NIGHTMARES IN THE WITCH HOUSE

Genre: Horror

NIGHTMARES IN THE WITCH HOUSE

By

Daniel Skye

            John Ross never fancied himself as anything special. He was just another blue collar slob who appreciated a cold beer, enjoying watching mind-numbing sitcoms, and indulged in copious amounts of junk food.

            He never fathomed that something as paltry as a dead car battery would drastically alter the course of his future. But it goes to show you never can tell.

            John had left the office late that crisp October evening. Of course, John didn’t really work in the office. He worked in one of the many studios located behind the office. But when he got to his car and turned the key in the ignition, the Plymouth wouldn’t start. The headlights were dead, and the lights inside the car were dead too.

            He didn’t have any jumper cables handy, so he caught up with one of his coworkers in the parking lot. Nino didn’t have any cables either, but he was nice enough to offer John a lift home. They just had to drop Simon Cantwell off first.

            Simon and Nino worked together in one of the studios adjacent to the studio that John occupied, and they often carpooled to work. John didn’t mind though, even if it meant cramming in the back of Nino’s tiny Trans Am, at least he had a ride home.

            “There’s just one little detour,” Nino informed John as he started the Trans Am and the engine vibrated. “Simon’s been hounding me all day to swing by the witch house on our way home.”

            “Witch house?” John asked curiously as they pulled out of the lot.

            “Yeah, you never heard of it?” Simon said from the shotgun seat. John shook his head. “How long have you lived in Eden Harbor?”

            “Not long enough apparently,” John shrugged.

            “I can’t believe you’ve never heard of the place,” Simon said. “Well, you’ll see it when we get there.”

            John’s heavy eyes fluttered and if it wasn’t for the cylinder misfires causing the car to shake every time Nino stepped on the accelerator, he would’ve curled up on that backseat and called it a night.

“You look like deep-fried shit.” Nino said from behind the wheel. It wasn’t eloquently stated, but it was an apt description. John hadn’t slept a good night’s sleep in five days. His eyes, dark and unfocused, were crying out for rest. The reoccurring nightmares of his own fiery demise were enough to induce many sleepless nights.

In some nightmares, the accident occurred during the day, sometimes at night. But the outcome was always the same; John died.

The accidents always occurred while John driving his Plymouth alone. That’s why he actually felt relieved riding in Nino’s shaky Trans Am. He recalled most of them vividly. He’d wake up in a cold sweat, remembering how it felt when the steering wheel slipped from his hands and the Plymouth would careen off the road, crashing into a ditch or over the side of a bridge. In one nightmare, his car rammed head-on into a utility pole. He could feel the impact as his Plymouth collided with the pole and burst into flames suddenly, giving him no chance to escape the burning wreckage.

“I haven’t been sleeping too well,” John muttered.

“You should try Xanax,” Nino suggested. “Knocks me right out. I take it whenever I need a quick nap.”

Nino grew up in Brooklyn, as if his accent wasn’t any indication. It really showed when using particular phrases For example, instead of saying “you guys” in reference to John and Simon, he would say “youse guys”. It was an annoying habit, but it was a habit that John could tolerate.

What he couldn’t tolerate was Simon constantly referring to himself in the third person. “Simon says this”, “Simon says that”. It’s funny and clever the first few times you hear it, and then after the tenth time you hear it you want to knock his frigging lights out.

Nino had John’s respect. He was a talented artist who dedicated all his time to his work. Simon was another story.

A rich kid in his mid-twenties, Simon didn’t need to draw comics for a living. He had a trust fund that could buy a private island and he’d still have cash to spare. While Nino was doing most of the work, Simon was busy partying and fooling around on his sailboat half the time.

John had worked at a marina for a brief period in his teens. They had a special term down at the docks for sail-boaters. WAFI–Wind Assisted Fucking Idiots.

“So where is this place?” Nino asked Simon, the only one who knew the directions by heart.

“Simon says turn left on Oak Street.”

Nino stopped at the end of the block and cut the wheel to the left, turning sharply onto Oak Street. “Now what?”

