In the Dead of Night (63 page)

At least that’s what his screams sounded like in the distance. Shrieks of terror that were followed by a single gunshot and a horse’s neigh that abruptly cut off before it had finished. Then one last brisk breeze blew toward us from beyond the barn. Amid Jason’s agonizing cries and our own sobs of relief, Jackie finally had enough signal on her cell phone to make the 911 call she had been trying to connect since our ordeal began. An ordeal that had lasted all of twenty-eight minutes, it felt much, much longer.

But at least it, and the shedding of so much innocent blood, was over. Finally.

Chapter Eighteen

So, NashVegas Paranormal lives to ghost hunt another day…or night, depending upon how one looks at it.

As seems fitting, I am ending this narrative on New Year’s Eve. Justin and Lakisha will be arriving in Arrington in the next few minutes or so, and then we’re off as a foursome to say goodbye to a difficult year and hello to new hopes and dreams. In a white stretch limousine, no less, and one that’s idling outside at this very moment.

All of us are grateful to still be here in the land of the living, and tomorrow, on New Year’s Day, we are all getting together as bonded friends. That is, Jackie, Michelle, Tom, Tony, Ricky, Justin, Fiona, and I—along with our newest willing recruit, Lakisha. It does seem possible that nine members will prove to be a luckier number than eight, and our first meeting of the year will be mostly to celebrate our survival.

Oh, yes, much is in store for us in the coming year.
Paranormal This Week
is back in business, now that the threats of continual sabotage and death are behind us. We will finish up our Civil War ghost tour shows in January, and then begin canvassing the Deep South’s most haunted bed and breakfast locales in February. We hope to begin this next tour in mid-March.

Lisa Stanfield is running the project with us for the time being. At least until Nick Rhodes fully recovers from the severe injuries he sustained when the Thomas brothers and Melvin Schoels ambushed him in his bedroom. Remarkably enough, the doctors believe Nick will eventually make an almost full recovery, which is a far cry better than their initial diagnosis when he awoke from his coma the morning after our unfortunate visit to Mossy Creek.

So, all in all, things are looking up. However, I’m sure y’all have many more questions, or concerns, than after we published our first account,
Deadly Night
. I’ll see if I can answer a few of those questions and concerns before we bid each other adieu.

Some of you may now be skeptical of Fiona’s gifts, since she seemed clueless of the grave danger we were in, out there along the lonely AJ Highway. I can respect that opinion, as she also does. True, she didn’t expect for us to be fighting for our lives that Saturday evening. But she never was entirely sold on the Thomas twins as being upstanding citizens in the first place. Also, keep in mind that she had never met Melvin Schoels previously. Since she thought we had blown it by letting Chris Grimes leave Quagmire in September, I never mentioned Melvin to her
by name.

Fiona now admits to being swayed by the tantalizing lure of having a hit paranormal TV program that was further fed by Jackie and Tom’s infatuation with the brothers—not to mention Lisa and Nick were high on them, as well. I guess it just goes to show she is human like the rest of us—born to make mistakes, and ignore her better judgment.

Still, she did foresee our rescue when all seemed lost at Mossy Creek. She shared her vision with me later that night in our Sevierville cabin, in front of a warm fire while we laid together naked on a faux bear rug. Often, we have our best heart to heart conversations in such intimacy. Although, much of our intimate discussion left me chilled upon hearing certain details from that earlier vision.

The Union officer, who shall forever remain unnamed other than his rank of captain, is entombed somewhere inside the Branner Cemetery. He could be any of the approximately one hundred and fifty souls residing beneath the rows of unmarked graves. While it is possible for Fiona to tell us which one of the graves he emerged from that evening, at this time she prefers to leave well enough alone. As the spirit and that of his favored horse rose up from the decaying remains several feet below the frigid surface, his eyes were as hellish as when the unknown captain gave us his final advisement.

Always be careful of what you wish for.

