Amid the Recesses: A Short Story Collection of Fear (11 page)

Sarah Dolton was rocking
inside of her home, reading a book further down the street. She
seemed to be taking the news quite well, rocking leisurely to and
fro, but the shotgun beside the old woman’s rocking chair changed
my impression. Even I walked through the streets armed, ready to
brandish my pistol should something emerge from the snowy darkness
that surrounded me.

I write now just before the
midnight hour. I intend to tinker with my grandfather’s old pocket
watch until sleep settles in. I do wish the confounded thing would
work again, though the complexity of the device is astounding
despite its age. I digress. The night was a quiet one.

Day 4 - November 25,
1941

I may have preemptively
recorded that last night was “quiet.” I woke up to police lights
shining through my fogged window. After gathering my jacket, I
rushed outside to see what had happened, expecting the worst. As
fate would have it, my expectations were met thoroughly with horror
and tragedy.

Officer Yarborough’s car
was parked with its lights on next to Officer Reinken’s car, which
sat at about the same location it did before I went to sleep, just
across from the cemetery. Thick, black smoke plumed from the
burning police car and I witnessed the pure terror of Officer
Reinken’s screams as he burned alive within. The Russian and
Officer Yarborough were doing what they could to suppress the fire
and others stood horrified in the distance as they watched the
events unfold.

The fire itself flashed and
flickered blue as a testament to its intensity. I dreaded
understanding that there was nothing that could be done for Officer
Reinken in time to save his life. Still, many of the remaining
townspeople banded together and pitched ice atop the fire from
nearby drifts with large shovels. Eventually the screams ceased.
Officer Reinken was but a marred, burnt corpse. I vomited,
disgusted beyond belief.

After remaining outside for
nearly an hour in the bitter cold, around three in the morning, the
fire was finally put out. The Russian cursed and shook his head.
Young Officer Yarborough said nothing. No one spoke.

When the scene was cleaned
up, Officer Yarborough left a written debrief outside of the
station door for all of us to read. I scribbled the note into my
journal:

I regretfully inform those
of Barrow that Officer Reinken was not victim of some heinous
accident. After investigating the scene, I discovered an empty gas
can about thirty feet away from the vehicle, between two abandoned
homes. The gasoline was used as a propellant. Furthermore, Officer
Reinken was unable to escape the vehicle because he was tied to the
driver’s seat with metal barbed-wire. As it stands, I have no idea
how the perpetrator managed to sedate and subdue an officer of
Reinken’s caliber, but one thing I can conclude is that whoever is
responsible for this despicable crime is without fear of
consequence. Please remain vigilant. If the one guilty is reading
this now, turn yourself in. You WILL NOT get away with these
crimes. I have requested additional support from the neighboring
towns. They will be arriving within a couple of days, but with the
Thanksgiving holiday on its way, support may not come as fast as we
can hope.

The madness that plagues
Barrow remains. I recall that as the later hours came, the mild
glow I’d seen from the windows of the remaining townspeople was
extinguished. I’m unsure if they left or if they hoped to not draw
any attention to themselves. I doubt I will sleep tonight, even
with as little sleep as I managed last evening. I hardly seem to
rest when I do fall asleep. Tomorrow I intend to visit with Doctor
Creston on the matter.

Day 5 - November 26,
1941

Today is Thanksgiving eve
and those remaining in Barrow have little be thankful for. The
passing week has been nothing short of a nightmare and peace has
become impossible in a town now wrought with suspicion. I noticed
firsthand how bad it was today when I arrived at Doctor Creston’s
clinic.

I knocked on the door
several times and knew by the shuffling of the feet on the other
side of the door that the doctor, or someone, was in. I spoke
through the door, hoping that Doctor Creston would hear me. I hoped
to renew a prescription of sleeping pills. Insomnia is a terrible
disease and I expected that in the wake of recent events, I was not
the only one troubled by it. My hope to be helped by the doctor was
fruitless, as I heard the scuffling move off and away.

I returned to my home after
not receiving a response and as I returned, I noticed something
absolutely peculiar. I was being followed by Patrick Martin, the
graveyard groundskeeper. His pursuit began around the doctor’s
office, which made me question how long he had been watching. I
walked hastily home and document this now because I fear for my
life. With my free hand I clutch my pistol yet.

Day 6 - November 27,
1941

Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep.
Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep.
Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep.
Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep.
Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep.
Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep.
Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep.
Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep.
Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep.
Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep.
Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep.
Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep.
Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep.
Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep.

Day 6 - November 27,
1941

I admit I am shaken as I
write. I plead that if anyone reads this that they forgive my
unsteady hand. It appears a page of my journal has been written
upon by someone other than myself, an incessant, repetitive
statement: Can’t sleep. I woke up in the chair beside my bed and my
pistol was missing. Insomnia is a terrible disease. As weary as I
was, it seems I drifted helplessly to sleep after what must have
been a day and a half of restlessness. It’s Thanksgiving Day. I
hope it is not my last. I will remain indoors.

As I write now, someone
knocks…

Day 7 - November 28,
1941

Spending Thanksgiving Day
being questioned on the murder of Doctor Reynold Creston wasn’t
what I had hoped for, but I felt an odd peace in the presence of
the only remaining officer of Barrow, Officer Yarborough. He was
visibly shaken and uncertain as he questioned me.

