Haunted

Robert saw the vultures circling on the way to work on Monday morning and knew it would be a bad day. He wasn’t superstitious by nature, but he’d been around long enough to realize a few things and one of them was that vultures don’t lie. Whenever more than one is circling, there’s usually a large carcass involved. He hoped that this time, it wasn’t human. The Nature Reserve just outside of the city limits of Woodville had seen its share of tragedies in the past. The land was protected, but the visitors weren’t.

He turned left in the middle of Main Street onto a short driveway and into his reserved spot in the parking lot of the Woodville Sheriff’s department. The building was set back a few hundred feet from the main drag, three towering oaks lining each side of the drive stood at attention. He sat for a moment looking at the brick building that housed the administrative offices, courthouse and holding cells for the county. It was one of a handful of historic buildings in town left over from the early 1900’s. The Victorian-style architecture of the building was impressive if you didn’t look too closely. Only someone who had worked there every day for the past twenty years would notice the gradual but steady decay; a crumbling brick, a sagging step, a spot on the ceiling that never seemed to dry.

Robert stepped out of the truck, his black polished boots squeaking as his feet touched the ground. His blue uniform was pressed, as it was every day. His black belt was shiny, a holster tucked on one hip. He took his job seriously, he took himself seriously. His face was just starting to age, creases forming around his eyes and mouth. His skin was ruddy from years of living in a small town where the only entertainment was provided by nature. His eyes were blue – still piercing after years of wear, of searching for details most people didn’t see. His sandy hair was dotted with gray. Although he was fit, his physique was starting to age. He was pudgier around the middle than he used to be, though you couldn’t call him overweight. He stood a little over six feet tall and could be intimidating when he had to be, but was mostly friendly and approachable.

He briskly covered the short walk to the stoop. The sky had turned misty and gray after sunrise and the wind was cold. Not an uncommon occurrence for late spring in the northern states. He climbed the steps two at a time and opened the thick, wooden door as he had thousands of times before.

“Good morning, Sheriff Pierson,” Ted called as he passed by the small office located just inside the main entrance. Ted was both the dispatcher and administrative staff. A town of eight hundred didn’t need anything more.

“Morning, Ted. Anything urgent?” Robert couldn’t shake the image of those vultures circling and was sure there would be a missing persons report or worse, a homicide.

“Nope. Quiet as Mondays go. There’s that hearing for the mayor’s son this afternoon, though. Might be busy around here.” Ted had been with the department for five years. He was in his twenties, a little on the introverted side, but always calm when people called in with emergencies and efficient with paperwork.

“Right. The hearing. We’ll definitely have a busy afternoon.” Robert headed up the once grand staircase and took a sharp left into his office. It was a spacious for a small town Sheriff and it felt more like an old library than an office. He pulled open the cream-colored blinds on each of the three large windows that faced towards the oaks, enjoying the metallic sound as they folded in on themselves. Then, he sat down, simultaneously turning on the computer and checking voicemail. The same way he did every day.

“Knock, knock.” The deputy, Rachel Cunningham, stood in the open doorway. He motioned her inside as he finished taking down notes from his last voicemail. She walked purposefully into his office and sat in one of the two matching worn, leather straight back chairs. She was peering past him, as she often did, to the immense book shelves behind him that housed a combination of historical and local books. The very bottom shelf was reserved for the files from their most recent cases. Rachel often came to look through them, reviewing details or tying up loose ends, not that Robert ever left any.

Her uniform was softer than his, molded to the contours of her lithe body. Her thick, almost black hair was braided tightly and hung past her shoulders. She was distantly related to the Sioux and as sometimes happens, a more dominant combination of ethnic genes surfaced in her DNA. Her skin was slightly darker than your average Caucasian, her brown eyes slightly almond shaped. She was striking – almost six feet tall, her features robust and alluring.

It had come down to her and a local young man for deputy when he’d hired his replacement ten years ago. They both would’ve been great for the job, but she scored much higher in the skills test. And though Robert knew he might cause a ruckus by hiring a woman deputy in this small, conservative town, he’d done it anyway and hadn’t regretted it for a single day.

“How are you this morning, Deputy?” He stuck to titles with her, their one passionate encounter made calling her Rachel too intimate. Though it was nine years ago, sometimes he could still taste her lips. Feel her pulsing, warm body pushing against his.

“Same as always,” she replied. Rachel sat quietly with her arms folded across her chest, which usually meant she had more to say. Robert met her eyes and then gazed past her into the hall. The sun was still low in the sky and streaks of light fell on the black and white tiles; a sign the misty sky must be clearing.

