The Ouija Episode

The rational mind refuses to believe that illogical, mystical events beyond human control do occur. Yet, the metaphysical mind knows the unseen and unheard all too well. Little things often dismissed during daylight hours come alive as darkness grows into the depths of the midnight "awakening."

They were just four ordinary people struggling to get through their existences as best they could. Ken Lamington, Pamela Forrester, Jessica Benton and Phil Harrell had socialized together since becoming advertising associates at Lehran, Smythe and Danninger.

Of the four, Pamela Forrester was the most shy and retiring. Jessica Benton was the bubbly, happy-go-lucky gal who was the glue that brought the four together for a few after hours drinks at Mineal's Pub or weekend jaunts to play squash, racket ball, go hiking or just "hanging out" at one or the others' apartments. Ken and Phil were typical of young, urban sophisticates with devil-may-care attitudes toward life and living.

One afternoon in late autumn, the phone of Pamela's office desk rang with bad news. Her mother passed away. Tears streamed down her dove grey eyes. Jessica saw her friend in distress and rushed over to her.

"Pam, what is it? What's wrong?" Jessica asked.

"It's my Mom. She's passed. I have to leave," Pamela said.

"I'll tell Mr. Danniger. Stay in touch. I mean it, Pam. If you need anything...anything, just call," Jessica said.

Later, Jessica informed Ken and Phil of Pamela's loss.

Pamela Forrester was the only child of Maureen and James Forrester. Pam's father passed away when she was a teen. Owing to James Forrester's business acumen, Pamela and her mother lived comfortably.

Five years earlier, Maureen Forrester was the victim of dementia brought on my advanced diabetes. Pamela was chief caregiver for her mother. She had to relinquish this responsibility when her mother slipped away from the family home wearing only a nightgown and found wandering in the streets, incoherent and frightened. Pamela realized she couldn't keep her job and stay home and care for her mom too. She found a local senior care center to look after her mother.

Maureen Forrester grew ever more unruly at the care center and barely recognized her daughter. At times, Pamela drove back to the family home in tears. As Maureen's diabetes grew worse, she lost her hearing and had to be placed on dialysis three times a week. The family physician drew a very bleak prognosis for her mother's future.

"Your mother is very seriously ill, Pamela. I know you want what's best for her. But, you must also prepare yourself. Her health is rapidly deteriorating. She may not live out this year," Dr. Philankes said.

How do I prepare myself for my mother's death? she wondered.

This wasn't like the death of her father. He died in the night of a massive coronary embolism. He just didn't wake up. Then, Pamela was frightened of their future. But, as the days passed, she realized her father made certain she had a college fund and her mother would be financially well off.

Through the five years of her mother's deteriorating illness, Pamela tended to her only living parent's needs like a professional nurse. Rarely, was there a night when she wasn't awakened to the sound of her mother's bell ringing. Pamela bought a little gold bell to keep on her mother's bedside once Maureen became bedridden. It was reassuring to her mother and to her, to know her mother could ring the bell whenever she needed her daughter.

That little bell still sat on her mother's night table. After her mother went to the care center, Pamela often imagined she heard the bell ringing at night. Then, she realized her mother wasn't in her room after all and tried to fall back to sleep.

Pamela came to the conclusion that in order to manage her time between her job and seeing to her mother at the care center, she had to take an apartment nearer to the city.

She promised her mother she wouldn't sell their home. Maureen Forrester always mistakenly believed she was going to make a full recovery from her diabetes and mother and daughter could remain in the two-story, red brick cape James Forrester custom built for his family. Pamela knew the house would have to be sold eventually, against her mother's wishes.

"Pamela, promise me you won't sell the house. There's something we need to talk about," Maureen told her daughter, in one of her more lucid moments before dementia set in.

"What is it we need to talk about, Mother?" Pamela asked.

"It's something you need to know. I just can't talk about it right now. I promise I'll tell you when the time is right," Maureen said.

That was nearly six years ago. Pamela's life became incredibly hectic and she nearly forgot about that conversation with her mother...until the day of her mother's death.

It's odd how unresolved issues and questions stare one in the face in moments of grief.

As Pamela went through the process of emptying the family home, often tearfully recalling memories of certain items, she wondered what it was her mother felt she needed the "right time" to tell her. This would haunt her more than she knew.

Her life was changing rapidly. Now, she was an orphan, for all intents and purposes. It was left to her to deal with all of the paperwork associated with her mother's will. She was shocked when their family lawyer read the will.

"Mother's will states I can't sell the home until I'm married?" Pamela asked.

"I'm afraid that's correct."

"But...why? I can't keep up the maintenance on the house...and...my apartment. I like my apartment. I don't want to live all alone in that house," Pamela said.

"I can understand that. But, you need to realize terms of any will are legal and binding and cannot be changed. You are twenty-six now. You likely will find a husband very soon. I wouldn't worry too much about this particular part of your mother's will," he said.

Pamela told Jessica, Ken and Phil about the dilemma over dinner one night.

"It's no big deal, Pam," Phil said.

"No. I don't think so either," Ken said.

"Way to stick together guys. Pam doesn't want to live in that big, old house all by herself. I can see her point," Jessica said.

"Is the place haunted, Pam?" Ken asked.

"No. Don't be silly. Of course not. It's just that...well...I may as well tell you...Before my mother's mental condition worsened, she told me there was something we needed to talk about. After her dementia got worse, whatever it was, was completely gone from her memory," Pamela said.

"Well, you could consult a Ouija board and try to contact her," Phil said, with a smirk.

"Phil, that's not funny," Jessica admonished.

"Actually Jess, maybe that isn't such a bad idea," Pamela said.

"Oh. Come on. Surely, you can't be serious? A Ouija seance?" Ken said, in disbelief.

Pamela sat there deep in thought.

"Oh, my God! You're not actually considering it?" Jessica asked.

"Jess...I have  to know what my mother wanted to tell me. If using a Ouija is the only way, I'd like to give it a try," Pamela said.

"Great! Just what we need...hear voices speaking to us from the grave," Jessica said.

"Aw...C'mon Jess. It'll be fun," Ken said.

"Where do you plan on having this Ouija seance?" Phil asked.

"In my family home...tomorrow night. It's a Friday and we don't have our weekend planned," Pamela said.

"I'm for that. I've never seen your family home. Sounds like the perfect setting for this Ouija seance," Ken said.

That night, Pamela slept fitfully. Several times, she awoke believing her mother was ringing that bell. Startled out of a sound sleep, Pamela turned over on her pillow. She knew she needed to get her rest or she'd be a disaster the following morning. As she slept, she dreamed of her mother. In the dream, Maureen Forrester was standing over Pamela's bed beckoning her. Pamela woke with a scream.

At her desk that morning, she felt as if she was still dreaming. Nothing seemed real to her. Everything on her computer screen floated before her eyes. She was glad when the clock struck five.

"Pam, you stopping for a bite before we drive out to your family home?" Ken asked.

Pamela nearly forgot about their plan.

"Oh...uh...yes. I guess I could eat a little something. Where to this time?" she asked.

"How about Middleton's? It's midway between your home and the office," Jessica offered.

"Sounds good to me. Middleton's always serves up the best Friday seafood menus and I'm famished," Phil said.

"You're always famished. What else is new?" Jessica said.

The four piled into their vehicles. When dinner was through, they followed behind Pamela's car to the Forrester family home. She unlocked the front door and escorted the three companions into the living room.

"Who's got the Ouija board?" Ken asked.

"I do. I bought one yesterday. The guy in the store was a strange duck. He warned me not to play with Ouija boards. When I asked him why, all he said was, "strange things happen when you play around with those things," Pamela said.

"You don't believe that do you?" Ken asked.

"I believe in the power of thought. So maybe, I do believe four minds concentrating on the same issue might be telepathic," Pamela said.

"Wow, Pam. You sound as if you are really into this," Jessica said.

"Jess, I have to know what it was my mother was going to tell me. I have to."

"Well? Are we going to get to it or not?" Phil asked.

"The man in the store said Ouija only works if it's dark in the room where it's used and if we all are serious and not making jokes," Pamela said.

"I gotta tell you, Pam. This place is a bit eerie now that no one lives here," Phil said.

"See? I told you. That's why I want to get rid of it," Pamela said.

"Where should we hold our Ouija seance?" Ken asked.

"How about the dining room? The table is large and it's pretty comfortable in there," Pamela said.

She led the three to the darkened dining room. She turned off the lights in the living room, which left the house in near darkness.

"This is just too too creepy for words," Jessica said.

They sat at the table, each with a heightened sense of expectation. Pamela placed the Ouija board in the center of the table.

"What do we do next?" Ken asked.

"We have to place our hands lightly on the message indicator. Be serious guys. Or, this won't work," Pamela warned.

"What question do we ask the Ouija?" Jessica asked.

"What does Maureen Forrester want to tell me?"  Pamela answered.

"Everyone concentrate on that and only that question. Ready?" she asked.

The room went deadly silent. The four placed their hands on the message indicator. Pamela asked the question,

"Ouija, tell us...What does Maureen Forrester want to tell her daughter?" Pamela said.

A few minutes passed and nothing happened. Then, the message indicator made sounds like small taps in the center of the "eye."

"Did you hear that?" Phil asked.

