314 (Widowsfield Trilogy) Page 11

  Paul knew how to fight. He’d been a bouncer for years in a college town and had learned how to subdue enraged drunks and drug addicts. He caught Alma’s father’s strike with a counterstrike of his own. He swatted her father’s arm away and then waited for another attempt. He was toying with the old man.

  Her father tried to punch again, and Paul deflected the strike with another quick shot to the wrist. The old man gripped his arm in frustration and started to scream at Paul. “You think you’re tough? You think you’re a big guy?”

  Paul sneered. “Yep.”

  “Well, big guy, let me tell you what I’m going to do,” said Alma’s father.

  “No,” Paul interrupted the old man with authority. His voice boomed loud enough that Alma’s father flinched. “I’m going to tell you what happens next. You’re going to pack your shit and get out of town. Now let me tell you why.”

  Her father stuttered when he asked, “Why?”

  “Because if I ever see you again, I’m going to bury you. This isn’t an idle threat, pal. I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.” Paul stared down at the spindly old addict. “I will bury you.”

  “You can’t threaten me, you piece of shit. I’m her father. I’ll always be there for her.”

  Paul took a step forward, which forced Alma’s father to back up. “So will I.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Maybe,” said Paul. “Now get the fuck out of town. Or do you want to try and hit me again?”

  The old man rubbed his wrist and Alma could see that it was already turning purple where Paul had hit him. He turned to her and pleaded, “Alma, baby, don’t go back. Let him die. Okay?”

  She couldn’t answer if she wanted to. In fact, she only then realized that she’d been humming a tune as tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “Alma, you’ve got to promise me. Don’t go to Widowsfield. Let him die!” He advanced threateningly, but Paul caught the old man by the shoulder. Her father winced as Paul forced him to the stairs.

  “Get out of here.”

  Paul shoved her father down the stairs and the old man fell to the concrete. His head smashed against the railing and he gasped in pain and shock, but then crawled to his feet and darted away.

  “Get your stuff,” said Paul to Alma as he still stared down at the fleeing old man.

  She couldn’t respond and continued to cower against the wall, humming a tune as she wept. Paul turned to her, concerned. “Babe? You okay?”

  Alma shook her head and finally stopped humming. She buried her head in her hands.

  “Oh shit, honey. Don’t worry. I’m here, okay? I’ll always be here.” Paul rushed to cradle her as Alma sobbed. “I’m not going to let him hurt you.” He put her head against his chest and held her. “I’d do anything to keep you safe, babe.”

  “He’s never going to stop,” said Alma. “He’s just going to keep coming back, over and over.”

  Paul tried to hush her. “It’s okay. I’m here for you now. Alma, I’d never let anyone hurt you. I’d do anything to protect you. I swear.”

  “I have to go back.”

  “Go back where?” asked Paul.

  Alma didn’t want to say, but knew that it was time to confront what had haunted her all these years. Saying the word felt like a curse and she hardly had the strength to utter the name of the town, “Widowsfield.”

  CHAPTER 7 - Amid Chaos

  Widowsfield

  March 14th, 1996

  Walter saw the creatures attack Winnie, but there was nothing he could do. He was too frightened to protect her, and retreated up the stairs to the apartment above the book store. He slammed the door shut behind him and then locked it. He wasn’t content relying on only the deadbolt and started to pile up whatever he could find against the door.

  Winnie cried out in agony as the monsters tore her apart. Walter apologized over and over as he barricaded the door, but she’d done this to herself. Winnie had chosen to stay down there. She had time to get up the stairs if she wanted to, but she insisted on staying where the creatures could get her. Walter didn’t have time to save her. He would’ve died too if he tried.

  He continued to apologize to her as he piled whatever he could find against the door to keep the creatures from devouring him. Then he heard someone gagging in the room with him.

  Walter spun in terror to see who’d made the sound, but there was no one in the room with him. Winnie’s apartment was sparsely furnished, with only a rocking chair and couch in front of the television stand. A TV tray was situated beside the couch with a Reader’s Digest opened and face down on top of it. There was a bland rug between the couch and the television, and there was a small pile of white foam on it.

  He took a cautious step toward the bubbling mass.

  A woman’s body appeared on the rug, followed by a zinging crack of green electricity that coursed along the metal legs of the TV tray. The electricity popped in the air and was then gone, leaving behind the body of a choking ghost. Her mouth was open, purple lips rimmed with foam, and she stared at Walter before reaching out to him. Her eyes were bloodshot and her wet hair clung to her cheeks.

  She was trying to ask for help, but Walter was too terrified to do anything but gape at her. The woman finally succumbed and her head fell back hard against the floor, but instead of thumping down, her head sank through the floorboards. The rest of her body followed, as if it had suddenly dissipated into vapor, and all that was left of her was the white foam on the rug.

  “Oh Lord,” said Walter. He made the sign of the cross and kissed his knuckle. “Lord have mercy on my soul.”

  He dared to step closer to the rug, uncertain if he really had seen the woman, or if she’d been a figment of his imagination. “What the hell’s going on here?”

