314 (Widowsfield Trilogy) Page 4

“I understand,” said Rachel. “But if you ever do, you know, want to talk, you’ve got my card. I’m a good listener.”

  Alma got to the exit and looked back at the two of them. Rachel still stood in the middle of the restaurant, and had a look of concern that reminded Alma of a mother watching her child go away to college. Stephen seemed frustrated, but not angry, and continued to eat his fried pork. They were a good looking couple, and seemed kind. If circumstances were different, Alma might’ve enjoyed getting to know them. However, the fact that they wanted to dissect Alma’s past made them seem parasitic and dangerous. She waved goodbye, feeling a unique mix of regret and disdain at leaving them behind.

  She sighed and started to walk through the parking lot, but then jogged, eager to get as far from them as possible. She fumbled with her purse to find the keys to her Subaru Outback. Emotions swirled, sorrow battled with anger, calm fought frenzy, and she wasn’t sure if she was about to cry, scream, or laugh. “What the hell,” she muttered to herself as she pushed through the things in her purse in search of her keys. She stuck Rachel’s business card in a pocket on the inside of her purse as she continued to rifle through the contents.

  It was a chilly night, just past dusk, and the moon cast a brilliant blue light over everything. Bats squeaked as they zipped through the night sky, spots of black shooting through blue. Alma found the teddy bear key chain that her ex-boyfriend had bought her and pulled the keys out. She kept meaning to take the teddy bear off the chain and throw it away, but every time she started to, she stopped. Her relationship with Paul had always been tumultuous, and all of her friends consistently pleaded with her to stop going back to him, but there was an undeniable bond between them. She wasn’t sure they’d ever get back together again after the way it had ended six months earlier, but she was certain she’d never stop loving him. She thumbed the soft fur of the keychain and wished Paul was here with her now.

  The ring caught on one of her white plastic wrapped tampons, which fell to the ground beside her car. She cursed and picked it up. When she knelt down she saw the shadow of a man cast by moonlight against the side of her car. For just a moment, her heart fluttered as she thought it might be Paul, as if rubbing the keychain had somehow summoned him like a genie from a lamp.

  “Alma,” said her father in a frantic, hushed whisper.

  She yelped in shock and stood to face him. She pressed her back to the car and held her mouth with the hand that her keys were in.

  He was ragged. His clothes were a tattered mess and his hair was greasy, with strands of grey and black sticking up in various directions. His eyes were wide and darted back and forth above dark circles. He hadn’t shaved in weeks and his stubble was almost completely white. “Alma, baby. Baby girl. Alma, what did they want?” His words flit past his lips too fast for him to properly say them, causing the syllables to mix together between quick breaths. He had sores on his lips and cheeks, as if he’d been scratching at himself until he’d bled. “Did they want you to go with them? You can’t. You know that, right? You can’t go there. You’ve got to let that die. You’ve got to let it die.”

  “Let me go!” She pulled her arm away from his grasping hands like a disgusted royal squirming to escape a leper.

  “Don’t fuck me like this, kid.” He scowled.

  “I said back off.” She palmed her keys so that they poked out between her fingers as she made a fist. She gripped the teddy bear in her palm as if holding a pair of brass knuckles.

  “You’re never going to save him.” He backed away, just as Alma had asked. Then he glowered as if he suddenly remembered a hatred he’d forgotten for years. He surged forward and grabbed the back of her head with one hand as he pressed the other against her mouth. All at once, she was a child again, caught in the grip of a sadistic father, tasting the grime of his palm as he kept her silent. He pressed himself against her tall frame, and still towered over her, just as he did so many years ago. She clenched her eyes shut and a hundred terrible moments were suddenly fresh in her mind. It was impossible to breathe, to scream, to do anything but cry as he growled at her.

  “You better keep your mouth shut.”

  It was easy to retreat into her mind and let the assault end. If she closed her eyes and sang a song to herself, the end would come eventually – it always had before. The little girl she’d been for years was always with her, waiting to help comfort her through moments like this. Just sing a song, Alma, and the pain will stop. Hum and focus on something nice.

