Bad Land (5 page)

Chapter 10

“HA! You’re going to wear that?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with this?”

“Well, Mr. I’m-only-seventeen-and-now-I’m-working-as-an-intern-at-the-
Hermes
, you look like a dork.”

Marshall looked down at his khaki pants and polo shirt. “Isn’t this how I’m supposed to dress? I look professional, right?”

“You look like you’re trying to be something you’re not. Just wear your regular clothes. You look fine in those.”

Marshall debated how much stock he should put in his little sister’s opinion. “You do own a ton of clothes.”

“Trust me, big brother. I’m fifteen and in the prime of knowing what’s in and what’s out. Believe me, you are very, very out right now. Go upstairs and change.”

Marshall ran up the stairs looking at his watch, gauging how much time he could spare before he was due to be at the
Hermes
. He still had a few minutes. He took the stairs two at a time and threw open his closet door once he reached his room. He stared at the closet’s contents and the clothes ranging from jackets to tank tops. He reached out for a plain white short sleeve when he heard his sister’s voice right behind him.

“No, no—you’re not an extra in
Grease
, wear that plaid one. Yeah, the long sleeve button up one, but roll the sleeves up.”

Marshall grabbed the shirt and turned around. “This one?”

“Yep.” His sister was sprawled on his bed. “Wear that with jeans and your regular shoes.” She paused for a minute and scrunched her nose. “Ewwww, what is that? Is that—is that your sheets? It smells like beer. Have you been drinking again?”

Marshall rolled his eyes. “Listen,
Mom
, I had a beer last night with the guys. I didn’t get drunk—”

“Everyone was doing it.” His sister finished the sentence. “Listen, far be it for your little sister to give you advice on your social life, but you don’t have to drink to fit in. Especially since you know alcoholism runs in the family.”

Marshall knew exactly what she was talking about. Both their parents were sober and had been nothing but great examples, but both their mother and father had come from families with heavy drinkers. When they got together for family functions or holidays, there was always alcohol involved and you could count on alcohol-induced arguments and drama to ensue. 

So far, Marshall had seen everything through his own body. Now he was reminded that this was a dream, as his viewpoint was ripped from his sister and redirected to years before when the two were small children.

“It’s okay. Don’t cry.”

“Her head fell off.” His sister looked at him with big teary eyes, one chubby hand holding her favorite doll’s head, the other holding the body. “Marsh, it broke and now I can’t fix it.” A fat tear rolled down her plump cheek and onto her pink and white dress.

“Here, I can.” Marshall took the doll from his little sister and examined both the head and the body.

“Can—can you fix my Susie doll?”

Marshall squinted as his six-year-old brain sought an answer. “I think I can. Wait here.”

Marshall was back in a few minutes proudly presenting the Susie doll to his baby sister. Marshall had found the duct tape in the kitchen drawer and carefully wrapped a strand around both the neck and body, connecting the head.

His sister’s eyes lit up as she wiped the tears from her eyes and clutched her doll close. Despite the poor duct tape job, his sister couldn’t be happier. “Oh, Marsh! You’re a hero!”

Whatever decided what scenes he saw in his dream, whether it was his psyche or something else, now pulled him from this happy memory and dropped him in the hospital. His father and mother were talking to the doctor as Marshall stared numbly through the thick hospital window out to the rainy afternoon sky. It was perfect weather for a day like this. He could hear them talking amongst his mother’s light sobs and his father’s quivering voice.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery, but she’s gone.”

“How—how did it happen?” both of his parents asked. Their voices were murky with grief and pain.

“She was involved in a hit and run. The police are out looking for the driver even as we speak.”

Marshall felt that ball of pain in his chest. That knot that worked its way up his throat and choked him to tears. No sound came out, just tears. They rolled down his cheeks like they would never stop. He didn’t care. He felt no shame in crying for the sister who had been his best friend, who he had loved for fifteen years.

His viewpoint shifted again and this time he was looking down on himself over the next few weeks. He was a mess. Crying every day, even after the funeral. He just wanted it to be over. He was tired of crying, nothing was going to bring her back. He had shed his tears and felt the grief. It was the worst grief he had ever experienced and he had a feeling it would be the worst grief he would ever have to go through.

