The Strange Situation At Forest Green
I’ve completely fucked up this time. There’s no coming back from this one. I thought this job would be good for me. Boy, was I wrong.
Lemme back up a second, because I think I’m getting ahead of myself. It all started the other night. See, I started this job a few weeks ago. It was a simple security job at Forest Green, an assisted living home in the heart of Haverland, a rural town that borders the town I live in, Lingan, which is decidedly less rural. It’s not a bad job, $15/hr plus overtime, moderate benefits once you’re there for more than 6 months, and since I was hired for the night shift, a time when things were quite quiet, I would have plenty of time to read, watch TV, and once I started college in next year (this was fall, october to be exact) do homework and study.
Forrest Green was an assisted living facility, but it could’ve easily just been called a “living” facility. The campus was humongous, featuring a series of sprawling buildings surrounded on all sides by woods for at least a half mile and then farmland, mostly corn and cows, for several miles after that. The reason for the numerous buildings is because of the numerous services offered. Sure, there’s a nursing home section for those that cannot care for themselves anymore. But there’s also an independent living area, a series of interconnected bungalows and apartments for people that are fully capable, but need on site medical care. And then there’s the halfway house/rehab, which is a relatively small building at the back left of the campus, if you’re entering through the front gates, which I usually do.
And that night was no different. I drove my car down the secluded roadway, Brook Rd, making a right at Forest Green’s entrance. From there it was a quick minute or so up the driveway where I stopped at the large wrought iron gate and guard shack that demarcated Forest Green from the woods surrounding it. Bob, one of the other security guards was sitting in the shack, reading some sort of magazine or another, and when he saw my headlights he looked up, hit the button that opened the gate, and waved to me as I passed by. I waved back and made my way to the main parking lot at the front entrance, which was usually reserved for friends and family of our residents, but at night was completely empty, except for Julie’s car, a big pink Cadillac with purple and gold trim.
Julie was a rotund black woman of about 40 who worked the front desk. She had frizzy, bleach blond hair, and a huge welcoming smile. She wore dated, giant glasses, usually on a faux gold rope around her neck, and always wore an ugly sweater, even in the summer. If anyone was meant to work a front desk anywhere, it was her. She beamed with excitement whenever anyone walked through the front door, and if that anyone was a guy that was young enough and attractive enough, she would get flirty.
Once I chose a spot to park my car I got out, grabbed my bag from the back seat, hit the button on my smart key to lock the doors, and walked up to the front doors.
The doors were solid oak and looked like they belonged on a castle that a giant would live in, except for the large glass windows embedded in each. Once through the doors I was in the lobby/resident library. This section of the sprawling campus looked much like a cabin. A tall wooden ceiling replete with support beams, the huge library to my right with both books and comfy chairs to curl up in, to my left, Julie’s humongous oak desk flanked by trees that had been debarked and stained, and behind the desk...no Julie.
It was rare that she was gone from her desk, usually only to lock up the lobby and leave at night, an hour or so after I got in. I walked up to it, looked behind, knocked on the bathroom doors to the left of the desk, no answer. It was odd, but I knew I'd be late for my shift if I didn't get moving, I still had another five minutes to get to the main guard station.
I went around the library and made a right down the hall that bordered it, through the assisted living wing, where I said hi to the nurses working there (Frank, a tall, thin black guy with thick black glasses was readying pills on a cart while May, a short, mousey white girl with long, brown hair was filling out paperwork on the same cart. Two Certified Nursing Assistants, whose names I’m not sure of, sat at a desk behind Frank and May and talked in their native Haitian.), who in turn smiled and said hi back. I passed the nursing station, made a left and at the end of that hallway was the door to the security office, the top half was open and my supervisor, Mel was leaning out of it, his hand outstretched, holding his phone. He looked up when he heard me round the corner.
“You’re late,” he said, his graying, sandy blond moustache twitching.
I looked down at my watch. 9:05. I was supposed to be there at 9pm.
“Sorry,” I said. “Julie wasn’t at her desk when I got in. I was looking around for her.”
Mel grunted. “So what? She probably got up to use the head.”
I shook my head no as I reached the half door. “Nuh uh. I checked. Nowhere to be found.”