“Did you see the vultures?” Her voice was soft and distant.

“Yes.” Robert matched her tone. “Did you check for any missing person’s reports?”

“None as of seven this morning.”

“That’s a good sign, but I suppose we should check with Gus. See if there are any campers unaccounted for at the Reserve.” Robert clicked his pen furtively, a nervous habit.

“I called out there and he didn’t pick up.”

That was all Robert needed.

“I’ll just run out there. I’ve been thinking about those damn vultures all morning. I could use the peace of mind. I’ve got plenty of time before the hearing.” Robert got up. His keys were in his hands and he was on his way out the door before Rachel got out of her chair.

“I’ll let you know if anything comes in on the APB.” She called to his back as he left. She was glad he was going and not her. Those vultures were haunting her too and she didn’t want to be the one to find out what they were feasting on.

Robert heard the satisfying crunch of gravel under the tires of his Ford as he turned off the highway and onto the narrow road leading to the Nature Reserve. It only took 10 minutes from Woodville’s Main Street to this dense forest. Robert had travelled the distance between the two too many times to count. The whole way this morning he kept leaning forward, peering up at the sky through his windshield. Checking for the vultures. They were still there.

Even though he was anxious, he couldn’t help but take a moment to marvel at the beauty of this place. The forest was dense – the trees so tall and close together that there was no where to look but up. It was rustic and peaceful. A stone path led from the edge of the small parking lot to a pine log cabin. There was a clearing around the cabin meant for picnickers and several dirt paths snaked out from this central hub leading to primitive camp sites. No RVs or campers were allowed; just man, his pack and the wilderness. Robert knew that within the forest there was a small stream and deeper still, a lake.

He entered the cabin, rang the nickel-plated service bell at the front desk and waited for old Gus to appear. The cabin had three main rooms. The largest room in the front acted as the reception and information area for the Nature Reserve. The back two rooms were Gus’ living quarters. The front was kept separate from the back by a full wall – Gus had the only key to the door behind the counter that led to his domain.

Robert looked at the camper’s log while he waited, noting there were half a dozen people signed in that hadn’t yet signed out. The system was archaic, but the only way to keep track of who was in and out. Cell phones rarely worked. Robert looked up when he heard the door scrape across the wood floor.

Gus was ancient. He’d worked and lived here for so long that Robert swore he was starting to resemble the tall, knotted white pines he’d spent his life guarding. He was here when Robert was a boy and over the years, he had become more gaunt and lined and gray. His sun-stretched leathery skin pulled taut over his bones – muscles still somewhat defined. He looked at least a hundred years old until you saw his eyes. They were bright and fresh, startlingly youthful in contrast to the rest of his body.

“Sheriff.” He held out his hand as he shuffled around the counter. His hand was cold but firm when Robert shook it.

“Morning, Gus. Been trying to get a hold of you.”

“Oh? I was out for a little hike. Not expecting any new arrivals until well past lunch. Thought I’d enjoy the morning. Was nice before that rain moved through – and I reckon it’ll be nice again shortly.” This was common. Out here, the hours posted were flexible. Gus wasn’t expected to staff the cabin at all times. If people arrived while he was out, they just waited.

“I’m guessing you didn’t come for a chat.” Gus’ lips formed a thin line.

“To be honest, the vultures are circling and I’m uneasy about it. I’m wondering if any campers or hikers are unaccounted for. I noticed there are a few out there today.” Robert nodded at the log.

“There are a few out. Just one is returning today – a Mr. Jacobs.” He leaned over and pointed to a barely legible scrawl on the fourth line of the open page. “Nothing to be worried about though – you know how long it can take to hike back.” Gus looked at Robert, his eyes patient.

“What about the others? All seasoned? Any first timers?” This was not a Reserve you chose for first time camping, although people had made that mistake in the past. Their trips ended prematurely.

“All used to roughing it. A few first timers to the area, but they’ve been all over. Had a nice chat with a few of them.” Clearly Gus wasn’t concerned. “I know why you’re worried. What with the history and all. But I’m sure it’s just a deer or something. You know that can happen out here. Especially in late spring – the new ones are getting their legs, testing out their independence – sometimes they’re reckless, sometimes they get hurt so bad, they don’t recover.”

“You’re probably right,” Robert paused and glanced at the small black and white clock on the wall. “But I think I’ll still go out and have a look.” He had time for a quick look; quick being the operative word. “You wouldn’t still have that old bike around, would you?”

