Impatient after the two detours they made the day before, they drove straight through the next day, stopping only when necessary. Even so, it still took almost a full day of driving before they finally reached the outskirts of Crider, Texas. They found a Days Inn just off the exit and ended up settling there for the night. It a higher class of hotel than the usual roadside dump, but Sam offered to pay for it all. He thought it might be a nice way to start off this new chapter of his life.
Plus they had found a cockroach in their last motel room, and he wasn't eager to repeat that just yet.
This time they ordered Chinese for dinner, and they ate from the cardboard cartons – Sam with chopsticks, John with a plastic fork - as they sat around Sam's laptop, looking up information on the town of Crider.
As it turned out, it wasn't difficult to find. Several people had dedicated entire websites to the local and regional lore, providing every detail they've ever gathered. Unfortunately, none of it was substantiated, and the stories and rumors differed wildly from site to site. The only hard evidence they found that held any connection to the stories was one newspaper article, a recent one that most likely explained the reason they were brought there.
According to the varied legends, a settler had arrived to the area in the early 1800s and suffered through a wide range of harsh conditions and misfortunes, including Indian raids, crop failures, disease, freak blizzards, dust storms, bandits – pretty much anything the storytellers could think of. These events drove the person to some version of the dark arts to survive, and he or she quickly became a witch or warlock (depending on the website). This person somehow gained the powers of immortality on top of dark magick, but in return had to perform periodic sacrifices.
Rumors of unnatural or violent deaths had circulated in the area ever since. Some claim those chosen by the witch simply died in their sleep, others said only animals were killed, their guts spread over a stone alter. Most stories however told tales of gruesome murders, of people strung up among trees, slashed and gutted, or of people burned at the stake or hanged from branches. These deaths occurred anywhere from once a year to once every hundred, although most claimed the sacrifice happened only every few generations.
Unfortunately, records back then were rare, if they were taken at all, and newspaper accounts didn't exist for the remote area until 1900, and anything prior to 1970 were lost. Therefore, the websites depended largely on word of mouth, and John didn't need to tell Sam how unreliable that was.
But the newspaper article, dating from just last month, reported a grisly death that mirrored the legends. A woman, Janine Larson, had been found deep in a nearby woods, the apparent victim of a ritualistic murder. The newspaper suggested a satanic cult or a copycat of the legendary figure as possible suspects. Just as in the stories, the woman had been tied spread-eagle between the trees, and someone had carved symbols across her skin with a knife or other sharp object. The newspaper was vague on the details, but judging by the atrocity only hinted at, Sam couldn't blame them for the bit of censorship.
"You think this is your kind of thing?" Sam asked. "Or just some disturbed person, like the newspaper suggests?"
John chewed on the inside of his cheek as he stared at the computer screen. "There's no way to know unless we check it out," he replied. "Either way, I think we can help. We're pretty good at tracking, looking in places the police wouldn't even think of."
Sam thought it was nice of John to include him by saying "we" even though Sam had no experience, but he was nervous John might expect too much from him too soon. "You know what to do then?" he asked carefully, making sure he pronounced "you" clearly.
"Always good to start at the scene of the crime," John replied matter-of-factly. "We'll go first thing in the morning. Take it from there."
ooOOoo
Unlike the Oregon lighthouse and the headless New Mexican, this case proved to be more than a one-day investigation.
They had no trouble finding the woods where Janine Larson had been found. It was the only treed area within miles of farmland and grassy plains. After John chose a suitable place to park, they entered the cooler shade of the trees and began combing the area. They roamed around until they found the site, a search that ended up taking over an hour.
It was hard to miss, though, and once they came upon there was no doubt they had the right place. Even though there was not much left to suggest a violent crime took place there, it was clear that curious sightseers had trampled through to take a look for themselves. The brush was flattened and branches broken, and there were even discarded potato chip bags and empty soda cans and beer bottles littering the ground.
But even before Sam noticed the litter on the ground or the trampled brush, his skin had started to crawl. The air seemed to buzz along his skin, reaching deep into his chest, making his sternum thrum. He shivered as an icy feeling sank in his stomach.
