Genre: Horror/Fantasy
WRATH
By
Daniel Skye
The most embarrassing day of Julian Campbell’s life was
when he had to go door-to-door and inform all the residents of Westlake that he
was a registered sex offender. He got through the ordeal physically unscathed,
but the degradation and shame had left a mark on him that would not soon fade.
In the grocery store, the barber shop, the post office,
the deli–people would point at Julian and whisper, mutter horrible things under
their breath. No matter where he turned, he felt as unwelcome as a mangy cat.
But Julian understood this sentiment wasn’t exclusive to Westlake. As soon as
people found out the truth about Julian, he would be made to feel unwanted in
any town he stepped foot in. The stigma of being a registered sex offender
would haunt him until the day he died.
His only companion was Esther Driscoll, the Witch of
Westlake as the kids called her. As one might guess, it wasn’t a term of
endearment. But it wasn’t an insult either. It was more of an aphorism. And
while the nickname was not a sign of affection, it was a sign of fear. And it
kept the children of Westlake from causing her any grief as they all knew to
steer clear of her property.
Esther could run her hand over a pregnant woman’s belly
and tell her if her child was going to be born gay or straight. With a brief
handshake, she could see what you had for breakfast–three years ago. With just
the right wink, she could make you go blind overnight.
Esther shied away from town because she knew the people despised
her. She didn’t have to read their minds to figure it out. Their hatred was
palpable. So she stayed sequestered in her personal library, studying her
ancient witchcraft spells and curses. The curse she favored most–the curse she
fantasized about unleashing on the town Westlake time and time again–was the
Curse of the Behemoth.
Julian rode his bike by the house every day to bring
Esther the newspaper and see if she had any chores she needed crossed off her
list. Julian cleaned her gutters and hauled her trash away for her. He helped
her clean out the garage and donate her late husband’s belongings to goodwill.
She saw what everyone else in town refused to see because of the label Julian
carried with him. She saw Julian was a good hearted man who simply made one
horrible mistake in life. Unfortunately that mistake cost him dearly. But they
still helped each other due to their outcast statuses in the community.
Esther’s place was a Victorian style house that was
estimated to be more than a century old. The original color of the
house–blue–had drained from the exterior due to years of weathering and had
been painted over with layers of rot, green mold, and creeping vines that
collected along the sides.
Her house was full of old collectibles and rare
valuables, antique ottomans and credenzas, full-length vanity mirrors. Each
room had a kerosene lamp that dated back to the 20s. Esther kept all of them
filled and in pristine working condition.
Julian stopped by around four that day and stayed until
six-thirty. She didn’t have any chores on her list, but she boiled some tea and
they talked for a while. It was the best part of Esther’s day, having another
lonely soul to connect with, to share her thoughts with.
“How’s the job search coming along?” Esther asked
hopefully.
“Not too well,” he groaned. “Nobody wants to hire someone
with my record. And my unemployment runs out in two months. I don’t know what
I’m going to do.”
“Have hope,” Esther said. “Things will work out.”
“You don’t have any curses in those books that can
persuade someone to give me a job?”
“Wish I could help. The curses aren’t there for things
like that. They’re not to be abused or toyed with. If they were, I’d turn half
this town into donkeys and make the other half sprout goat hair and lay chicken
eggs.”
“You could actually do that?”
“You’d be surprised,” Esther winked, though at her age a
wink was more of an unappealing eye spasm.
At six-thirty, Julian departed on his bike and pedaled
back to the lake, where his trailer was stationed.
* * *
It was Deputy Blake Bradbury who discovered the body on
his nightly patrol. There were clear signs of a struggle and possible sexual
assault. Mallory Ward’s purple sequined dress had been ripped from her thin,
hourglass figure. Her head bashed against the side of a jagged rock protruding
from the dirt. She was face-down on her stomach, legs spread wide apart.
