Coffin Cemetery, page 8
part #1 of Tormented Souls Series
“Hey, kiddo. You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
The chuckle transformed into a deep, abrasive laugh that sent George scurrying backward, pressing his back up against the television cabinet. A commercial for Dawn soap came on, and the murderer paused, smiling.
“Will you look at that, kiddo. Cuts right through grease. Think it’ll work on the stain your grandma left in her seat when I killed her?”
George began to cry, great, hiccupping sobs, which left him breathless and seemed to give the man a tremendous amount of pleasure as he laughed.
“Oh, you made this night worth it,” the man said. “Really, you did. Gets kind of boring, doin’ the same crap all the time, you know?”
The murderer squatted down in front of George, and for the first time, he shivered as a wave of cold settled over him. “See,” the man continued, “murder is easy. Especially when you’re dead, like me. Now, I get told to do some stuff, I go and do it, and there ain’t nothin’ to it. Did a sight worse when I was alive, so, you know, dead stuff is easier. Can’t get hurt or nothin’. Anyway, here I am ramblin’. Point’s this, kiddo, you got to enjoy what you’re doin’. Really. You got to. I didn’t find that out ‘til I was dead and buried. See, I like scarin’ folks. I think I scared you, didn’t I?”
George could only nod. His voice wouldn’t work.
The dead man chuckled. “Enjoyed every minute of it, too. Listen now. Your mom, she’s gonna be comin’ home soon, and she’s goin’ to be pretty upset. Can’t say as I blame her, either. Who wants to find their momma and their son dead?”
“I’m not dead!” George sobbed.
“No,” the murderer agreed. Then he smiled. “Leastways, you ain’t yet.”
George tried to scream, but there wasn’t any time.
Chapter 20: A Quick Trip
Janet stepped out of her car, stretched, swore and glared at the small town of Honesdale, Pennsylvania. It was eight in the morning, less than five hours since she had left Anger, New Hampshire.
All because I don’t want to deal with Beverly, Janet thought, slamming the door and locking it. A man walking his dog looked up in surprise at her, and Janet stopped herself from telling him to mind his own business.
Don’t be stupid, she reminded herself. Get Henry, get in the car, and get the hell back home. Who knows what sort of trouble Rachel’s going to get into while I’m gone.
Halfway to Pennsylvania, Janet had realized she had forgotten to speak with the ghost. She should have told Rachel to go easy on the old woman on Holt Avenue while Janet was in Pennsylvania. Now, I have to hurry, she thought. Stupid. I’m just stupid.
Leaving her car parked on the side of the road, Janet strode to the open gates of the cemetery where Henry was waiting. She passed through into the burial ground and glanced around. A few ghosts caught sight of her, realized she could see them and darted away. None of them seemed eager to converse with her.
There’s a blessing, Janet thought. Most of the dead she bumped into wanted to talk. A fact she despised. Just let me get that idiot, then I can get out of here.
She paused at a crossroad in the small cemetery and looked around, trying to remember where she had left him. It was a mausoleum, she reminded herself. Iron door on it. He put a guy in there. Someone who shouldn’t have gone in.
Janet hesitated and thought about the incident again. Henry, unlike Chuck, had a difficult time following directions. Then there were the times he followed them too much. Or completely misinterpreted them.
His imprisonment in the crypt was due to the latter.
A man attending a funeral had been conversing with a ghost, and then the man had seen Henry. Henry’s reaction was to knock the man out before throwing him into the mausoleum.
Stupid. All he had to do was stay low and not interact with anyone alive at the damned cemetery. She shook her head. Then again, he isn’t the brightest. Good tool when he sticks to the script. Other than that, too stupid.
Catching sight of the mausoleum, she sighed and headed toward it, cutting across graves. Within a few minutes, she stood before the iron door. As she reached for the handle, she stopped, her hand only a few inches from it.
What’s wrong here? Janet wondered. What am I missing? Something isn’t right.
