Chapter 4

Sheriff Lucas

His desk was cluttered with papers that may never fully get looked into and filed. Mostly things like shotgun holes in a stop sign on a dirt road, or kids trespassing on someone’s property trying to tip cows, or a strange behavior taking place around the cemetery behind the church. It had been years since a real case file got dropped on his desk. But that’s why he was in this position. It was a unanimous vote for Paul Lucas to be the new Sheriff after he solved the child murder case thirteen years ago. He hadn’t even put his name in for the vote.

     That crazy bastard had killed fifteen local children before he had been found and there were another sixteen people that were still missing. He was running naked in the woods covered in blood and burns, rambling on about how the woods were growing and asking through a smoke muffled voice where the new land was coming from. The guy had snapped, and he admitted that he did it, and obviously he did, “thirty victims in one month and it’ll keep going,” he said. He was nuts, covered in human blood, face and body burnt beyond recognition, and holding a teddy bear. That’s the kind of thing they don’t tell you when you’re looking at a job in public services like police or fire fighting or paramedic, they don’t tell you about the darkness of the real world that you can’t unsee, not everything is as simple as they make it seem in Mayberry. The realities that become nightmares, unshakable memories of the evil in the world and the people you can never save. Sometimes it’s enough to make someone quit, pack up their desk, and turn in their badge. Paul has seen it many times. But the ones that truly see public service as a calling never do. Paul never even thought of leaving himself, but that’s not saying it hasn’t taken its toll.

     He thought a lot of things when John Doe showed up, bringing with him the scene even a Wes Craven horror movie would struggle to compare. Freddy Kruger is terrifying in his own right being a supernatural dream stalking child killer, but he pales in comparison to a truly deranged blood-soaked killer holding a damn teddy bear dripping with blood. It was a damn Teddy Ruxpin that was broken, or just stuck on repeat saying, “come play,” over and over again almost in unison with the blood dripping from it.

     He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out his half empty bottle of Wild Turkey and poured some into his black coffee. It may not be the best coping mechanism but dammit he has to do what he has to do to stop the visions and calm his nerves after thinking of that day. The job is more important than the past. A little bit of fire water in his coffee could help him forget the past, just for a little while, and focus on today. It was medicine back in the days of the old west for a reason, it cures some things.

     The phone began to ring. He waited for the secretary to answer, or even one of his deputies. Someone had to be in the station other than him. He stared up at the powder blue telephone in the corner of the desk as it continued to ring, still unanswered. He lifted the blinds next to his desk to see into the main area of the station from his office, and the place was a ghost town. Finally, he picked up the phone and placed it to his ear. “Sherriff’s office, Sheriff Lucas speaking.”

     “Wow, strait to the Sheriff huh? I don’t even gotta beat around the bush.” The voice on the other end said. “This is Anita, from down at the diner. Charles Miller just came in and I wanted to warn ya before it got really bad again. When he finally starts coming out of his farm in the fall it only gets worse. Pretty sure he’s on the stuff again.”

     Paul knew too well what happens when Charles starts back at his old habits. He had seen him one too many times since he got hired on back in ’57. Ever since then he has stayed pretty reclusive in that old Miller farmhouse. No one saw hide nor hair of him until October rolled around every year. Then it was drinking till he dropped every night at the Wobbly Rooster, rotting his teeth away with that meth they sell in the trailer park just north of town, outside Sherriff Lucas’s jurisdiction, or spouting off about doomsday prophesies and ghosts the town is plagued by and calling every woman a witch or hag. Always ranting on about witches, ghosts, and some bogeyman, scaring the piss out of everyone in town.

     “Yeah, I’ll check into it myself. Thanks for the heads-up Anita.”

     “Anything for you handsome.” She said giggling into the receiver.

     Paul coughed back the blush coming into his face, fumbling for the words to use. “Uh, yeah, uh, thanks again. How’ve you been anyways?”

     “Be a lot better if you’d ever come back around more.”

     He had been meaning to call her back or at least stop into the diner and have some coffee and a slice of pie. But it seemed strange to him. It had been almost a decade and a half since his wife had passed and still it felt like cheating to be enjoying the company of another woman. Plus, he was almost ten years her senior and it felt like robbing the cradle. Even though she hadn’t been in a cradle for damn near a half century. Maybe he was just overthinking everything, but whatever it was it felt uncomfortable. Almost like he was a teenager again crushing on a pretty girl and his nerves preventing him from asking her to go steady.

