Wuthering Frights

by Elise Sax

  “How are we going to do this?” I asked Silas. “We can’t just say we think Boone is a serial killer.”

  Silas unlocked the car door and cracked it open. “We’re reporters, boss. We’re going to ask questions. We don’t have opinions.”

  “Questions. No opinions,” I repeated, but I wasn’t any less nervous about approaching Amos. I thought our questions would be as unwelcome as our opinions.

  We got out of the car, and I rang the front doorbell.

  “Breathe, boss,” Silas commanded. “You’re turning blue. I don’t know how to do CPR, so if you have a stroke, you’re shit out of luck with me.”

  I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell again. Still nothing. “Do you hear him?” I asked.

  “No. I don’t hear anything except for the horses in the paddock.”

  “Amos has been acting weird,” I pointed out. “He hasn’t shown up for work, and he’s been isolating himself.”

  “What are you telling me, boss? We’ve got a ghost story, a serial killer story, and a sheriff suicide story to write?”

  “You don’t have to sound so gleeful about it. Amos could be in trouble. He might need help.”

  A smile spread slowly on Silas’s face until he was grinning at me like a schoolboy. He put his hands on his hips and leaned in close to me. “Boss, are you doing what I think you’re doing? You want to break into Amos’s house?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied. “I just think we should check on Amos, in case he needs us.”

  Silas patted me on the back, which was his way of saying that his little cub reporter was growing up into a real reporter and that he was proud of me. “Maybe I can jimmy one of the window locks, and you can give me a leg up,” I suggested.

  “Sounds good, or…” Silas started, and then opened the front door with a simple push. “Nobody locks their doors this far out, and nobody’s stupid enough to break into the sheriff’s house. He’s an expert marksman.”

  I stepped into the house and called out to Amos, but there was no sign of him. His beautiful, sprawling home was messier than normal, as if everything Amos had used in the past few days was discarded on the floor, on the couches, and on the table. His home was usually an organized, pristine Architectural Digest kind of place, very homey and welcoming, frozen in time from the moment that his dead wife Amy left it. Now, it looked like a depressed bachelor lived there.

  “You weren’t kidding about Amos needing help,” Silas said, looking around. “It looks like my place.”

  I stared at him. It never occurred to me that Silas had a place. He worked all day at the Gazette, and he bathed every evening in my bathtub. I couldn’t imagine where he lived or what his place looked like. As far as I knew, he possessed one suit and two ties, so I couldn’t imagine what the state of his bed sheets were.

  My attention was drawn back to the almost-altar of Amy pictures on a sideboard. Amy by herself. Amy with Boone. Amy in a field of wildflowers. Amy happy and beautiful in each picture. The Amy I met in the forest behind my house last night looked like the Amy in the photos only as far as her bone structure and eye color.

  But dead is dead. The Amy I met wasn’t happy, and she had seen better days. Her hair had been dirty, sticky and streaked with blood. Her clothes had been ripped, and she was traumatized, probably because she had been murdered.

  He’s closer than you think. The memory of her words came back to me and made me shiver.

  “Amy Goodnight must have loved tea,” Silas said, taking a teacup out of a cabinet, which was filled with pretty china teacups and saucers, each a different style and pattern. “There’s got to be fifty of them in here. That’s a lot of tea.”

  “Don’t touch her teacups,” I heard a familiar deep voice say. Amos appeared in the living room. He looked like he hadn’t bathed or changed his clothes since the last time I saw him. His hair was unwashed and uncombed, and he had a murderous look on his face. Silas put the teacup back in the cabinet.

  “How’re you doing, Sheriff?” Silas asked him. It was the first time that I saw Silas scared. He was fidgeting with his hands and avoiding eye contact with Amos.

  “I was fine until my house was broken into,” Amos growled. His voice was low and hoarse, and I might have imagined it, but I could have sworn I smelled liquor on his breath.

