The Piper's Graveyard: A Small-Town Cult Horror Thriller Suspense

by Ben Farthing

  “No, but there are other ways into town. If you know them.” Valerie said. “Do me a favor?”

  Cessy geared up to lie, to tell Valerie don’t worry, I won’t run straight to your parents or Sheriff Miller to tell them where you are.

  Valerie scratched her elbow, stared at the dirt floor. “Check on me on your way out of town? Everything going on has me all riled up. Don’t like how it feels, you know? Got me jumping every time I see a bug crawl across my skin. I keep thinking they’re holes.” She looked at Cessy over her glasses, a classic librarian image, now flavored with willing vulnerability.

  Cessy avoided pulling on that loose thread of delusion. Holes? Still, at seeing Valerie’s vulnerability laid bare, Cessy’s heart softened. “Of course. I’ll make sure you’re okay.” Not in the way Valerie expected or wanted, but in the way that she needed.

  “And come find me if you have any other questions.” Valerie followed Cessy to the doorway as Cessy walked outside. “You know ‘Angry Cessy’ was just a tease, right? Won’t ever nothing wrong with you. It was Hamlin had the rot. Just a few bad apples back then, now it’s spread through most the bushel. Be careful down there.”

  “I will.” Cessy walked to her truck. Her watch said it was almost five. The sky would be brightening in the east, but the tree cover kept her in darkness.

  She started the 4Runner and switched on the headlight. The forest lit up before her.

  She drove down the south face of Black Gold Peak, headlights sweeping through the oaks and pines at each switchback. Beneath her tires were the closed-off tunnels and shafts of the coal mine that had birthed and then abandoned Hamlin. At the end of the dirt road, the town that birthed her.

  7

  Sometimes, a town could be described as “dying.” In Hamlin’s case, it had died with the coal mine thirty years ago. Now it was a corpse in denial about decomposing.

  Cessy stopped the truck where the forest thinned out, still high enough up Black Gold Peak to look over the town.

  The first glow of morning faded the stars in the eastern sky. The Mud River snaked in from her left, ran parallel to Mud River Road, and then became the southern border of the town.

  To her right, a mile-long strip of downtown businesses, surrounded by a square mile of houses.

  She’d lived four blocks south of Main Street until middle school, when Kate was born, and her parents decided they wanted a bigger yard than was available in the heart of town. They moved to Rooster Estates, the new neighborhood with quarter-acre lots southeast of downtown. It had since lost its status of “nicest neighborhood in Hamlin” to Ulton Ridge, a development of McMansions tacked onto the lower slope of Goat’s Jaunt, the smaller mountain directly west of Black Gold Peak.

  Straight ahead, above Rooster Estates and nestled on a foothill of Hamlin’s southern mountain barrier, was the Church of the Morningstar. In her elementary school years, she’d laughed that her Sunday School teacher worked for a vegetarian sausage company. As she grew into an arrogant teen and learned more about the faith her mother studied every morning, she more contentiously challenged her pastor with questions of, “Which angel was called ‘Son of the Morning?’”

  In her 4Runner, Cessy shook her head. She’d been a terrible mix of precocious and disdainful. The church sat on a hill on the southeast end of the valley. The sunrise silhouetted the steeple. The name of the church was a natural result. “You don’t gotta be a jerk about it,” Dad had scolded her on more than one occasion.

  She hoped she’d hear that same reasoned scolding now. Maybe there was a perfectly rational explanation for Kate disappearing, and Dad would condescendingly explain what Cessy should have realized right away. He was perfectly at home in this backwater town, but he loved his daughters, and had a simple and direct way of looking at things that often rescued Cessy from overthinking.

  Cessy drove down the mountainside. She allowed hope to grow. Maybe Dad could make this all better.

  The fire access road ended in a gate, and again, Cessy drove around chains. She drove out of the trees and onto an asphalt road behind the Farmer’s Grocery.

  The sun peeked over the mountains. The town of Hamlin was waking up.

  Cessy drove through the Farmer’s Grocery parking lot. Three cars were already parked there, probably the first shift clerks getting ready for opening. Although, the glass front revealed a dark store.

