Candy Cain Kills, page 6
Plucking bows from all the loose wrapping paper, she places one on each of her family member’s heads, turning their corpses into twisted little presents. She sits with them, finishing her Christmas carol as she watches the fire burn.
“Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay,
Close by me forever, and love me, I pray.”
Candace strokes her sister’s pretty blonde hair, now stained red.
“Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care,
And take us to heaven, to live with Thee there.”
The image of the fire fizzles and cuts to black.
The prank segment kicks in with whispers in the basement.
“Who’s there?”
“Merry Christmas, motherfucker!”
Austin pauses the video on a frame of himself, terrified on the ground. He closes the camcorder screen and turns to his stunned friends.
“Yo,” Ethan finally says, breaking the silence. “What the fuck did we just watch?”
Valerie is vibrating in her own skin. “That was a snuff film. We just watched a legit snuff film.”
“Oh please.” Mateo grabs the camcorder. “That was clearly just some amateur film student trying to make their own Blair Witch Project.”
“Four years before The Blair Witch Project?” Ethan asks.
Mateo shrugs. “It’s innovative, I’ll give them that. And the gore effects looked pretty real.”
“It was real,” Austin says aloud, head spinning. “The Candy Cain Killings were real.”
“The what?” Mateo says.
“There was this drunk pastor at the diner tonight, he tried to warn us. The family who lived here was killed on Christmas morning. The sheriff said they just died in the fire, but he was wrong. The legend is true.” Austin is trying to catch everyone up while putting together the missing pieces on the fly. “Candace is Candy.”
“Candy Cain?” Mateo spells it out. “Like, C-A-I-N?”
“Oh shit,” Ethan says. “That one’s in our book too. He got jealous and killed his brother. Just like that little girl in the video.”
“Great.” Valerie throws her hands in the air. “So, we can all agree that the psycho who killed her whole family earned a very cute nickname.” She turns to Mateo. “I’m ready to leave now.”
“It was ten years ago, Val. Besides, if this actually is the real deal. . .” Mateo taps the camcorder. “We just landed the movie rights.”
Valerie crosses her arms. “Are you serious right now?”
“I think maybe I should wake up my parents,” says Austin.
“I think that’s a terrible idea,” says Ethan.
“I think it’s too late for that,” says the voice at the top of the stairs.
All heads snap toward the open basement door, where a silhouetted figure grips a fireplace poker.
Dana lowers the iron poker and comes down the steps. “What is going on down here?”
The Ambien had just barely kicked in when she’d heard the voices downstairs. Convinced there were intruders, she woke Greg and they armed themselves before opening the basement door.
“Come on, guys.” Greg drops his fireplace shovel to the ground to pick up an empty beer can. “This is really not cool.”
Dana would’ve preferred a burglar over a basement full of drunk teenagers. Way less complicated.
“Mrs. Werner.” Valerie puts on her best princess voice, aiming for the matriarch. “We can explain.”
“You better, Valerie. Because I’m the one who’ll have to explain this to your mother.” Dana had been on the receiving end of Ellen Lee’s wino rage before, and she was not looking forward to it.
“I know you’re mad,” Austin says, grabbing an old camcorder from Mateo and holding it out to Greg. “But you have to watch this.”
“Is that what this is about?” Dana asks. “You all came here to make another one of Mateo’s home movies?” Having seen their work before, she tried not to criticize the derivative dramas made by teenagers with no life experience; but now was not the time to support creative youth.
“I don’t make home movies,” Mateo insists. “I make cinema.”
“Save it for Sundance. It’s Christmas Eve, and you’re all in big trouble.”
“It’s not our camera, Mom.” Austin presses the 'Rewind' button. “Please, just watch it.”
“Watch what?” says a small voice in the doorway above.
The group turns once again toward the top of the stairs, where Fiona stands on her forearm crutches.
Greg lights up. “Hey, how’re they working?”