Mel grunted again, and stood up to let me into the office. “Probably left early. I’ll have to have a word with her supervisor. Also, that means I’m gonna need you to lock up the lobby area tonight, rather than just make sure it’s locked,” he picked a key ring with a dozen or so keys on it off the wall, held up a single key and said “this is the lobby key. Think you can remember that?”
I nodded my head yes as I put my bag and jacket into my locker in the security office.
“Good. Now, I gotta tell you something. Jose is out sick tonight, so you know what that means?”
“No, who am I training with?” I asked. I’d only been on the job for three weeks, it was customary to train for six.
“No one, you’re on your own.” Mel replied. “I’m gonna pull some overtime tonight, just until you get settled, but you’re good to go. Jose said so”
I beamed. I respected Jose, for the little time I knew him, and it made me happy that he thought I was so qualified as to start working solo. Mel picked up on this.
“Alright, alright, don’t look so happy. You’ve got two more hours of wandering, and then you patrol. I’ll be here ‘til midnight, Mike’ll be in at 3. Think you’re up for it?”
“Yup,” I said, grabbed my walkie talkie out of it’s cubby hole, and left through the half door.
“Hey, kid,” Mel called after me. I turned. “Two hours, then no more wandering. Make it count.”
I’ll now explain to you what he means by wandering. Forest Green is so big that a map basically does nothing. I mean, you can use one, but unless you actually see the twisting, labyrinthian hallways for yourself, get lost, and figure your way back, you’ll never be able to navigate around the campus, map or not. Every day I worked for those three weeks, half my shift was just getting lost, the other half was Jose showing me how to do a usual security patrol.
So tonight was no different. Only this time I was a little more well versed in the layout. I started where I usually do, at the library in the lobby. Julie was still nowhere to be seen. I cut across the lobby and went through the north most door, unit B, hospice. The dead and the dying. I went to unlock the door with my keycard and paused momentarily. I hadn’t spent a lot of time in this unit. It creeped me out. But I knew I needed to since tonight was my last night of wandering. I had to get acquainted.
I touched my badge to the card reader and heard a soft beep. I walked inside. It was dark, there were no nurses in the unit. The hospice nurses went home at 8. If any of the residents in this wing needed help they’d ring their call bell by their bed and a nurse from assisted living would respond.
I followed the winding hall, lit only by a periodic “EXIT” sign or a small built in wall night light. I could hear the residents, some snoring, some moaning, some praying, some crying. An occasional TV set, muffled by thick walls and thick wallpaper, could be heard. And then I saw it. At the end of the hall, bathed in red light from one of those crimson signs, the painting.
When I first started working at Forest Green three weeks prior, Jose was giving me a bit of a tour. We eventually entered unit B and I saw the painting. I asked “what’s this?”
“That,” he said, “are the originals.”
15 people, dressed all in black, looking defeatedly at the “camera”, no smiles, eyes vacant. A tall, slender woman in the center, also dressed in black, sitting in a gigantic velvet armchair. Ghost white skin, crimson lips twisted into a wry smile. Behind them, a forest scene, a bubbling brook which I came to find out was none other than Crat’s River which ran behind the main Forest Green building. Below a plaque read “1919”.
“Who are-”
Jose cut me off, “they’re the original patients and caretaker, natch.”
“Well, shouldn’t this be in the lobby? It seems important.”
“Nah, Ms. Betty says she doesn’t want it in a ‘high traffic area’,” he said, making air quotes. Ms. Betty (as she was referred to, although I have it on good authority that her real name is Beatrice Haven) was the most recent owner of Forest Green. I had only met her once, at my job interview, where she said nothing and let Mel conduct the whole thing.
“Why though?” I asked
Jose shrugged. “Said something about trying to ‘break from the legacy’,” more air quotes.
“So why doesn’t she just get rid of this painting?” I asked, that set of 16 eyes boring into my head.
Jose slapped me on the shoulder, “Man, why’re you asking me?” and he walked through the door at the end of the hall. I reluctantly followed, barely able to take my eyes off the painting.