  Walter got on his knees on the hardwood floor and edged his way closer to the rug. He didn’t dare get on the damned thing, and kept his distance, but he needed to see if the foam was real. He started to reach out to it, but then retracted and chided himself. “What are you doing, Walter? Don’t touch that.” He started to stand up when the woman’s arms reach out from the rug. Her face was exposed for a moment, and her expression of helplessness had changed to hatred. She grasped Walter’s arm and dragged him forward until he witnessed his own limb disappear into the floor along with the ethereal woman. He cried out in terror, and tried to break free of her grip, but the ghost was inhumanly strong. She dragged his arm into the floor and then reached up to grab more of him. He tried to pull free, but every inch of his flesh that had been pulled through the floor was now stuck within it, and the woman continued to drag him down.

  She gripped his hair and pulled his head down. Within seconds he was staring at the darkened first floor of the Anderson Used Book Store. He could see Winnie’s corpse, ringed by the demonic creatures that were devouring her. The ghost was below him. She smiled and finally released him before drifting away, down to the first floor and sinking below it as well.

  Walter was left dangling from the ceiling, his body fused to the wood above. He clawed at the ceiling and tried to move, but every twist of his waist ignited agony throughout him, as if he were trying to pull himself apart every time he moved. He started to scream for help before he felt his spine crack from his movement.

  He was left there to dangle, like a living stalactite; an adornment of chaos; a witness of the horror below. Blood started to flow from his open mouth and his vision faded. He started to vomit, but it wasn’t food that slid past his lips. Strips of flesh began to push through his throat and he yanked them out to avoid choking. He pulled forth the fleshy pulp until the strands were too long, and the pain too great, to continue. A few minutes later, Walter finally died, but every second was spent enduring agony that only hell could conceive.

  Something was hiding in the shadows of the store, and the creature’s teeth chattered as it watched the chaos unfold.

  16 Years Later

  March 10th, 2012

&
nbsp; “I have to go back to Widowsfield,” said Alma as Paul held her.

  “Why?”

  Alma pushed out of his arms and stood up. She squealed in pain when she put pressure on her foot, and then limped through the door of her apartment with Paul following behind. “I don’t know.”

  Paul jokingly responded, “That makes sense.”

  “No, you don’t understand.” Alma went to the breakfast counter and started to rifle through the contents of her purse that had spilled out. She found Rachel’s card and showed it to Paul as if it should mean something to him. “I don’t know what happened there.”

  “Okay, neither do I,” said Paul. “You never told me anything about it. You just said that you wanted to leave that part of your life behind you.”

  “I know, and I did, but there’s more to it than that.” She sat on the stool and started to tap the business card against the countertop. She debated calling Rachel now, but it was too early in the morning to wake her. Alma felt frantic and got up to make a pot of coffee.

  “Are you going to explain, or what?” asked Paul.

  “I can’t, that’s the problem.”

  “Alma, you’re not making any sense.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Jacker from the hallway. He was still on the floor and was just now waking up. “What happened?”

  “Just stay there, Jacker,” said Paul.

  The big man groaned, but did as he was told. He folded his arms over his barrel chest and sighed.

  Alma’s hands were shaking as she tried to pour water into the back of the coffee maker. She spilled liquid over the side and had to use her other hand to steady the container. “I don’t remember what happened there. I get flashes of things from time to time, but nothing ever seems to make sense. There’s a whole chunk of time missing from what I can remember.”

  “Okay then, what can you remember?” Paul went around the counter and took over making the coffee. He pointed at the stool, commanding Alma to settle down and take a seat without having to tell her to.

  “Well, I guess before I go into that, I should ask you what you know about Widowsfield. Have you ever heard the legends and all that stuff?”

  Paul nodded as he wavered his hand. “Some of it. I know you get pissed off and stop taking calls on March 14th because there’re a lot of people that think you know what happened. I looked up some of the websites about the place, but it all seems like conspiracy bullshit.”

  “Do you know why people think I know something?” she asked.

  He looked hesitant to answer. “Every time I brought it up you told me you didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “I know, but did any of the sites you looked at talk about my brother’s disappearance?”

  Paul poured the ground coffee into the filter and turned the coffee maker on. “Yeah, but every site had a different version of the story. I’d rather hear the truth, if you’re ready to tell it.”

  She wasn’t sure she knew the truth anyhow, and started to draw circles on the counter with the corner of Rachel’s business card. Each circle started large, and then shrunk with each revolution, like a serpent’s coil. “Like I said, I don’t remember much of what happened, but what I can has screwed with me ever since…” she was overwhelmed by a sense of sadness that she hadn’t expected. Her eyes welled with tears and she dropped the business card to wipe them away.

  “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  “Should I leave?” asked Jacker from the floor in the hallway as he lay patiently with his arms draped over his belly. “Or just stay here?”

  Alma laughed. Jacker’s unintentionally comedic timing was a welcome relief. “No, Jacker,” said Alma. “Come here and sit down with us. Are you okay?”

  The big man grumbled as he stood up. His frame encompassed the width of the hall, and he looked embarrassed by what happened. “I’m fine. Sorry, I have a problem with blood. It’s pretty pathetic. I feel like such a dork.”