“Not the time, Greg.” Dana rubs her temples.
“What’s going on down there?” Fiona asks.
“Nothing,” Dana calls back up to her. “Please go back to bed.”
That’s where Dana wants to go, to drift off to sleep and not have to deal with whatever it is she’s about to deal with. Austin finally presses 'Play' and shoves the camera in front of her and Greg.
Dana squints at the image of two little girls sitting in front of a Christmas tree. Her eyes dart to the corner of the screen, where the date is branded in digital lettering. The basement suddenly feels ten degrees colder.
“Is this. . .” Greg asks.
“The family Sheriff Brock told us about,” Austin says. “But there’s more to the story.”
Dana can hardly process what’s unfolding on the screen, but she can’t look away either. The emotional child abuse is enough to make her stomach churn, and she’s definitely not prepared for the physical violence that follows. She keeps hoping that somehow this story will turn out differently than she knows it will, right up until the final frames.
Dana stares at the little girl, singing in front of the flaming Christmas tree with the family she just murdered.
“And take us to heaven, to live with Thee there.”
“Jesus,” Greg says, closing the screen.
“Happy birthday, right?” Ethan takes out a lighter to spark a joint.
Dana snatches it from him. “Really, Ethan?”
“Sorry,” he shrugs. “Habit.”
Dana’s foggy brain is now actively fighting that Ambien she so desperately craved as she turns to Greg. “I’m not really sure where to begin.”
She can see the gears turning in Greg’s head as he makes his calculations. Usually, he’d get stuck there, frozen in indecision. But tonight, a Christmas miracle happens.
Dana’s husband takes charge.
“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. All you kids are staying here tonight. We’ll call your parents, let them know you’ll be home bright and early. In the meantime, I’m going to call the sheriff.” He holds up the camcorder. “This is clearly evidence, and we don’t want to tamper with a crime scene any more than we already have.”
Dana is genuinely impressed. Maybe all those nights she and Greg watched CSI reruns in silence until they fell asleep actually paid off.
“Did they not mention the murder in the rental listing?” Ethan asks. “Because people pay extra for that.”
“Dad.” Austin steps toward his father, taking the camcorder. “I really don’t think we should stay here tonight.”
“I know it was scary to see all that.” Greg puts a hand on Austin’s shoulder. Dana loves seeing him in Good Dad Mode. “But it happened a long time ago, okay? We’re safe, I promise.”
“But what if this place really is haunted? What if Candy Cain is still here?” Austin asks.
Dana interrupts, following Greg’s lead. “Nobody’s here except three underage kids whose parents are probably worried sick about them. Come on. Upstairs.”
She shepherds everyone up the steps, where Fiona is waiting to ask: “Can somebody please catch me up?”
Greg pulls the phone from the receiver in the kitchen. He frowns, clicking the hook switch a few times. “Line’s dead.” He looks out the window at the falling snow. “Storm probably knocked it out.”
Dana watches as he grabs his puffy coat from the hook.
“What are you doing?” she asks, following him to the door.
“It’s a short drive to town. I’m gonna bring that tape to the sheriff and use his phone to call the kids’ parents. Back in a flash, okay?”
“Okay, just. . .” Dana zips his coat up for him. “Take it slow out there.”
“I will.” Greg gives her a peck on the cheek before heading out the door.
“Where’s Dad going?” Fiona asks.
“We found a video of the Candy Cain Killings,” Austin explains.
“Oh, sick!” Fiona says. “Can I watch?”
She reaches for the camcorder, but Dana snatches it from Austin’s grip.
“Absolutely not.” Dana looks at the camcorder and realizes: “He forgot the damn tape.”
She opens the front door to find a foot of snow already piled up on the ground below the porch. Good thing Lynette left those boots after all. Dana slides into them and rushes toward the station wagon just as the engine starts.
She bangs on the window, startling Greg. He rolls down the window, and she hands him the camcorder.