So here I was again, sucked into the painting, staring at the same woman, sitting in her velvet chair, her eyes looking more sinister than ever. I imagine her as a cruel, unforgiving slavemaster, beating the will to live out of her 15 charges, and…
I notice something for the first time.
Barely
Peeking out from behind one of the trees.
A man.
But he’s not just a man, he’s almost entirely pitch black, like a shadow, two white crescent moon eyes on his small, bulbous head. And is that…
Yes.
Cloven hooves, instead of feet.
And a puddle of red beneath him.
A black hand sticking out on the other side of the tree, holding what appears to be a knife.
I shuddered, a cold chill running down my spine. And then...
*CRACKLE*
My walkie talkie erupted with white noise.
I screamed.
“Hey kid! You lock up the lobby yet? It’s after 10.”
Mel’s voice.
Then silence
Luckily no one heard my cowardly yelp, or just didn’t care. My face flushed with blood anyway. Embarrassed, I picked the walkie off my belt, held down the button and responded, “Yeah, I’ll be right there.” Put the walkie back on my belt, checked my watch.
Holy shit, 10:40.
I’d been staring at that painting for at least an hour.
I started back down the hallway I came, managing to make my way back to the door to the lobby. I hit the green button next to the door labeled “PRESS HERE TO EXIT” and walked into the dimly lit lobby. I looked at Julie’s vacant desk, and from that vantage point I noticed something odd.
Julie’s phone, sitting on the desk, plugged into her computer. I walked behind the desk, a pink leopard print bag sat on the ground.
Julie’s purse.
Where the fuck did she go?
“Julie,” I half shouted in the lobby.
No answer.
I walked to the library section, checked between the stacks of Robert Ludlum, Tom Clancy, and James Mitchner bestsellers. I looked through rows of donated VHS tapes and DVDs with the faces of Clark Gable, Jimmy Stewart and Marilyn Monroe plastered on the covers. Nothing, no Julie.
“Julie,” I said again, sounding more defeated.
I picked my walkie off my belt and held it to my mouth, pressing the button. “Mel, you there? I don’t think Julie left. I think something happened to her. All her stuff is still here.”
A crackle.
“Where’s ‘here’? In the lobby?”
“Yeah. I’m starting to get worried.”
“Just come back here. We’ll figure it out. Did you lock the front doors?”
“Yeah, I did.” I didn’t. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I clipped my walkie back on my belt and strode over to the front doors. Once I got there I removed the key ring from my pocket and looked through the windows in the doors. Julie’s car was still in the parking lot.
And next to it stood a woman.
Dressed in black.
Pale skin.
Crimson lips.
It looked like the woman from the painting.
I fumbled with the keys, looking down to find the right one for the front door. I looked up. She was ten feet closer. I looked down again. Found the right key. looked up. She was twenty feet closer. Looked at the lock. Jammed the key in. Turned. Heard a click. Looked up.
She was right in front of me. She was looking at me. An emotionless blank stare. She raised her right hand, as if she were being sworn in, skin so pale it was almost translucent. I could see blue veins underneath. She breathed on the glass, a transparent cloud formed. She wrote with her finger.
ALL WILL SERVE MYENTHROP
I took my Walkie, spoke into it: “Mel, you need to get down here right now. We’ve got someone outside. S-she’s doing weird shit, man.”
Silence.
“Mel, get down here, call the cops while you’re at it. This isn’t a joke.”
Silence.
“MEL FUCKING GET DOWN HERE THIS IS SERIOUS I NEED HELP THERE’S A CRAZY BITCH OUT HERE.”
Silence.
I looked up from the walkie.
The message on the window was gone.
So was the woman.
“Fuck,” I said under my breath, and then took off running, around the library, down the assisted living hall, past the nurses station, to the security office. Both halves of the door were closed. I reached out to open the door.
Locked. I pounded with my fist.
“Mel, open up. We have a situation on our hands. There’s a lady outside doing weird shit, man,” I shouted through the door. “C’mon, open up!”
Nothing.
I punched the door, pain radiated through my fist and up my arm. I let out an angry groan. I remembered the key ring in my pocket, pulled it out, found the key labeled “OFFICE.” and opened the door.