  “We came to visit, and when you didn’t answer, we got worried,” I said and smiled at Amos. He didn’t smile back.

  “I’m fine,” he said, locking eyes with me.

  For the first time, I noticed he was holding the mysterious box that he had been given by his cousin. He was clutching it to his body, and I wondered if it had been out of his sight since he first received it. I also wondered what was in the box. Something that was turning Amos inside out. Something that was turning him into a wreck and a recluse.

  “Nice box,” Silas commented.

  Amos gripped the box tighter against his body. “How may I help you, Silas?” Amos asked, changing his demeanor with his sheriff’s voice. “I’m taking a few days off, but Adam’s in charge. You can go to him if you need law enforcement.”

  His forehead broke out in a sweat, and I had the feeling that he was counting the seconds until we left. He noticed he was sweating the same time I did. He turned his back to us and put the box in a drawer in the sideboard. Locking it with a key, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Is that all?” Amos asked, turning back to us.

  “No,” Silas said.

  I put my hand on Silas’s arm, quieting him. I didn’t think now was the time to interrogate Amos. He needed to get over whatever he was going through before he would be any use to us. “Yes, we’re done. Amos. We’ll leave you alone. Sorry to bother you on your days off. We’ll show ourselves out. Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

  “Knock yourself out,” Amos said, waving at the bathroom. He left the room, walking toward his bedroom.

  “Boss, a reporter doesn’t leave before all the questions are asked,” Silas hissed at me when Amos was out of earshot.

  “He’s not in the right mindset to talk about whether Boone is a killer or not. Don’t you see that?” I hissed back.

  “Who cares?” Silas hissed, throwing his hands up, like I just made a field goal. “We don’t only interview folks who want to be interviewed, you know.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? Journalism? Journalism doesn’t matter? Journalism is the bulwark against tyranny. It’s the barrier between freedom and the enslavement of the masses. Without us, the world is a Walking Dead spin-off series, which has even more cannibals and zombies in it. Do you want that, boss? Do you want more cannibals and zombies?”

  I didn’t want more cannibals and zombies. I didn’t want any cannibals and zombies. I wanted a nice wedding with Boone. I wanted to carry a bouquet of roses and lilies, and I wanted an off the shoulder, ivory dress with a lace overlay and a string quartet playing Brahms while I walked down the aisle. Was that so much to ask? Did I need journalism for that?

  “Listen, Silas. Listen. Are you listening?” I urged him in a whisper.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Amos.”

  “Amos what? Amos the lead you just let go? The guy who could give us information about Boone and whether he has a collection of young blondes in his basement? That Amos?”

  “No,” I said. “Amos who never really investigated his wife’s death. His blonde wife. Why was that?”

  Silas took a step back. “What are you talking about? Amos investigated her death.”

  “When? When she first showed up dead?”

  “When Boone discovered her dead body, you mean,” he said, pointing out that Boone was our lead suspect again.

  “Yes, and then what happened? Do you see him combing the town, looking for her killer? Do you see him obsessed about finding her justice? Sure, he’s obviously upset about her dying. Obsessed about her being dead. But h
e’s not actually doing anything about it. Don’t you find that suspicious? Doesn’t your reporter self think it’s fishy?”

  “No. Well…” Silas looked up at the ceiling, as if he could find what I had just said written on the ceiling. “Holy crap. You’re right. He never really investigated his wife’s death. But he’s been mourning her the whole time.”

  “Jack’s mother handed Amos that box to him, and he’s been acting crazy ever since. She said it was Amy’s box. Amy handed her the box to keep the day she died. The day she was murdered. The box, Silas. What’s in the box?”

  The air around us was electrified with our combined suspicions. Silas’s gaze flicked toward the locked drawer where Amos had hidden the box.

  “What’s in the box?” Silas repeated in a breathless whisper.

  I nodded. “Exactly. What’s in the box. How about that for journalism?”