“Yeah.” He blushes. “That would help.” Greg puts the camcorder on the passenger seat, turns back to his wife.
“Drive safe, okay?” She glances over the roof, up the snowy driveway. “The roads look rough.”
“He’s wrong, you know,” Greg says. “Austin.”
“About Candy Cain still being here?”
“About us getting a divorce.” Greg reaches out and squeezes Dana’s hand. “We’re going to be okay. All of us.”
Maybe it’s just the Ambien, but Dana has never loved her husband more than she does in this moment. She leans into the car and kisses him. Not just a peck on the lips, but a full-on sloppy-tongue make-out kiss.
Greg smiles like a schoolboy in the aftermath. “Hey, you saved Ethan’s joint, right?”
“Oh, absolutely. We’re gonna need it tonight.”
They share a laugh. A rare occasion these days, and it fills her chest with a special warmth, even as her breath is visible in the cold.
“I love you,” she says.
“I love you too.”
Greg puts the car in drive, and Dana watches his taillights disappear into the white night.
She comes back inside and kicks the snow from her boots. “Okay. Mr. Werner’s going to call your parents, so why don’t we sort out where everybody’s sleeping tonight?”
“Hey, Mrs. Werner?” Ethan’s eyes are bloodshot as he asks: “Got anything to eat?”
Dana sighs. “Alright. Food first, then sleep. I hope you like leftover chicken fried steak.”
Ethan’s jaw hangs agape. “None of those words should go together, but I’m here for every one of them.”
Dana corrals the kids into the kitchen; and for the first time in a long time, she misses her husband.
Half of Greg’s mind is in the station wagon, carefully navigating the snowy road toward town, but the other half is back at that house with his wife.
Despite all the setbacks, or maybe because of them, his plan actually worked. The spark was relit, he felt it in their kiss. In the grand scheme of things, one kiss might not be much, but it was a start. Enough to nurture back into a roaring flame.
Rolling down Main Street, it occurs to him that Nodland is the perfect name for such a sleepy town. Only a few side streets are visible with a smattering of homes. The church spire looms above as Greg follows the address on Brock’s card, finding the little brick building just past the diner.
He hops out of the car, hoping it’s not too late to call on the sheriff. It’s never too late to call on a sheriff, right? That’s what they’re there for. He presses the intercom buzzer and peers through the glass window into the darkened office. It sure doesn’t look like anybody’s here.
“Brock here.” The gruff voice rattles the old plastic speaker.
“Uh, hi, Sheriff. I’m sorry to bother you so late. This is Greg Werner, we met at the diner tonight? We’re the family renting the old Thornton house?”
“Of course, I remember. Storm knock out your phone line?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“That’ll happen.”
“Well, we found something in the house and. . . I think you’re going to want to see this video, sir.”
A gust of wind blows dusty snow across the sidewalk.
“Be down in five.”
Down?
Greg takes a step back and looks up to the small window above the station, where a light flicks on. Less than five minutes later, the fluorescent lights sputter to life in the station. Brock’s coming from another entrance, fully dressed in his uniform as he opens the front door just wide enough for Greg to squeeze through.
“Let’s get you in out of that cold.”
“Thank you.” Greg welcomes the warmth inside, unzipping his coat. “You live above the station?”
“Never too far from duty. Coffee?”
“No, thank you.” Greg holds up the camcorder. “I really just wanted to get this to you, maybe use your phone?”
“Well, I’m gonna need some coffee.” Brock heads toward the coffee machine against the far wall. “Have a seat, make yourself comfortable.”
Greg lowers into the chair in front of the desk. He plucks a picture frame and looks at a photo of Brock shaking hands with Pastor Wendell on the church altar. “Special occasion?”
“My confirmation ceremony.” Brock scoops coffee grounds into the basket. “Every public servant in Nodland is elected by the church community. Divine duty, you might say.” He snaps the basket shut, flips the switch.