There were deep thumbprints around Mallory’s throat,
suggesting her attacker had tried strangling her at some point. But the rock was
clearly the final blow. The jagged edge had caved in the side of her skull,
causing it to collapse with relative ease like a child’s sandcastle on the
beach.
He called it in on his radio and waited for further
assistance. Sheriff Harold Dinsmore was the first to arrive on the scene in his
patrol car. Before Harold had a chance to converse with his deputy, a beam of
headlights blinded them both and Drayton Sawyer’s rusty pickup came to a
screeching halt by the edge of the lake. Both sets of doors opened and Drayton
climbed up from the front with Victor Ward and Glenn Parker in tow.
“Where is she?” Victor shouted. “Where’s my little girl?”
“How’d he find out so soon?” Bradbury asked.
“I called him up as soon as I heard,” Dinsmore explained.
“The man has a right to know. That’s his flesh and blood lying in the dirt
there.”
“Mr. Ward, please step back, Bradbury urged him. “You
don’t want to see her like this.”
“I do,” he said definitively. “I need to see what that
sick, twisted monster did to my little angel.”
“That fucking pervert,” Glenn Parker muttered. “He’ll pay
for what he did.”
“You three know who did this?” Bradbury asked.
“Sure do. That sexual deviant they should have booted out
of Westlake months ago. Julian what’s-his-name? Campbell? It’s got to be him.
Name one other person in town who could commit such an atrocity. I’ve lived
here for thirty-five years, and nothing like this has ever happened. Not once.
Then all of a sudden this pervert moves into our backyard and my little girl
turns out dead a quarter mile from his trailer. That doesn’t sound like a
coincidence to me, deputy.”
“Victor, you can’t go around accusing people of something
like this,” Bradbury said. “Julian Campbell is a registered sex offender, but
he’s still entitled to his rights.”
“What about my daughter’s rights?”
“We’ll find the person who did this. You have my word.”
“Your word ain’t shit to me, deputy. I want to hear from Sheriff
Dinsmore.”
“Victor, please let us do our work here. In the meantime,
go home, be with your wife. Let us handle this. That goes for all of you. I’m
looking at you, Drayton Sawyer.”
“I ain’t up to nothing, deputy,” Sawyer said twisting his
foot in the dirt in an innocent, cartoonish fashion.
“So if I checked your pickup truck, I wouldn’t find a
loaded rifle on the front seat?”
“A man’s got a right to hunt,” Drayton shrugged his
shoulders.
“Depends
on what he’s hunting for. Now I’m ordering the three of you to return to your
homes. Let the professionals deal with this, Vic. I’m begging you. Don’t go off
halfcocked and do something you’ll regret later.”
Sheriff
Dinsmore glanced at his wristwatch. “Blake, you’re off the clock. Why don’t you
get some rest and I’ll take over from here.”
Blake
checked his own watch and realized there was still two hours left in his shift.
Without argument, he walked back to his patrol car and drove away, taillights
glaring in the night.
Dinsmore
gave Victor a nod of approval and said, “Do what you need to do.”
* * *
Julian returned to his trailer by seven o’clock that
evening. He had a cot, a television with horrible reception, a battery operated
radio, and a mini fridge crammed between stacks of unpacked totes and boxes. Julian
never bothered to unpack his belongings. He knew no matter where he wound up,
he wouldn’t be there long. The only thing that kept him hanging around Westlake
was Esther. She was his only friend. The rest of his buddies had abandoned him
when the verdict was in.
He liked to reflect on the days of his youth for
inspiration to continue on. The Island–or
Dirt Bag Island as the teachers loved to call it–was a long square of green
adjacent to the school parking lot. Therefore it was not deemed school property
and the security guards couldn’t stop teens from sneaking cigarettes there in
between classes. It was basically the spot to go if you needed a smoke.
Julian made a lot of friends on that island. But even
those friends couldn’t stick with him through the toughest of times.