Before I noticed the scene in front of me, I noticed the smell. An overwhelming stench of metal and moisture, like an old mossy bridge in a rainstorm but warmer. The office was covered in blood. On the desk, the ground, and on the wall was written in red “ALL WILL SERVE MYENTHROP.” An ornate dagger rested in the pool of congealing blood on the desk, just the right size to have written the words on the wall.
I doubled over, dry heaving.
When I stood back up and collected myself I noticed that Mel was not there.
I ran back to the nurses station. Frank was sitting at the station, working on a netbook. I ran up to him, out of breath and sweating.
“Frank! Something’s happening. I need you to call the cops.”
He looked up at me, confusion and fear on his face. “What is happening?”
“I think there’s a murderer on campus. There was a lady outside, there’s blood all over the security office. Mel and Julie are missing. I think the lady is the founder of Forest Green.”
“...Forest Green was founded almost 100 years ago,” he responded.
“I know this sounds crazy...just, just look at the security office.”
He got up, his eyes narrowing. We walked to the office, him ahead of me. He opened the door and…
Nothing.
No blood. No message written in said blood. Just the security office, the way it always was. A desk, some chairs, cubbies and lockers.
Frank turned to me. “Listen, I know you’re new to this, so I’m going to let this one slide. But this is a serious job, you can’t be going around pulling halloween pranks. You know what would happen if I HAD called the cops? We’d both be in deep, deep shit.”
“Listen, Frank, I don’t know what happened, or what is happening. I wasn’t fucking with you, I promise it wasn’t a joke, I…”
I stopped. I noticed the ornate dagger, still sitting on the desk. I brushed past Frank, picked up the dagger.
“What is this, where did this come from?!” I asked, waving it at him.
“Dude, I don’t know. I’m just warning you, don’t do this again.”
I put the dagger back on the desk, and picked up the phone, putting the receiver to my ear. “I don’t know,” I said, “maybe I imagined the thing with the blood. Maybe it’s late and I’m a little freaked out, but Mel and Julie ARE missing and there WAS a woman outside.”
“A hundred plus year old woman,” Frank said, crossing his arms, leaning against the door jam.
I shook my head, “I was staring at that painting in unit B, it creeped me out. Maybe that woman wasn’t her, but there was someone out there.”
Frank shook his head, shrugged his arms to his sides, “listen, I have some more charting to do. Do what you gotta do, but get ahold of yourself.” He left the room.
I dialed 9-1 to get out, then 911.
The phone rang, a woman answered.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Yeah, hi, this is security at Forest Green Assisted Living. We have an intruder on campus and we would like to have the police come check it out.
“Right away, sir. What is the address?”
“1919 Brook rd.”
“OK, I’m dispatching an officer now.”
“Thank you,” I put the receiver down. I then got a baggie out of one of the drawers of the desk, put the dagger into it, and started walking to the lobby, checking that every door I passed was locked. They all were.
Once I got to the lobby I radioed Bob at the front entrance guard shack, asked if he had seen anyone coming or going, he hadn’t. I then explained the situation, the woman, the dagger, the message she left, our missing coworkers, however I omitted the blood and the fact that she’s the spitting image of the founder of our facility. He gave an OK, said he’d be ready to let the police in when they came.
I collapsed on one of the arm chairs in the library area, putting the dagger baggie on my lap. I wanted desperately to sleep, I felt exhausted from the last couple hours, but knew I couldn’t due to the adrenaline still circulating in my bloodstream, and shouldn’t due to the maniac wandering around.
I looked outside, through the windows where I had seen her. No one was there. Just Julie’s pink Cadillac. I sighed. That’s when I noticed the book.
On a shelf, mixed amongst the the bestseller airport books. It stuck out like a sore thumb. It was brown, leather, weathered. I took it off the shelf. It didn’t look like any book I’d ever seen. It was clearly bound by hand, not mass produced. The hide was bumpy, uneven, I could see where it was stapled to the cardboard cover, the pages thick and uneven. On the cover was written the number “1919,” both the year Forest Green was founded and the number of its address. No, not written, tattooed. As if someone had tattooed the hide of whatever creature had been used to bind this book. I opened it.