"Shhhhh, Phil, Concentrate," Jessica said.

The darkened room went silent again.

Then, the message indicator began to move ever so slowly to the letter, "B."

The four watched in shock and disbelief. The next letter was "O."

"B and O" are these someone's initials?" Pamela asked.

The message indicator gave no response.

It seemed as if the movement of the message indicator went totally still. Then, all of a sudden, it swung wildly to the letter "X."

The four waited for another ten minutes. There being no further movement, they resigned themselves to the end of the seance. Pamela turned on the lights again.

"Box? That's the message?" Ken asked.

"I'd hoped the message would be from my mother," Pamela said.

"No. Wait. The message is from your mother," Jessica said.

"What do you mean, Jess?" Ken asked.

"Remember, we all concentrated on Pam's question, "Ouija, tell us...What does Maureen Forrester want to tell her daughter?"

"I don't see what you're getting at, Jess," Phil said.

"The answer is that Maureen Forrester wanted to tell Pamela about a "box," Jessica said.

"Box? What box?" Pamela asked.

"There must be a box hidden somewhere in this house," Jessica said.

"It's a box she didn't want you to know about until she died. Don't you see?" Jessica said.

Pamela was frightened.

"But, I've disposed of nearly all of the articles that belonged to my mother after she died. What box could she have hidden and why?" Pamela asked.

The four looked at each other.

"Look. We are all a bit tired from this...this...Ouija thing. I have an idea, if Pam approves, of course. Why don't we come back tomorrow and help Pam find the box. It has to be in this house or in a place, her mother meant for her to find after she died," Ken said.

"Pam? What do you say?" Phil asked.

"I think if there's a box hidden somewhere in this house, I don't want to be alone when I find it," Pamela replied.

"Okay. Let's get some sleep and meet here tomorrow around ten in the morning," Jessica said.

The next day, it was cold and felt as if there was snow in the forecast. Pamela was the first to arrive, followed by Ken, Jessica, and Phil. The three were excited to scavenge through closets, the attic and basement to find the box the Ouija message alluded to.

"What if this is all a big joke?" Pamela said.

"I know I wasn't playing with that Ouija thing last night. Were any of you?" Phil asked.

"No. I am just as freaked out as you are about that whole episode last night. You know how pessimistic I am about the supernatural," Ken said.

"That thing scared me out of my wits. I had nightmares all last night," Jessica said.

"Okay, where do we look first?" Ken asked.

"Well, let's see. We can start with the closets. There's one in every bedroom, but the master bedroom. That room has two, a His and Hers walk-in closet. It's the biggest in the house. Then, there's a pantry closet in the kitchen. A hall closet and the closet in the foyer where we hung our coats. A bathroom closet and oh...two in the basement. One is a walk-in for storing old clothes. The other is a small closet just beneath the stairs. That one was hardly ever used. My mother used to do canning when we first moved here. But, I doubt there's anything but empty canning jars and lids there," Pamela said.

"What about the attic?" Phil asked.

"No closets I know of up there. It can't hurt to go through those old cartons and things. I never went into that attic as a child. It's scared me," Pamela said.

"Really? Why?" Jessica asked.

"I always thought there were mice up there. I loathe the sight of mice," Pamela said.

They all laughed.

"Pam's afraid of an itty bitty mouse?" Ken said, joking.

"Just not dangerous Ouija boards that have the four of us on a scavenger hunt for some mysterious box," Phil laughed.

The closets on the first floor of the house turned up nothing. By one in the afternoon, they all went downstairs to the basement.

"Hmm...Your dad was a golfer, Pam?" Phil asked.

"Yes. Why? You want those golf clubs? Help yourself. One less thing for me to deal with when I sell this place," Pamela said.

The next thing Phil and Pamela heard was a crash.

The hurried to the opposite side of the basement to see what happened.

"Pam, we found it...the box. It was hidden at the back of this small closet under the stairs," Jessica said.

"Well? What's in it? And what crashed just now?" Pamela asked.

"One of your mother's canning jars. When Ken went to pull out the box, one of the large canning jars crashed. He cut himself trying to retrieve the pieces to throw in the trash," Jessica said.

"What's in that box?" Pamela insisted.

"We didn't open it. We felt you should be the one to do that," Ken said.

"Ken, your hand is bleeding. Maybe, it needs stitches?" Jessica asked.

"It's okay. It's just a scratch. I'll use my handkerchief to tourniquet it to stop the bleeding for now," Ken said.

Jessica handed the large, brown cardboard box to Pamela.

"It's kind of heavy," Jessica said.

Pamela walked over to the card table her father moved down to the basement before he died. She placed the box on it. Phil, Jessica and Ken gathered around her.

She tore away the masking tape that sealed the box and opened the lid.

"Oh my God! It's a skeleton. Oh my God, Pamela! What the hell is that?" Ken said.

"Is it real?" Phil asked, looking deeper into the contents of the box.

"It's real. It's a baby. Long dead from the looks of it," Jessica said.

"It can't be. This can't be what my mother wanted to tell me," Pamela said.

"You'll have to call the police. I wouldn't mention how you happened to find that box," Ken warned.

"What do you mean?" Pamela asked.

"If you tell them you discovered it through a Ouija message, they might not believe you," he added.

"Ken's right. Just tell the police we're here to help you get rid of some of the things your mother left behind," Phil said.

Pamela called the police immediately. The police took the box to the local medical examiner's office.

Pamela heard nothing from the police about their find for nearly three days. She was beside herself. There had to be an explanation for such a macabre secret. Why did her mother wait till after her death to tell her daughter about that dead infant? Who was that child?

Questions swirled in Pamela Forrester's brain like a cyclonic vortex.

Finally, one week after their horrific find, police called Pamela in for a meeting.

"Miss Forrester, the body of that infant has been in that box for over two decades. The medical examiner believes at least twenty-six years," Detective Rickards said.

Pamela was stunned.

Mother kept silent about a dead infant for twenty-six years?

"Is it possible the infant's body was some kind of ...I ...I don't know...a stillborn birth?" she asked.

"No. As far as the Medical Examiner can determine, the child was perfectly healthy and was at least one month old," Rickards said.

"Did either of your parents ever mention this to you?" he asked.

"No! Certainly not. My father was a respected businessman and my mother an teacher before she retired," Pamela said.

"Well, we will need access to all of your parent's papers and of course, your family home. By the way, how did you and your friends happen to find that box?"

"My mother died six months ago. I only recently probated her will. That house will remain empty, according to the terms of my inheritance and her will, until I marry. I can't sell it. I'm not sure anyone would want to buy a place where a child's body was kept hidden for twenty-six years," Pamela said.

"That is too bad," Rickards agreed.

"You won't need to get a warrant. I won't prohibit a full inspection of the house," Pamela said.

"Odd. Isn't it? No one ever knows what goes on under the roofs of some homes, do they?" Rickards said, absently.

Pamela knew there had to be more to that box with that dead infant's skeleton in it. She was driven by the fact that her mother's secret was so near and yet so hidden. She wondered if her father knew about it too. She knew they had to consult the Ouija one more time. There were questions that needed answers.

Ken and Phil wanted no part of another Ouija seance. It was left to Jessica and Pamela to try and get answers Pamela needed.

The two women repeated their first Ouija seance in the darkened dining room.

"Ouija, who is the dead child we found in this house?" Pamela asked.

The two women strained to concentrate their minds. The message indicator began to move slowly to the letters "P," "A," and "M." Then, it stopped.

Pamela refused to accept that the dead child's name was "Pam" like her own.

"Did my father know about this dead child?" she asked.

"The message indicator swung quickly to the word "Yes."

Jessica looked frightened out of her mind.

"Who is "PAM?" Pamela asked the Ouija.

The next word spelled out by the message indicator was "Y-O-U."

The flow of communication stopped.

She flipped the lights in the dining room back on.

"Pamela, what on earth is Ouija telling you?"

"Jess, I wish I knew."

"Well, let's organize what we know," Jess said.

"First, you asked who the dead infant was and the answer was "Pam." Then, you asked if your father knew about the dead child and the answer was "Yes." When you asked who "Pam" is, the message was "You."

We must not be reading the messages correctly. We know the dead infant can't be you. At least, one of your questions was answered. Your father did know about the dead infant," Jessica said.

"I don't understand. How could my father and my mother keep such a horrific secret," Pamela asked.

"More to the point, why?" Jessica said.

The two women left the Forrester family home feeling more confused than ever. They were uncharacteristically silent as Ken and Phil joined them for lunch and a trip to a local mall the next day.

"I have to pick up a gift for my sister's kid. You gals have any ideas what a ten year old girl wants?" Ken asked.

"Jewelry...what else!" Jessica and Pamela said, in unison, laughingly.

The four stopped at the jeweler in the mall. Something caught Pamela's eye.

"Jess, look. That pendant over there. My mother had one just like it," she said.

"What happened to it?" Jessica asked.

"I...hmm..oh wait. It's in a lock box in the bank. Gee..I nearly forgot all about that with all of the other things that's happened since my ..." Pamela's voice trailed off.

"Well, maybe you need to go check that out on Monday at lunch time. Do you know where the bank is?" Ken asked.

"Yes. It's in town. I can get the lock box out and be back to work before my lunch hour is over," Pamela said.

