Asylum Lake (5 page)

RESTRICTED

Lionel liked the feel of the cool plastic against his skin. He had found the bracelet while fishing with his father. It was the only thing he had hooked all day. He felt compelled to hide it away in his pocket before his father could notice. Ever since then he had gradually set aside most of his other interests, everything from comic books to baseball cards, and instead found himself spending his time alone in his room imagining stories about who Ellis Arkema was and how he may have lost that bracelet in the lake.

At times it almost felt as if he were listening to someone else tell these stories, a faceless and shadowy voice inside his head that was both scary and reassuring. Sometimes the stories made him cry and other times he laughed out loud. It all seemed to make his parents more than a bit uncomfortable. He had thought, and the voice agreed, that maybe he should keep the bracelet a secret.

He turned from the sink and decided to make one more trip through the house before leaving. He followed the trail of blood and gore from the hardwood floor in the kitchen to the orange shag carpeting that led through the living room and down the hallway. A dead body is difficult thing for anyone to move, and at only twelve, it had taken quite an effort for Lionel to drag it all the way to the bathroom.

The door to the nursery the twins shared was wide open. He could see their small forms huddled close together on the floor as he paused in the hallway. The pools of blood that spread from under their lifeless bodies formed giant wings in the carpet. It was an oddly beautiful sight with the pale light coming in through the window falling gently across their outstretched wings. Their bodies, he reasoned, were mere cocoons from which he had helped them escape. He envied the flight of their spirits.

Slicing their tiny throats had proven to be much more difficult than he had anticipated, but the hedge-clippers had taken away their hands and feet quite easily. As he continued down the hall, Lionel tried unsuccessfully to remember where he had put them.

The bathroom looked like someone had flung red paint violently across the walls and floor. Spattered blood ran down and across the mirror hanging over the vanity and onto the toilet nearby. The broken hedge-clippers had been thrown into the corner near the trash. Dull hacksaw blades and an assortment of knives and other tools lay scattered coldly on the tile. The back of the toilet reminded him of the meat case at Dell’s Grocery, filets and various other cuts of the late Mrs. Reed were neatly stacked into three identical, gooey rows. Blood trailed from the oozing stacks down the side of the tank and onto the floor, forming clotted pools.

Lionel drank in the coppery smell of the blood and gore, a devious smile flashing across his innocent lips.

Stepping carefully toward the tub, he attempted to avoid the slick pools of blood. He had slipped and fallen once already, banging his elbow painfully against the toilet. It had sent a jolt throughout his entire arm that throbbed with every step he took.

Looking up, Lionel noted sadly that the shower curtain had been torn aside and hung clumsily by the three remaining rings that still encircled the pristine rod. The one part of the bathroom that remained untouched by the gore around it.

He stared into the red soup of bones and chunks as they floated on the surface of the nearly overfilled tub. Others pieces rested at the bottom and clung to the sides of the tub; he fought the urge to reach in and stir them around with his hand. Instead, he raised his eyes to look at the shower wall. A single lonely word, written in blood, glistened on the white tile…

The sound of heavy footsteps approaching from down the hall roused him from admiring his handiwork. Lionel’s knees wobbled and his thoughts became fuzzy as a wave of dizziness washed over him. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples in an attempt to ease the feeling. When he opened them and caught sight of the grotesque display that surrounded him, a mixture of bile and recently eaten cookies rose in his throat. It burned as he swallowed it down.

“What the…Oh, Lord no!” A pained cry came from the next room.

His heart began to pound so heavily he thought for sure it would beat right through his chest. The room was spinning now as fear swept through him. He felt the earth shift beneath his feet and thought for sure he would faint. Just as he was ready to give in and let go the voice inside his head began to scream. “Kill him! Kill him now!”

His arm shot forward involuntarily and grabbed the broken hedge-clipper shear from where it lay on the floor. As he caught sight of the bracelet on his wrist his racing heart slowed. He took in a single deep breath and blew it out releasing it in a slow and soft hiss. A quiet calm settled upon him.

The sound of more footsteps, this time retreating quickly towards the living room, urged him forward. He stepped into the hallway and silently made his way towards the twin’s room. Anger rushed through him as he looked at their once perfectly posed bodies now lying disturbed on the floor. Their butterfly wings had been trampled by large booted feet.

He followed the fresh tracks from the room. He could hear movement ahead and emerged to see Mr. Reed standing at a small desk in the living room with one hand pressing the phone to his ear as the other frantically tried to turn the rotary dial. His blue work overalls were stretched across his large frame and his dark brown boots creaked as he shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot. Below the soles of his sneakers, red patterned designs etched themselves deeply into the carpet.

The dull shear bit into the palm of Lionel’s tiny hand as his grip tightened around it.