  “Amos Goodnight is a serial killer? Amos Goodnight killed his wife? Holy crap.”

  “Right. We were focused on the wrong Goodnight brother,” I said with more of a tinge of hope in my voice. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Amos. I did. And I didn’t want him to be a psycho killer. I didn’t want him to be guilty of his wife’s murder. But I was more than a little happy to throw the suspicion off Boone.

  “We need to look in that box,” I said.

  “Reporters don’t steal,” Silas insisted.

  “We don’t have time for a whistleblower to hand us the Pentagon Papers this time, Silas. We need to see inside the box.”

  “We can’t,” he said, but his eyes never left the locked drawer with the box inside it.

  “You keep watch while I jiggle the lock,” I told him.

  I tiptoed to the drawer, all the while looking out for Amos. Silas had broken out into a monumental sweat, and he was now sporting large sweat stains on his suit jacket. I tried the drawer, but the lock was stronger than I had thought. No matter how much I jiggled, it didn’t open.

  I tried the other drawers and found an open one. I took a letter opener out of it and put the tip into the lock, trying to pick it. No luck. I would make a terrible thief. There was a noise in the hallway, and I dropped the letter opener. It landed on the tile floor with a loud clang.

  “Beat it! The jig’s up!” I hissed, and Silas and I ran out of the house, closing the door behind us with a soft click.

  We ran to the car, and I got inside. Silas opened his door and ducked his head inside. He was breathing hard, unused to running. “I forgot something,” he told me. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  “Just leave it,” I urged him. “Get it another day. Call Amos from the office and ask him to mail it. Save yourself. Don’t go back inside!”

  “I’ll be right back,” Silas said, and he was gone.

  I watched him walk back into the house. I counted until fifty with my eyes closed, listening for a scream or a gunshot. But it was quiet. Finally, Silas burst out of the house in a full run. He bolted to the car, flung the door opened and hopped inside. Without putting his seatbelt on, he started the car and slammed his foot hard on the gas, making the tires peel out, throwing gravel into the air.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,” Silas muttered in a real panic. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

  The car raced across a small bridge over a river and over Amos’s land. “What happened? What did you do?” I asked, bracing myself with a hand on the dashboard.

  “Carl Bernstein can never know about this. Don’t ever tell him, boss,” Silas cried.

  “Who’s Carl Bernstein?”

  “Promise me!” Silas yelled. He was still huffing and puffing from exertion, and I was worried he was going to have a heart attack.

  “I promise. Can you slow down now?”

  Silas looked in his rearview mirror. “Not until we’re off his land.”

  “We got off his land five minutes ago. Pull over and catch your breath.”

  Silas drove another couple minutes before he finally pulled over, putting the car into park. “I can’t believe I did that,” he gasped.

  “What did you do?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

  Silas opened his coat and lifted his shirt. Sitting on his generously-sized belly was Amy’s mysterious box. I gasped in honest surprise.

  “What did you do?” I asked, even though I knew what he did. He had stolen the box. He was showing it to me.

  “I broke into the drawer. I took out the box. I ran out of the house. I’ve gone to the dark side. They’re going to take away my press pass. I’m a doomed reporter.”

  “Silas,” I interrupted. “What’s in the box?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t open it.”

  We stared at the box on his belly, as if it was a nuclear bomb that we needed to diffuse in order to save the world. “Open it,” I said. Silas touched the top of the box and opened it, resting the lid on his belly.

  “What the hell?” I said, looking inside the box.

  “What the hell? This can’t be real,” Silas moaned.

  Part II: A Reality Show Comes to Goodnight, and Matilda Finally Uses her Degree

  Man Angry at Frying Pan for Small Genitalia

  by Jack Goodnight

  A disturbance broke out during the Goodnight Bowling grand opening today when a cook protested nonstick pans as the cause of his diminutive penis. Steve Brown was hired to cook at the bowling alley, but he balked when he saw the kitchen’s pans.