It was three months before he made the decision to stop being sad. He made a conscious effort to stop thinking about his sister. He knew she wouldn’t want him to live as a shadow of who he once was. It was hard at first. He had to fight and ignore every memory of her. With the help of beer and liquor, the pain lessened. Eventually it became easier. He told himself this is what she would want. Soon he got to the point where he forgot about her all together.

He knew he was still dreaming as he tried to remember what she looked like.
Did she have short hair? Was it long? She had dark eyes for sure—didn’t she?
Panic seized him as he struggled to remember what his sister looked like. Every time he brought up an image, it was blank. Whenever he thought he had it, it escaped him like mist through a grasping hand.

He had to remember her. He had to. Then he saw a figure approaching him through the darkness. Through the black void the female figure came closer. She stumbled toward him as if she was drunk. Her wild hair fell down her featureless face. A lump of flesh was all that stood in the place of eyes, nose, and a mouth. The figure with the doughy face reached out for him with grasping hands pleading to be seen.

Marshall sat bolt upright in bed. His chest heaved in and out as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.
It was just a nightmare. Calm down. You remember what she looked like. You can never forget. No matter how hard you try, you will always remember her.

Marshall looked over at his clock. It was still early, but he decided to get up anyway. Apparently a restful night’s sleep wasn’t in the stars. Today he needed answers and he had a feeling it would take a full day to get them. Shower, another bowl of sugary cereal for breakfast, and a mental note that he needed to go grocery shopping took all of thirty minutes. He took his roommate outside for a short walk that seemed like it was more sniffing and peeing than actual walking, and he was ready to go.

Marshall planned on visiting Samantha’s grandfather first. The old man knew more, and Marshall thought that with the right push, he could get the geezer to spill the beans. If that failed, he could always go to Samantha, and even his boss.

Diane’s cryptic behavior and her choice of words made it all but certain she knew more than she let on. What about Lieutenant Lloyd? If he was a relative of the founding family, it was possible he might know something as well. He might even know something more about Barbara. Thinking about her brought back the dream he had all but forgotten.

The ways that his sister and Barbara had died were so similar. But his sister’s body hadn’t been drained of blood and it was found nowhere near the canyon. It was a stupid coincidence and not worth thinking about. Instead, he gunned the engine and sped through the traffic toward the old man’s house and the answers he needed.

Marshall pulled up to the ancient house and parked on the side of the road. He slammed the door behind him, not caring if the old man heard him or not. The small fence was without a lock. Marshall opened and closed it behind him. He scanned the front porch, this time making sure the old man didn’t get a jump on him.

His sneakers made short work of the few yards between him and the house and he was soon raising a balled fist to knock on the screen door. It was a cool morning and Marshall was grateful he had decided on jeans and long sleeved dark hoodie.

As Marshall expected, no one came to the door. Marshall knocked again and again. “Hello? It’s me, Marshall. I know you’re in there. Might as well open the door. I’m not going anywhere.”

A few seconds of silence, then the doorknob slowly turned and the door creaked open, revealing the old man’s familiar scowling face. “What do you want? I told you I don’t know anything.”

“And you’re lying.”

His bushy eyebrows shot up, clearly surprised with Marshall’s boldness. “Lying or not, I have nothing to say to you. Now get off my property.”

Marshall was quickly losing his window of opportunity. He needed to get the old man on his side. Forcing him was going to get him nowhere. His age made him much too stubborn and hard headed for that. Marshall needed to think quickly.

“How old is your granddaughter?”

His expression went from one of contempt and frustration to anger. “You leave her out of this. If I—”

“How old is she? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Not that much older than Barbara Summers, the girl that was found dead in the street just a few days ago.”

The old man bit his tongue as he realized where Marshall was directing the conversation. Marshall took the old man’s silence as an opportunity to push the subject, hoping he was making headway. “Think about that girl’s family. What if they could provide you with answers and they refused because they were too scared.”

“I’m not scared, boy. Don’t mistake caution and patience for fear.”