It's hard to believe I completely forgot about my mother keeping a lock box at the bank. Now, what did I do with those keys the lawyer handed me when he read my mother's will? Pamela thought.

She searched her apartment for the small brown envelope with several keys in it. It was gone. When she arrived at work on Monday, she searched her desk. The keys weren't there either.

There's just one other place they could be...at my parents' house. I must have left them there the day I retrieved my mother's papers for the lawyer. Drat. Now, I'll have to go back to the house again, she thought.

Pamela didn't like being alone in the house now that her mother passed on. It seemed more like a huge tomb to her. She drove up to the curb and paused in her car for a moment. She stared up at the brick house with its black shutters and black wrought iron rail steps.

Instantly, she was reminded of how many years she and her mother lived under that roof with that dead infant's body. She shivered and started for the front door. She planned to make her visit to the house as short as possible. The keys could only be in plain sight. She knew she would have momentarily placed them on a table somewhere in the house...probably the living room coffee table, dining room table or server or the kitchen table.

She flipped on the light in the living room and began her search. She heard the tinkling of that gold bell in her mother's room.

What on earth is that?

"Is someone here?" she called out.

The house was silent as the tomb she'd imagined it to be.

She called out a second time with no reply.

I'm not going crazy. I know I heard that bell, she thought.

She flipped on the light in the hall, the dining room and the kitchen before going to her mother's bedroom. If there was someone in the house, she wanted to make sure she saw whomever it was.

Frightened to her marrow, she turned on the light in her mother's room. It was as she'd left it the day her mother went to the senior care center. The gold bell was still in its place on her mother's night table, as it always had. Beside it were the keys to the lock box.

That's odd. I never came into this room the day the lawyer handed me these keys. I'm certain I didn't, she thought.

She retrieved the keys quickly and hurried out of the room. Again, she thought she heard the bell.

"Damn that bell! I know I heard it. Am I going crazy?" she said aloud.

The next thing she heard was a crash. She rushed back to the room and flipped on the light switch again. The bell had crashed to the floor and rolled beneath her mother's night table. She knelt down on all fours to retrieve it and noticed something taped to the underside of the night table. She pulled at it until it came away.

An envelope? Why is there an envelope taped to the night table? She opened the envelope with her hands shaking.

Inside the envelope were four old, black and white photos of her mother and father each holding an infant. She turned the photos over. Her mother wrote the dates the photos were taken on the reverse side of each photo. The dates were all one month after Pamela's birth date.

She placed the bell back on the night table and hurried out to her car with the envelope and keys to the lock box in her hand.

Back in her apartment, Pamela studied the photos. There was only one conclusion she could draw: she was a twin. Was that what the Ouija board was trying to tell her? That she was once a twin? But then, why bury a dead infant in a box and hide it then? Nothing made any sense.

Pamela decided to take the next day off. She felt nauseated and her nerves were on edge. She knew she had to get to the bottom of this. She heard the phone jangling and jumped.

"Hello?"

"Pam? You okay?" Jessica asked.

"No. I'm not feeling so very well," Pamela replied.

"What's wrong? You need me to take you to the doctor?" Jessica asked.

"No. Nothing that serious. I...uh...just feel queasy and jittery," Pamela said.

"Well...get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow...if you're feeling better," Jessica said, ringing off.

Pamela showered and dressed and drove to the bank. She had to get that into that lock box. She couldn't help feeling there was something in that box she needed to see.

She stopped at the clerk's desk and asked for the lock box. When it was brought to her, she was allowed to use a private room to view the contents.

She pushed the key into the lock and heard the click. There wasn't much in the box, just a pendant that belonged to her mother, an envelope and a folded sheet of paper. She unfolded the folded sheet first. It was a birth certificate with her name on it.

That can't be. I have my birth certificate, she thought. She opened the sealed envelope and read:

Pamela,
If you have found this envelope, you've likely found the other box. Please don't hate me or your father for what we've done. I was just a young, foolish woman with dreams in my head and stars in my eyes when I met your father. I suspect by the time you find this envelope, you will be of an age when your father and I are long deceased and you will understand.

Your father was always such a busy man when first we married. He was so happy that he was to be a father. I couldn't shatter his happiness by telling him the twins he believed were his, were not. It's a long story and one told many times by other women, many times before.

James Forrester is not your father. The man who is your biological father died shortly after he was drafted into the military and conscripted into that awful war in Asia. By the time I discovered he was dead, I discovered I was in "trouble."

An unmarried, pregnant woman in those days was still a huge stigma. It meant uncertain futures for fatherless children and constant shunning by family and friends for the unmarried mother. Neither of my parents would have allowed me into their home, nor would they have supported me. I met James Forrester by accident and he was quite taken with me. We married in haste for obvious reasons.

You may wonder what happened to your twin sister. Pamela was two months old when James came home one night drunk. While at a business meeting, he met another businessman who knew your biological father.

We argued over and over that night. He refused to see reason and threatened divorce. I hoped he would think twice about that for the sake of both of you.

Pamela was a fitful infant from birth. She suffered from virulent colic your pediatrician could do nothing to relieve. That same night, Pamela was in her crib, in another of her colicky episodes and you were in yours. Her colicky screams always sent shivers down James' spine.

In his anger, he went into the nursery and lifted Pamela out of the crib and threw her face down onto the crib mattress. She stopped crying...and breathing...James stormed out of the house without realizing, the force with which he'd thrown Pamela injured her neck and caused her to suffocate.

I didn't know what to do. I covered poor little Pamela's body with her favorite blanket.

James returned home and I told him what happened. He refused to call the police. He placed her little body in that box in which you found her. He hid her somewhere in the basement. He refused to tell me where.

I tried searching for it and after a few months, gave up.

James was insistent he would not have the "my whole dirty affair" destroy his reputation or his business. The night this happened, I was wearing the pendant you admired as an infant. Fearing you might suddenly remember that night when you were older, I put the pendant in the lock box.

After a month, James felt guilty for what he'd done. To cover up what happened, he lied to anyone who asked about the other "twin." He began calling you "Pamela" when you were still a baby.

It was as if he wanted to erase what he'd done entirely. By the time you started school, you became Pamela Forrester. No one ever knew you were Pegeen Forrester when you were born except James and I.

It was easy to fool neighbors. I'd had a difficult birth experience and didn't leave the house until after that incident. We were new to the neighborhood and James was the kind of man who didn't like others to "know his business," anyway.

No one but James and I knew what happened to Pamela. You may recall that your father seemed distant to you and I most of the time. Now, you know why.

After he died, I went down to the basement determined to find the box with Pamela's little body in it. He'd hidden it in the one place he knew I'd never look: the back of the closet under the stairs. He figured since I always used that closet to store my canning jars, I'd never look behind the small shelf in that closet where he stacked old books and magazines. By the time I discovered it, you were already in high school. I got rid of the books and made a sort of shrine to Pamela.

Whenever you were away at school, I'd go down and light a candle and say a prayer for her. I know this was wrong. But, it was all I could do, absent a proper burial and a grave, to pay my respects and keep her in my thoughts.

Always, whenever I'd look at you, I would see Pamela. You were a constant reminder of the secret I kept from you.

What you do with information after all these years is entirely up to you. I suspect, you will keep this family secret as James and I did to protect your good name. I ask only that you forgive us for this deception.

Love,
Mother

Pamela felt dizzy and fainted. When she came to, the bank clerk was fanning her face.

"We've called for an ambulance," the clerk said.

"No, don't bother. I've not been feeling well. I'll see my own doctor, thank you."

As she drove to her apartment, her hands shook on the steering wheel.

I'm not Pamela Forrester. I'm Pegeen. I had a twin. I always felt as if there was someone looking over my shoulder, she thought.

When she arrived home, she walked past the dresser in the foyer and noticed the Ouija board. She flung it across the room angrily.

"The man in the hobby shop was right. I should never, ever, have played around with a Ouija board," she muttered.

Wicked Evil Child

   

            Henry Jolen was a wayward child. His first days on planet earth were filled with the sounds of screaming…his and his mother’s. His infant screams were a result of virulent colic. His mother’s was a result of being bashed by his father.

            Lincoln, “Link,” Jolen was a man possessed. Little wonder he would raise a son in his own image and likeness. He refused to call his son Henry and slugged his wife any time she dared call their child, “Henny.”

            Daria Jolen met Link in high school. He was the tall, handsome football all-star who hid a horrible secret: he was aroused by the sight of blood. Never his own, of course.

So while he was a blocker in play during games, it mattered little if he mashed the opposing team and drew buckets of blood unnecessarily.

By senior year of high school, Link got tired of getting penalties and withdrew from the team…and basically, from life.

            His old man was certain his son would be the football star he wished he could have been. When Link lost interest, his father lost interest in his son. He demanded Link get a job or enlist in the military. Link chose the military.

            The military was perfect for a blood thirsty vampire like Link. Now, he could do all the blood letting he wanted and who’d stop him? He favored learning to handle a military rifle and was a marksman.

He knew his way around the jungles of Viet Nam like the back of his hand. He delighted in blasting human bodies of his enemies. Nothing pleased him more than to shoot and then watch as body parts flew. One shot was never enough for Link. Most of his victims were shot enough times to be human Swiss cheese.