  “They’re after me,” Mr. Brown said about his employers after he was arrested. “They don’t want me to have a family life. They can take their pans and shove it.”

  Mr. Brown interrupted the grand opening by throwing the pans at the pins. He knocked down a total of thirty pins and scratched the new floor.

  “He wasn’t even wearing the correct shoes,” Jan Flowers, the owner of Goodnight Bowling, complained to the sheriff’s department. “I don’t care about his private parts. What does a frying pan have to do with private parts, anyway?”

  Some of the patrons blamed the disturbance on ghosts, which have supposedly been playing pranks in town. “Maybe the cook was possessed. Maybe a ghost shrank his rinky-dink,” a patron suggested.

  After Mr. Brown was arrested, the grand opening continued without further incident. Free cotton candy and French fries were served, and a clown offered free face painting for children. Goodnight Bowling has four lanes and will be open seven days a week from eleven in the morning until ten at night. The management has ordered new frying pans, so diners do not need to fear any unwanted side effects.

  Chapter 5

  Silas and I stared at the box on his belly. It was empty.

  “Did you take it out?” I asked Silas.

  “Take what out?”

  “The thing in the box. The thing in the box that isn’t there now. Did you take it out?”

  “I never opened the box before now. I slipped it under my shirt when I stole it and ran out to the car.”

  “There’s nothing in it,” I said, stating the obvious. It was a huge mystery and an even bigger disappointment. What had been in the box? Why was it empty now? Why had the empty box sent Amos into a catatonic state?

  “I risked my entire professional reputation for an empty box,” Silas said, staring at the empty box. “I have to get this back to Amos before he finds out I stole it. I’m going to drop you off at the diner.”

  We drove back to town. Silas dropped me off in front of the diner and raced off to a source of his, who he was convinced could return the box without Amos noticing. I was doubtful that he could return it before Amos noticed it was missing, even if the “source” could break in like a ninja without being seen. But it was the only possible solution, and Silas was hell-bent on making it happen.

  He dropped me at the curb and drove away like he was trying to qualify for the Indianapolis 500. Adele stepped out of the diner and stood beside me.

  “What’s happening?” she asked me. “I’ve been jumping out of my skin since you left. Did you
find out anything? Have you seen Boone? He’s been searching for you all over town. He’s asking a lot of questions. He wanted to know if you’re okay. I told him you went shopping for shoes. Don’t look at me like that. I know you only have three pairs of shoes, but he probably doesn’t know that. Men never notice shoes. Not men like Boone, in any case. So, where have you been? Did you see what’s going on over there?”

  I didn’t know which question to answer first, but when she waved at a building across the Plaza, I turned my head and what I saw grabbed my attention. There were three sheriff cars parked in front of the building with their lights flashing.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Adele.

  She pointed to the top of the building. A man was standing on the roof, taunting the deputies. “Is he…?” I asked.

  “Naked? Yep. He’s been mooning them all day. He climbed up there when you left this morning. He’s got a nice tush. Firm. I’ve been peeking each time I take a break.”

  “Is Amos over there?” I asked.

  “Haven’t seen him. Why? Oh, you want to grill him about Boone? Good idea. I’ve got a couple minutes. Let’s go see.”

  We walked across the Plaza, and then I could hear the guy yelling at the deputy sheriff and the two patrolmen. There was no sign of Amos.

  “Love! Fairness! White Castle Hamburgers! You’re all a bunch of losers! You have no power over me!” the man yelled. Adele was right. He had a nice tush. And when he turned around, it was obvious that he had never used a nonstick pan.

  “I’m not going up there,” Patrolwoman Wendy Ackerman was saying when we got to the scene.

  “Well, don’t look at me,” Adam Beatman said.

  The three law enforcement officers leaned against one of the cars and looked up at the man’s butt. I didn’t blame them for not wanting to handle him. He had a nice butt, but still.