He had no idea what kind of things John would be looking for there, unable to imagine anything helpful being left behind. The month-old crime scene had been thoroughly cleaned, and Sam - as uncomfortable as he was at the thought - figured that anything stained with blood that had been overlooked by the cleanup crew would have long been stolen by souvenir seekers.
Incredibly, they found the two trees the woman had been strung between. They were easily identifiable because rough symbols had been carved into the trunks, four different shapes that formed a vertical line about a foot long on each trunk. They sent a chill through Sam, even though he didn't recognize any of them. Apparently neither did John - he took out a small leather binder and flipped through the pages as if it were a reference guide. Sam realized belatedly it probably was. When he didn't find what he was looking for, John took out another small notebook and a pen and quickly sketched the symbols.
Then Sam noticed a white speck on the ground, an oddly-shaped object with a slight sheen. Picking it up, he was surprised to find it was solid but soft. Melted wax. He showed it to John, who took it from him. The other man scratched it with his fingernail and then brought it up to his nose to smell it.
"Yep, that's from a ritual candle," he remarked. "Whoever did this was serious about it."
Sam shuddered, knowing magic was involved. He could sense it in the air, and that unnerved him. The killer was more than just a sick copycat. That didn't necessarily make it worse, but the whole thing felt more creepy.
"How do you deal with this?" Sam asked. "I mean, I can feel the evil here...How can you face that every day?" The air almost felt like it was slithering along his skin, and it made him queasy.
"You get used to it," John hedged.
Sam frowned. He didn't think he ever would.
"It's harder for some people," the other man added after a moment, speaking lowly. Sam caught him studying his reaction, and he immediately cleared his face. He didn't want John to know he was so bothered.
After they inspected the rest of the area and found nothing else, John dropped Sam back at the hotel, leaving him to research the symbols online while he went to interview a Mrs. Stevens, the woman who had asked him there.
It was nearly an impossible search. Sam had hoped John would know something about the symbols, no matter how insignificant, but apparently he was as clueless as Sam because he left him with nothing. Sam had nothing to go on, nowhere to start, with no way to search by images with unknown names. Instead, he had to search for online symbol databases and rune guides and go through them all, image by image. He was still searching when John came back.
John entered the hotel room with a flourish, waving a manila folder through the air as he burst through the door.
"Any luck?" he asked.
Sam felt himself go bug-eye with annoyance at the mismatched entrance and greeting. Here he was, his vision blurring after hours of fruitless searching when John waltzes in with an obvious find, and yet he had the gall to ask Sam if he had any luck? In one fell swoop, John managed to make him wait for answers and rub his nose in his own lack of results.
"No, not yet," Sam replied irritably. He impatiently gestured at the folder in John's hand, annoyed he even had to ask. "What's that?"
"Hey now, no need to get your panties in a bunch," John remarked tossing the folder onto the desk.
"What is it?" Sam asked again even as he was reaching for it.
"Mrs. Stevens is actually Lieutenant Stevens, a cop. And she came prepared." Sam lifted his eyebrows as he opened the folder. "Crime scene photos," John announced just as Sam was sucker punched by a graphic image of a hanging, bloodied body.
Sam jerked his eyes away, only half listening as John talked over his shoulder. "More symbols to research," he said. "We definitely have a sick bastard on our hands."
"Yeah," Sam snorted in agreement, chancing another look at the photographs. Just as the newspaper had reported, symbols had been carved into the skin on her hands, forehead, stomach, and upper chest, and her body and clothing were streaked with blood.
"Notice anything about these pictures?" John asked, and Sam took the cue to look through the other photos stashed in the folder. In addition to pictures of the entire scene as a whole, there were close-ups of each mark, of the thick, rough ropes that bound her wrists and ankles to the trees, and of the ground below, where the dirt and fallen leaves were splattered with blood. Sam studied the pictures, and the analytical side of his mind quickly overrode the queasiness in his stomach.