“P-p-pl-ease…something has happened,” he cried into the phone. “They’re dead…my babies…they’re dead.” And then the revelation that he hadn’t seen his wife lying with the kids dawned on him. He dropped the phone and quickly turned; ready to run back into the bloodied mess he had just retreated from. Lionel struck quickly and brought the rusty shear up and across the much taller man’s throat with one quick and surprisingly powerful stroke. The dull blade tore into his neck as he cried out for his wife. Her name rose in a gurgling spray of blood that spread across the room and onto the bookshelves and wall. It ran down the screen and across the top of the large console television that sat nearby. Reed fell to the floor at Lionel’s feet where he lay twitching…and finally, dying.

Lionel dropped the blade and casually stepped over the body. He reached down and pulled the knob on the television and then turned the dial until the theme song from Gilligan’s Island began to waft from the set. He walked to the sofa and plopped down on the edge of a freshly blood spattered cushion. Beneath a thick coating of blood that now included both the dried and fresh varieties, an impish grin played across his delicate features. His eyes remained frozen on the gore covered television screen as he absently worked at wiping the bracelet clean on his pants. Within minutes the sound of sirens outside drowned out Gilligan and the Skipper arguing about coconuts. Lionel heard neither, however. He was lost to the voice inside his head.

Deputy John Tanner was the first to arrive at the Reed residence. He knew Ken Reed only in passing, mostly from Sundays at church. They shared polite handshakes and brief, innocuous conversations about everything from the weather to the current sad state of the Lions. Ken was a big man, quiet and definitely not one to be rattled easily. Tanner was at the station when Ken’s call came in and the voice he heard over the line carried with it neither the size nor strength he had always attributed to him. Its tone had left the deputy rattled and more than a bit curious about what could panic the mountain of a man so horribly.

From the outside, at least, he found the Reed home to be nothing less than ordinary. Piles of leaves dotted the large yard and a single rake leaned precariously against the mailbox. The garage door was open and no vehicles were in the driveway. He parked on the street and cut the sirens, leaving the lights on.

He reached for the radio and pressed it to his lips. “Maddie, you read me? It’s John. Where the hell is Frank?” Maddie worked the dispatch for the Bedlam County Sheriff’s Department and Deputy Frank Griggs, simple words couldn’t describe him. He was…an experience. And John had been experiencing Frank’s antics since they were in grade school together. He had long suspected that Frank and Maddie were more than merely co-workers, which was frowned upon by the Sheriff, but he hadn’t the courage to inquire. If they were happy then he was happy for them.

“Loud and clear, John.” Maddie’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Frank’s been,” a pause, “delayed.”

It was more in the way she said it than what she actually said that sounded so odd. Frank had once been “delayed” to a drunk and disorderly call in the parking lot at The Hayloft. It was opening day of firearm season and the story went that he had spotted a fourteen point buck running along the side of Country Road 22 just outside of town. Frank took it down from the driver’s seat with his service revolver, the steering wheel cradled between his knees. He pulled into The Hayloft an hour later with the monster tied with yellow caution tape across the hood of his cruiser. The once angry crowd erupted into cheers and high fives. They dispersed peacefully a short time later with most retreating back into the smoky confines of The Hayloft to toast the sharp shooting Deputy Frank Griggs.

John tossed the radio onto the seat next to him and flung open the driver’s door of the cruiser. A polite rain was falling, a fine but cold mist accompanied by a sharp breeze that brought with it the warning of a heavier storm in the very near future. He rounded the back of the car and briefly gazed up at the western sky where dark clouds gathered on the horizon. His hand moved instinctually to unbuckle the sidearm holster on his hip as he leaned into the wind and started down the driveway.

He was halfway down the driveway when he caught site sight of the footprints. They were small and red and seemed to double back and forth across themselves both entering and exiting the partially open door that led from the garage into the house. Deputy Tanner paused and drew his weapon. He briefly debated returning to the car for his radio, but at the site of the blood in the garage, Ken Reed’s words, “They’re dead…my babies are dead,” came pounding back into his head, leaving him shaking with fear as the reality of the situation swept over him. His sweaty grip tightened around the gun as he crept forward fearful of who had left those footprints, but convinced he would soon find out.

Deputy Frank Griggs pressed his face against the cruiser’s window and peered inside. The cold rain ran down his neck and back. “Shit,” he cursed as he stepped back and pulled the hood of his yellow slicker over his head. It was the fourth time he had bent down to look into the window, as if he somehow expected the keys would be magically removed from the ignition and safely in his hand instead. Finally, after resigning himself to the fact no magic key fairy was coming to his rescue, he crossed his arms across his barrel chest and leaned against the locked door of the cruiser, listening to the sound of John Fogerty’s raspy voice singing Credence Clearwater Revival’s Have You Ever Seen The Rain echo from the comfort of the dry interior of the car.
Yeah, I’ve seen the fucking rain.
He thought, letting the heat from the idling car warm his stiffening back.