“Well, whatever it is, now is the time to act. You have the power to help her family bring closure to her death.” Marshall clenched his jaw. He was still unwilling to talk about his sister.

Samantha’s grandfather seemed to weigh Marshall’s determination. “You’re not going to go away unless I tell you, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Then come inside. No point in causing a scene.”

To Marshall’s surprise he motioned for him to enter. The old man must have caught his hesitation because he gave a smirk. “Well, come in. This is what you wanted, right? Trust me, I don’t bite. I’m not the one you have to worry about.”

Marshall opened the aging screen door and stepped into the front room. The floor was made of old creaky wood and ancient furniture added to the decor. The room was large, decorated with pictures along the walls and a vase of flowers on the chipped coffee table.

The old man noticed Marshall’s gaze settle on the flower arrangement and scoffed. “It’s Samantha’s work. She insists that the place needs more color and life.”

Marshall nodded. “What’s your name, anyway?”

The old man looked him up and down, hesitating.

“Come on. You know mine. You even know my dog’s name.”

“I’m—Jonah.”

Jonah walked to a dark green reclining chair that had seen better days and slowly sat down. Marshall didn’t think he was going to get an invitation to sit, so he took the initiative and settled on a matching green couch. The fabric was thick and he sunk in further than he anticipated.

“Well, here we are. You managed to weasel your way in, and now you even know my name. What do you want to know?”

Marshall thought he had made it clear to Jonah what he was here for, but he cleared his throat and started again anyway. “I want to know what you know about Barbara Summers’ death. You must have seen or heard something. Maybe the squeal of brakes. Maybe you saw the headlights of a car late at night. Anything.”

“You’re asking all the wrong questions, boy. Barbara Summers’ death is a very small part of what has been playing out for well over a century.”

Marshall leaned forward as much as the saggy couch would let him. “What are you talking about?”

“Are you still sure you want to know? After knowledge has made itself known, there is no unknowing the truth. You’ll be forced to choose a side or fall victim—collateral damage, like Barbara Summers.”

Marshall felt goosebumps prickle his arms. The doors and windows were closed, but he could swear a cold breeze caressed his skin in a sinister way. “I want to know what you know. I want to know what happened to Barbara Summers.”

Jonah leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He looked at Marshall, still weighing whether or not he should divulge the information. “Okay. Okay, I’ll tell you.” Jonah’s face took on a pained expression as he looked over Marshall’s shoulder and into the past.

Chapter 11

I was just a small boy when my parents died from a strain of God knows what. I was taken to an orphanage in this same county. It was a dirty place with leaking roofs and soup for almost every meal, but it was better than the street, or so I thought at the time. I couldn’t have been more then seven years old when I arrived at the orphanage.

I can still remember it like it happened last week. The other children and I hoped every day we would get adopted. Every once in awhile, prospective fathers and mothers would visit the orphanage to see that special child that had been matched to them. I was a skinny boy growing up with wild blond hair and a freckled face. Let’s just say I wasn’t most parents’ first choice as a new son.

I don’t hold it against them, though. I know what I looked like then. As the days, weeks, and months passed, we all hoped. We prayed every night that we would be brought a mother and father that would take us away from the orphanage to a warm, cozy house with a dog, a cat, and a white picket fence. We would make up stories and imagine what our new parents would look like and the new lives we would lead when we were finally chosen.

During these months there was one person who would come to meet children and adopt them on a regular basis. He was a rough looking man, and although he said all the right things, there was something about him that always put me and the other children on edge. There was just something about him that didn’t fit. When he came around our hopes and prayers turned into fear and we tried to avoid him if we could. He came and adopted a different child every few months, proving to the staff at the orphanage that he had the monetary background to care for them. He even donated to the orphanage on a regular basis. As you can imagine, the orphanage staff was always eager when he came.

I once overheard the head master asking the man why he needed so many children, to which the man responded with his love for children and his own wife being unable to bear offspring of their own. He mentioned that he felt it was God’s own calling that he care for as many children as he could and raise them in the way of the Lord. 

Well, it so happened that one day this same man came and adopted me. The day that I had waited so long for was anything but what I had expected. The joy of being taken away from the orphanage turned to ash in my mouth as I stood by the man filling out paperwork to claim me as his own.