"Is it just me, or is the marking on her forehead darker than the others?" he asked, examining the photo of her face. The symbol looked almost black.
John nodded. "Yeah, I noticed that too. Might just be the lighting, or it might be part of the spell. Something we'll have to keep in mind if it is a clue. But that's not all."
Sam hmm'ed to himself as he looked through the stack again. Something struck him then, and he tried to remember what he had read in the article. "Wait," he said. "How did she die?" He studied the ground again, but as far as he knew, the amount of blood that had dripped onto the ground wasn't enough to account for her death. He looked at her body, but didn't see any significant wounds, only the skin deep etchings.
"Bingo," John replied. "They don't know. The best the coroner can come up with is that she died of fright, that her heart just stopped, even though she was young and had no health issues." Sam looked up at him, frowning. "And that pretty much means we have something supernatural here," John finished with a proud flourish.
"You really think we're dealing with a 200-year-old pioneer?" Sam asked him, cocking an eyebrow.
"Maybe. Or some kind of intelligent creature, like a wendigo, maybe even a demon."
Sam let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. "That's..."
"What?" John replied sharply. "That's what?"
Sam had been about to say crazy, and he knew John had picked up on that. "Hey, I'm still getting used to the idea that all this is real," he said defensively. He'd only seen ghosts so far, and ghosts at least were generally more accepted by the public. He could deal with the idea of ghosts existing. But monsters and witches and demons? He knew he had offended the other man, but Sam had a hard time accepting that this - all of this - could truly be real. It was crazy.
ooOOoo
Sam woke up early the next morning, images of Jessica slipping from his mind as he pushed himself up. He tried to hold onto his dream, but the memory was gone before he had a chance. Jessica had been speaking to him, but he couldn't remember if he had been able to understand her or not. He couldn't even remember where she was or what she had been wearing, couldn't remember anything but her.
But it hadn't been a nightmare this time.
Sam sighed and scrubbed his eyes with his knuckles. Even though the curtains had been pulled close, enough light snuck through the edges that he could see. In the next bed, John was still asleep, his even breaths almost loud enough to be considered snores.
So this was his life for now. A cheap hotel room in a strange town. A snoring roommate. A new job that ran the gamut of cheesy horror movies and campfire stories.
And yet, he realized, this life seemed more real to him than the entire past year at Stanford.
Grabbing his overnight bag, he snuck into the bathroom where he quickly showered and changed, hoping the noise wouldn't wake John. When he came back out, he found the other man still asleep, and he shifted on his feet, taking a couple false starts as he considered his next steps. The television wasn't worth risking waking John, and after the research the day before, Sam would be happier not staring at his laptop screen. Then his stomach growled, and Sam remembered the McDonald's across the parking lot. He quickly decided to grab some breakfast to bring back to the room, effectively solving several problems at once.
Unfortunately, his timing was bad, and he hit the restaurant at the height of morning rush hour. Between waiting in line, ordering, and the backup of orders, the fast food took thirty minutes from the time he entered through the door. As he waited, he started to regret not leaving a note. He hadn't counted on being gone for so long. ButJ ohn had no reason to worry – even if he woke up before Sam returned, the most logical assumption would be that Sam had just gone for breakfast.
He balanced the two hot coffee cups and a bag full of various breakfast sandwiches as he weaved his way back across the parking lot towards their hotel. He figured John wouldn't be too picky about food, but he had ordered several kinds just in case.
Once he reached their room, he had to press the cups against his chest with one arm as he unlocked the door. It swung open and he pushed himself through, trying to keep the coffee steady so it wouldn't spill.
John was sitting with his legs bent over the side of the bed. Even though Sam hadn't seen it, his back was in a stiff, upright position, suggesting he had just jerkedupright when Sam opened the door. For a split second he looked up at Sam with wide eyes, but then he quickly schooled his features into an impassive expression.
"Hey," he greeted casually.
"Breakfast," Sam returned, setting the coffee onto the desk with relief. He turned back to the older man and studied him. "Is something wrong?"
"Huh? No," John replied. Sam cocked his head, not believing him. "I just—I thought maybe you'd gone back."