Fiona feels he somehow heard our anguish and responded. As to why? On that part, she’s not sure. But, she is taking his final warning for us all to heart, and in no way does she wish to see him ever again. Hell, none of us do. Especially, after the cold look he gave me when I almost interfered with his intended task of freeing Justin. Not to mention the fact Jason Thomas has never been heard from since that night. The Jefferson City Sheriff’s department says he must’ve escaped—despite their prized German Shepherd police dogs’ inability to track his scent beyond a barbed wire fence lining the back of the barn’s property.

According to my wife, Jason will never be found. However, for those bold enough to look, they might discover what’s left of Jason residing with the bare bones of that night’s savior, if ever his tomb was disturbed.

Would you like to go dig him up?

I didn’t think so…neither would we.

As for his brother Jerry, he is awaiting trial for the murders of eight people and the attempted murder of eleven others. Ed Silver tells us that the older Thomas brother has been heavily sedated, after complaining of the presence of ‘demons’ in his cell in the Davidson County jail. Meanwhile, a thorough search of the Dobbins’ farmhouse in McMinnville turned up another dozen human skeletons. No wonder Justin, Fiona, and I felt as uncomfortable as we did during our visit there a few weeks ago. Marilee and Paul Dobbins were also arrested and are being held in the Warren County jail. For now, I won’t speculate as to whom their victims were, but Ed told us that some of the remains were recent, and others buried for more than one hundred years. I tell ya that family of psychopaths is a frigging Dionysus cult, with a dash of the good ole brotherhood of the Ku Klux Klan thrown in for good measure.

And, what about our TCP pals that we thought had either succumbed to Melvin’s assault rifle or somehow escaped before our arrival? One of the sheriff’s deputies found all fifteen bound and badly frightened inside what used to be a horse stall inside the dilapidated barn. No doubt, if we had either gotten there later or hadn’t been rescued by our mysterious benefactor, they would’ve all died that night.

I would imagine that Melvin Schoels would certainly mourn the notoriety he lost out on, since eight confirmed killings pales to the thirty-one lives he and his cousins would’ve totaled by Sunday’s sunrise. Chills run through me whenever I consider just how close that came to being a reality.

Perhaps some of you might think my assumptions about Melvin are a bit over the top narcissistic. I could grant you that…. But, before I do, consider one last thing before we part ways, you and I.

Remember Angie? She’s still keeping watch…although she has thankfully left my immediate space alone, at least for now. My latest songwriting sessions with what’s left of our band, while Ricky and I search for a new bassist, have been uneventful trips, to and from our rehearsal studio. I don’t feel her sneaking up on me as I enter or exit my cherished Camaro. Also, the creaking floorboards inside our log home that so often have announced her presence during the past year and a half have ceased since the Mossy Creek incident.

However, I have seen her three times in the past week, or at least a shadowed form that I believe is her spirit. On each of these occasions, a dark figure with what looks like clipped reddish hair has stood just inside the wooded area that marks the border of our property. A virtual no man’s land lies beyond, one that stretches for several miles and presently belongs to the Williamson County board of trustees. When I have seen this figure standing there, it appears whoever it is waits for me to look their way a second time. All three instances have resulted in the same experience that follows.

The figure appears to wave to something or someone else deeper in the woods, and before my eyes, a second figure soon appears next to the first one. Significantly larger than the first figure, one might assume it is nothing more than a broad bush that my brain has matrixed into a human form. I can buy at least part of that analysis…. But what in the hell makes this bigger shadowed form seem as if it’s wearing a black bolero hat?

I’ll leave you with that last morsel to consider.

Until next time, happy ghost hunting to you all. May you think long and hard before wishing for a good scare.

Take care,

Jimmy Alea

The End

Available now:

Plague of Coins

The Judas Chronicles, Book One

(Please read on for a sample)

Chapter 1

This looks promising....