I thought the day would come and I would be jumping with joy, but in that moment I felt more like a slave than a child. The man didn’t say much to me as he thanked the staff at the orphanage and I followed him out of the building.

I had nothing in the way of belongings but the clothes on my back. I can still remember waving goodbye to the children who stared wide-eyed at me from the dirty windows of the orphanage.

The man still said nothing as we made the journey to his estate. I had a better look at him now, though. He was a large man with rounded shoulders and a pale complexion. His face was firm and not unkind, but different somehow, like he was privy to information that would crush a normal man.

We drove in silence for a few hours until we reached this very canyon and made our way through the winding dirt roads. I can’t remember exactly where we turned off, but before I knew it we were at a huge stone mansion. It was the biggest house I had ever seen. It was bigger than the orphanage. I wouldn’t hesitate to call it a castle.

I stepped out and shivered, even though there was no wind. Everything was in perfect condition, from the large lawn to the gargoyles that stood guard at the gates and roofs of the property.

Over the next few months, things went from strange to stranger. I was given my own room and introduced to the staff and other children that ranged from my own age all the way up to sixteen or seventeen. There were servants, guards, maids, cooks, and about ten to twelve other children. None of the staff seemed like they wanted us harmed, but the other children and I agreed there was something very off about the place.

I found that every single child had been taken from various orphanages, some even coming from as far as a state or two away. None of us were told what to do while we were there and the staff seemed content to let us amuse ourselves so far as we did not cause trouble. During this time I didn’t see the man that had adopted me again.

My days were spent playing outside with the other children, reading, or exploring every room in the huge mansion. Just when I started to shake off the chill of my new surroundings, it started happening. Children started going missing. They were just gone, as if in the middle of the night they had woken up and walked right out the front doors. When we asked about what had happened to them, we were told that the master of the house had sent them away overseas to receive an education.

We received the news, skeptical to say the least, but what else could we believe? This disappearing act happened more and more often. Whispers were starting to pile up and theories roamed the empty halls. The servants even seemed to be on edge. As the children left, more came in. They were always orphans, with no one who would miss them.

Every day I became increasingly nervous. Would I be next? How would I be taken? Did they come in the middle of the night? Where was I going? One night, a few months after my arrival, as I lay in bed wondering about these questions, I heard a noise.

It sounded like a muffled scream, but I had barely caught the noise. I tried to pass it off as my imagination but I knew better. I had heard something and it sounded like it came from the room next to mine. I lay in my large bed debating what to do. Everything inside me screamed to stay there and go to sleep, but I just couldn’t.

I slowly rose from my bed and padded across the wooden floor. With each step I said a silent prayer that the floorboards would not squeak. My luck held and I reached the door in a few seconds. I turned the knob as slowly as I could, then craned my neck to the side and peeked out of my room into the darkness.

There was nothing there. No demons or monsters. There was nothing but a dim light being carried by someone further down the hall. I squinted, trying to make out who would be carrying the candle, but whoever it was turned a corner and the light was gone.

An immediate urge to close the door and go hide in my sheets grabbed at my heart. I think I would have had I not seen the room next to mine’s door ajar. I knew who stayed in that room. It was Melissa Nixon. She was the nicest girl I had met since I had arrived at the estate. She always had a smile and she was the closest thing I had to a friend. My hand shook as I forced the door open wider and took my first step into the dark hall. I gently opened her door further, only to confirm what I already knew to be the truth.

The room was empty. The sheets and blankets were strewn across the floor as if someone had been clawing at them for safety. The fact that Melissa had been ripped from her bed became very apparent. I knew what I had to do. I had to follow that light if I could and find out if she was safe.

Before I could think of the hundred reasons why I should just go back to bed, my skinny legs were carrying me down the dark hall at a run. The only light to make my way by was the light from the half moon and stars that shown through the large windows on the left wall.

I shivered as I ran, but not from the cold. My heart beat faster and faster as I turned the corner. There was nothing. I fought to keep my breathing under control as I peered down the stairs and into the large room that served as a library.