     “Yeah, Nita, I’m sorry bout’ that. I’ll stop by sometime soon and check in ok? Still makin’ that fresh pecan pie every Wednesday?”

     “You now I am Sugar. Even throw in some home churned ice cream on the house for a man in uniform.”

     “I’ll hold you to it.”

     The phone on the other end clacked and a dial tone kicked on. It must be just as awkward for her he thought to himself. Hell, she lost her husband to a car full of exhaust fumes after they lost their daughter to that sick bastard with that damn Teddy Ruxpin.

     Another cup of coffee was poured, this one with a considerably larger pour of whiskey and smaller portion of coffee. Sometimes it takes a little more medicine to get through the day.

#

He grabbed his brown sheriffs jacket from behind the seat of his Bronco. It always seems to get colder every October here in Westminster Falls. He wondered if he had one to many cups of coffee as he struggled to get up into the cab. He rubbed his eyes and gripped the wheel with both hands taking a deep breath and exhaling, debating whether to take a long drag of his thermos full of real black as midnight Folgers that was whiskey free and thick enough to almost eat with a spoon, if it didn’t eat the spoon away first, in hopes of sobering up, or walking across town and out to the Miller farm.

     The coffee was rich and strong, if anything could sober him up it was his handy dandy cowboy cooked coffee he thought. Nope, no such luck. It looks like he’ll have to get his exercise in he thought. Nothing wrong with that, other than the fact it showed him he had a problem. It did seem like he had walked quite a bit more than he had driven in the last decade. His Bronco was a reminder to this fact seeing as it was purchased brand new in 1989, it had only 36,000 miles and little wear. Paul on the other hand looked to have logged three times that. He had a baby face, but the signs of age clung to it in the cracks around his eyes, the top of his thick unkept yet side parted hair was more white then not, even though the sides held on to some of their black from the years before, and his knees were worn down far more than the treads on his tires and cracked like a broken tree limb every time he even considered bending. He was remarkably fit for a man of fifty-nine years old though and could keep up with most of the men in town twenty or thirty years younger for a short burst of time. He was something of a mix between Clint Eastwood and the town drunk from the old westerns. A lot like Dean Martin in Rio Bravo, shaky in the hands from years of self-medicating, but a solid contributor when called upon to duty. He had considered AA once, but the people of Westminster Falls depended on him, his daughter sure as hell depended on him, and he had to be their rock, their hero. If word somehow got out that he had attended, what would they think of him then. Nothing is anonymous in small town U.S.A.

     He made his way down the sidewalk on Main trying to walk strait and tall. It was good, this way he could make more stops on the way out to the Miller farm and maybe even see Kelly at the boutique she worked at on weekends. His daughter was smart and determined to go to college on both cheerleading and academic scholarships, but was also smart enough to know that the world doesn’t always work the way she wanted it to, he didn’t even have to teach her that. So, she kept most of her earnings from the boutique saved away to use towards college. Paul had a secret fund that he had placed some of the life insurance money from the loss of his wife into that would easily pay books and tuition at any of the state schools. But he was proud of his daughter and wanted her to be as well off as she could be when the time came, so, it remained a secret.

She was in the window at the front of the store drawing a Fall scene with window paint markers. He stood back and admired her work from across the street before she could notice. It was really good work. A tall white oak tree with bright red leaves falling and covering the bottom of the window. A banner in the center held the words, “Fall In To Great Fashion.” She had her mother’s artistic ability and creativity. Even though it was made with paint pens it looked so alive.

     His wife had been the art teacher at Westminster Falls High before the incident. She loved her kids and watching them grow as artists and express themselves creatively. That is probably what lead to her demise. One of her favorite students at the time went missing the same night that she didn’t come home from school. Whether it was collateral damage or planned though, Paul would never know. John Doe’s body had disappeared from the scene before he could ask the dying monster. That bastard, he thought, and suddenly his hand was shaking craving another drink.