            The day he was caught in an enemy trap, he and his men knew they were under siege. Link didn’t really care about his life or his men. He cared only about annihilating the enemy. He became human artillery.

            In battle, he diverted his attention for a split second and was shot in the leg. Instead of retreating, Link surged forward, spraying everything in his path. When he was done, he’d shot half a dozen Viet Cong.

            But, that wasn’t enough. He drew out his army knife and slit the throat of one of his dead victims. He stood there watching blood ooze from the man’s body with a sly grin on his angular, tanned face.

            His leg injury wasn’t serious. He railed against the military for refusing to allow him to be re-deployed.

The seeds of Link’s wrath were insatiable. He was returned to the states and to the father who now felt a certain pride in the son who earned himself a Purple Heart.

            Daria Morton was young, foolish, naïve and quite taken with the former military vet with the slight limp. The minute she laid eyes on him, which was at the diner where she worked, she knew she had to have him. What she couldn’t know was he’d have more of her than she ever imagined possible.

            The first clues of Link’s inbred violent nature came on their honeymoon. Daria wanted to honeymoon in Barbados. Link pressed his own way and they honeymooned in a small town motel for two days.

            Link hated the sight of all women, though he realized they had their “purpose.” He wasn’t particularly fond of kids. Marriage, to him, was more a matter of convenience than conventionalism.

            Daria’s foolish ideas of romance ended the first time she prepared Link a dinner of meatloaf. She set the table complete with candles. When he walked in from his job at the local paper mill, she could tell he was not in a good frame of mind. Lately, he rarely was. She tried to think what it was that could have changed everything in their marriage so quickly.

            Truth be told, nothing about Link changed. Everything about Daria would.

            “What the hell is this garbage you are serving me?” Link snarled.

            “It’s meatloaf. I thought meatloaf was one of your favorites.”

            “This is meatloaf? It’s not even fit for a dog. If you can’t cook, I’m going to have to show you how,” Link yelled.

            He picked up the platter of meatloaf and tossed it violently on the floor. Then, like a caged animal let loose, he stalked toward his wife and began beating her until her lips were bloody and she had a huge cut on her forehead.

            “Link! Stop!” she screamed.

            “Don’t tell me what to do! EVER! You hear?” he screamed.

            “Link, I’m pregnant. Please…don’t!”

            “Pregnant? Whose kid is it? It can’t be mine. I can’t stand the sight of you!” he said.

            “Link, I don’t leave the house. You insisted on that, remember? Whose child could it be? I haven’t seen my parents, my siblings or any of my friends since we married,” she said.

            “Oh, stop your whining. I hate the sound of your voice.”

            Link was momentarily distracted by what Daria told him.

            She’s pregnant. Now, I can’t leave. She planned this. If I beat hell out of her, she might lose the baby and then I’ll be free, he thought.

            Somewhere in his defective brain, he also realized he could go to jail if Daria lost the baby and had to be hospitalized.

            He walked out the door and slammed it so hard wood shards flew from the frame.

            Daria sat on the floor where Link shoved her and cried buckets of tears. Already, she knew she couldn’t raise a child with a man as violent as Link. She’d stay with him long enough to have the baby and then…then what?

            Try to raise a child on a waitress’s pay? Try to keep a baby and work?

            Oddly, when Henry Jolen was born, Link seemed truly proud. He spent more time at home and less time away with his “friends.” He ran the household and the care of his son like a drill sergeant. Daria lost all validity in the household. 

            The baby was fed, bathed and diapered when Link said so. No questions dare be asked.

            He demanded his son be called “Hank” and not Henry from the time the child was an infant. He also saw to it Hank did just as he pleased and ignored his mother in the same way Link ignored her. Link was building an example of how to raise a wicked, evil child.

            By the time Hank was six years old, Daria was called a dozen times to school for Hank fighting with the other kids and destroying school property, mostly the books he hated intensely. He’s already ripped most of them to shreds in fits of anger. Every morning, getting Hank ready for school was a nightmare. He’d kick and claw at Daria who tried to get him dressed and on the school bus. He fought her so hard, the school bus driver, John Delaney, literally lifted the boy by his collar and plopped him hard into a seat nearly every day.

Hank brazenly related his “adventures” to his father, whose chest swelled with pride at how much power his son had amassed over his classmates.

            Hank’s second grade teacher, Mrs. Kennedy, demanded to see his father and emphatically stated, that Daria, not be present. Mrs. Kennedy was fully aware of Henry Jolen’s attitude. She’d been a school teacher for over 15 years and knew that the deflated, defeated, fearful Daria couldn’t possibly be the example Henry Jolen was following after.

            Daria suffered one of the worst beatings from Link when she announced Hank’s teacher, Mrs. Kennedy, demanded to see him, not her. This beating would be Daria’s last.

            They’d had to move out of one apartment after another in their early marriage, for the complaints by other renters over screams and beatings they’d hear nearly every day coming from the Jolen apartment.

            Link Jolen figured out it was probably best to “take his personal business where the noses of other wouldn’t interfere.” And…by coincidence, where he could beat his wife as often as he wished.

            This time, Daria endured a broken arm when Link shoved her to the floor in plain sight of their son. Then, as if possessed by a demon, Link stepped hard on her right arm until he heard the sound of the bone breaking. Satisfied, he grabbed his son and they headed out to the field behind their house to do some “shooting.”

            Daria lay on the floor in agony. She knew no one cared. How could they? No one ever came to the house from her family. It was as if Link made her vanish into thin air.

            “Did you hear that bone crack, son?” Link asked, enthusiastically.

            “Yes sir, I sure did. It was like a twig snapping,” Hank said.

            “Shows you how a little pressure in the right place can overcome your enemies,” Link said.

            Hank had absolutely no sympathy for his mother. He considered her useless and only good to cook their meals, keep their home clean and do their laundry. In his childish mind, Daria got what she deserved for being inferior to the men in her household.

            Daria didn’t wait for her broken arm to heal. Her life was hell and she either had to run away or…end it.

            She was never allowed to have a single dime in her possession. Link managed all the money. Where could she go without any money?

            Her mind spun out of control. She walked out the back door to the old shed. She threw a hemp tow rope over one of the shed beams and piled several wooden crates atop each other.

            Death cannot be worse than life, she thought.

            My death is the one thing Link can’t control.

            Daria Jolen climbed atop the crates, placed the rope around her neck and kicked the top crate out from under her. Her body swung slowly like a pendulum on a clock.

            “Daria! Daria! Where the hell are you!” Link said, when they returned from shooting practice.

            Link knew something was amiss. The house was deadly silent. The lamp in the living room was off and no supper was on the stove.

            His fear was she took off.

            “Hank, go upstairs and see if she’s up there,” Link said.

            “I’ll check around the back of the house,” he added.

            “Okay, Pop.”

            Hank searched the two upstairs bedrooms. His mother was gone. He smartly checked the hall closet where their suitcases had been kept since they were last used…on his father and mother’s honeymoon. He opened the closet door and the luggage sat on the floor with a one-inch coating of dust.

            She’s not up here. Maybe, Pop found her, Hank thought.

            He hurried out the door.

            “She out here, Pop?” he yelled.

            “Not a sign of her…yet…if she knows what’s good for her, she’ll stop this game,” Link said.

            Link noticed the shed door was slightly ajar.

            “Shhh…I think she’s hiding in the shed,” Link said, whispering.

            Link opened the door. As twilight filtered through the darkness of the shed, they saw the body hanging there, one forearm bent awkwardly in half.

            “Damn her!” was all Link could say.

            “Should we call the cops?” Hank said.

            “No. We don’t need no cops sticking their noses in our business. We’ll bury her out in the field. No need for a headstone we can’t afford, son.”

            Hank grabbed two shovels from the side wall of the shed. Link cut the body down, cursing Daria for wasting good tow rope.

            Daria Jolen was buried beneath the black soil of the woodland field. Link covered the site with dried leaves.

            “We’ll cover it in the morning with more straw…in case the body starts to stink,” Link said.

            Link Jolen and his son went back to the house.

            “Guess, we’ll have to scramble eggs for our supper tonight. You see how crazy women are? Can’t take punishment even when they asked for it,” Link said.

            Hank shook his head in agreement.

            Problem was that Link still had to meet with Hank’s teacher.

            “Listen boy. I intend you should tell your teacher that I’m too busy to meet with her. You keep your nose clean for a while. She’ll forget all about whatever it was you did. Then, when the times right, you can get even with the boys in your class who ratted you out to the teacher,” Link said.

            After Daria’s death, life at the Jolen house was endless days of Link trying to find work and staying between jobs by selling off what remained of his wife’s possessions.

            By junior high, Hank busied himself bullying boys. But now, he added girls to the list of “enemies.” One in particular, Lula Janssen, was the subject of his attacks. He hated her enough to make her school days a nightmare.

            He tripped her on the school bus so many times; her shins were purple from the bruises. He really wanted to do more. Lula was moved to another class, at her parents demand, to get away from him.

            He waited for her behind the school building. Lula took to exiting classes by a back door to avoid Hank. This day, Hank planned to get even with her for avoiding him. As Lula turned the corner of the building, Hank lay in wait. He bashed her over the head with the corner of his history book.

            Lula screamed, as blood ran down the side of her face.

            My old man is right. There’s nothing prettier than the sight of blood on a woman’s face, he thought.