  She drove along Mud River Road for half a mile, then turned left to cross a wooden truss bridge over the Mud River to reach Rooster Estates.

  Cessy wanted to feel like coming home, but the neighborhood felt foreign. It was like Fairfax, in that forests had been cleared to build the town, and trees dotted most yards. Green grew freely. The difference between a well-tended lawn and an abandoned lawn was only in the uniformity of the blades of grass.

  But once she looked up from the dirt and plants, Hamlin was miles different from the D.C. suburbs. She drove past a house that couldn’t be more than thirty years old, yet the siding was drooped and rotting, and one of two front windows was boarded over with plywood, old enough that it had been painted white to match the house and then left to decay.

  A third of the houses were like that, even here in Rooster Estates. The cheaper homes in town would be even worse.

  More houses looked abandoned than she’d noticed during her last Christmas visit. Fewer cars in driveways, more lawns left to grow thick and wild.

  Maybe the migration out of Hamlin had gained momentum.

  The coal mine had closed thirty years ago, taking away the town’s only real economic reason for being. Now half the money that came into the town was Medicare funds paid to in-home health care and hospice services. Housing was dirt-cheap because that’s what the market demanded, but the Hamlin housing market didn’t affect the price of windows, which resulted in plywood repairs. It also didn’t affect the price of shingles, siding, fence posts, and house paint.

  Hamlin got a little more depressing every time Cessy visited. Now that rate of decay had spiked.

  Mom and Dad’s house was one of the nicer kept homes. It was a two-story colonial, yellow siding with blue shutters. Dad kept it in fresh paint and shingles.

  Mom and Dad spent their careers as a psychologist and accountant saving their pennies to buy up houses. Now that they were retired, they enjoyed a comfortable income from their five rental properties throughout Hamlin. They’d probably lost a fortune in declining property values, but if rent was priced low enough, it was usually paid on time. Often with funds from church or state welfare, but on time. So Mom and Dad had learned how to maintain a house on a budget.

  Cessy pulled into the driveway at 5:50 a.m.

  Too early to walk in and wake them up.

  She turned on the radio, scanned until she found something, then leaned back and closed her eyes.

  Morning talk radio filled the car.

  A woman’s cheery voice, with an enunciated version of the Hamlin affect. “-the most delicious meal of venison, homemade bread, and freshly grown cucumber. The seasoning on the meat was to die for.”

  A young male voice, sure of himself. “Oooh, I love a medium-well venison steak, grilled to perfection. The secret is to only flip it once.”

  A grandfatherly voice, speaking reason. “See, this is why those yelling ‘the sky is falling’ need to take a deep breath. When we work in unison, no stumbling block can impede us.”

  Cessy opened her eyes. Soft beneath the radio hosts’ discussion, a whistle. The same piercing noise from the phone call.

  8

  Outside the car, birds sang. Inside the car, the three hosts discussed their meals, and why people who complained about simple foods were “vermin.”

  The stabbing whistle was almost inaudible, but it was there.

  Cessy’s exhaustion clouded her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut against the morning sunlight.

  Blue and red flashes from squeezing her eyes too tightly.

  Cessy tried to think through what she was hear
ing. Did this mean that Kate had been near the radio hosts themselves? Or at the radio station? Could a cell signal accidentally pick up a radio broadcast?

  “Cessy?”

  She opened her eyes.

  Dad stood on the front porch in his bathrobe, arms folded across his chest. Wire frame glasses perched on his thick nose, against his round face. His hairline had receded another inch since Cessy had seen him last Christmas. His belly poked out another inch against the bathrobe. “What are you doing sitting in the driveway? Come on inside. I’ll make us eggs.”

  Cessy’s shoulders relaxed. She’d made it. Dad could help. This wouldn’t be all on Cessy anymore. She stepped down out of the truck.

  “Did you drive all night? What are you doing here?”

  “Is Kate here?”

  Dad furled his bushy eyebrows. “No. Is something wrong?”

  Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. “Let’s talk over breakfast.”

  Inside, the house, Dad had his radio set to the same station.