He placed his hands into his pockets as he jogged across the street and in to view of Kelly. He smiled and pulled one hand out to wave, then pointed it at the window and mouthed great work as he made a circle with his pointer finger and thumb, the universal sign of A-OK, that he knew would make her laugh thinking he was being cheesy.

It had worked and she let out a few little laughs. She laughed just like her mother, which warmed Paul’s heart from the cool walk he had just made.

“Hey Punk, how’s work going?”

“Not terrible, just living the dream, you know?” she laughed.

“Yeah, yeah. What time are you off tonight? You know I don’t like you staying out late this time of year, and I’m making my famous shepherd’s pie when I get home from the office.”

“Yum, I do love your shepherd’s pie. Why didn’t you become a cook instead of the Sherriff? I’m sure Anita over at the diner would love to have you around.” she smiled and nudged him a few times with her elbow. “All decked out in an apron, who wouldn’t dig that?”

“I can probably think of a few name’s, plus the people here need me.”

“So, do I dad, and I worry about you, you know.”

“I’ll be alright goofball. Duty calls though so I’ll see you at home at…….”

“Miss Eileen is closing tonight so I’ll be in by seven.”

“Seven it is. Love you”

“Love you too dad.”

He needed that. The only medicine stronger than the whiskey is his little girl’s smile, and that’s exactly what she was every time she did. He still saw his little girl looking back at him with her big blue eyes and missing teeth. No heartbreak, no fears, thinking daddy could protect her from anything. He walked away without looking back letting his daughter go back to her Fall masterpiece.

#

He took an hour to reach the old Miller farm. It wasn’t much of a farm anymore though. He remembered the first time he had come here to tell the family that their son and brother had been killed. He was a rookie at the time and no one wanted to look Mr. and Mrs. Miller in the eyes and tell them the bad news. Mr. Miller was a hard man, not mean, but stoic and had a reputation built up from his time in the Germany of being the kind of guy you don’t try and upset, and Mrs. Miller was a kindergarten teacher and the kindest woman in town. She had to be to live all those years with Mr. Miller. Paul was the low man on the totem pole though, so the task fell upon him.

The farm was actually a farm back then though. The corn was still growing in rows and the out buildings were kept relatively well. Now the yard was overgrown, and mother nature was reclaiming everything that had once been modern. The fields hadn’t been taken care of since old man Miller had passed on and now all that remained were tall grasses and weeds. The farmhouse was decrepit and looked to barely be held together. It looked as if it hadn’t seen a repair since 1957 when he had first stood where he was now with one hand on the mail box. It looked to be a direct mirror to the turmoil he believed lived within Charlie’s soul. Funny how hard times and struggles infect everything around a person. Paul had always heard it said that things could only get better when shitty things happen to people, but Charlie Miller seemed to be the exception to that rule, he hit rock bottom and kept tunneling deeper. Things seemed to keep getting worse for that poor guy the longer he stuck around.

The gravel drive that used to be in place was grown through, so the sheriff followed the tire tracks that led to the front of the house. He stepped slowly on the wooden steps of the porch worried that he would fall through and be stuck, and with Anita being the only one that knew he was heading out this way he wondered when someone would figure it out. Charles wasn’t guaranteed to come out without being drawn to the door anytime soon, and his radio service this far from the station was spotty. Kelly had tried to talk him into buying one of those Nokia portable pocket phones people in the city were all carrying around, but he didn’t really think it would be worth it. He hated talking on the phone and couldn’t justify bringing one everywhere he went.

He glanced in the window next to the door to see only one light on in the entire house. A desk lamp that illuminated a spider web of red yarn connecting random pictures of people from the town, trees, and pages torn out of books and cut out of newspapers covering the entire wall behind the desk.  The desk itself was covered in books that looked to be old and worn with bindings that would only cling to the pages by luck. Most of the rest of the house was just as Paul had remembered. Everything in the same places it had been thirty years ago, only now covered in dust and ruined by time.

A view of the kitchen let glimpse to towers of dishes and T.V. dinners. Paper plates mixed in with fine china and plane white plates. They seemed to be stained by food and forgotten about, never to be considered again. It seemed to be the only room in the house resembling a hoarder’s residence and the only one not containing his mother’s decorative taste.