            Lula ran as fast as she could. Hank ran after her.

            “Lula, I was just joking,” he said, feebly.

            Arnston Janssen saw his daughter running toward him…with blood running down her face.

            “Lula…what on earth?...” he started.

            Then, he saw Hank Jolen running toward his daughter.

            “One step more you little beast and I’ll kick your butt in so far, you’ll have a crater on your brain,” Janssen said.

            “I ain’t afraid of you. My Pop will beat you to a pulp,” Hank said, belligerently.

            “You get away from us. You are just like your old man. I’m reporting you to the police. Then, let’s see how belligerent you’ll be.”

            “The cops…the cops? And what do you think cops will do?” Hank said.

            “Lock you up, that’s what.”

            Hank wasn’t so sure Lula’s old man wasn’t right. He started to swagger off slowly.

            Arnston and Lula sped off to the Herron Police Station.

“I’d like to report an assault on my daughter,” Janssen said.

            “Your daughter? Where did this happen?” the desk sergeant asked.

            “When she was coming out of school. That damn Jolen kid stalked her outside the school and hit her over the head with a school book.”

            “You sure it wasn’t an accident?” the sergeant asked Lula.

            “Oh yes sir. I’m sure. Hank Jolen has been in trouble at school since first grade. Lots of parents report him. But, his father refuses to go to school when he’s called in about Hank’s behavior,” Lula said.

            “Okay, I’ll send a patrol car out to the Jolen place. You want to file a written complaint?”

            “Yes. I want him punished. Link Jolen isn’t going to do a single thing about his son. Lock Hank Jolen up if you must,” Janssen said.

            Link Jolen was sitting in the living room reading the newspaper when a patrol car pulled up in front of his house. He immediately grabbed for his rifle and stomped out the door to meet them.

            Patrolmen Jess Rodgers and Ken Lontkin got out of the car and walked toward Link.

            “Put the rifle down, Jolen. No need for that. We’re here about you son, Hank. Is he here?”

            “Anything you have to say to my son, you say to me first,” Link said.

            “We can come back with a warrant if you’d rather,” Jess Rodgers threatened.

            “You can come back with anything you want. I don’t have to do anything you tell me. You’re on my property. Now…get the hell off,” Link snarled, pointing the rifle at the two cops.

            “Ken, call for back up. Looks like the Jolen “Gang” need a night in jail,” Jess Rodgers said.

            The two cops turned to head back to their car. They stood with their arms crossed leaning against their car door, watching Link’s every move. When two more police cars arrived, Jess Rodgers and Ken Lontkin walked slowly toward Link.

Hank watched from the window upstairs.

            “Link Jolen, surrender your son or we’ll arrest you,” Jess said.

            “You ain’t arresting me and you can’t have my son,” Link said.

            Jess motioned to the four back up patrolmen. They advanced toward Link with lightening speed.

            Link desperately tried to fire his rifle. One shot flew into the air and landed in the leg of Ken Lontkin.

            “Link Jolen, you’re under arrest for shooting a cop.” Jess Rodgers said.

            Their backup struggled to get handcuffs on Link. Finally, they had to hog tie him to stop him from struggling, to get him into a patrol car.

            An ambulance arrived to take Ken Lontkin to the hospital.

            Jess was furious his partner was shot. He stormed up the sidewalk and to the open front door of the Jolen house. He and two other patrolmen searched for Hank.

            They finally found him crouching in a hall closet.

            “Let’s go. You’re under arrest for assaulting Lula Janssen.”

            “I didn’t do nothin’ to her. She was picking on me. I was just defending myself,” Hank lied.

            “Tell it to the judge,” Jess snarled.

            Link Jolen spent six months in the county jail. Hank was sent to the State Boys Reformatory for a year. But, he was released early on probation.

            While in he reformatory, he learned quite a few things from the other inmates. When his father was finally released, he blamed his son for being sent to jail.

            If Daria had been alive, she could have predicted the wicked, evil ways her son adopted as if it was normal behavior. Link never was one to be reasoned with. His son, Hank, now saw the value in wicked behavior.

            Hank wanted nothing as much as getting even with Lula Janssen and her old man.

To protect his daughter, Arnston Janssen sent Lula to an exclusive girls' school further south of the state in Bartonville. She’d be protected for at least the four years she’d be away. Arnston would not be as lucky.

As soon as Hank was released, he stalked the Janssen home. After a month, he realized Lula wasn’t living at home. He had so hoped to chop her up into little pieces and shove them under her old man’s nose. Now, he felt cheated out of that pleasure.

Hank had grown as a young adult. He was now sixteen, tall and lanky like his father and had the same shock of chocolate brown hair as Link. But, he looked like his mother. Every time he looked in the mirror, he saw her face in his own.

Was this her final revenge on her son? Hank wondered.

He smashed the mirror in the bathroom until shards drizzled in tiny pieces in the sink below it. He cut his hand slightly and blood poured out.

He drew his hand toward his face to try and get a scent of his own blood. Then, as if playing some bizarre game, he splattered several drops of his own blood in the sink and smeared it around and around in a dizzying pattern. He suddenly felt his adrenalin pumping. His body grew hot and his brain felt as if it was on fire.

He knew what he had to do.

He cleaned up the blood in the sink, feeling sad as it drained away.

His old man finally found a job and was still at work. It was the perfect time for Hank to put his plan into action. Janssen would be a dead man by morning.

Hank went out to the shed to find the can of gasoline his old man kept there to run the lawn mower. With the gasoline can in hand, he returned to the house to find a couple of rags and old newspapers. He tucked these under his arm.

At twilight, he started the walk over to the Janssen property. It was near a half mile from the Jolen homestead.

He waited in the wooded area across the street from the Janssen place.

“Good. Janssen’s car is in the driveway. That means he and his wife are home. Kill two Janssen’s with one gasoline can,” he muttered to himself.

The sun had gone down this autumn evening at 5 PM. Hank’s old man wouldn’t be home for at least another two hours. Hank had two hours to take care of Janssen.

“Agnes, do you smell something?” Arnston asked.

“Yes. It smells like smoke…” she started.

“Agnes, quick call the fire department, my car’s afire!” Arnston said.

He ran out the door just as the gasoline tank of his vehicle exploded, sending metal and glass shards everywhere.

Agnes heard the explosion and run to her husband’s aid.

Arnston Janssen lay a few feet from their front porch.

“Arnston? Arnston?” she called in desperation.

The left side of the porch was in flames and the fire spread to the rest of the house in a matter of a few minutes. Agnes struggled to move her husband’s body to safety. Blood poured out of his wounds and left a trail as she struggled to pull him away from the blazing car and house.

When fire trucks arrived, more than half of Janssen’s house was gone. It took the fire department more than three hours to put it out.

Arnston Janssen was dead before an ambulance could get to him.

Agnes rode to the hospital with her husband.

The next morning, Link Jolen sat at breakfast reading the paper.

“Looks like Janssen got what’s coming to him,” Link said.

“What do you mean, Pop?” Hank asked.

“Had a monster sized fire. Janssen’s dead and their house is practically gone. That’s what he gets for sending both of us to jail,” Link said.

“Does the paper say what caused the fire?” Hank asked, cautiously.

“Nah. Just says the fire chief is investigating it.”

“If it was burned that badly, they’ll never sift through all that mess to find out how it started,” Hank said.

Link eyed his son suspiciously. He stood up at the table in that commanding way he always had.

“What do you know about this?” Link demanded.

“Me? What could I  know?” Hank said.

“Don’t let me find out you had anything to do with this, boy,” Link said.

“Honest, Pop. I didn’t do nothin’. You know that. I was here all last night.”

Link had a feeling and he was never wrong. He thought he’d try another way around this.

“Son, if you had anything to do with this, best tell me now. I am in as much agreement with you about those damn Janssens. I gotta know if you had anything to do with this,” Link demanded, raising his voice.

Hank knew he needed to come clean. Something inside told him to keep silent. He stoically maintained his innocence.

Link went off to work. At midmorning, the cops came to his workplace.

“Link Jolen, where were you and your son last night?” Jess Rodgers asked.

Link hated the sight of Rodgers. He knew Rodgers had it out for him since that last episode that got him thrown in the county jail.

“I was here till seven last night. Ask the boss if you need proof.”

“Where was your son, Hank?”

“How would I know?”

“The chief is at your place now. He’s planning to question your son,” Rodgers said.

“You tryin’ to pin somethin’ on my son?”

“No. We need to know where he was last night around five,” Rodgers said.

“And, I told you I don’t know,” Link said, emphatically.

The chief of police was Henry Lammerton. He’d been on the force for over twenty years. He knew arson when he saw it. Not that this town had ever had much in the way of arson until…the Janssen place went afire.

Lammerton and the Fire Chief, Ray Donnelly, walked up the Jolen sidewalk, rang the doorbell and waited.

“Hank Jolen? You in there?” Lammerton called.

There was no answer.

“We’ll get a warrant to come in. You best answer,” Lammerton continued.

Hank Jolen heard the doorbell. At first, he thought maybe he’d ignore it and they go away. Then, he saw, from the bedroom window on the second floor, the chief of police and the fire chief walking up the sidewalk.

Slowly, he descended the stairs, pretending to be sleepy eyed.