She closed her eyes and listened, trying to visualize the absent piece of the puzzle.
Her eyes snapped open. I don’t smell anything.
Janet and Beverly had pulled out of Honesdale less than six months before. The body in the mausoleum should have left a foul odor behind. But there was nothing. Her heart hammered against her chest as she braced herself, opened the door, and stepped in.
Nothing, she thought, looking around. In the dim light, she saw two of the sarcophagi were missing their lids, the remnants of each on the floor.
But there was no sign of a recent body. No clues as to what might have happened to the man.
She took her phone out, turned on the flashlight app, and used it to delve deeper into the mausoleum. As she searched the corners, she stopped, her heart sinking. Illuminated in the light’s bright beam, she saw a container of salt on the floor. The top was cut off, and extra salt had been added.
Who the hell knows to do this? she asked, shocked and troubled.
Janet strode forward, kicking the container over. Salt scattered out over the floor, and Henry’s knife tumbled out, skidding to a stop a foot away.
The dead man was there a moment later, snarling and cursing. He turned to Janet, and his eyes went wide with fear.
“He’s gone!” Henry exclaimed.
Janet’s sarcasm was heavy. “Really. Do you think?”
Henry’s head lowered a fraction. “It weren’t my fault.”
Janet wanted to argue with him, but she couldn’t. “Who was he?”
“Dunno,” Henry answered. “Smart, though. Ugly.”
“Ugly?” she asked. When Henry nodded, she frowned. “Explain.”
“No hair,” Henry said. “None. Not at all. Plus, he’s missin’ a couple a fingers. Bit of his ear. Scars on his head. Teeth are gone, too, in some spots. Been ‘round, you can see that. Angry, too. Wasn’t happy with you tellin’ me to kill him.”
“He heard me?” Janet asked, a chill racing through her.
“Yup,” Henry nodded. “So he did.”
“Did he say who he was?” Janet demanded.
Henry shook his head. “No. Wanted to know where we was goin’ next.”
“Did you tell him?”
Henry’s voice was filled with disgust as he answered her. “No. How ‘n Hell I do that, huh? I never know nothin’. But he knew stuff, huh?”
She looked down at the salt. “Evidently.”
“He’s a bad fella,” Henry proclaimed. “I think he’ll do us in when he catches us.”
“What makes you think that?” she demanded.
Henry looked at her as if she had uttered the dumbest statement he had ever heard. After a moment, he let out a bitter chuckle. “What makes you think he won’t?”
Chapter 21: Changes
Dan sat in the waiting room, his tapping foot betraying his nervousness, his hands clasped on his lap. Soft music played from a small speaker located in the center of a low table in the far corner, and on the floor near a narrow door was a noise damper. Dr. Lee was in with another patient, and each moment Dan continued to sit in the chair, waiting, was another moment he struggled with the decision he had made.
He knew he needed help, but he didn’t want help.
Going to a psychiatrist was a sign of weakness, or at least that was what his father had drilled into him.
The door to the office opened, and a young woman Dan had never seen before left the room, dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex. He watched her cross the waiting room, open the door and leave the practice in silence.
He made no effort to move, sure Dr. Lee would fetch him when it was time.
She did a moment later.
“Dan,” she said, standing in the doorway. “Come on in.”
He pushed himself up and walked stiff-legged into the office, pausing for a heartbeat in front of her desk.
“Take a seat,” Dr. Lee said, smiling at him as she closed the door. He glanced around, saw an empty chair a short distance away, and sat in it.
Dan watched her walk toward him, surprised at how fit and supple she seemed. Unlike others he had gone to school with, himself included, Dr. Lee had kept in shape. She was dressed professionally but with what seemed to be comfortable clothes, her black hair trimmed into a pixie cut. Her face was sharp and angular, her eyes set a little wider apart than seemed natural. She wore little makeup, and when she smiled at him as she sat down, he saw the telltale signs of too much coffee in the stained enamel.