  No more songs.

  She thrust her fist into his abdomen, the keys like knives between her fingers. He gasped and staggered back as he gripped his wound. He checked his hand for blood, but there was none. Her punch hadn’t cut him, but seemed to have hurt him enough that he thought it had.

  The taste of his oil stained hand was still on her lips.

  “You want a fight, old man. Let’s do this.” Her stilted, terrified tone belied the courage of her words. She was on the brink of tears.

  “I didn’t kill Ben.”

  She expected him to attack, but he paced in the parking lot instead. She kept the keys in her fist and was ready to defend herself, but her father wasn’t willing to fight anymore. He stared up at the night sky as he walked back and forth.

  “I know what you think, and what your mother thought, and what everyone else thinks, but God knows the truth. God and me, we know, I didn’t hurt that boy. Some devil did it.”

  “Why are you here?” asked Alma. Her father lived two states away and she never told him where she’d moved.

  “To warn you, you dummy.” He spoke as if chiding a friend instead of threatening his child. “I want to keep you safe. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I want to protect you.” He took a step toward her and she stiffened at the approach. “You might not believe it, but I love you, Alma. I always have.”

  “You had 24 years to prove that to me, and you screwed up each and every one,” said Alma. “Now get in your car, or bus, or however the hell you got here, and get out of my life.”

  He looked sad for a brief second, but then grinned. His meth rotted teeth and sunken cheeks were a wicked sight, accentuated by raw sores on his chapped, cracked lips. “Darling, I’ll never be out of your life. We’re family.”

  “Do your family a favor and die, asshole.”

  He whistled and shook his head. “Look at you, girl. Acting like a tough one now? You’re no tough one. You’re a pretty little flower. You’re my pretty little flower.”

  “This pretty flower has thorns.” She jangled the keys in her hand for emphasis.

  Her father chuckled and shook his head. “Listen to you. You’re a toughie now, huh? All right, all right.” He held up his hands and backed away again. “Nothing but love for you, girl. Swear to Christ, nothing but love. I’m here to protect you.”

  Alma found that hilarious and couldn’t help but guffaw. “You, protecting me? That’s rich.”

  “I’ll never stop protecting you,” he said, his skittish mannerism helped turn his promises into threats. “I’ll always be there for you. I’ll always watch out for you.”

  Alma saw Rachel through the window of the restaurant. The reporter had just noticed the confrontation in the parking lot and was rushing to help. She stopped at the entrance, her hands pressed against the bar that would open it, and looked at Alma. She was uncertain if she should come out and was looking to Alma for approval.

  Alma nodded to her and Rachel opened the door a crack. “Call the police,” said Alma.

  Her father turned and yelled out at Rachel, “Stop! Don’t do that.”

  Rachel closed the door and ran back into the restaurant, screaming for the owner to call the police. Alma saw Stephen standing near the door, and Rachel’s panic alerted him to the gravity of what was happening outside. He rushed to action.

  “Get away from her.” Stephen burst through the door, causing a rapid tintinnabulation as the bells above the entrance bounced. He didn’t wait for Alma’s father
to comply and ran into the parking lot, ready to fight.

  “Stay out of this,” said her father.

  Stephen stopped for just long enough to get into a tackling stance. He bent his knees and lowered his shoulders while keeping an eye on his target. Alma almost expected him to extend his right arm and touch his fingers to the ground like a defensive lineman, but Stephen bounded forward before he got that low.

  “Stephen!” Rachel screamed from the restaurant entrance.

  He was already crashing into Alma’s father. He lifted the thin man into the air and Alma heard her father’s breath escape in a sudden huff. She dashed to the side as Stephen rammed the old man into the Subaru. Stephen didn’t hesitate after impact and brought his right arm up to Alma’s father’s throat. He pushed at it as if trying to pop the man’s head off.

  “Stephen, let him go,” said Rachel as she ran forward.