“What do you want?” Hank asked.

“Answers. Where were you last night around five,” Lammerton demanded.

“I was here. Ask my old man when he gets home from work,” Hank said.

“We already asked him. He said he worked last night until seven,” Lammerton said.

“Well…then…I guess I can’t remember. Musta been here watching TV,” Hank lied.

Link’s beat up old car pulled up to the curb.

He strode angrily up the sidewalk.

“You two! Off my property!” Link demanded.

“We’ll be back…with a search warrant. You better pray you can prove where your son was last night,” Lammerton demanded.

“What’s this all about?”

“That fire over at the Janssen’s…it was arson. Set with gasoline.”

“We think your son poured it on Janssen’s car first and then on their house,” Donnelly said.

“You better have proof. My son wouldn’t do that,” Link said.

Link wasn’t going to let a cop and fire chief scare him. He walked up onto the porch and stood beside Hank.

“Get off my property. Now!” Link shouted.

The two men retreated to the chief’s patrol car.

“We’ll be back…with a search warrant and an arrest warrant, if that’s how you want it, Jolen,” Lammerton said.

Link waved them off angrily. He grabbed Henry by his neck and yanked him inside.

“What the hell did you do?” Link demanded.

“I didn’t do nothin’ Pop, honest. Those cops are trying to get me like they tried to get you,” Hank said.

Before he could say another word, Link shoved his fist hard into Hank’s jaw. Then, he shoved his son to the floor and kicked him in the ribs.

“Tell me what you did or I’ll make sure you die like your old lady did,” Link said.

“Okay, okay…I did light the fire. I was getting even with Janssen for what he did to us,” Hank said.

“Look, boy. You need to get the hell out of here and fast. If you’re gone, they can’t do nothin’ to you,” Link said.

He grabbed the boy’s arms to get him to stand up.

Hank was in pain. He knew his old man had cracked his rib.

“I can’t go. My rib is cracked. Where am I going to go? I have no money and no way to get out of here,” Hank said.

“I’ll drive you to the nearest railroad. You hop onto a freight. I’ll give you enough money to get buy. Don’t come back here. Those cops will be sure to watch this place now. This is all your old lady’s fault. Spoiling you like that when you were a kid,” Link said, with disgust.

Hank could barely move for the pain in his ribs. He taped up his rib cage and winced as the bandages tightened.

Then, with Link watching his every move, he packed some clothes and stuffed them into one of the old suitcases in the hall closet.

Link drove Hank to the railroad tracks south of town. They waited until a slow freight car ambled down the track.

“You go south. Best for you. They won’t look for you there. You’ll have to hop the freight and stay aboard till it reaches as far from here as you can get.

When cops came the next day with the warrant, Link wore a Cheshire cat grin.

“Look all you want,” Link said, slyly.

“Where is your son?” Lammerton snarled.

“Don’t know. He musta took off in the night,” Link said.

“Took off where?”

“He’s underage you know. You can be held responsible for helping him to escape,” Lammerton added.

“I don’t know where he is. Like I said, he took off in the night. You can’t prove I did anything. Besides, in a few days, the boy will be eighteen.” Link said.

Lammerton knew Jolen was right. He hated the feeling Link Jolen got off free yet again. They had a search warrant and found the gasoline can in the shed and a few of the rags Hank used to set the fire.

“If you should have any contact with your son, you tell him, he’s wanted for murdering Arnston Janssen,” Lammerton said.

Lammerton searched the rest of the property. They found nothing. Yet, Lammerton knew Jolen had to be hiding something. Maybe, it was just cop intuition; but, Lammerton had a bad feeling about these two. And where was Jolen’s wife when her old man and son were off to jail?

When they returned to the front porch, Link’s ego swelled with pride. He’d done it again.

“One question…Jolen. Where’s your wife? You must have had one,” Lammerton asked.

“None of your damn business. Not get out of here,” Link said.

Why’d Lammerton bring up Daria? Link wondered.

Did he see something out there on the property? She’d been dead more than a decade. There’s nothing but bones under that ground where she’s buried, he thought.

Link Jolen wasn’t the man to keep any woman on his mind longer than he had to.

Women…they had their purpose. That’s the end to it, he thought.

Now, he was alone for the first time in his life. Hank was gone and he wouldn’t be hearing from him again. Unless of course, he made the newspapers.

The local newspaper was full of insinuations about Hank without actually naming him for the Janssen fire. It didn’t take much to figure out that the cops suspected Hank and that, like all cops, they’d search for him till he was found.

Link was right. They’d find Hank. But, not until he murdered again.

Hank Jolen stayed aboard the freight. Along the way south, he was joined by other shiftless men. He had no idea hoboing was still a way for men to escape their pasts.

A few times, he was so hungry, he stole whatever he could from men who brought food onto the freight car. They’d get into brutal fights inside the darkness of the freight car.

Hank stole a knife for protection, he told himself. He knew it wasn’t protection but his thirst for blood. Whenever a man boarded his freight car, he could tell instantly which ones needed to die and which didn’t.

Hank made a game of tossing bodies out of the freight car. This went on for nearly three hundred miles. He left a trail of bodies through nearly four states and back again. Most were cut beyond recognition. Cops in these states chalked it up to homeless men who got themselves too drunk or drugged up and too close to the railroad tracks.

Meanwhile, the railroads were on alert that nearly a dozen male bodies were found near railroad tracks.

Lon Asherton, a railroad supervisor, fumed when the railroad was blamed for the deaths.

“It can’t be. They need to do better autopsies on those bodies. They weren’t run over by trains like they are saying. Some nut is killing them and tossing them from the train. It’s not like it’s never been done before,” he said.

Linus Dealey boarded Hank’s freight car. He’s escaped from Howston Prison. Hank hated him from the minute Linus boarded.

He listened as Linus told him about the railroads getting suspicious of men hopping freight cars.

“How’d you know that?” Hank asked.

“Prison gets newspapers…has TVs …we hear stuff just like you free men do,” Linus said.

Hank realized his days aboard the freight car was coming to an end. He’d been riding for nearly two months. He also knew sooner or later, Linus would remember his face. Maybe…make a deal with cops…if Linus got caught and returned to prison.

Hank gutted Linus while the man was sound asleep. He tossed his body like he did the others. Then, at the next stop, he jumped off.

He wasn’t sure which state he’d got to. He walked to the edge of town. He found a sign identifying the name of the town: Bartonville.

Out of a sense of protecting his identity, Hank stayed away from the center of town where the population was most likely to catch sight of him. He lurked around the railroad tracks by night and slunk around the rear of buildings scavenging for food and drink by day.

What little money his old man gave him had to last. Bartonville was a boring town to a young man like Hank.

He was smart enough to read newspapers people tossed in their trash cans. It was how he kept one step ahead of cops. He was amused when he saw the news report on the death of Linus Dealey and not so amused when investigators claimed the number of dead bodies near railroad tracks were beginning to seem linked to a possible serial murderer.

Serial murderer! I’m much more talented than any serial murderer. I made sure those bodies were unrecognizable before I tossed them. A petty serial murderer wouldn’t have taken as much care to mess up their identities as I did, Hank thought.

After about three weeks lurking around Bartonville, Hank saw less and less of his name in the papers. It gave him a sense of security.

One place he could count on for food was the trash at Bartonville College. Some days, he’d find whole cooked dinners in the trash. And, these weren’t just your meat and potatoes meals either. Often, the school cafeteria threw out whole, uneaten steaks.

Hank didn’t mind a little trash on his steak. He ate one meal a day, usually from the college’s trash bins outside the rear of the Quad kitchen.

Getting to these trash bins was convenient too. It was barely a block from the railroad tracks. More convenient was the railroad shed near the Bartonville track. He broke the lock and slept inside when autumn came and nights were colder.

When railroad utility men found the lock broken, they replaced it with a bigger lock. Hank broke that one too.

These guys are pretty stupid. They keep putting the same kind of lock on that shed door, Hank thought.

Hank always had the idea that he had a superior mind.

Don’t need no college like those kids on that campus. All those books and I’m still smarter, he mused.

One October afternoon, Hank got caught raiding the trash bins.

“You…There! What are you doing?” a young male student asked.

“What’s it to you?” Hank barked.

“You’re a vagrant. You don’t belong here,” the young man said.

“Who says?”

“I say.”

“You want to mix it up?” Hank asked.

“No. I’m going to call the college police,” the young man said.

“Oh no you're not!”

Without hesitation, Hank grabbed the young man by the throat and stuck his knife in his lung.

“Try calling cops on me now,” Hank muttered, as he hurried off.

The next day, people in Bartonville were on the lookout for a scraggly looking vagrant wearing jeans, a dark jacket and a dirty, stained T-shirt.

Hank stayed out of sight and clung to his place in the shed.

Around midnight, he was awakened by husky male voices not far off.

He crept outside the shed on all fours and made haste to the wooded field nearby.

He watched as two uniformed cops search the area with flashlights.

“He’s been here. Look, he must have made a pallet out of old rags and newspapers to sleep on,” one cop said.

“We’ll find him. That college kid may not be dead. But, this vagrant will be when we catch him,” Hank heard another cop say.

So, that kid isn’t dead? Guess I didn’t do as good a job on him, Hank thought.