“Been a long time,” she said as she made herself comfortable in her chair.
“Yes,” Dan agreed, nodding.
“How are you feeling?”
“Terrible,” he admitted.
“A fair answer,” Dr. Lee nodded. “Thank you. Do you want to tell me why you’re here, Dan?”
He didn’t, but he knew he needed help. Refusing it was no longer an option. He cleared his throat and managed to whisper, “Well, I don’t think I’ve gotten over the Clayton High shooting.”
Her expression didn’t change, but she seemed to become more focused.
“Gotten over it?” she repeated.
He nodded. “I was there. At the shooting.”
Her eyes widened a little. “I’d heard a rumor. No one knew for certain. The Sentinel kept mum about it, and the police kept everybody quiet, too. Do you want to tell me what’s happened since then?”
“Yeah,” Dan said. “Sure.”
At first, he could only speak with hesitation, then with greater speed, he told her about the aftermath. The investigation. The fallout from the incident at home. How his world had crashed down, and it had been his fault, he knew, but it hadn’t made the end of his marriage any easier to bear. He told her about the schoolhouse, how he worked there and lived there, too. Dan didn’t tell her about the dead, or what they wanted him to do. He didn’t know how much authority she had when it came to having a person committed to the state mental hospital, and he didn’t want to find out.
When he finished, she brought him a bottle of water, returned to her desk, and looked at him. After a few minutes of silence, she shook her head and sighed, saying, “Damn. Why the hell didn’t you come here earlier?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I think it’s fear. All I hear is my dad, telling me how only a coward goes to the doctor. He did two tours in Vietnam, and he never needed to talk about it.”
“I hate to say this, Dan, but didn’t your dad kill himself when we were in high school?”
His voice nearly stuck in his throat as he whispered, “Yeah, he did.”
“Then, I know it’s rough, but you should try to put those thoughts aside.” She smiled at him. “He had his issues. They’re not yours. You shouldn’t allow them to be yours. You need to be concerned with how you can make yourself better, and keeping everything bottled up isn’t the way to go about it.”
Dan nodded.
“Now,” Dr. Lee continued, “what have you done to cope with what you experienced?”
Dan frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Sometimes, we deal with traumatic experiences by rapidly changing how we perform our everyday tasks. This is an effort to rearrange our lives into something controllable. Have you changed the way you do things?”
Dan was about to say no but he stopped. “I guess I have.”
“Tell me about it.” Dr. Lee leaned back in her chair, watching him.
“I have to keep my clothes in order,” he admitted. “They have to be folded just so. I can’t have them piled up in a heap. Um, it gets worse when I cook.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well,” Dan scratched the back of his head in embarrassment. “See, when I heat my food, there has to be a certain number of turns to each side. Plus, I need to eat exactly at six o’clock. Not before. And I can’t start dinner after. Six on the nose. I have to go to the library at specific times. There are other things, too. Like, seeing the office of the Sentinel. That’s tough. Avoiding smells is another. There’s a lot going on. Um, more than I thought, I guess.”
“Usually is,” she agreed. “Dan, what do you want from this?”
He hesitated then whispered, “I want to stop hearing the kids scream. I don’t want to listen to them die. No more smelling perfume from a girl dying in my arms. I want my kids to like me. They never did before, and I don’t blame them. I, I wasn’t a nice guy. I was a bad father. A worse husband. I don’t want to die with them thinking I was a horrible person.”
“We can work on all those things,” Dr. Lee said. “They’re all reasonable. Now, I know this is going to be hard for you, but tonight, I want you to try and have dinner at 5:59. It’s small, and it’s hard. But try it. We’ll take it a minute at a time.”
She reached into her desk, took out a pad of yellow legal paper and a pen and placed them on her desk. “I want you to take these.”
“What do you want me to do with them?” he asked.