Being accused of a sex crime is akin to being found
guilty of the same allegation. Even if you’re proven innocent, that’s not the
part people remember. They only remember the moment they found out you were
accused.
Julian polished off a few Pabst from the mini fridge and
curled up on the cot, hoping the dreams waiting for him were better than the
reality he had found himself in.
* * *
The three waited until after midnight and Victor had
Drayton park his truck a few hundred feet from Julian’s trailer. With Sheriff
Dinsmore’s blessing, Victor switched into revenge mode and set his plan in
motion. Glenn Parker was in full support of this notion. But Sawyer–loyal a
friend as he was–was insistent that Vic reconsider.
“You’re not backing out on me, are you Drayton?”
“You know me, Vic. I’m with you ’til the end. I just
think there are better ways to handle this. Let the police gather evidence and
build a case. Wouldn’t it be more satisfying to see that freak rotting behind
bars for the rest of his miserable life?”
“No, it wouldn’t. I’d rather see him suffer to his last
breath. I want to put the final bullet in him myself. But before I do, I want
to see that little bastard squirm. You see that trailer over yonder? That’s
where he camps. The county lets him crash there as part of his rehabilitation
program. I say we go around back and surprise him."
“I say we smoke him out,” Glenn cackled, brandishing a
Molotov cocktail. He had emptied half a bottle of scotch into his belly and
soaked both ends of a white cloth in alcohol, which he then folded and tucked
into the bottle like a cork so that only half the cloth was dangling free.
Drayton
had his rifle in hand and Vic ordered him to wake Julian up. He hesitated
slightly before firing a warning shot through the back window of the trailer,
the bullet narrowly missing Julian. Victor Ward’s stern voice commanded Julian
to surrender without any defiance.
Julian peered through the shattered window of his trailer
and saw Sawyer and Parker standing idly by. Sawyer was gripping his rifle, but
his hands were visibly shaky. Parker was waving the Molotov cocktail around,
ready to ignite the alcohol drenched cloth at Victor’s command.
Not understanding the gravity of the situation, Julian
stepped forth from his trailer, hands raised high in the hopes he could reason
with these gentlemen.
He could smell the alcohol on the heat of Victor’s breath
and knew the three of them had been drinking heavily.
“Mr. Ward,” Julian nodded, trying to be respectful. “What’s
going on here?”
“You,” Vic pointed accusingly. “You raped and murdered my
little girl. She was fifteen. Fifteen you son of bitch! I’ll kill you!”
Before Julian could offer a rebuttal, he was driven to
his knees by Sawyer and Parker and the barrel of Vic’s shotgun was jammed into
his mouth with such force it broke his teeth.
“Please, let me explain,” Julian mumbled with the shotgun
barrel pressed against the back of his throat, blood dripping from his chin.
“Explain?” Victor laughed. “I don’t need your
explanations. I need closure, plain and simple.”
He squeezed the trigger and Julian’s body crumpled beside
the flowing lake. Deer’s scattered in the night, dry leaves crunching and branches
snapping under their cloven hooves. Sawyer gasped, dropping his rifle. Parker
was ecstatic.
“Did you see that?” Parker cheered joyfully. “The back of
his head just…exploded. I thought that shit only happened in movies.” He looked
down and spat at Julian’s frozen face and it landed below his right eye,
dribbling down his cheek.
“Fucking pervert,” Vic affirmed. “We just did the entire
world a favor.”
“What should we do with the body?” Drayton asked, his
voice weak.
“Leave it for the flies,” Vic proposed as they loaded
into Sawyer’s pickup truck and sped off, tires spinning and kicking up clumps
of dirt and mud.
* * *
Drayton
Sawyer spent an hour driving around aimlessly in his pickup after dropping
Glenn and Victor home. He polished off a full bottle of Irish whiskey and had a
second bottle he was saving for home.