Inside, on the first page, was a sepia toned photograph. I recognized it. It was the photo that the painting in Unit B was modeled after. The same woman, the one I thought I’d seen outside, sitting in that same velvet chair, her dependants/inmates/slaves/whatevers flanking her, their expression of weariness written loudly on their faces. It was even eerier in real life than it was in acrylics.
I searched the trees behind them for the silhouette goatman. He was there. Barely visible, but there nonetheless. Blood on the wooded ground, the same dark blob under his feet, knife in hand.
No, Not a knife. A dagger.
I looked down at the bag on my lap, the ornate, carved handle, the shiny blade. The inscription on said blade. 1919.
I turned back to the book, flipped the page. Words, long paragraphs, a language I couldn’t understand, written in dark crimson ink. Illustrations of nude bodies, male and female, in torturous, inhuman positions. Drawings of forced sex acts, mutilations. Then, photos. Black and white, crudely pasted to the thick pages.
In one photo the pale woman with the red lips standing over two of the people from the photo/painting on a metal hospital bed, a male and a female.The female sitting upright, spread eagle, an open Y shaped incision on her chest, her breasts splayed out to either side, sternum exposed, arms tied to the headboard behind her, dark inky blood everywhere, mouth agape, a wide eyed look of shock and horror on her face. In front of her, the male, hogtied face down, head forced between the female’s open legs, buttocks and genitals flayed, presumably by the whip held by the woman with the pale skin standing over him. On his right buttock, clearly visible the number “1919.”
In another, a nude female tied to a tree in a Jesus Christ pose, head lolling lifelessly to the right, a horizontal incision across her abdomen, entrails spilling out, the ground darkened with blood, the number “19” on each breast. On either side of the female stood a person dressed in a long white frock, symbols written on them, crescent moons, stars, runes. Their faces were covered with full head beaked masks with empty, dark eyes. Peaking out from behind one of the people, the same goatman silhouette from earlier in the book.
A wave of nausea swept over me and I slammed the book shut and put it on the end table next to the chair I was sitting in.
*DUNK DUNK DUNK*
I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was coming from the front door. I looked up. Looking through the window back at me, knocking, was a middle aged mustachioed police officer, a blue bomber jacket bracing him against the cool october air.
I breathed a sigh of relief, got up from the chair, walked to the door and let him in.
“Are the one that called about a break in?” he asked. His name tag read “Deputy Edgar Downes”
I said yes, and explained the whole situation, the woman, the dagger, the missing employees. I left out the blood, as even I had started questioning what I saw in the security office. I pointed him to where I saw her outside, handed him the dagger in the baggie, and he asked where the security office was. I told him.
We walked down the hall leading to the security office, Downes leading, hand on belt, asking me questions.
“What time?”
“Did she say anything?”
“Did you see her break in?”
“Did you check all the windows and doors?”
“What did she look like?”
With the last question I had to stop myself from saying that I had a picture of her. Even though she looked exactly like the woman in the painting/book, I knew this would sound crazy.
Once his questions had ended we were at the nurses station. I stopped, as did he.
“This is all wrong,” I said.
“What?” Downes asked.
The nurses station was empty. Not just empty, but dark. All the lights were out except the sickly blue coming from a neglected PC monitor sitting on top of a desk.
“They should be here. The nurses. It’s a skeleton crew this time of night, but they should be in this department.”
“Maybe they’re helping patients,” Downes suggested.
I shook my head, “No, the lights would still be on.”
He grabbed my shoulder. “C’mon,” he said, “ one mystery at a time.”
We finished the trek to the security office, and once there he asked me to explain exactly what I came upon in this room. I did, motioning to the desk where I’d found the dagger, pointing to the dagger itself as I talked. He looked around, checked the windows, opened drawers, looked for signs of entry.
Once I had finished, Downes let out a long breath, put the baggie/dagger on the desk, and sat down in the chair next to it.
“Do I look stupid to you?” he said.
“What? No,” I responded.