  An older Asian woman appeared at the door and gasped when she saw the altercation. “Oh my gosh. You need to go. Get out of here. I’m not going to have this in my parking lot. Get out of here. Now!”

  Alma enjoyed watching her father squirm. She couldn’t help but smile as Stephen choked him.

  “You need to leave,” said Stephen. “Take your junky ass back to Pennsylvania and leave your daughter alone.” He released the old man, but then grabbed Michael Harper’s shirt and pulled him away from Alma.

  “Don’t go with them,” said her father as he rubbed his throat. He staggered away, walking backward as he stared at his daughter. “Let it die, girl. Bury it.” He turned and ran into the night.

  Stephen panted and looked prideful, his face flushed and eyes wide from the adrenaline rush. He smiled at Alma, expecting her to thank him. Instead, she scowled.

  “How did you know he was my father?” Alma looked from Stephen to Rachel. “How did you guys know he was from Pennsylvania? Did you bring him here?”

  “No,” said Rachel. “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean, not exactly?” asked Alma.

  “We met him first, when we were doing the story of the haunted house,” said Stephen. “We knew he was accused of killing his son, and that he was tied to Widowsfield. We got a hold of him to see if he’d be interested in taking part in the story.”

  “How did he end up here?”

  “He must’ve gotten here on his own,” said Rachel. “We didn’t bring him.”

  Alma tried to grasp the situation, as well as her emotions. She was furious, but knew that the two hadn’t meant any harm. Alma’s family had kept the discord between them a secret. Stephen and Rachel couldn’t have known what their meddling could cause, but that did little to keep Alma from hating them for it. “I can’t believe this. It’s like a nightmare.” She laughed nervously. “And I was having such a good day.”

  “I’m sorry about this, Alma,” said Stephen. “I really am.”

  The restaurant door opened again and the Asian woman frowned even as she spoke. “I called the police. They’ll be here soon. Get out of here, now.”

  “Can I go in and get our things?” asked Rachel. “I still need to pay for the food.”

  The woman reluctantly moved aside to let Rachel in and then glared out at Stephen. She pointed at him and said, “You get out of here, jackass. Don’t come back.”

  He saluted her and snickered. “That sucks. I liked this place.” He inspected the dent in the side of the car as Alma unlocked the door. “I’ll pay for the damage.”

  “That’s okay,” said Alma. “I don’t care. I just want to go home.”

  “I’m sorry for all of this,” said Stephen.

  Alma got in as Stephen stood beside the car, holding the door open. She turned the car on and music blared before she had a chance to turn the volume down.

  “We can help you bury the past,” said Stephen as a last ditch effort to get Alma to agree to the trip.

  “You’re off to a hell of a start.”

  She was prepared to leave and reached out for the door’s handle.

  “I know about Chaos Magick,” said Stephen.

  Alma halted. She didn’t even breathe as she looked at him.

  “You said you don’t believe in the supernatural, but I know about 314.”

  She pulled the door away from him and slammed it shut. She turned the music up until the speakers crackled. Her tires squealed as she raced away.

  CHAPTER 3 - Rekindled

  Widowsfield

  March 14th, 1996

  “Hey there, Claire,” said Nancy as she came into the office. It was only a few minutes until her shift started, and she’d already been reprimanded for being late three times in the past month. The last thing she needed was to lose another job.

  Claire was already in her seat with her headset on. She had the cubicle closest to the front door, which she said she liked because it gave her a chance to smile at everyone as they got to work. The sweet old woman tapped on her watch and smiled at Nancy.

  “I know, I know, but I’m here, aren’t I? I’m not late.”

  “You’d better hurry up and get to the time clock,” said Claire. She was a rotund, cheery old woman whose husband was a train conductor, a fact that Claire talked about endlessly. She was anxious for him to retire so that they could move to their ranch in Wyoming. Nancy had heard all about it, several times, since starting her job at the Widowsfield County Emergency Services Center.