He tried to see more through the grimy and dusted windows, squinting as if it would help him make more out that lay within the darkness. He scanned the upper corners of the room, then began to look towards the floor beneath the window. Nothing else that he could make out from the outside of the house. When he finally stood upright, Charles Miller tapped the window with an old lever action rifle and was staring through him from directly in front of the picture window. He stumbled backward and placed his hand on his revolver out of instinct. He had no idea how Charles was able to get there without him seeing it, but it scared the shit out of him.

Charles stared with no emotion, then glanced over at the door. Paul removed his hand from the handle of his pistol and showed both of his hands to Charles to show he meant no harm as he side-shuffled to the door. He could hear the multiple locks that were in place sliding and clicking followed by the thump of what must have been a piece of wood used as a drop bar lock and finally the turning of the old knob.

He looked Charles Miller in the face for the first time in a year and noticed how hard a single year could be on a human body. His skin was pale other than the dark purplish-red bags under his eyes. His eyes were unnaturally wide open fighting the squint that accompanies the introduction of light to eyes adapted to darkness. His teeth were rotten and mostly gone. Holes and spires of yellow, gray, and some black, resembling Monument Valley in some black and white picture with touches of yellow painted in. His arms held scars from needles and tracks from heroine entering the body. The flannel shirt with its sleeves and front unbuttoned did nothing to hide them. The undershirt that was obviously white at one point made Paul think he must still be deep into the meth scene as well, covered in burn holes most likely from dropping whatever he used as a pipe that day in his high, a little too big to look like holes from a cigarette butt.

“Hey there bud, heard you been scaring the townsfolk again.” Sherriff Lucas started out.

     He had always called Charles bud. It began as an attempt to seem older than he was in 1957 in the position he was placed, but then it turned into a habit, even though he was only a few years older than Charles. They never went to school together, but Paul was pretty sure that he attended Westminster Falls High no more than four or five years after him tops. He was even a pretty talented Quarterback and Safety for the Knights as a freshman and beginning of his sophomore year, before they found his brother. Poor guy swears to this day he was there the night his brother was killed. Says some evil tall man shredded him with the help of some witches. Truth is he was in his bed that night, passed out rocking on the front porch Mrs. Miller had told Paul, barely conscious when she told him to go ahead to bed. His brother Samuel had snuck out to go camping without him and got himself killed by a mountain lion or something. It could have been that same guy Paul had caught in the woods thirteen years ago. But that was highly unlikely, the M.O. close, but John Doe didn’t seem to be much older than Paul. Hell, he was younger if anything, but with a scared and disfigured face and only patches of hair it can be hard to tell what the person looked like before.

     “I told you last time I saw you Officer, I ain’t your bud. What do you want this time? I ain’t done nothin’ to no one. Just told people the truth.”

     “What truth is that Charles?”

     Charles laughed. “You ain’t gunna believe me this time, just like you didn’t any other time Paul. If you really wanted to help people you would, but your just chicken shit.”

     “Hey now you little shit! I’m out here to help your ass, you ungrateful fuck.” Paul realized his finger was in the face of Charles and he was losing his cool. He brushed off the front of his coat and exhaled most of the air in his lungs to catch his composure. Then took in another breath accompanied by the smell of the house in front of him making him feel more pity than composure “Sorry Charlie, I let myself get a little riled up there. Like I said though, I’m here to help. Now I can get a warrant and see what all shit I can find in here, which we both know I would, so that I can talk to you down at the station, or you can tell me what’s making you a little over the edge like men and figure things out.”

     “You really want to know Paul? Cause if you really do I’ll tell ya.”

     “Yes Charlie, I’m dying to know, lay it on me.”

     “They are all going to die. Welcome to the beginning of the end.”

     “Damnit, turn around Charlie I’m taking you in. You know your rights I’ve read em to you enough.” He said grabbing his hand cuffs from their holster in the back of his belt.

     Charlie wasn’t even looking at Paul anymore just staring as if he wasn’t even there. Caught between the past and his nightmares. “They are all going to die” a tear started to come to his eye and his lip trembled as he dropped his rifle. He let out a single loud hysterical laugh. “We want to play.” He began to laugh louder, “We want to play. WE WANT TO PLAY!” his face grew angrier the more he repeated it and the laughter died.

Next Chapter: Chapter Five: A Lilly in the Forrest