It was two in the morning when he got back and his wife
was sound asleep. They didn’t have a child, no son or daughter to call their
own. And at a moment like this, Drayton couldn’t help feeling guilty that he
was thankful for the fact. If it had been his daughter instead of Victor’s, he
would’ve had a harder time explaining it to the police. He would’ve had a
harder time covering his tracks, too.
Drayton sat alone at his kitchen table and cracked open
the second bottle of whiskey. For this occasion, he didn’t feel the need to
fetch a glass. He drank straight from the bottle, quaffing it down with large
gulps.
He could still hear Mallory’s screams, her cries for help
echoing in the back of his mind. When his fingertips brushed the checkered tablecloth,
he could feel the fabric of her dress as he viciously ripped it from her body.
It was a mistake. A mistake that started when Drayton
Sawyer left the steel mill early that day and spotted Mallory on her daily walk
home from school. He offered her a lift and one thing led to another, Drayton
misinterpreted a few comments she had made about her new hairdo and her sequined
dress, and he thought she giving him a signal, making a pass at him. Instead of
dropping her off, he drove past her block and headed down towards the lake.
Mallory was taken aback at first, but she didn’t protest
or request that he turn the truck around. It was almost as if she expected this
to happen, almost as if she wanted it to happen this way. At least that’s what
Drayton kept telling himself.
It wasn’t until he pulled her out the truck and laid her
down by the lake that she started to scream. So he hit her. But the screams
wouldn’t stop. Not when he ripped the dress or forced her legs apart. Only when
he cracked her head against the rock did the screams cease.
He scanned his memory to be positive no one had seen him
pick Mallory up. He couldn’t recall a face in sight. They never even passed
another car on their way to the lake. Realizing he was a quarter mile from
Julian’s trailer, he bailed, knowing the hammer of blame would fall in Julian’s
direction.
But Drayton had anticipated a lengthy trial. He had
envisioned months of debating and examining evidence. He figured Julian would
even go free when the courts realized the timing of the crime and the evidence
didn’t quite match up.
But Vic
couldn’t wait for the trial to commence. He just had to take matters into his
own hands. No matter how hard he tried, there was no talking Victor Ward out of
it. And now he was forced to live with the blood of two people on his hands for
the rest of his days.
Halfway through the second bottle, Drayton noticed his
answering machine was blinking red. Expecting the usual drunken ramblings of
Glenn Parker, he pressed play and was greeted by an unfamiliar voice instead.
“I know what you did. It’s just past midnight. You have
exactly twenty-four hours to gather your hunting buddies and meet me by the
lake. I don’t think I have to tell you the exact spot. And bring that crooked
sheriff along with you. I’d love to meet him in person.”
Drayton erased the message and phoned Dinsmore
immediately.
* * *
Blake
Bradbury broke the news to Esther the following morning. He had to clear his
conscience. He hadn’t done anything wrong, but that was also his dilemma. He
hadn’t done anything. He let Victor
Ward and his drunken posse carry out their brand of street justice without any
interference. And he had let Sheriff Dinsmore sweep it under the rag and write
Julian Campbell’s death off as an unsolved hate crime.
There
were many unsolved crimes under Sheriff Dinsmore’s tenure. And Blake knew many
of those crimes and their mysteries had already been unraveled, but the truth
would never see the light of day. Not as long as Dinsmore was running the whole
damn show.
“When’s
the wake?” Esther asked somberly, the rolling tears lubricating the dry,
wrinkled skin of her face.
“There
isn’t going to be one,” Blake sighed. “Julian didn’t have many friends and has
family is mostly deceased or halfway across the country. I reached out to his
uncle in Nevada. He didn’t seem too distressed by the news. There’s a funeral
scheduled for Friday, no precession. Just a gathering at the cemetery so those
that wish to do so can say their final farewells. It pains me to say this
because Julian was a human being, but don’t expect a large crowd.”