“For you? You bet.” Gus smiled and motioned for Robert to follow him. He led him out the front door and around to the back of the cabin where there was a small screened porch. The faded blue mountain bike was leaning against the door where the wood and screen met. The frame was scratched, the letters rubbed off over years of wear, but the tires looked new.

“Thanks. I’ll be back in a flash.” Robert grabbed the bike, hoisted his leg over and took off down the path nearest the direction of the vultures.

“Be careful.” Gus called out. Robert nodded his head in reply, knowing better than to turn around. He bounced along the path, pedaling as fast as he felt safe, branches occasionally coming too close to his face. As he rode deeper into the Reserve, the memories from that other day spun around in his head.

There had been a missing persons report. Gus had contacted the Department, saying that a camper by the same name had checked in a week ago, but hadn’t yet checked out. Search parties were immediately formed, made up of mostly volunteer locals. The search focused first near the rustic sites and then branched out further. The missing person’s pack and tent were found abandoned. There was no sign of a struggle, but that didn’t mean much.

Robert and Rachel had started in the direction of the circling vultures, knowing full well that they might find a body. They’d both seen dead bodies before – even in a small town, you don’t escape that part of the job. Teenagers commit suicide, old timers keel over when their time is up, hunters misfire, cars crash, people die. But nothing prepared them for what they found that day.

The body was lying on the banks of the stream, if you could still call it a body. What was left of the limbs lay at unnatural angles. There had clearly been an attack, maybe a bear. The victim’s clothes were shredded, his abdomen ripped open. Intestines trailed out of the open cavity. What was left of his eyes were open wide. His hair was matted with dried blood and who knows what else. The muscle was exposed in several places on the body; smooth white bone visible in a few spots. The vultures had done some of the damage post mortem, but the majority was from something else. The smell of flesh was overwhelming. Both Robert and Rachel had gagged and turned away, but only the contents of the sheriff’s stomach ended up in the dirt a few feet from the body.

It was the most gruesome scene he’d ever witnessed; the kind that never leaves you. It wasn’t just the body either. There was something unsettling about it. Animals rarely attacked and usually there would be signs of a struggle. But in this case it was as if the victim was paralyzed, laying on his back, helpless to stop what was happening, forced to endure pain before death.

After the remains were gathered and brought back to town, the coroner had ruled it death by an animal attack. But Robert couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the victim’s death. The family was devastated. The victim was just starting out, still exploring, not ready to die. He was young, he had a fiancé.

Thinking about that day, Robert suddenly understood his compulsion to come out this morning. He didn’t want a body lying around in the woods like that, he couldn’t stand the vulnerability. The utter helplessness and terror of a violent death is hard enough. The addition of being picked over afterwards was more than he could bear.

As he neared a small clearing, he saw them. Three of them huddled together. Turkey vultures. Their smooth, black and grey feathered oblong bodies stooped over. Their red heads, reminiscent of their namesake, close to the ground, their hooked white beaks pecking. Sharp little jabs up and down. Up and down. They were efficient, neat eaters.

Robert slammed on the brakes and jumped off the bike before it stopped, skidding across the dirt path. Once off, he froze, unprepared for what he might find. But it only lasted a moment. He started hollering and running towards the vultures, his hands waving through the air like a human windmill. It worked. Startled, the vultures flew away in a flash of feathers and squawks.

And their meal was revealed. A mound of flesh, slumped over on its side. The abdominal cavity was open and its entrails exposed; a blur of blood, tissue and half-eaten organs. It was a deer; recognizable only by the bits of light brown fur and full rack. Soon there would be nothing left but bone and then nothing at all.

Robert bent over, his hands on his knees, breathing hard. He was so relieved. And then he started laughing. It was a small snort at first, but it soon turned into a loud roaring, uncontrollable laugh. He couldn’t stop. He was laughing at himself, at how ridiculous it was that he was so worried about the vultures, especially for a man in his position.

Of course, if he had found another body, he might have felt differently.

He straightened up, ran his hands through his hair and calmed down, the laughs replaced by quiet sighs. Light filtered down through the trees and reflected off of the face of his watch. It was almost noon. He had to get back to the office. He’d spent the morning chasing ghosts, but the mayor’s son’s hearing for possession of marijuana with intent to sell was no ghost. That was real.

He picked up the dusty bike and mounted it. He pointed it back in the direction from which he came and started to pedal. There was no time to waste. He pedaled faster and faster, the events of the morning fading away. Suddenly, he heard a snap and looked over his shoulder just for an instant. A squirrel had jumped, snapping a tree branch.