  “I had a slice of homemade bread, toasted, with honey drizzled over top this morning. Anyone who says that’s not a filling breakfast isn’t letting their dough raise for long enough.”

  The living room was cluttered by familiar knick-knacks. Shelves lined the walls, each displaying porcelain animals, or small wooden windmills, or shot glasses with the names of mundane tourist destinations. Dad had raved about their visit to Pigeon Forge. Mom couldn’t get enough of Nashville.

  Cessy scratched at her ear. “You don’t hear the whistling noise?”

  Dad shook his head. “No, but my ears aren’t what they used to be.”

  Cessy banged her shin against a coffee table. That was new.

  She rubbed her leg. It would bruise.

  The table was a brute. Thick, pale wood on top. Corners still sharp.

  “When did you get this?” asked Cessy.

  The living room opened up to the eat-in kitchen. Dad’s head was stuck into the fridge. “The table? Gordon Wilder made it.”

  “We take care of ourselves here in Hamlin. If it’s broke, we fix it. If we need it, we build it ourselves. If we’re hungry, we cook a good meal.”

  Cessy turned the radio down. “Jackson’s father built your table?”

  Dad set a carton of irregular brown eggs on the counter. He banged around in the cabinet for a pan. “That’s the one. He’s been milling his own lumber, and making furniture for folks, oh, four years now.”

  Cessy started the coffee pot. “Didn’t realize you were friends with the Wilders. Especially after everything that happened with Jackson.” She watch intently for Dad’s reaction, suddenly convinced this was all a cover-up to hide from her that Kate and Jackson were rekindling their romance.

  But Dad was hiding in his breakfast rituals. He set four eggs in a bowl by the stove, turned the burner exactly to the notch marked “Medium.” He set a timer for 60 seconds, his way of making sure he started frying the eggs at the exact same temperature each morning.

  He waved a spatula dismissively. “Ancient history. We can’t carry grudges against potential friends.”

  She didn’t like where this was going. “Are you quoting something?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Didn’t sound like anything I’ve heard you say before.”

  Dad shrugged. “Maybe I heard it somewhere. Gordon’s a good man. He understands what’s important.” The timer dinged. He cracked the eggs into the pan.

  Cessy tried to segue casually. She didn’t want to panic her father. “Have you talked to Gordon lately?”

  “Sure. Your mom and I see him at the diner. He’s actually milling a log into siding for our rental house on Eighth Street. I’m fixing to use that old pine in the backyard of the house on Sunshine Avenue. Over by the library? I’ll be bringing out the old chainsaw today.”

  He spoke as if his using a chainsaw was perfectly normal, and he hadn’t spent Cessy’s childhood as an accountant, hiring out any actual manual labor that needed doing around the house. It was only once Mom and Dad invested in rental properties that Dad proudly assumed the role of handyman.

  “I remember the house.” Cessy pulled the conversation back. “What’s Jackson up to? I heard he got married.” Assuming Valerie wasn’t completely off her rocker.

  Dad focused on his sizzling pan. “He made some bad decisions. That’s a sad story we don’t need to talk about right now.”

  Of course Dad wasn’t covering for Jackson. Not after the way the boy had treated his little princess. Cessy felt dumb for even thinking it. He would help. “Dad, I can’t find Kate. Her work hasn’t seen her for two weeks. But Jackson sent her some text messages, asking her to come home to Hamlin. I’m worried.”

  Cessy felt naked, admitting to Dad that she needed his help.

  Dad froze. A fried egg clung to his spatula, halfway between the frying pan and the plate. It slid toward the edge. Then he plopped the egg onto the plate and checked the toaster.

  When he spoke, it was far too casually. “You know Kate. She gets focused on a new noble cause, and nobody hears from her for weeks. Doesn’t mean you have to worry.” He avoided eye contact after the barb.

  Cessy processed what she’d just heard. “I’m saying she’s missing. She came here to Hamlin.”

  “Sounds like all you know is Jackson invited her. She probably deleted that message right after she heard it.”

  Cessy stared at her father. “Are you serious?”

  “You two didn’t always get along.”