“I
won’t,” Esther said, dabbing away her tears with a red handkerchief. “And
you’re right about one thing…Julian was a human being. Whatever crimes he
committed or mistakes he made in the past, he paid his debt to society. He
didn’t deserve this.”
“Neither
did the girl,” Blake made his opinions known. He wasn’t even sure whose side he
was on anymore. He didn’t agree with Harold Dinsmore’s choice. But seeing
Mallory the way he had–her dress torn from her body, the side of her head
bashed in, her face all caked in blood–left a rotten taste in his mouth. If
Julian hadn’t deserved what he got, then Mallory hadn’t deserved it either. She
was fifteen, pure and sweet. Never harmed a soul. He didn’t know if Julian
truly was the culprit, but the list of suspects was narrow and Julian’s name
was at the top of that list. Well, it had been until Victor Ward took it upon
himself to erase it.
“What are we going to do?”
“We? Nothing.
This is a case for the Witch of Westlake."
“You seem to have really taken a shine to that nickname.”
“Maybe I have. Gooday, Blake. Take care and sleep well
tonight. By tomorrow morning, all our troubles will be solved.”
* * *
Esther sat undisturbed in the library section of her home
and read aloud from one of her ancient tomes. In between passages of an
unidentified language that she seemed to understand and speak fluently, she
spoke the words, “Rise up Great Behemoth” with each paragraph.
Her body jerked, trembling as the ground shook beneath
her feet. She continued reading from the ancient scripture. “Rise up Great
Behemoth,” she chanted repetitively. Her tone rose to a thunderous pitch as the
floorboards began to splinter and crack. Esther glared in awe as the Behemoth
ascended from the depths below. It stood eight or nine feet tall, its weight
impossible to calculate.
“Remarkable,” Esther winked. “I have a mission for you my
darling destroyer. These men must suffer for their injustices. Their crime must
not go unpunished.”
* * *
Judd Ballard lived in Mill Pond, threes towns over from
Westlake. A retired paleontologist, Judd did what most retired sixty year olds
did. He slept late, played golf, and of course, went fishing. Westlake was his
secret retreat. When he needed to get away from his own neighborhood for a few
hours, he’d set up his lounge chair by the edge of the lake and cast his rod
into the water.
That afternoon he had brought a six pack along with him.
The beer made him sleepy and after hours passed with no fish taking the bait,
he dozed off in his comfy lounge chair. It wasn’t until he heard the shot that
shattered Julian’s window that he woke.
He shuffled quietly through fallen leaves and snapped
twigs. The sound of scattering deer and other wildlife muffled his footsteps
and they did not see him approach behind Drayton’s pickup in the distance. But
he had seen them. He had seen enough to put the three of them behind bars for
life. Not to mention the dirt he had on Harold Dinsmore.
Back
when Judd was a young paleontologist and Dinsmore was a deputy instead of a sheriff,
he had pulled Judd over one night. Claimed he was driving erratically, which
wasn’t the case. After a field sobriety test, he administered a Breathalyzer
and Judd passed with flying colors. Checking his inspection and registration
stickers and neither were expired. With no reason to give Judd a ticket and
with a ticket quota needing to be filled, he pulled the old busted headlight
routine, smashing it out with the butt of his flashlight. When Judd made a
stand for himself, Dinsmore clubbed him, sprayed his eyes with mace, and booked
him for disorderly conduct and resisting arrest.
In
addition to golfing and fishing, Judd had donated a fair amount of his
retirement to documenting Harold’s indiscretions, gathering all the evidence
needed to one day bring him down. And this was that glorious day.
Flashlight in hand, Judd Ballard waited at the edge of
the lake near Julian’s now abandoned trailer. His body had been removed once
Victor’s work was complete. Judd stayed by to watch the story unfold and Dinsmore
was the first to arrive on the scene. Judd watched him instruct the deputies on
what to write in the reports and told them not to alert the media.