That startled him. "What? Where'd you get that idea?"
"I didn't see your things."
Sam blinked and looked around the room before remembering. "Ah, I must've left them in the bathroom." He frowned and looked back at John. Why had the other man have jumped to that conclusion so easily? It bothered him. "You actually thought I would leave, just like that?"
"Figured you changed your mind," John replied with a stiff shrug. Sam continued to stare at him, but the other man refused to meet his eyes, keeping them instead leveled at Sam's chest. "I know it's not the best life or anything," he went on. "I understand if you wanna go back, you know."
"But I don't," Sam replied. "We're just getting started."
John indicated his chest with a nod. "And you're going to tell me that's not some Freudian message, college boy?"
Sam was confused for a moment before he looked down at his t-shirt. It was a grey one with Stanford printed across in block letters. He hadn't even looked at it when he pulled it from the bag after his shower. "I just threw it on this morning. It doesn't mean anything." John just snorted, and Sam had to snort in return.
"Why're you being so pissy?"
"I'm not being pissy," John replied petulantly.
"Yeah. You are."
John just shook his head and pushed himself up from the bed. "Yeah, well, I haven't had my caffeine yet." Sam smirked as the other man grabbed a coffee from the desk. John took a long, bold sip – making Sam, who was nursing his own steaming hot cup, wince at the sight – and then sat it back down. "'Scuse me," he said. "Haven't had a chance to take a leak yet either."
While he was gone, Sam took the bag of food and divided it up between them, making two equal piles. John quickly returned, and Sam could almost see his mouth salivating at the food. It wasn't gourmet, but it was warm.
As John tore into a sausage egg McMuffin, Sam couldn't let go of his bewilderment. He was gone when John woke up, and his first assumption was that Sam had left him. He hadn't even had the chance to go to the bathroom, yet he had time to jump to that conclusion. "You think the whole world is against you," Sam realized.
John's jaw dropped and Sam could see half-chewed bits of egg and meat. "What?" he said, swallowing.
It started to fall into place for Sam. The evils John faced constantly. Alone. That had to turn even the most cheerful person into a cynic. Added to that is a missing father, which meant he probably had abandonment issues as well. "You don't trust anyone, do you?" Sam asked him. "You didn't even trust that I would say goodbye if I were to leave."
"Well, you didn't seem too happy at the crime scene."
"Can you blame me? That place was awful," Sam replied. "Look, I know we barely know each other, but I wouldn't just leave without telling you first."
"But you would leave."
Sam shrugged. "Yeah, maybe. Someday. But that's no reason to be so paranoid." John clamped his jaw, refusing to say anything. Sam was confused by his reactions. Why did he care so much about what Sam did?
"Did your dad leave without warning?" Sam suddenly asked.
John obviously hadn't been expecting that, and silence stretched between them as Sam waited for an answer. "Yeah," John finally admitted with a tight shrug. "But I should've expected it."
He should have expected it? Sam studied the tormented look on John's face.
"This life really does mess you up, doesn't it?" he realized.
But John shook his head. "No," he whispered, lifting his eyebrows. "Not me. Just everyone around me."
"Dude, you are messed up," Sam told him, trying to sound a little bit cheerful. "But that's okay, I'm pretty messed up too."
"I'm fine," the other man practically growled in response. Sam almost laughed at that obvious lie. He could name so many ways in which he was wrong, but he decided to begin with the one that had started the conversation.
"But you don't trust people," Sam pointed out. "I don't blame you, not after all you've seen, but you gotta admit-"
"No," John interrupted vehemently. "That's not it at all. If anything, I'm the one..." But he stopped.
"You're the one what?" Sam pressed, curious.
He looked down at his hands and took a deep breath. "Sam, I..."
When he didn't finish right away, Sam stared hard at him. "What is it?"
The older man seemed to stiffen. "Nothing. Never mind," he replied, his Adam's apple bobbing.
Sam sighed, frustrated. But whatever was bothering him would have to come out eventually.
To be continued...