’s wild. What movies do you like?”

  Greta thought of the movies she’d seen in her life. She could count them on two hands. They didn’t have a television in the house at the asylum. She’d caught glimpses of TVs in town. Once or twice a year, Mrs. Martel would convince their father to let her take Greta and Maribelle to the state theater in town. The Parent Trap, The Sound of Music, Mary Poppins, My Fair Lady… The movies were all wholesome, and capped with happy endings.

  Greta had often sat in the theater, trying to make sense of the films. Why did they try to paint the world in a golden light when it was filled with darkness? She’d watch other people munching popcorn, smiling and laughing, but she’d felt numb to the love stories, the heart-warming moments. Who could believe such lies?

  Matt was still looking at her.

  “I like The Parent Trap,” she said.

  She had liked it. She’d liked it more in the years after Maribelle died.

  Sometimes Greta gazed in the mirror and pretended Maribelle stared back at her. In death, Maribelle had assumed the role of Greta’s twin, always gazing out through the looking glass.

  “The Parent Trap?” he asked, smiling as if she’d made a joke. When she said nothing, he nodded. “Yeah. That was a good one. My sister loved it.”

  As they drove into town, Greta watched the people walking up and down the sidewalks. The girls wore bright clothes and had long feathery hair. The boys mostly had shoulder-length hair like Matt. The stores sold everything from candy to shoes.

  She’d only passed through town on the school bus, and she’d barely noticed what went on behind the window displays. Now she could see people talking and laughing, filling their baskets. It reminded her of the movies, strange fake worlds — when at home people screamed and hit, raped and murdered.

  “Where are you headed? I’ve got to run into a few stores in town. We could grab a burger i
f you’d like? On me.”

  Greta looked at Matt and wondered if he was joking.

  “Why?” she asked.

  He laughed uncomfortably and looked away. “In case you’re hungry. I’m hungry and you’re new in school, so…”

  Greta flung open the car door while it was still rolling down the street.

  “Whoa. Hold on.” He pulled the little car to the curb as Greta jumped out.

  She didn’t look back. She ran down the sidewalk, attracting the startled looks of a mother and her young child when she nearly collided with them.

  Tracing the route her school bus took every morning, she turned down another street and ran until she’d reached the little park that edged the high school.

  She was relieved to find it empty, except for an elderly man watching the trees through a pair of binoculars. A little notebook rested in his lap.

  Greta slowed to a walk and turned onto a trail. She’d been to the park in gym class. Once a week the class walked to the park to jog on the trails.

  She found the place where a tall oak tree had been split by lightning. Half the tree lay toppled over, the other half reaching its sharp, serrated trunk toward the blue sky. Behind the oak, deeper into the forest growth, stood a clearing.

  In the glade, someone had arranged five large boulders in a circle. In their center was the charred remains of a fire and two blackened beer cans.

  Greta had found the spot two weeks before, after veering off the path during her run to throw up. Peter had raped her that morning before school, and he’d punched her in the stomach when she’d resisted. Running had caused her stomach to cramp and seize. She didn’t want the boys and girls running behind her to see her vomiting, so she’d slipped into the trees to hide.

  When she’d come upon the rocks, she’d felt instantly at ease. The space reminded her of the asylum field, the secret spot held by the surrounding forest.

  She sat on a rock and unzipped her backpack. She pulled out the shears and gazed at them in the sunlight. The light glinted off the blades. They were dull and dirty. She could see the smudges of whatever her aunt had chopped most recently. Probably something disgusting like the slimy bologna she and Peter lived on as if the modern world provided no greater variety. Her father would have slapped Greta if she ever used scissors and returned them to the drawer without cleaning them first.