The four of them arrived promptly at midnight, Dinsmore
in his patrol car with Vic riding shotgun, and Drayton in his pickup with
Glenn. The four men exited their vehicles, hands to their sides. At Judd’s
request, they lifted their jackets to show they weren’t armed.
“What’s this all about?” Dinsmore asked.
“Money,” Judd said with a slight chortle. “I thought that
part was obvious.”
“So this is blackmail?”
“Think of it as payback,” Judd shined the light over his
face so Dinsmore could have a better look. “Remember me?”
“I remember you,” Dinsmore spat. “You’re the dinosaur
man. Didn’t I cite you a while back for a busted taillight?” He laughed at that
last line.
Near the edge of the lake, an inhuman roar filled the
black, cloudless sky and the ground quaked as the Behemoth made contact. Its
long, narrow wings flapped effortlessly in the breeze.
It was a creature beyond natural description. As a
paleontologist, Judd shockingly identified parts of the beast. It had the head
of a triceratops, a prehistoric creature that’s been extinct for more than 200
million years.
Three
horns jutted from its misshapen skull; two vertical horns above its glowing
yellow eyes and one curved horn in place of a nose. Though, its mouth was much
wider than that of a triceratops. It had two rows of razor-sharp fangs
protruded from its black rotting gums. Its prodigious claws were sharp and strong
enough to rip through a steel vault.
Its
massive body was adorned with green and yellow scales that took on a dry,
cracked appearance. Whatever it is, it had reptile skin.
Drayton
fell to his knees. “I deserve this,” he confessed. “I deserve to be punished.
Take me and spare the others, please. I beg of you. I can’t live with myself
anymore.”
The
Behemoth leaned forward, its jagged claws piercing Drayton’s chest. It lifted
Drayton from the ground with ease and held him at eye level, its unforgiving
eyes staring him right in the face. Then it drew him closer and with one bite,
decapitated Sawyer with its teeth.
The
four remaining men didn’t have the good sense to get out of dodge. They stayed
frozen in their separate states of shock and disbelief.
“Glenn,”
Dinsmore managed to whisper. “The rifle in Drayton’s truck, can you get to it?”
Glenn
didn’t respond. He just curled into a ball and attempted to play dead as the
Behemoth approached. One set of claws sliced through his back, tearing the flesh
down the middle and in a display of brute strength, it ripped out his entire length
of spinal cord and discarded it amongst the fall-colored leaves.
“You
want something done you have to do it yourself,” Dinsmore said and made a run
for Drayton’s pickup. He snatched the rifle from the front seat and fired
several shots in the dark, each one hitting its intended target. But the
bullets barely penetrated its tough, rigid exterior.
Admitting
defeat, Dinsmore tossed the rifle aside and bolted to his car. Before he could
jam the key in the ignition, the Behemoth was off its feet, wings flapping as
it sailed through Dinsmore’s windshield and tore a hole in his jugular with its
teeth.
Blood
spurting from his neck, saturating the dashboard and upholstery of his car, he
managed to twist the key in the ignition and put the car in drive. He didn’t
make it more than fifty feet before he bled out.
Its
blade-like claws digging into Victor Ward’s shoulders, he shrieked as the
Behemoth spread its wings and flew off into the night with its precious prey in
hand.
They
were nearly out of focus when Judd heard the undeniable sound of Vic’s neck
snapping like a twig in the sky above.
He
waited a solid five minutes, expecting the Behemoth to return and finish the
job. But it didn’t. Perhaps this creature was a guardian angel of sorts. At
least that’s how Judd Ballard chose to view it. It was the only way he could
process the experience. An experience he could not breathe to another soul.
How
could he convince someone else what he had seen when he couldn’t even convince
himself. He got into his car, started it up, and took off without thinking
twice.
He
opted to take the scenic route home, hoping to avoid any patrolling deputies.
As he drove down the narrow, unlit streets of Westlake, another deafening roar
filled the pitch-black sky.
He
didn’t know whether to feel safe or terrified.