It was late one evening, and I stood in the bowels of the Smithsonian Center for Materials Research. The staff had gone home for the night, and I was alone. Surrounded by lab equipment, computers, and stacks of dusty old books, this room could only be described as creepy.
Damned
creepy.

Then again, many would describe me as damned creepy, too. And maybe a little shady—at least if I ever got caught rummaging around in the basement. As a Smithsonian archivist, most of what I spend my days reviewing is upstairs or in other locales managed by the National Museum of History. I rarely venture outside of the Anthropological Archives’ scope of responsibility. Just like a good, dependable archivist should.

Oh, it isn’t so terrible, all cynicism aside. In my current vocation, I’ve been privileged to view exclusive collections of field notes, photographs, and correspondence from the more significant scientific expeditions covering the past two centuries. Hell, that’s why the job appealed to me in the first place. My son, Dr. Alistair Wolfgang Barrow, the noted historian and professor at Georgetown, is the one who brought it to my attention. Yes, he’s the very same historian noted for his treatments concerning the Middle East and its volatile tensions. Tensions fueled by millennia of history and bad blood that will take decades if not centuries to cure, despite the latest diplomatic progress.

But I digress.

Upon the near-obsolete video screen, a collection of articles and photographs spanning nearly eighty years scrolled before my eyes. All of this information centered around one small village in Iran. Al-haroun is the name of the place.

I paused to sip my coffee while rubbing my eyes. Not so much from being tired as the damned viewer’s fuzziness. I’m spoiled by my MAC.

Yes, very promising...could be home to one small, priceless piece of silver....

I get a feel for things, you see. It’s something I’ve gotten better with over time. Call it honed experience, or perhaps it’s the mastery that comes with practice and carefully aged wisdom and acute perception.

Okay...I can almost hear the indignant silent questions out there. ‘And who in the hell are
you
, hotshot?’ That’s what
I’d
be wondering right about now, after re-reading the first two pages of my story.

Fair enough. My name is William. William J. Barrow, though I’m sure you already inferred my last name from my son’s. I like the name William, actually better than any other moniker I’ve gone by since the Crusades ended. It makes it a lot easier to fit in without engendering questions about
who
I am or
where
I come from. I like it much better than any of the Apostle names like Peter, Paul, and Matthew. Although, pretending to be Bartholomew nearly two thousand years ago was a lot of fun.

That got you, I’m sure.

It would make me older than dirt. Right? Well, if we ever crossed paths you wouldn’t even notice me if it’s some ancient Methuselah you’re seeking. I don’t look a day over thirty—haven’t looked a day past the ‘prime of life’ since I wrote my own chapter on the most famous stage in modern history.

Back then my Hebrew name was Yehuda. I guess if history had left me hanging from some tree or tripping into a garden to where my guts squirted out of my condemned body, the world would be no wiser. My role in the ultimate betrayal long forgotten, maybe I’d be just a small footnote, and not the most reviled human being ever to walk this earth.

You can thank the Greeks and Romans for that honor, unfortunately. Or, I guess I can.

Born in Kenoth in the region of Judea, and falsely accused of being a member of the ‘Sicari’. Yes, these are all clues.... Give up?

The Greek for Yehuda is Yudas, and that name in Roman is Judas.

So there...that’s me. I’m Judas Iscariot.

But before you simply close this book in disgust, let me explain a few things. Things that could change your mind about the above claim, and take on a little of my perspective. In truth, I could literally give a rat’s ass if you believe I’m Judas or not. It’s not even the reason I’ve decided to write down my story. After all, if I don’t gain the final nine silver pieces needed for my restitution during my current ‘lifetime ruse’ as William Barrow, I’ll still be working on this project while you and everyone you care about has passed away. Perhaps all of you will land in the eternal Holy Mecca I so badly long for.... To be forgiven at long last and reunited with the One I looked on as a mere prophet and wonderful teacher, instead of the Lord of Lords that He is.