Hank knew he had to get out of Bartonville and fast. He’d hop the next freight as soon as it passed.

He was angry he might have to sleep in the woods if a train didn’t come pass soon enough.

The cops walked off in different directions. One nearly headed toward the copse of trees where Hank was hiding. He moved further back into the wooded area. He rested against a tree, his eyes growing sleepy.

No. Can’t fall asleep. Got to get on board the next freight, he thought.

Around midnight, he felt unusually cold and realized there was a light snowfall.

As he sat there trying to clear the sleep from his brain, he knew he’d have to return to his old man’s place.

It’s the last place they’d look for me. I won’t even let my old man know I’m there. He’s got that basement storm door. I’ll slip down to the basement. Then, when he’s out, I’ll grab whatever food I need. It’s been a while. The cops in Herron won’t be looking for me now, he thought.

Hank hopped a northbound freight and ended up right back to the town where he was raised. He crept along the side roads and into that field where he and his old man buried his mother.

Something was wrong. His old man’s car was gone. For several days, Hank watched and waited. Maybe, the old man’s car was repossessed? Still, that didn’t explain the old man not being seen in days.

The following morning, Hank slipped into the house from the basement storm door.

My old man. Sure is getting absent minded. How convenient of him to leave this door unlocked for me, Hank thought.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to turn on the lights. He crawled up the basement stairs and looked around the living room. He made his way upstairs to the bedrooms and then back downstairs to the kitchen. In the darkness, he ate his fill and wondered where his father was.

Hank Jolen settled back comfortably on the sofa. A half hour later, he thought he heard a car on the road. He hurried down to the basement, cursing the dark for the inconvenience.

Truth be told, Link Jolen knew Lammerton was keeping him under surveillance. He high-tailed it out of town to an old fishing buddy’s abandoned shack near Creedmore Lake, fifty miles north of Herron.

He’d have to stay there until Lammerton gave up the surveillance. Link knew Lammerton was onto something. What it was particularly Link couldn’t figure out.

Surely, Lammerton doesn’t think Hank would come back to Herron?

Link knew those reports of railroad deaths were the doing of his son. The kid had always been wild, a fact Link was proud of.

The way I look at it, those men aboard the freights got nobody and nobody’s gonna miss them. Hank was doing the world a favor, Link thought.

Lammerton fumed in his office.

“Right under our noses and Link Jolen takes off,” he said.

“Well Chief, maybe that’s good riddance to bad news,” Jess Rodgers said.

Jess Rodgers and Ken Lontkin were promoted to detective only one week earlier.

Lammerton considered their investigative skills top notch.

“Rodgers, you and Lontkin, you need to find out where Link Jolen went. It’s possible he met up with his son, Hank and the two may be holed up together,” Lammerton said.

“That’s doesn’t seem likely, Chief. Two Jolens in the same place…at the same time? Link Jolen wouldn’t be that stupid. Not once in the past two months has his son made contact with him. We had Link Jolen’s phone tapped. The only incoming calls he had were “wrong numbers.”

“Yes. Yes. Tell me something I don’t know,” Lammerton snarled.

Lammerton couldn’t help the overwhelming feeling Link Jolen was as guilty as his murderer son. They’d kept a watchful eye on the Jolen place for months. They also kept a patrol out for the Janssen place. Something deep inside Lammerton’s gut told him Hank Jolen wasn’t finished with his revenge.

Arnston Janssen was dead. His wife lived alone and Lula was away at school. But, the first semester was about to end just after Thanksgiving Day. Lula was sure to come home for the holidays. That meant extra duty for the town’s cops to protect her.

Lammerton stewed over these things.

“Something eating at you about the Jolens?” Rodgers asked.

“Course there is! Mrs. Janssen is living all alone in their home. Lula will likely be coming home soon for the holidays. She’ll be like a magnet to Hank Jolen,” Lammerton said.

“Hank Jolen wouldn’t dare set foot in this town,” Lontkin put in.

“No. He wouldn’t. Not for long, at least. But, he might return long enough to murder Lula Janssen and her mother. This guy’s dangerous. He’d kill those two women in the blink of an eye,” Lammerton said.

Rodgers and Lontkin shot quick glances at each other.

“Chief, the minute Hank Jolen sets foot in town, we’ve got him. Remember, the feds want a piece of him for those railroad murders,” Rodgers said.

“Rodgers, Lontkin…Something’s been stuck in my craw about those two. If Link Jolen had a son, he must have had a wife.”

The two detectives listened intently to where the Chief’s thoughts were headed.

“I want you to hunt down the mother. Ask around town. She must have had some friends, if she lived in that home out there,” Lammerton said.

“Are you thinking maybe those two are hiding out with Jolen’s wife?”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” Lammerton said.

“Find her and I’d bet anything…you’ll find those two,” Lammerton said.

Lammerton couldn’t be more wrong as he and his detectives would soon find out.

First thing Rodgers and Lontkin did was check birth records for Hank Jolen. They found he’d been born in Clayton, two hundred miles north of town to Lincoln Jolen and Daria Morton Jolen in 1969. They moved to Herron five years later when they bought the house on the east end of town where it stands.

Rodgers and Lontkin scoured town records. It looked like police were called to the Jolen apartment in Clayton for “disturbing the peace.”

Clayton cops told Rodgers and Lontkin they remembered Link Jolen as a brute who beat his wife “mercilessly.”

The “disturbances” were Daria Jolen’s screams that neighbors in the apartment complex reported several times. Each time, Link moved to another apartment the same thing happened.

“It’s starting to look like Link Jolen is as violent as his son,” Rodgers said.

“Twig doesn’t fall far from the tree trunk,” Lontkin said.

The two detectives decided to stop at Rolly’s Diner on the main drag in Clayton on their way back to Herron.

The waitress who took their order was as old as Mount Rushmore.

Rodgers had an idea.

“M’am, you seem very experienced. I wonder if you’d mind answering a few questions. I’m Detective Rodgers and this is Detective Lontkin of the Herron police department,” Rodgers said.

“My, but aren’t you two a long way from home? I’m Sadalia, “Sadie” Parker. Sure. I’ll be glad to answer questions. Just let me get your order in. You want fries with those egg salad sandwiches?” she asked.

The two men nodded. Rodgers winked at Lontkin.

“Now what kind of questions would you be having for me?” Sadie Parker asked.

“Did you, or do you, know if Daria Jolen still lives here in Clayton?” Rodgers asked.

“Daria Jolen? Why she was just a little girl when her parents moved into the house next door to ours. Course now, her parents are long gone. But, she has a sister, Annie…wait...Annie is our prep chef here…I’ll get her for you. I’m sure she can answer your questions better than I can,” Sadie said.

Rodgers and Lontkin grinned at each other.

“Slam dunk! My boy, you’ve done it again” Lontkin said.

“Hello, gentlemen. I’m Annie Todd. You asking about my sister?”

“Yes, I’m Detective Rodgers and this is Detective Lontkin from the Herron Police Department.”

“Is my sister dead? Did that brute finally kill her?” Annie spouted quickly.

“That’s what we are trying to find out,” Lontkin said.

“Have you had any contact from your sister recently?” Rodgers asked.

“No one in the family has heard from Daria for nearly twenty years. The minute she married that creep Jolen, he made sure she cut off all contact with her family and her friends. Last I heard, she moved south of here,” Annie said.

“Did you know she had a son?” Rodgers asked.

“No. From what a few of her neighbors in the apartments told us, they never heard a baby crying…only Daria’s blood curdling screams. If there was a child, I can’t imagine how. Cops were to their apartment so often for Link Jolen beating my sister; it’s a wonder she’d manage to even get pregnant or have a child.”

“We found a record of a male child, Henry Jolen, born in 1969 to Daria Morton and Lincoln Jolen. Can you confirm that is your sister?”

Annie’s expression went as white as a ghost.

“Oh my God! She had a son? Wait…is that the Hank Jolen we’ve been reading about in the papers?” Annie asked.

“I suspect it may well be,” Rodgers answered.

“Detectives, my sister is in great danger, isn’t she? That’s why you came to Clayton…to find her? Believe me, if Daria had come here, Link would be hauling her back to …where did you say you’re from? Herron? He’d haul her, by her hair, back to Herron. Daria would never come here,” Annie said.

“Do you have any idea where else she might be?” Lontkin asked.

“Daria had no friends left by the time Link Jolen was through with her. The guy was a Neanderthal straight out of prehistoric caves,” Annie said, shuddering.

“Well look…if Daria should try to contact you, here’s my card, give me a call. It’s as much for her protection as it is to get Link and Hank Jolen off the streets,” Rodgers said.

“I will do that. Detective Rodgers? Link didn’t kill my sister, did he?” Annie asked.

“So far, we have no evidence of that,” Rodgers said.

“He’s a really scary man. The kind you meet who makes your skin crawl and your hair stand on end,” Annie said, in parting.

“Link Jolen’s reputation as a beast precedes him,” Lontkin said, as they headed back to Herron.

“There’s one more thing we need to check when we get back to Herron,” Rodgers said.

“Oh?”

“The property in Herron. It’s likely…even if Jolen bought it, his wife would still have to co-sign the mortgage,” Rodgers said.

“Not if they paid cash for it,” Lontkin said.