“Simon says drive four blocks and make a right on Fur Street.”

“Are you going to do that the whole ride?”

“Yup,” Simon said and chuckled obnoxiously.

“So what is this place?” John inquired.

“They call it the witch house,” Nino explained. “It’s on Rosemary Lane. People say the old bat who owns the place is one hundred years old. I can’t say for sure but one thing is a guarantee; she always has candles burning in the window. People say the candles represent the number of people driving in the car. For example, Simon and I have passed the place ten times. Every time we pass it, there are always two candles in the window. But the one night I passed the place by myself, there was one candle in the window.”

“What if two cars are driving by in different directions?”

“It’s different for everyone. People have reported seeing two different sets of candles with two different amounts. If a car of three passes, they’ll see three candles. If a car of five passes, they’ll see five. Even if they pass at the same time.”

“Freaky,” John said, trying to play along. But he grew more convinced when Nino pulled up along the curb of Rosemary Lane and he saw three candles glowing in the window.

“What did we tell you?” Simon said, motioning with his head toward the gleaming candles.

“How… How is it possible for her to know?” John asked, baffled.

“That’s why they call it the witch house,” Nino remarked, peering out at the gothic structure. Everywhere he glanced, the house showed signs of rust, rot, and decay. Even through the night’s gloominess, the signs of neglect were evident. It was almost as if the owner went out of their way to neglect the property and make visitors feel unwelcome. “I’ve always wanted to go inside.”

“Maybe if we knock and ask politely she’ll charge us five bucks and give us the grand tour,” Simon laughed, then stopped abruptly as if he had reached a sudden epiphany. “You know what, fuck it. What have we got to lose? We’re here. There’s no shame in trying.”

“I don’t know youse guys,” Nino shook his head. “This house gives me a bad vibe.”

“Come on,” Simon egged him on. “Don’t be a chicken. Besides, we got John here. We’ll make him knock.”

“What?” John said, sounding groggy.

“Yeah,” Simon said. “Nino was nice enough to give you a lift. The least you can do is knock.”

“I don’t see you volunteering,” Nino pointed out.

“Fine you bunch of wimps. Let’s all three of us go up together and knock. Ok?”

“Sounds alright with me,” John shrugged. “Like you said, what have we got to lose? What’s she going to cast a spell on us?”

Nino sighed and looked uneasy as the three exited his white Trans Am with his bumper sticker that read ASS, ASS, OR ASS. NOBODY RIDES FOR FREE. And John was hoping that sticker wasn’t literal.

In the center of the wooden door was a brass ring that dangled from the mouth of a metallic lions head. After some slight harassment from Simon, John gripped the ring and rapped on the door several times.

A voice boomed from the speaker of the intercom beside the door. They hadn’t even bothered to take note of it because they were all too distracted by the candles. And secretly, the three of them were all a little spooked. The house gave off an unsettling vibe.

“What do you want?” was all the raspy female voice asked.

“Ma’am,” Simon spoke, trying to feign politeness. “My friends and I were hoping to speak with you. We had a few questions we wanted to ask you.”

“Are you a reporter?”

“No ma’am.”

“You with the police?”

“No ma’am.”

“Well, come in if you’re coming in. The doors unlocked. It’s always unlocked… when I want it to be.”

“You can do the honors,” Nino nodded to Simon. “It was your bright idea.” Simon twisted the loose knob and the door pushed forward.

The house was dark and difficult to navigate their way through. The floorboards chirped and screeched with every step. The curtains and fixtures were stained yellow with nicotine. They could smell the stale cigarette smoke as soon as they walked in. The whole house reeked like VFW Hall.

They found her waiting in the dining room, arms crossed in front of her.

The skin of her face was drawn back tightly. Purple veins jutted from her dense forehead. Her wrinkled palms were like strips of sandpaper. She looked like a caricature of a Francisco Goya painting.

“Are you a witch?” Simon asked and Nino’s palm grazed the back of his head for being such a dope.