  “Want something to drink?” asked Paul.

  “No, I’ve got a beer around here somewhere. Ah, there it is.” Jacker retrieved his beer from the end table beside the couch. “Honestly guys, I’ll take off if you want me to. I’ve already done enough damage here.”

  Paul looked at Alma for an answer. She shook her head. “No, you can stay. I don’t think you should be driving right after passing out anyhow.”

  Paul reached across the counter and set his hand over Alma’s. “We can talk about Widowsfield later if you want.”

  “No,” she said. “We can talk about it now. I don’t mind if Jack’s here.” She looked over at the giant as he downed the rest of his beer. “Do you know about Widowsfield?”

  “I heard you guys talking about it,” said Jacker. “I think I’ve heard something about it before. The people there disappeared, right?”

  Alma led them into the living room and the three sat down around the coffee table. There were stacks of old magazines littering the table, along with several half full glasses situated atop plates that should’ve been washed days ago. That, of course, reminded her of Paul’s spotless apartment, and she felt suddenly shamed.

  “Sorry,” she said as Paul and Jacker sat down. “Let me clean this stuff up real quick.” Alma gathered the dirty dishes and carried them to the kitchen where she checked on the coffee machine. It had hardly started brewing, but the smell was already filling the apartment. She was about to get creamer from the refrigerator when she realized that she was stalling. Alma was trying to avoid confronting her past, even by only the time it would take to make coffee. She forced herself to go back into the living room.

  “Okay,” said Alma before she took a deep, exaggerated breath. “It’s about time I talked about this.”

  Paul moved to the side of the love seat for Alma to sit with him. Jacker was lounging on the center seat of the sofa, and managed to usurp most of the space there. Alma sat beside Paul and he pulled her to his side with his arm around her shoulder.

  “My father used to take my brother and me on fishing trips to Missouri every spring, during our break.” Alma started to absently rub her thumb over a ring on her right hand. It was a simple silver ring with holes bored through it in random spots. The ring was the only thing of her mother’s that Alma still owned. “It was supposed to be a vacation for us, or at least that’s what he used to tell my mother.” Her voice cracked and she took a deep breath to steady herself.

  Paul squeezed her shoulder and Alma smiled up at him before continuing. “We didn’t do a lot of fishing. I was pretty young at the time, I was eight and my brother was ten. We’d been going there for a few years, and my mother would stay home. It was supposed to be a chance for my father to connect with us.” Alma twirled the loose fitting ring around her bony finger. “That’s not what it was really about. I didn’t know it at the time, because I was so young, but my father was using the vacation as an excuse to meet up with one of his girlfriends. God, just talking about it makes my stomach turn.”

  “You don’t have to, Alma,” said Paul.

  Alma was quick to respond. “No, I do. I know this sounds nuts, and maybe it is, but it’s time for me to deal with this; to get it all out in the open.” She took off the ring and started the slip it onto other fingers and then back again, as if her hands were desperate to be active. “My father’s girlfriend owned a cabin, more of a house really, but everyone called them cabins. They’d rent movies for my brother and I to watch while they did their thing. They would go upstairs, and my brother and I would sit in the living room, watching those stupid movies while they…”

  She pointed up and had trouble continuing, but forced herself to say it, “While they went upstairs and had sex. We could hear them, but I didn’t understand what was going on. They would spend all day up there sometimes, and my brother and I were left to fend for ourselves. We’d make our own food, and put ourselves to bed every day while at that cabin. If we ever dared go upstairs we would get screamed at. I made the mi
stake of going up there a few times, and I’ll never forget the acrid stench of the drugs they were smoking. My father’s been a meth addict for as long as I can remember. That smell, that chemical, ozone-like stink that came out of the room is something I’ll never forget.”

  “Damn,” said Jacker. “That sucks. Sorry to hear your dad was such a prick.”

  Alma laughed inappropriately and shook her head. “You don’t know the half of it. We used to get beatings for seemingly random stuff. One day it was no big deal for us to wear our shoes in the house, and the next we were getting whipped for not taking them off at the door. He used to have this belt that he cut holes in, and he only used it for whipping us. He would carry it around with him, and said that the holes made it easier to swing, and made it hurt more. I remember him standing in the kitchen, in his dirty white t-shirt, making breakfast with that belt over his shoulder, like he was just waiting for an excuse to use it.”

  Paul kissed the top of Alma’s head and continued to try and be supportive, although nothing he could do would help her forget.

  “I know lots of people had shitty fathers,” she said and slipped her mother’s ring back onto her right ring finger. “And at least my mother was good to us before she went crazy. A lot of kids don’t even have that. But, you get the point: My dad was a Class A piece of garbage. He was out on business a lot, thankfully. I think that’s how he met his girlfriend.”

  “And was his girlfriend’s cabin in Widowsfield?” asked Paul.

  Alma nodded. “Yeah. I remember that our spring break came one week before the kid’s in the town. My brother and I used to watch them all walking home after school, and we would ask if we could go play with them, but my father would always say no. The last time we went there was the week before the town disappeared. I can remember everything about that week up until just after the fog rolled in.”