“Listen, it’s Halloween time, you wanted to play a prank-”
“No, I-”
He slammed his hands on the desk and shouted “HEY! Don’t you interrupt me! What you did tonight is a very serious offense, calling 911 when there’s no emergency. I get it, you get bored late at night and want to have a little fun, but you can’t do that, and I’m going to be having a talk with your supervisor about it tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you believe me?” I asked, shocked.
He looked me in the eye, “Son, the woman you described died 80 some years ago. Her name was Beth Haverland. She founded this facility and died 10 years later in a murder/suicide plot. You must be new to the area, everyone knows the story. It’s town lore.”
I stood there for a moment, not knowing what to say. “I know what I saw.”
“You mean this wasn’t a prank? You didn’t find this dagger and then decide to have a little fun?”
“No. I swear. There was a woman that looked like that outside.”
“Maybe your mind was playing tricks on you,” Downes said. “Betty, your boss I would assume, has gone through a lot of pains to make this place respectable again after her ancestor’s occult shenanigans, even going so far as changing her last name. But,” he picked up the dagger, “the past doesn’t seem to want to leave. This here knife has probably been on the grounds for near a century. You’d be surprised how often we get called to remove an item like this, a danger to the residents and another piece of a long lost crime scene. Chances are someone else on your security crew found this, left it on the desk and meant to call it in to us but never got around to it. Maybe being alone in the darkness and seeing a dagger seemingly come out of nowhere freaked you out, made you imagine things?”
I thought about the blood. How it seemed to disappear immediately. The painting that constantly drew me in. How quiet it got here at night. Was it all in my head?
Then, I remembered the book.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I said. “And by the way, there’s something you should have a look at.”
I motioned to the door, and we left the office and walked back to the library, where I picked the book I found up and handed it to him. He opened it up, flipped through it, and smirked.
“Oh boy, Ms. Haverland. You were a freak,” he said, then looked up at me. “I’m gonna have to take this. It’ll go in her file. This honestly isn’t the worst thing in there. She might’ve been the most evil woman to ever live and, unfortunately,” he motioned to the book in his hand with his head, “seems to be the gift that keeps on giving.”
“What else have you found?” I asked.
“Kid,” Downes looked me in the eye, earnestly, “you don’t want to know. Nor can I tell you.”
There was a moment of silence between us, then I said, “What about my missing coworkers?”
“Are their cars out there?” he asked, looking out the front door window.
They were. I said so.
“Probably still in the building then. If you want, we can fill out a missing persons report, but it seems mighty unlikely that something happened to...how many?”
I counted in my head, between Julie, Mel, Frank and the rest of the nursing staff, at least six, possibly eight, maybe more. I told him such.
“Mmm, thought as much. There’s no signs of forced entry, and I’ve recovered enough ceremonial instruments from this place to be unperturbed by this knife. I’d be glad to fill out a missing persons report, but considering how big this place is, I recommend you saving us some time right now and yourself some embarrassment later. Give us a call down at the sheriff’s office in a few hours if they don’t turn up.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card and was about to hand it to me when we heard a sickening, wet sliding sound, like someone was dragging a fresh, heavy cut of meat across the linoleum of the lobby. We looked in the direction of the sound.
It was Julie.
Although it was tough to tell at first. She was missing her left arm, and both of her legs had been cut off, one at the thigh and one below the knee. She wasn’t wearing any clothing, and she was missing most of the skin on her body. All that was left was a roll of it around her waist, as if she had taken off a tight flesh colored dress and stopped half way. The sound was her dragging herself across the floor with her one intact, skinless arm, forming a snail trail of blood and gore behind her as she went. She looked up at us with lidless eyes, her face looking like a drawing of the musculoskeletal system from a first year med student’s textbook. She parted almost non existent lips, and spoke.
“Heeeelp...you deeed theees...whyyyyy?”
“Jesus christ,” Downes muttered, and ran to Julie’s side and knelt. “Ma’am, I’m gonna get you some help, just stop moving. I’m gonna get you some help. Please, stop, It’s fine, help…” he trailed off. He grabbed his shoulder mounted walkie, spoke into it, “Dispatch, we need an ambulance here at 1919 Brook RD IMMEDIATELY. Some sort of mutilation, adult female gravely injured.” He let go of the button, a voice came back with the word “Copy.”