It appears that Doctor
Reynold Creston received an early autopsy, or so that’s how I
envisioned it after receiving the officer’s explanation of the
scene. The good doctor was found next to his examination table,
sawed completely in half with one of his crudest medical
instruments. His halves were placed on the ground. A circle was
drawn around his dismembered body and in a cross of four points
were the Roman numerals, XI, III, VI and IX painted in blood. The
two halves of the doctor’s body were used as the hands in the grim
“clock” painted on the ground and, according to the officer, the
time depicted would have been either one o’clock or five after
twelve.

Officer Yarborough
mentioned that Ms. Dolton admitted seeing Patrick Martin and me
leaving the clinic’s premises that day. I told him that I had
nothing to do with the situation. I also confirmed that Patrick was
following me that day and had made me uneasy with his stalking. I
warned the officer that my pistol had been stolen and my journal
had been written in by someone other than myself. He looked for
signs of forced entry and found none.

Officer Yarborough
mentioned he would be stopping by the residence of Mr. Patrick
Martin shortly after speaking with me. I asked if I should come
with him, to offer any assistance I could, but he declined. I could
tell that he was uncertain of whether or not to trust me, but I
vowed to be cooperative. I hope his search yields positive results.
We’re all in desperate need of it—us few remaining.

Day 8 - November 29,
1941

I admit that today is the
first day that has shown any promise since the beginning of this
disaster. Today Officer Yarborough had a small conference for those
that remained in Barrow. He said that after my visit and
questioning, he proceeded to Mr. Patrick Martin’s and discovered
him hysterical and covered in blood. He apparently had my pistol
and had been shot in the side of his neck. Living, but mad, Patrick
aimed the gun at Officer Yarborough and fired once with poor
accuracy and put a hole through his front door. Officer Yarborough
responded professionally, but employed lethal force on the crazed
undertaker, and killed him in a single shot.

Furthermore, Officer
Yarborough found suspicious paraphernalia in Patrick’s residence,
or what he thought was suspicious. Dirt was apparently caked to his
floorboards and his shovel was covered in blood.

Officer Yarborough then
admitted to proceeding to cemetery, where Mr. Martin had worked,
and claimed that many new graves had been dug just under the newest
layer of snow, fresh and studded with the mutilated pieces of what
seemed to be Mr. George Ferrell, the shopkeeper. The evidence is
condemning.

Finally, this hour, just
before midnight, I intend to lay down and sleep soundly.

Day 9 - November 30,
1941

Officer Yarborough needed
to die. I ensured that Ms. Dolton’s death was especially gruesome,
to lure the officer in. What
time
is it? Fifteen after midnight at the time of
writing this. My hour. I wonder if the pocket watch will work now.
I wonder if the night will finally become day. Haven’t I given it
enough? I think I have. No. The Russian needs to die, too.
That’s
eleven
. But
there’s twelve numbers on the watch. Twelve numbers on the watch.
Twelve numbers. The officer is outside. He heard her screams. So is
the Russian.

Someone knocks…

Day 10 - December 1,
1941

I write because I can no
longer speak. If I could, there wouldn’t be anyone left to speak
to. I do not recall writing in my journal yesterday, but the
writing within is indeed my own. My deceiving hand admits that
shortly after the midnight hour, I prepared to kill Officer
Yarborough and Mr. Chekov just after murdering Ms. Dolton. I awoke
in the snow, with my journal on my chest, in the Barrow graveyard
surrounded by the bodies of those my cursed hands and mind have
driven me to procure. I do not recall placing their cold, dead
bodies in this circle of blood—the blood of the entire town—or
using their corpses as numbers on a watch face. Pieces of Mr.
Ferrell arranged in connection to one another, grimly stacked,
appendage to cut appendage to make bloody hands that indicate what
would be just after midnight.
Here atop
this wet page rests my pocket watch revealing the same hour, stuck
eternally in darkness, frozen like this town
. It has been the hour of death. It was me. In my sickness, it
was me. There is no corpse the lay dead as the number twelve on
this death clock. The space is empty and I know for whom it is
designed. I am the twelfth marker.

RETURN TO THE TABLE OF
CONTENTS

Of Love and Death

Her death stunned me. The world ripped
from my hands my wife and the mother of my child. I stood in the
threshold of my empty home for hours and stared into Amber’s
residual spirit. I was consumed by her presence. Her shoes littered
the floor, shoes of every kind, of kinds I thought she didn’t need.
Her smiling pictures on our walls. I was so proud behind her and
Desirae. Pots filled the sink and shredded cheese sat on the
counter. She never put things away. I did that for her. The bed was
made to perfection. She was meticulous. She was. I shivered at the
thought of the past tense and how she lived in the world of what
was, not what is. I went to the bathroom to wash from my eyes the
nightmare. I hoped that when I rose from the sink, my eyes would be
back in the world that was taken away from me. Her hair
straightener’s red “on” light flashed at me and the phantasmal
wisps of heat rose still smelling of her warm hair. I turned it
off. I killed it.

There was no therapy sitting in a room
full of tears. Lisa, Amber’s sister, sat on the couch with her arms
around Desirae. She clutched my daughter and whispered to her that
things were going to be alright. I sat in her chair and ignored my
own. I rocked and thought of how her body moved to and fro in the
warm seat. I thought of her peace. Of our peace. I couldn’t cry. I
was too busy untangling the riddle of this madness—of the plan
behind it all.

I wondered. I wondered if I had kissed
her one more time if it would have prevented her from being where
she was when she ran into that psychotic woman in the street. I
wonder if I would have hugged her a moment longer that morning if
she would have managed to turn the steering wheel enough to avoid
that light post. I wondered if I had called in to work and if I
could have convinced her to do the same, if we would be together in
our room, in peace. Could I have saved her?