  Cessy wanted to convince Dad to take her seriously, to set aside his fried eggs and help her. Instead, she found herself arguing the logic of her position. “Kate’s lived in D.C. for years now. We get lunch every Wednesday. Hang out on the weekends at least once a month. You don’t know our relationship.”

  Dad set eggs and toast in front of her. He shrugged. “You have a habit of seeing the bad in things, is all I’m saying.”

  Cessy flinched at the insult from the man who’d raised her. “We’ll come back to that,” said Cessy. “Right now, I’d like a direct answer. In the past two weeks, have you heard from Kate?”

  “No. But I can guarantee she wouldn’t come here for Jackson.”

  His calm expression discomforted Cessy. A father should be panicked about a missing daughter. Dad would occasionally insist that reality fit his worldview, like after Cessy’s divorce. For over a year, he’d insisted that Pat would come back to Cessy and give them grandchildren. But this was different. He should be panicking about Kate disappearing, and reassuring Cessy that he would make it right.

  He seemed to need Kate to not be in Hamlin, the same way he needed Cessy’s marriage to not end in divorce. But why? Maybe he hated Jackson more than she did. He refused the entertain the possibility that Kate would go back to him. “You’re not listening to me. How can you be so sure Kate didn’t come here?”

  “For starters, I would have heard about it. Gordon keeps me updated on his son.”

  It was easier to accept his claim then get hung up on this point. “What if Jackson was keeping secrets? Please, help me find Kate. Tell me about Jackson. He contacted her and then she disappeared. What’s he been up to? You said he’d made bad decisions. What were you talking about?”

  Dad mixed orange powder into a glass of water. “I’m telling you, it’s not Jackson.”

  “Please, Dad. Humor me.”

  Dad shook his head, annoyed. “The boy had been mouthing off to people he should respect. Hot rodding up and down Main Street.”

  “Doesn’t he drive a Camry?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Dad said in a huff.

  Another point for Valerie. Maybe the librarian-turned-mountain-woman wasn’t entirely delusional. That was an uncomfortable thought. “How do you ‘hot rod’ in a Camry?”

  “He wasn’t being responsible, is all I’m saying.”

  “You’re holding back. What do you know about him? Is he involved in anything illegal
?”

  Dad’s mouth tightened. “That’s not my business to share.”

  “Your youngest daughter is missing. Why aren’t you more upset?”

  Dad mixed the orange drink vigorously. The spoon banged on the inside of the glass. “Kate’s not missing. Maybe she took a private vacation.”

  Back in circles. Cessy scooped up runny yolk with her toast. This was why she and Dad butted heads when she was a teenager. He’d see things the way he thought they should be, and then dig in his heels. Any attempt at persuasion would loop back to a single stubborn belief. But since she’d moved out and matured, she could sometimes whittle him down with reason.

  “Dad, will you sit down with me a second?”

  His shoulders slumped. He turned around, pulled out a chair, scraping it on the vinyl floor, then sat down. He wiped grease off his glasses onto his shirt to avoid looking her in the eye.

  “Please listen to me. You know I’m a detective. I’m good at it.” Not good enough to notice Kate had been missing for a week, but she didn’t need to bring that up. “Trust me when I say that Kate is missing. Since Kate graduated and moved closer to me, every Wednesday we get together. If I’m not in court, and Kate’s not putting the fear of God into a scummy landlord, then we meet in Alexandria and have lunch. Are you listening?”

  Dad’s smile raised his bifocal line directly in front of his pupils. “Honey, of course I’m listening. If this is important to you, I’m listening.”

  His casualness infuriated her, but actively listening was a big step for Dad. It was the first step to changing his mind on something.

  “Kate missed two lunch dates in a row, no phone call, no text, nothing.” Cessy left out that she herself had failed to schedule those lunch dates, and hadn’t noticed that Kate had gone radio silent. “So yesterday, nearly two weeks since I’ve last seen her, I went to knock on her door. She wasn’t there. I called her work. They said she took two weeks off.”

  “Well there you go. She’s on vacation somewhere.” Dad perked up at the possibility. He was worried, too. But Cessy couldn’t get through his denial.