Four Corners Dark: Horror Stories (15 page)

The two men reached into the opening as Brenda’s screams filled the crawl space.

“I have her,” Joseph said.

They pulled her out and turned her over, her body was limp and the front of her shirt was covered with blood. The creature crawled out through the opening and fell to the ground. The creature writhed in pain and changed becoming more bird-like, then spewed black liquid onto the ground.

In the pool of liquid was Brenda’s heart, Joseph leaped forward and grabbed the lifeless organ.

“Help me get her to the water!” Joseph shouted.

They ran to the lake as the Raven Mocker languished on the ground with black eyes rolled back in its head. When they reached the water, they placed Brenda’s body on the ground.

“Donald, go get the tarp and throw it into the water,” Joseph said.

Donald ran to the cabin and found the Raven Mocker crawling to its feet. He grabbed the tarp and dragged it to the water where Brenda kneeled over Joseph and wept. He had aged dramatically and his breathing was labored. The heart donated to Brenda two decades earlier lay lifeless at the edge of the lake. The water and Joseph’s sacrifice had returned Brenda’s own heart to her. Donald dragged the tarp into the water letting it sink to the depths of the lake and then ran to Joseph’s side.

“Help me get him to the water,” Donald said.

“No,” Joseph said weakly. “The sands of time have run out for me. Leave me, I am where I belong.”

He coughed and fought for another breath.

“Go now and never return,” Joseph said.

His thin stick of an arm pointed past the cabin, then he gasped for air and was gone. Donald stood and put his arm around Brenda who was wet and shaking from the cold, but finally free of her distractions. A light breeze blew across the lake and sunlight streamed through the trees. Black feathers and ash blew across the ground and the Raven Mocker was no more.

THE SPINNING
WHEEL

CHAPTER ONE

T
ommy Roberts loved to play with building blocks and most afternoons you could find him splayed out across the floor working on a new project, but this day he was working on something new and quite unusual.

Casey, his old yellow lab, lay patiently by his side observing the progress of the shiny colored blocks. John Roberts sat on a tattered plaid sofa reading the newspaper while his son played. John looked up from his paper when a light breeze blew the wind chimes hanging on his porch. The sound reminded him of a tune from years past. He concentrated, but he couldn’t pick out the melody.

“Damndest thing,” he muttered to no one in particular, then went back to reading the local sports page.

The Milton Mights, the local minor league baseball team, were playing tomorrow night. He and his son enjoyed attending the games and Tommy would cheer loudly no matter which team got a hit.

It was just John and Tommy and Casey these days. His wife Mary called them her boys. That was before the cancer caught up with her two years ago. John buried Mary after 46 good years and one really bad one. They visited the place Tommy called the park once a week to put flowers on her grave, but Tommy didn’t really understand. He was 44 years old with Down’s syndrome and had the sweet mind of a six year old child.

John walked across the living room to see what his son was building. Tommy had been oddly quiet all morning and hadn’t spoken since breakfast. Casey was asleep with his legs kicking softly in a dream. John peered over Tommy’s shoulder and was shocked by the sight of an elaborate carousel built from plastic blocks. The carousel, over three feet in diameter, spun slowly as if moved by an unseen hand.

John bent, knees cracking, to examine the intricate details. Plastic horses moved up and down as the carousel spun. His son had never built anything like it.

“Daddy, you like?” Tommy asked.

“Why yes, Tommy boy. It’s wonderful,” he answered. “But where did you get it?”

“I make it Daddy,” Tommy said. “All by myself.”

“But son, where did you learn how to build this?”

“Mr. Adams,” Tommy said with a grin.

“Mr. Adams?” John asked. “Does he work at your school?

“No Daddy. Mr. Adams under bed,” Tommy answered.

Strange, John thought. Tommy never mentioned imaginary friends before.

“Come, I show you,” Tommy said rising slowly to his feet.

Tommy looked older than 44, gray and almost entirely bald. He was plagued by many of the same health issues as John, who was 35 years his senior. John stood and followed Tommy upstairs to his room. Tommy had lived in the same room for four decades. The blue carpeting was worn and frayed and he still had the lamp with trains painted on it he had loved since he was a child. Tommy’s room was a fading snapshot of a life caught in time.

Tommy struggled onto his hands and knees, pulled up the bed ruffle and said, “See Daddy.”

With a groan, John joined his son on the floor and then peered under the bed. He saw something in the dark underneath the bed and heard distant music, the same melody he had heard earlier.

Tommy stood up and said, “See Daddy. Where Mr. Adams lives.”

“Tommy, flip on the light, will you son?” John said wiping his eyes.

“But Mr. Adams go away,” Tommy answered.

“That’s okay, Tommy,” John said. “Turn on the lights, please.”

With the lights on, he discovered a collection of plastic block creations, all as elaborate as the carousel.

John climbed back to his feet and caught his breath.

“Tommy. Tell me again, where did you get all of these things?” John asked.

Tommy looked disappointed. “Daddy, Tommy built them. Built them all.” Tommy was starting to get upset. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Calm down, son. I just wanted to know where you learned how to build it. You did a great job.”

Tommy wiped a tear away and said, “Mr. Adams.”

Tommy pointed at the ruffled bed.

“Okay, Tommy Boy. How about an ice cream?”