I peered into the darkness, struggling to see or hear anything. Just when I was going to give up, pat myself on the back for trying, and return to my room, I heard a muffled cry. It was Melissa’s muffled cry.

With only my pajamas for warmth, I crept barefooted down the steps to the ground floor. Following where I thought the noise had come from, I reached a brick fireplace. My small mind was torn in two. On one hand, I knew this was where I had heard the noise come from. On the other hand, I knew that it was impossible to hear cries coming from fireplaces.

My small hands ran over the rough stones. Up and down I searched for a lever or loose brick, anything that would signal a secret passage behind the fireplace. There was nothing. I had come too far to turn away this easily. I got down on my hands and knees and looked into the huge entrance that was large enough for a man to stoop and walk through. And that’s when I realized that it had been built large enough for a man to stoop and walk into.

I gently removed the steel curtain that kept sparks and embers from escaping and pushed the fear that had made its way into my throat deep in my belly. Inside the furnace was pitch black. My hands and knees were soon covered in soot. I reached the back and pushed on the stone wall.

I pushed harder and harder, knowing Melissa was in need of my help and I had to get to her before it was too late. I pushed and pulled, but still there was no give to the rough stones that made up the wall.

I shifted my weight and tried to slide the stone surface. There was a give. Not much, just a few inches. I ground my teeth and put my small back to the wall. With all of my might I tried to slide the brick wall. It gave a few more inches and then a few hard fought more. Eventually there was room enough for me to squeeze through.

I entered a cave hall that was illuminated by candles placed on the walls. The fear that I had managed to push away came back now as I heard chanting coming from somewhere deep in the belly of the cave.

Quietly I made my way down the slanting hall that led deeper into the earth toward the rhythmic chanting. The shadows cast by the candles leapt out at me, contorting into sinister faces and ghoulish grins. But this was the least of my worries. My entire focus was where the chanting was coming from and what I would see when I reached the noise.

I didn’t have to wait much longer as the hall curved and opened wide into a large room. I figured we must be right under the great house. There was a circular area with a large flat rock placed in the center. On one side of the rock, a stone bowl sprouted, carved from the same piece of rock. The other side came down into a kind of waterfall that pointed to the ground. 

There was a group of darkly hooded figures that stood around the stone, all chanting in a language that I couldn’t understand. It was a language that I would later find out was an ancient Native American tongue.

That’s when I noticed Melissa being brought forward. She was gagged and tied by both her feet and ankles. Her eyes were wild with fear and tears streaked her otherwise kind and gentle face. The man who had adopted me from the orphanage, the man I would grow to hate, dragged her to the stone altar and tied her down. The chanting picked up now as I crouched in the shadows, powerless and incapacitated by fear. All I could do was watch.

A dozen scenarios ran through my head but not a single one ended well. I was a small boy and there were a dozen or more darkly hooded figures. What could I do? I should have done something. I should have done anything besides crouch there in the shadows, but I didn’t.

I hunkered down like a coward and watched as the man who had adopted me and so many other children reached into his cloak, drew out a knife, and slit Melissa’s wrists and ankles. There was so much blood. Her little heart beat in vain trying to send red liquid to nourish her body, but the blood was pouring out of her hands and feet too quickly. The stone basin on one side of the stone table near her head collected the blood from her wrists. The blood from her ankles collected like a tiny waterfall and fell down the opposite side of the stone onto the cave floor.

The ground seeped up the blood like a man dying of thirst. It didn’t simply soak into the hard dirt floor—I swear it drank the blood in deep, thirsty gulps. The chanting soon stopped as Melissa’s chest stopped moving. Each of the cloaked members dipped a cupped hand into the blood-filled basin, took off their hoods, and poured the blood on their heads.

I had seen enough. I don’t know what it was that gripped me, but I knew I had to go. I knew that if I stayed any longer, I was going to get caught and suffer the same fate as Melissa Nixon.

I took one last look at her lifeless form and I ran. I ran back up the cave hall, through the fireplace, and I ran right out the front door. I stuck to the shadows, and by luck or fate, no one saw me as I crossed the lawn and jumped the fence.

I escaped with my life, but I will never forget that night in Wakan Canyon.