“Is that what people say about me?” she laughed; the laughter turning in a fit of coughing. Simon nodded. When the coughing ceased, she added, “Then I guess it must be true. And is this what you came here to ask me?”

“I guess we came here out of curiosity,” Nino shrugged.

“You know what they say about curiosity,” she said with that raspy tone. She never finished her thought but they all knew the last part.

“I’m Nino,” he said, trying to be formal. “This is Simon and that’s John. And you might be?”

“Call me Sabrina.”

“Like Sabrina, the Teenage Witch?” Simon chuckled.

“Do I look like a fucking teenager to you?” she chided and that seemed to shut Simon up. It also brought a grin to John’s face.

“What’s the deal with the candles?” Nino asked.

“Whatever do you mean?” Sabrina asked and smiled peculiarly. It wasn’t a benevolent smile. It was the way a child smiles when they know something you don’t.

“The candles in the window,” Nino continued. “What’s the deal?”

“There’s no story behind them,” Sabrina said. “I just like to use candles. Better than wasting electricity, don’t you agree?”

“Stop jerking us around,” Simon said, growing impatient. “You know damn well what my friend is talking about. You’ve been playing mind games with this whole town for years.”

“Mind games?”

“Don’t play coy. Every time we pass here together, there are two candles in the window. Tonight, John is with us and just coincidentally there happens to be three candles in your window? I’m not buying it.”

“People see what they want to see,” Sabrina shrugged.

“This bitch is getting on my nerves,” Simon said directly to Nino.

“I’d watch it if I were you,” Sabrina said, her arms unfolding as if preparing for some ugly confrontation.

“And I’d appreciate it if you stopped jerking me around like a Thai hooker. Now tell us the truth.”

“Careful what you wish for,” she warned. John could see her getting angrier, hear it in her voice.

“I know what you are. I’ll expose you. I’ll drive you right out of this town. Do you know who I am? Do you know who my parents were?”

“I know you might be joining them soon.”

“Is that a threat?” Simon said, the tone of his voice rising. John was ten seconds away from punching this WAFI in the face to shut him up for good. “You don’t know who you’re messing with. I’ll burn this place to the ground.”

“GET OUT.”

John was the first to the door. Nino had to pry Simon away, who was still trying to stand his ground.

As they drove away, John saw only one candle remained glistening on the windowsill. “Fuck is that about?”

“She’s just trying to screw with us,” Nino said, his voice cracking.

John saw it before Simon or Nino did, just as he had time and time again in his nightmares. He saw the high beams flashing in the distance, heard the wail of the horn as the truck jammed on its brakes and slid across the wet pavement.

Nino tried to cut the wheel, but there was no time. The truck and Nino’s car went head to head. The front of Nino’s Trans Am was folded like an accordion. Broken glass, twisted steel, and other debris littered the street. The airbags were deployed, but not much good it did when the front of the car was so smashed in that Nino was crushed between the seat and the steering wheel.

Simon had neglected to buck his seatbelt and was ejected from the vehicle upon impact. Cops found his body fifty feet from the wreck, his spine twisted like an oversized pretzel.

John’s life was spared by his seatbelt and the fact that he was in the backseat. He walked away with a sprained ankle, a few minor lacerations from the shattered windshield, and a dull ache in his back.

He lost a good friend in Nino. He didn’t miss Simon half as much. The way John saw it, if Simon hadn’t gone shooting off his mouth, Nino might still be alive. The WAFI had sailed off into the sunset, and John found himself relieved. And he even published a new comic out of the whole ordeal. He called it Nightmares in the Witch House.

John never crossed paths with Sabrina again. He went out of his way to avoid driving past the witch house.

But two months later when John attended the office Christmas party with his girlfriend, a surly coworker named Pittman tried to spoil the fun. He even attempted to put the moves on John’s girlfriend when he was preoccupied with other guests. John spent the next morning writing a flattering letter addressed to Sabrina in Pittman’s name.

Pittman was rushed to the hospital two days later. Not dead. He had stuffed both of his hands down the garbage disposal and chopped his fingertips to the bone.

Wrath

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.