Julie stared at me. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. I just stood there. She repeated herself:
“Yooooouuuuu deeed theeeesssss...WHYYYYYY?!” Over and over, she said the same thing.
“Why?”
“Why?!”
“WHYYYYYYYY?!”
“Calm down, ma’am, help is on the way,” Downes said, went to put a hand on her shoulder, thought better of it and took his hand back. Then he turned to me, fire in his eyes, stood up, pulled his gun off his belt, and with both hands pointed it at me.
“Alright, hands up.”
“Wha-what-why,” I stammered, raising my hands as he said.
He started moving closer, gun still trained on me, “You’re under arrest for attempted murder.”
“What?! This wasn’t me! I’m the one that called you!”
“She just fingered you, I’m taking you in,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I-I-I-I,” was all I could say, then I saw a blur of black and white out of my peripheral
*SHLICKK*
Downes’ eyes went wide. The dagger I found earlier was through his neck. His mouth moved wordlessly, and a moment later he crumpled to the ground. She was behind him. The pale woman with the crimson lips.
With preternatural speed she bent, pulled the dagger from his neck, arterial blood spraying from the wound, stood straight again, dagger in hand. And then she spoke.
“All will serve Myenthrop.”
But her lips didn’t move.
She took a step closer to me.
“All will serve the Myenthrop”
I took a step back, her a step closer.
“YOU will serve Myenthrop.”
She took another step.
I was off, running, grabbing the keys from my pocket, fumbling with them, looking for the right one, jamming it in the front door lock, swinging the door open, it hitting the outside front wall with a metallic CRANG, running on damp pavement, work boots slipping, falling, catching myself, running, too scared to look over my shoulder, running, fumbling with my car keys, unlocking the door with the fob, running, swinging the door of my car open and jumping inside with one move, turning the car over, lights on, looking up at Forest Green’s front door, then-
Nothing.
I could see the bodies of Downes and Julie in the dimly lit lobby, but the woman was nowhere to be seen.
I peeled out of my parking space, driving as fast as my car would go. When I got to the wrought iron gate at the front entrance I rolled my window down to scream a warning at Bob as I crashed through the gate, losing a couple hubcaps and half my bumper in the process.
“BOB-RUN-GET-OUT-YOU’RE-IN-DANGER-RUN!”
As I tore out onto Brook Rd I could see him in my rearview, coming out of the guard shack, throwing his arms up, yelling “Man, what the fuck…”
I kept driving as fast as I could, and only slowed after a few miles of feverishly checking my mirror and not seeing the pale woman, the one I’m certain was named Beth Haverland.
* * *
The rest of the night was a blur. I don’t remember parking my car once I got home and only vaguely remember coming up the stairs and going into my apartment. I know I shed my clothes at one point, got a bat from the closet and laid down on my bed. I remembered thinking that I wouldn’t fall asleep, but the next thing I knew I was waking up to the sun streaming on my face and it was 12 noon.
This entire story may be familiar to you already. You may even know my face. It was, after all, plastered on all the local news stations, and I find it unlikely that it didn’t make national news.
“MASSACRE IN CAINE COUNTY, LOCAL MAN WANTED FOR QUESTIONING” I saw when I turned the TV on that afternoon, after I had made sure all the windows and doors in my apartment were locked and had checked all the closets for intruders.
I only wrote this because I wanted as many people to hear my side of the story as possible. It’s only a matter of time until the authorities bust down my door. I’m only still free due to my laziness when I moved, not changing my address immediately. But they’ll figure out where I’m living now. Where I’m hiding out, I should say. I’ll get railroaded. The media, and the jury for that matter, will make up their minds before I even have a chance to enter a plea. A total of 11 people died that night, it was an absolute bloodbath, and I’m the only one that made it out. I’m guilty, even if I never did anything. So here I sit, writing out the events the best I can remember them. If I’m going to spend the rest of my life in prison I at least want to be able to say my piece.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go investigate something. As I wrote that last sentence I heard footsteps in the hall outside my apartment door. I think the police may be here. Who knows, maybe the FBI. And a scratching sound. It almost sounded like someone was scratching on my door...
With a dagger.
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