“Who pays cash for a home? Besides, even if that’s true, Jolen still had to have his wife sign the deed, even though he bought it cash. It’s just a legality,” Rodgers added.

The two men returned to Herron and went straight to the tax office.

“We’d like to see the deed to the property over on Bradburn Street…owned by Lincoln and Daria Jolen,” Rodgers said.

“It’ll take a few minutes to search for it sir,” the clerk answered.

Ten minutes later, the clerk returned with the document.

“Lontkin…look at this…Jolen signed the deed for her. That’s fraud.”

“No body, no crime,” as the saying goes,” Lontkin said.

“The Chief expects us to find a body and find the criminals. We know there was a wife. We know she lived in Clayton.  We can’t be certain she ever lived in Herron. Not with a forged signature,” Rodgers said.

“Wait. Let’s think about this. She had to do grocery shopping or bring in supplies. There had to have been phone calls she placed when the brute wasn’t around,” Lontkin said.

“I doubt any woman as pulverized into raw meat as Link Jolen’s wife had been, would dare disobey him or risk making phone calls,” Rodgers said.

“Okay. So what other proof is there she lived in Herron in that house?”

“We’ll need a search warrant,” Rodgers said.

“What good is a search warrant if Link Jolen isn’t there to serve it to?” Lontkin asked.

“Right. If the house is abandoned, we don’t need a search warrant,” Rodgers said.

“We don’t know for certain it’s “abandoned.”

“It’s been empty for nearly a month. That’s “abandoned,” Rodgers insisted.

Lontkin shrugged indifferently.

“Let’s go…to the Jolen place,” Rodgers said.

On the eve of Halloween in the late afternoon, rain began to pour down like the sky opened up. An ocean of water came streaming down. Wild winds kicked up and leaves fell fast from the trees.

Hank Jolen peered out the basement window at the front of the house.

Must have been a passing car, he thought.

He saw the rain coming down hard as rocks and satisfied himself that no one, least of all cops, would dare come out to the house in this rain storm.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Rodgers and Lontkin were heading straight for the Jolen place, even though roads were beginning to flood.

As they approached the Jolen property, they saw the water in the wooded field across from the property was already half a foot high and heading out toward the road. The heavy layer of desiccated leaves on the bed of the field wasn’t enough to hold the water back.

“Come on. Let’s get inside the house and search before the car sinks into the driveway,” Rodgers said.

The two men pushed their way into the house.

From below, Hank Jolen heard footsteps. He hid in the metal tool cabinet and listened. His hands shook when he heard footsteps on the basement stairs. His heart pounded in his chest. He felt in his pocket for his knife.

He knew this was a “make or break” moment. He waited until one of the two intruders passed by the tool cabinet.

He slowly opened the door and raised his knife.

“Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?” Hank demanded.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Rodgers demanded.

“Lontkin, over here, hurry,” Rodgers yelled to his partner.

“Lontkin? The guy I slashed once before? How convenient,” Hank said.

He raised his knife in the dark. It swung downward into Rodgers’ arm.

“Put it down! Now!” Lontkin said.

Lontkin held his gun in one hand and the flashlight in the other.

“Rodgers…You okay? Call for back up,” Lontkin said.

When Lontkin flashed the beam of light in Hank’s face, he recognized his attacker.

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding out?” Lontkin said.

Hank remained silent. He was thinking of how to escape without being shot. He knew he had to make it to the stairs to get out the door. But how?

“Don’t move or I’ll shoot. Now...where’s your old man?” Lontkin demanded.

“How the hell should I know?”

“Rodgers, you think he killed his old man?”

The two detectives heard the sound of the ambulance siren and their backup. Hank heard footsteps upstairs. Now, he realized he had NO escape.

Two backup patrolmen handcuffed him and started to walk him up the steps. As they passed through the living room, Hank saw his chance.

He shoved the lamp table hard with his foot and ran for the door. It knocked over the two cops at his side.

He ran as if the devil was chasing him. He ran across into the field. His steps grew difficult for all of the water turning field soil into mush. He ran and ran until he reached the spot where he and his old man buried Daria.

The ground there had begun to hollow and was filled with a two foot layer of leaves. Hank sunk fast into the softened ground. The more he groped, the more he became buried in the pit he and Link Jolen dug.

With a huge gushing sound, thick mud fell over Hank’s head and body until he looked like a monster trying to free itself. The more he struggled, the worse the mud sucked him under.

When he was finally found the next morning, he was buried upright atop a skeleton. The skeleton of Daria Jolen.

Lammerton had felt all along Link Jolen was guilty of murder. Who he murdered, Lammerton hadn’t known.

He ordered the news of finding Daria Jolen’s body out in that wooded field be kept a secret from newspapers until they could capture Link.

Rodgers was hospitalized with a flesh wound, more intent than ever on capturing Link Jolen. The Jolen house was dark and quiet for almost a year.

Link Jolen grew angrier with each day that cops forced him out of his home. He’d lived a solitary life in his friend’s fishing cabin, half starved and more insane than ever.

He cursed Arnston Janssen every hour of every day for starting all this trouble he and Hank had gotten into. He wondered where Hank was. He looked around his bleak surroundings and was like a man driven to the brink of rage.

“I’m going home. I don’t care if they watch me and my home day and night. They’ve got no right to keep me from my property,” he snarled aloud.

Lammerton knew sooner or later Link Jolen would turn up. He hoped it would be sooner than later.

When, a patrol car passed by the Jolen property on Mischief Night one year nearly to the day of Hank’s death, Patrolmen Don Curran and Jim Barnet saw a car parked near the old shed.

The house was dark. Chief Lammerton had insisted they keep an eye on the Jolen house “in case vandals broke in on Mischief Night.”

When Curran and Barnet called in that they saw a car parked on the side of the old shed, the desk sergeant’s ears perked up.

“Go check it out,” they were told.

The two men walked slowly toward the house with flashlights. The vehicle was old. Not likely belonging to vandals.

            They walked around it and saw fishing gear and an old suitcase inside. The doors were locked.

            Link Jolen heard the muffled sound of voices out in the front yard.

            He walked out to the screen door on the porch.

            He saw the patrol car in the distance and the two patrolmen eying his car.

            He hurried toward the opposite side of the house, hoping they’d go inside. Then, he’d make his escape. He felt in his pocket for the car keys.

            The patrolmen went inside the house.

            “Did you hear a car motor?” Barnet asked.

            Both men raced out the door.

Link Jolen was already out onto the main road.

            “First, there’s some unfinished business I have to take care of,” Link said aloud.

            He drove out to the Janssen place. He peered into the living room window.

            “Two for the price of one,” Link said, upon seeing Lula and her mother.

            Link looked around for a window to crawl through. Seeing none, he banged hard on the front door.

            “Who can that be at this hour, mother?” Lula asked.

            “Don’t open it dear. Ask who it is first,” her mother said.

            “Who’s there?” Lula asked.

            She got no answer. Then, she opened the door a fraction of an inch while Link Jolen pushed his way through.

            “Mother! Oh my Lord! It’s Jolen!” Lula said.

            “Can’t be dear…he’s dead. Remember? They found him in his mother’s grave last year?” Mrs. Janssen said.

            “No…It’s Link Jolen…not Hank, mother,” Lula said.

            “Yes…it’s me ladies. What did you say about my son?” Link asked.

            “He came back here last Halloween. The police found him in your home. He managed to escape. But, he fell into his mother’s grave trying to escape in the woods across from your property,” Lula said, hurriedly.

            “He’s dead? My son is dead?”

            “Yes. He must have fallen into a muddy pit where your wife was buried. It was like quicksand. They found him the next morning covered up over the top of his head in mud,” Lula continued.

            Link felt as if his brain was on fire. He raced toward the fireplace as Lula tried to grab for the phone to call the police. Link was faster. He brought the fireplace poker down on her head several times. Mrs. Janssen screamed.

            Blood poured out of Lula’s head as she lay dead.

            Link knew he had to finish the job.

            “You! You and your old man sent me and my son to jail!” Link raged.

            He bashed and bashed at Mrs. Janssen with the poker until the living room floor was running with rivers of blood.

            He heard the police car sirens and knew this time he couldn’t escape. He’d give it his best shot. He held the poker up as cops began stalking up the Janssens’ sidewalk. He swung and sliced the side of one patrolman’s jaw and swung again and slammed it into another patrolman’s arm.

            By the time six other patrolmen finally captured Link Jolen, he was covered in blood spatters.

            He knew he’d go to prison for causing his wife’s suicide, for murdering Janssen’s wife and daughter and for attacking cops.

            When he heard the verdict, he stood there in the courtroom as arrogant as ever.

            “Do you have anything you’d like to say Mr. Jolen?” the judge asked.

            “Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t kill those cops,” Link said, belligerently.

            He was hauled off to the state prison.

            Chief Lammerton sat at his desk satisfied that the Jolen criminals got what they deserved. Justice had been blind…but only for a little while. Now, Justice was finally done.

            “Chief? Did you see this morning’s headline in the news?” Rodgers asked.

            “No. Enlighten me,” the Chief said, sardonically.

            “Herron lifer Link Jolen beaten to death by Aaron Dealey, son of ex-con, Linus Dealey,” Rodgers read the headline.

            “Dealey? Isn’t that the name of the ex con Hank Jolen killed and tossed from that freight train a few years ago?”