The moment he turned to face forward, he heard a crunch and a pop as the bike hit a rock, catapulting him through the air. He tumbled, his arms flailing, trying to grasp for something, anything to break his fall. He landed flat on his back in the middle of the dirt path. He could see white puffy clouds in a blue sky through a narrow gap in the trees. He felt something warm and wet on the back of his head. He knew he should get up, dust himself off and continue on his way, but he couldn’t. Soon, the trees and the sky began to fade, their brilliant colors dulling and blurring until there was nothing left. The last sound he heard was the hushed whoosh of wings cutting through the air.

It Takes Two

When she asked Bill about the scar on his cheek, he grimaced and self-consciously or lovingly touched the tip of his finger along its rigid surface. He shrugged his shoulders and looked away, his eyes seeing something more vivid than the harvest moon, rising against the clear Midwestern sky. She followed his eyes, but couldn’t see anything. She couldn't see the clear green glass of the bottle as it approached the side of his face, couldn’t smell the bitter beer, couldn’t feel the pain as the flesh on his cheek ripped and his bone fractured, couldn’t hear the thud when his body hit the floor. She couldn’t absorb the shock when he opened his eyes in the emergency room, felt his face and knew that his life would never be the same again. At sixteen, he would never go back home.

He didn’t know why he held onto this information so viciously. He couldn’t get his mouth to form the words to tell her that his face was a souvenir from the last time he saw his father. He knew it was wrong to keep something like this from her. He knew that it bothered her, but he still couldn’t tell her. If he wanted to feel good about it, he convinced himself that he didn’t want to burden her. If he wanted to feel bad about it, he convinced himself that he was selfish. If he didn’t talk about it, the pain would eventually disappear. The scar would no longer hold meaning. Perhaps that was it. Every time he caught himself tracing those lines, he felt something that vacillated between nostalgia and rage. He was torn between love and pain.

The quiet of the night and his silence grated on her nerves. His unwillingness to open up had been driving a wedge in their relationship for years. She felt the familiar lump of anger in the pit of her stomach steadily start to rise.

She looked at the bushes, the flower beds illuminated by the small circle of light coming from the porch where they sat, each in their own Adirondack chair. She looked beyond the glow, not needing her eyes to see the large expanse of their manicured lawn, the towering trees, the white fence, the long, winding driveway leading to the highway. They had built the perfect home, the perfect yard, the perfect life.

She looked up into the blue black sky; its few visible stars sparkling like beacons. On any other night, this is when the calm would descend. Drive the resentment back down into her bowels. The vastness would comfort her. Remind her of her insignificance, how unimportant her problems are in the grand scheme of the universe. Tonight, she does not feel comfort.

“Diane?” Bill turned his eyes towards his longtime partner and it was her turn to look away. It was like a dance, their predictable avoidance, like new lover’s glances. But this time, she didn’t look away, refused to dance their dreadful tango. She let him look into her eyes and feel her pain.

It began one night while driving home at dusk. One swooped low, gracefully tucking its wings and spreading its legs to land on the guard rail on the right side of the exit ramp. The large, black bird perched, watching her silently with its head cocked to one side. As she passed, she noticed a whole flock of them loitering, clustered on the embankment on the opposite side of the road. A chill ran up her spine as she was briefly reminded of Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven trying desperately to remember how that story ended. These seemingly over sized black crows were ominous. In that brief moment, she became a little perturbed, but that was all… until she began to see them everywhere. It was as if they were following her, always watching, waiting – but for what she could only imagine. Again, driving home one night she looked up into an old oak, barren with winter. It’s branches were plentiful, spread out in hundreds on directions, supported firmly by its broad trunk. She was admiring the stark contrast of the black against the crystalline sky – the kind of crisp sky brought on by freezing air. And, there they were again. The whole tree was full of them, hundreds of them sat perched, blending in with the black of the branches – watching, waiting their feathers unruffled, their bright eyes shining glossy in the moon's light. The whole tree was dripping with birds. She strained her neck to look out the passenger window and continued to watch them in her rear view mirror as she drove. There was something about them that made her catch her breath. It felt like a bad omen. She tried to remember if crows were scavengers and thought, of course they are. To thrive in the city, they must feed off of something. Her flesh. The idea forced itself into her mind before she even had time to think. It was as if someone, something was planting it there as a suggestion or perhaps a warning. She shuddered and continued on her way.