  Nancy threw her purse onto the desk in her cubicle across from Claire. The two of them sat with their backs to one another, and had been working the late shift together since the recent merger with Alden County. “Back in a minute,” said Nancy as she pat Claire’s shoulder.

  “Get a move on, sweetie,” said Claire as Nancy ran down the hall to the break room where the time clock was located.

  Nancy pushed past Darryl, who danced away with his coffee cup held high as he whistled at her. “Cutting it close, princess.”

  “Shut up, Darryl,” said Nancy. She was a fan of coffee, but there was something amiss about the smell at three in the afternoon. Darryl was always drinking it, and the scent threatened to reset Nancy’s internal clock, convincing her that they were like everyone else and started their work day in the morning instead of late afternoon.

  “Testy, testy,” said Darryl. “What was it this time, Nancy? A train? A funeral? An earthquake? You know Mike told us to clock in ten minutes early. Doesn’t matter if it’s not three yet, you’re already late.”

  “Seriously, Darryl, shut it.” She dropped her card into the machine mounted on the wall and heard the robotic crunch as it stamped a hole in it. She breathed a sigh of relief when she pulled the card out and saw 2:58 printed on it. She waved the card in the air as if it were a Poloroid and then dropped it back into the metal sleeve beside the door. “Made it.”

  “Like I said, you’re still going to get bitched out.”

  “Well, whatever. Mike can go fuck himself. I had to deal with a sitter for my kid because something happened at the school and they shut down the afterschool program for the day at the last minute. My mom can’t pick him up until four, so unless Mike wanted me to let the kid wander the street for a half hour then I really didn’t have a choice. Now did I?”

  “I don’t care about your sob story, darling,” said Darryl. He was a tall, obese man. He had no chin, and his neck seemed to extend from his chest to just under his lip. He had a beard, and tried to shave it to help make it appear as if he had a chin line, which just accentuated his turkey wattle.

  “Then why’d you ask?” She slid past him, out of the break room and back into the hall.

  He followed behind and sipped his coffee. “Just being nice. You should try it sometime. Doesn’t hurt to be affable, you know.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” said Nancy as she got to her seat.

  Darryl grumbled as he walked to his cubicle on the other side of the room.

  “Don’t let him bug you,” said Claire without turning.

  “I’m trying. He’s just so
…”

  “I know, I know. Some people get their jollies pushing other people’s buttons.” Claire finished whatever she was doing on the computer and then swiveled to look at Nancy. “I’ll tell you the best advice I ever got. It was from my grandma, way back in the dinosaur years when I was a kid. She sat me down after I got in a fight with a girl that made fun of my dress. We didn’t have much money, and I had to wear the same clothes for weeks at a time. My shoes had holes in them that we taped up, and baths were a once a week affair. No kidding, we were poor. Anyhow, this girl was giving me the what for, getting all the other girls to call me names, and I went and popped her. I got in pretty big trouble, cause back in those days us girls were supposed to be dainty little things. Not me, though. I was a firebrand for sure. My granny told me that there’re two different types of people in the world.” She held up one finger, “You’ve got the doers,” she held up a second finger, “and you’ve got the doubters.”

  “Okay,” said Nancy as she faced away from Claire to log into her computer. She wasn’t trying to ignore the old woman, but she wasn’t exactly paying attention either. The station had been befitted with a new login system that utilized a faster modem, but it still seemed to take forever, and Nancy hadn’t gotten used to the interface yet.

  “The doers are the people that give it a go. You know the type, the ones that get out there and make things happen.”

  Nancy just nodded as Claire talked. The old woman rarely went five minutes without telling a story. It was a habit that had taken Nancy several months to get used to, but now the incessant chatter was actually something she looked forward to. On nights where the county stayed quiet, and no crimes or accidents were called in, it was nice to have someone like Claire, with a wealth of tales, ready to spin a yarn at a moment’s notice.

  “And the doubters are the ones that get their self worth from pointing out the failure of others. I didn’t even really pay attention to her at the time, but when I grew up I saw what she meant.” Claire paused and reflected on her childhood. “Want to hear a dirty little secret?”