“Mulligan’s?” Tommy asked.

“Sure, at Mulligan’s. “Go get your coat on and we’ll take a drive,” John said.

CHAPTER TWO

J
ohn backed the tired Dodge wagon out his driveway. The air was cool but the sun shined brightly. Tommy was busy playing with a plastic figure with a black top hat.

“Who’s your friend? John asked.

“Mr. Adams,” Tommy answered softly.

He was twirling the figure between his fingers.

“Oh, that’s the mysterious Mr. Adams,” John said.

Tommy stayed quiet on the drive into Milton. Most of the leaves had fallen from the trees and the mountains loomed in the distance. John and his wife had discovered the town accidently years before. They were on a road trip, took a wrong turn and ended up in Milton. Ten years ago they decided to retire to the little town they found all those years before.

Tommy got excited when he saw the Milton downtown in the valley below them. The town had seen better times, but was holding its own.

“Ice cream,” Tommy said pointing at the sign hanging over Mulligan’s.

Tommy couldn’t read, but recognized the faded sign shaped like an ice cream cone.

“Almost there, Tommy Boy,” John answered.

John drove into an empty spot in front of the shop.

“They saved a spot for us.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

A bell clanged against the wooden door when John and Tommy entered the shop. The shopkeeper, Ed Clarkson, greeted them with a grin.

“Tommy, I think you ate up all the ice cream the last time you was in,” Ed said.

“No,” Tommy said. “There ice cream.”

Mr. Clarkston feigned surprise and said, “So it is. You must have left a little!”

“I want some,” Tommy said, ignoring Mr. Clarkston’s comments.

“Tommy?” John asked with a frown.

“Please, I want some,” Tommy corrected pointing at a tub of Neapolitan.

“Coming right up, sir,” Mr. Clarkston replied. “John, cup of coffee? Just brewed a fresh pot.”

“Sure, Ed. How can I turn that down?” John answered.

John sat with Tommy on a bench outside the shop. Dozens of initials had been carved into the bench over the years. He took a sip of coffee and looked at his son who was carefully eating an ice cream cone. He had always been a neat and precise boy despite his challenges. Maybe that is how he built the carnival pieces from the plastic blocks? Could he have some unrealized gift? Tommy finished his cone and threw his napkin in a trash can.

“Ready to go, Tommy? John asked. It’s getting kinda late.”

“Yes Daddy, all done,” Tommy answered.

The sun was starting to set behind the mountains, the remaining leaves of the oak trees glowed a brilliant reddish gold.

CHAPTER THREE

J
ohn awoke the next morning to find Tommy hard at work. Plastic blocks were strewn all around him and Casey, sound asleep, manned his usual post next to him. The snores of the old dog were the only sounds in the room. There was a half-finished bowl of cereal on the floor. John walked around to see what Tommy was so busy doing and stopped suddenly. On the floor in front of Tommy sat a grand carnival entrance complete with ticket booths. Strands of Christmas lights surrounded a parking lot filled with plastic cars. A line of plastic people waited patiently for tickets. John rubbed the sleep from his eyes and focused on the incredible detail of Tommy’s creation.

“Tommy how—” he stopped mid-sentence. “How are you building these things?”

“Mr. Adams,” Tommy said with a smile.

Tommy held up the plastic figure with the black top hat. John was alarmed and thought to call Tommy’s doctor.

“Doctor, oh no,” he said aloud and then looked at his watch.

He remembered he had an appointment himself in forty minutes. He picked up the phone and called Betty Stewart, their next-door neighbor who was kind enough to watch Tommy on occasion.

“Hello, John,” Betty answered. “I was about to call you. You did say Thursday at eight a.m.?”

“Yes,” he said. “Running a little late.”

“Be right over,” Betty said.

He thanked Betty and hung up the phone then hurried upstairs to get ready. Betty was sitting in the living room when he came back down.

“Thanks again, Betty. I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one,” Betty said with a laugh.

John put the car into gear and the transmission whined as he backed out of the driveway. John hurried into town already a few minutes late. Dr. Alvin Carter was a good egg and it would give him something to rib John about. They spent many Sundays together fly fishing the local rivers. He stopped at Amelia’s Café to pick up two coffees, a peace offering for the good doctor. When he arrived, Carlene, Alvin’s receptionist, was waiting for him.

“Morning, John,” she said. “He’s ready for you. Go right in.”

John found Alvin sitting behind his desk.

“John, come in,” Alvin said. “Please have a seat,” he added closing his office door.

“Wow, Alvin. Giving me the official treatment this morning? Sorry I’m late,” John said handing Alvin a coffee.

“Thanks John.”

Alvin sat down and placed his coffee in front of him untouched.

“John,” Alvin began. “We have been friends for a long time, so I am going to give it to you straight. The tests we performed on you a week ago did not turn out well.”

“What are you talking about, Alvin?” He had never seen Alvin so serious before.

“John, I noticed some changes in you the last few months, so I ordered some tests. Do you remember we discussed it the last time you were in?”

“Sure,” John lied.

He scarcely remembered anything about his last visit.

“John, you have Alzheimer’s,” Alvin said.

“You mean Old Timers, don’t you pal?” John managed a weak grin.

Alvin continued speaking. “We need to get you on a regimen of medicines that can help slow this thing down.”