Greg’s never been one for organized religion, but he keeps that to himself. “Must be a good gig, policing a quiet town like this one.”
“As Paul said to the Thessalonians: ‘Aspire to live quietly, and to mind your own affairs, and to work with your hands.’” Brock looks down at his own big mitts, as if contemplating some past labor.
Greg feels himself getting impatient with the lawman who moves like molasses. “Would you like to see the video? While the coffee brews?”
“Sure. Let’s see what you found.” Brock takes the camcorder and sinks into the chair behind his desk. He presses 'Play' and watches. Greg can hear the awful sounds emanating from the speakers, but Brock doesn’t react to any of it.
“Awful thing. Just tragic.” Brock shuts the screen when the film is over.
“So, I guess maybe there’s some truth to that legend?” Greg’s trying his best to guide the sheriff toward some clarity, but the man is taking off on his own tangent.
“They were good Christians, they really were. Just got a little stuck in the Book of Revelations, if you catch my drift.”
“I’m afraid I’m not up to speed on my Bible studies.” The only books Greg reads are about science and math and. . . reality.
“They were convinced a reckoning was coming,” Brock continues. “The rapture. And when they had those twin girls, they took it as a sign. God had granted them two witnesses, just like that final book said. Only problem was they ended up with one angel and one devil. They tried their best, but Candace was a difficult child. You could see that yourself.”
Greg chooses his words carefully. “I could see they abused her.”
“I think, in their own way, they were just trying to make her good in the eyes of the Lord. Before it was too late.”
“Well, I’d say it’s too late now.” The whole shape of this conversation feels off to Greg. He thinks about asking to use the phone again, but something tells him he should just hurry up and get back home to his family. “Anyway, I hope that video helps shed some light on the case.” Greg gets to his feet. “I better get back before—”
“You know, I was the first officer on the scene, ten years ago.” Brock has a wistful look in his eye. “The fire fighters put out the flames before the house could crumble to dust. I went in and found the charred remains in the wreckage. It was clear enough there’d been foul play before the fire.”
The reason for Brock’s utter lack of surprise suddenly clicks into place as Greg realizes aloud: “. . . You knew.”
“Of course I knew. The way those three bodies had been slashed up and smashed up. . .” Brock shakes his head in disgust while Greg catches on one word.
“Three?”
“Candace was gone. I tried to keep it quiet, sell the softer version of the story I sold you and your family tonight. The one where everyone just died in the fire. But the damn M.E. leaked the truth to a local paper, and they ran with that Candy Cain Killings headline. Can’t say I blame them. Familicide with a killer in the wind has a certain sensational quality to it.”
Brock’s eyes land on that photo of him with the pastor.
“But it’s my personal mission, my God-given calling, to protect this town. To stop that kind of dark cloud from descending on my people. So, I stamped out the story before it could spread. It was too late to un-name the monster, but easy enough to spin it into a harmless local legend. You ever see The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance? ‘When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.’ I think it’s John Wayne’s best, personally.”
The casual way this man is talking about a coverup has Greg ready to bolt for the door. But he has to ask: “Didn’t you wonder what really happened to her?”
“I’d say it was pretty clear the girl wanted freedom, and that’s what she got. Maybe she skipped town, started over. Maybe she crawled off to die in the woods, got eaten by wolves.” Brock shrugs. “Either way, it didn’t matter. Long as nobody went poking around that old house, finding things better left unfound. But some folks just don’t know how to mind their own affairs.”
There it is, that shift in the air. It’s a primal feeling, something Greg’s not usually in touch with, but there’s no denying it any longer.
He’s in danger.
The coffee machine sputters to a stop.
“Ya know. . .” Greg swallows hard. “I think I will have some coffee.”
Brock starts to rise, but Greg moves first.
“Please, allow me.” Greg goes to the coffee machine and starts taking inventory of the space. No weapons in sight. He pours himself a cup of coffee. “How do you take it?”