“I want you to write a letter to each of your kids.”
Fear crawled up inside him. “What do I say?”
“What do you like?” she asked.
“I like books. At times, they make me safe.”
She nodded. “What’s your favorite book?”
“Cannery Row, by John Steinbeck.”
“Okay. I want you to write a letter to your son about Cannery Row. What about your second favorite?”
“Shane, by Jack Schaeffer,” he replied.
“So, you write a letter to your daughter about the second.” Dr. Lee looked at him. “I don’t want you to mail them. Just write them. Bring them with you next time we meet.”
“When will that be?” Dan asked.
“Thursday,” she replied. “In two days.”
Dread boiled in his stomach as a thought occurred to him. His voice came out strangled as he said, “I don’t have that much money.”
“Who said I was charging you, Dan Tate?” Her expression was full of compassion. “Go home. Take these with you. Do what I said. We’ll work through this together.”
“Okay.” He stood up, walked to her desk, and picked up the paper and pen. “Thank you, Dr. Lee.”
“You’re welcome.” She stood up and walked with him to the door. “You have my number. It’s my cell. Call if there are any issues, Dan. Any at all.”
“Sure.” He nodded. “I will.”
Without another word, he left the room, stuffing the pen into his pocket and clutching the pad of paper.
***
Courtney Lee stood a little back from her window and watched Dan Tate walk with stiff strides down the street. A sad ache thumped in her heart for the man. She could read the signs of a worsening obsessive-compulsive disorder. PTSD, too, she thought. Courtney shook her head, turned and sat at her desk. She picked up the notes she had jotted down and glanced over them.
Divorced. Two children. Former writer. Trauma survivor. OCD. PTSD. Furtive. She had underlined the last word several times. Dan Tate was hiding something. Not uncommon considering his various issues, but Courtney had a feeling the information he hid might go a long way to helping him.
She returned the notepad to its place on the desk and crossed her arms over her chest. Closing her eyes, it was easy for her to remember Dan from high school. An intense young man, extremely focused and, at times, violent.
I only saw him fight once, she reminded herself. I shouldn’t be upset about that. It was for a good reason.
She opened her eyes and prepared to type up the notes. Absently, Courtney rubbed at an old scar on her right forearm, the raised flesh a rough reminder of high school.
Chapter 22: Refusal
Mary Kines gripped the countertop with one hand to keep herself upright as she moved around the kitchen. Her head pounded, and she could no longer see out of her right eye. When she had looked at herself earlier in the day, she had discovered the eye was not only swollen shut, but when she pried open the lid, the white was a mass of blood.
Her beating at the hands of the dead woman had been severe, and Mary knew, without a doubt, the woman was not a member of the home.
Who does she think I am? Mary thought. She pulled open a drawer by the stove, the contents rattling as the drawer came to a sharp stop. It was a catchall for the junk of her house. Those items too small to warrant their own space in the basement or the shed. She pushed aside bits of string and wire, old magnets and keys to locks that no longer existed.
Sharp pieces of metal nipped at her fingers, but she ignored the pain. Instead, Mary plunged her hand in farther until they came to a half-remembered cardboard box.
With a vicious grin, she dragged the box out. It was no larger than a matchbox, but it was far more important. Decades earlier, Mary had replaced the tacks on the underside of a particularly well-loved chair. She had made sure to use the same type of tacks as when the piece was first constructed in the late eighteen-hundreds, and she had found them in an antique store.
Mary held the box up so her good eye could focus on it.
Iron, Mary thought, shaking the box and grinning. Iron.
She set it down on the countertop, dug her hammer out from beneath the sink, and placed it beside the tacks. Old-wives’ tales and half-forgotten folk remedies came to mind as she extracted a box of Morton’s table salt from the pantry, and then an old pair of nylon stockings and a bit of shoe leather out of her apron pocket. Fearing she wouldn’t be able to get out of her seat again, she remained standing at the countertop.
