Meyers thought that the boys’ mother may have doomed them by being lenient. Again, never something he would articulate to a grieving mom.
Talk of the Walking Man legend had surfaced. He’d heard people chatting about it in Tim Horton’s when he stopped for coffee. The town’s expert on supernatural lore had gone on local radio to discuss the Walking Man. Meyers didn’t know if such a thing existed, but he had to admit the town seemed cursed. Murders in 1968, disappearances in ’76, and now this.
He sat and looked across the baseball diamonds. Nearby the diamonds were three picnic shelters. On the other side of the park were woods. Meyers reflected that the park would likely be silent until they caught the creep. Kids would be kept home. If he had kids, he wouldn’t let them out of his sight.
Meyers took a deep breath and figured it was time to get back to work. Sometimes he came here and ate his lunch in his car. It was usually peaceful, but like the Pines, the empty park made his skin crawl.
As he was about to start the car, he saw someone standing near the woods. Maybe a hundred yards away. Someone in a hood and long jacket. “Son of a bitch.”
He got out of the car and started across the baseball diamond, dirt kicking up around his shoes. The hooded figure stood there, face cloaked in shadow. He ran, hand on his Glock. “Police! Don’t move!”
When he got within about a hundred feet, the person turned and darted into the woods.
Meyers chased after him. The hooded figure’s coat flapped behind him. Goddammit, he was fast. Meyers was losing ground. He was no runner. “Stop or I shoot!”
He had a good idea where the guy was headed: the network of caves on the other side of the park. He stopped, caught his breath for a moment, and kept going.
Every so often, the man would pause, as if to let Meyers catch up to him.
Meyers reached the caves and saw the man climb a boulder and disappear into one of them. He fumbled to get his cell phone out of his pocket. Called in for back up.
While he waited for his back up to arrive, he kept the Glock pointed at the mouth of the cave. “Come out and let me end this.”
1968- Tom
The monster was empty. Tom had hated the big mansion with the girls here, but with them gone, it felt like he was living in a dank castle somewhere out on the Scottish moors.
The funeral services were done. He’d had a short wake for the girls, two hours on one evening. He’d accepted hugs and handshakes from God-knows how many people. The funeral was the next day, and he watched four hearses take all he had left in the world to be buried like trash in a landfill.
Ladies from the First Methodist Church had brought lasagna, casseroles, soups, and enough baked goods to give him diabetes. He’d eaten very little of it, his stomach constantly nauseous. The reverend had come out twice, and he’d gotten hundreds of sympathy cards, some of them from people he didn’t even know.
But that had ended a month ago and he was left here alone.
Now, he was cleaning out Sara and Emily’s room. He looked at Sarah’s trophies: Division Champs, Girls’ Basketball; First Place, All-County Track Meet; MVP, Field Hockey. What a waste of talent. He plucked the trophies from her dresser and placed them in the box. Then he opened the dresser and took her clothes out. Those went in another box.
This would be the last load for today. It was getting dark out early now that fall was approaching. The last of the sunlight was rapidly dipping below the horizon.
When the box was full of clothes, he stacked the trophy box on top of it and carried them downstairs. He was piling boxes out in the shed to take to Goodwill.
He made his way to the shed out back, set the boxes down. He opened the shed door and stacked them inside with the others. As he came out, he saw a groundhog dart around the rear of the shed. Curious, he followed it. At the base of the shed was a hole where the woodchuck had disappeared. He made a note to get a trap. Those bastards would undermine the shed if he didn’t get them out.
Something caught his eye at the other end of the shed, something painted on the wall. It was a light brown, faded by the sun.
He examined it. A number four splashed in paint with a circle around it. It sent a chill through him. The longer he looked at it, the more he thought it resembled dried blood.
“Who the hell would do this?” he wondered aloud.
He turned and looked out at the expanse of the grounds. Felt like someone was watching him. Tomorrow he would take a bucket of soapy water and scrub that crap off the shed.
It occurred to him that the symbol might have something to do with the girls’ deaths. Was someone up by the house before they died? He didn’t want to think too much on that.
After locking up the shed, he hurried back to the house.
Tom awoke to see the man standing at the end of the bed. He gasped and sat up. The man stood wordlessly. It was dark, and he could only make out a shape at first, but the man came to the side of the bed.
Tom looked up at a face scarred by fire. The man’s flesh was scarred and lumpy. His scalp was bare and covered with sores, the hair gone. His eyes were a milky white, and at first, he thought he was in the throes
