His grandpa had run into a rock or something and got out to see if he could move it away. The combine was old and stubborn and, much like the old man himself didn’t take kindly to starting and stopping.
Dick left it idling and went to work digging the rock out of the dry earth. His grandson, just a few weeks shy of his eighth birthday, quickly became bored and restless in the cab of the great reaper. All of those levers and buttons started looking a bit too interesting and before he knew it the combine was roaring to life and once again spitting plumes of black smoke into the air.
In no time, the rotating thresher blades began to shuck the skin from Dick’s bones like so much ripened corn from their husks. His screams echoed across and in between the rows of corn, causing great flocks of crows to take flight with shouts of their own. The boy hit the kill switch and jumped from the cab only to find bits and pieces of his grandfather clinging to stalks of corn four rows deep in every direction. The reddened teeth of the reaper smiled menacingly at him as he ran screaming into the stalks.
Now, seven years later, Buck stood staring down into a bathtub filled with…God knows what, and for the first time since that muggy summer night in the cornfield felt his stomach clench, and despite the cold rain clinging to him, beads of sweat spilled over his brow. He removed his Stetson and wiped his already damp forearm across his slick forehead.
The beam from his flashlight rose from the butchered remnants in the tub to rest on the single blood-scrawled word on the tiled wall above. The air whistled out of him in a whisper, “I’ll be God damned…”
His mind raced to connect the dots. At the sight of that word scrawled in blood an odd sensation of déjà vu washed over him. I’ve seen this before, he thought.
As he stood in the dimly lit bathroom on the verge of clarity his world went black, courtesy of a nine-iron to the back of his head.
Lionel’s world was quickly unraveling. Bodies and their assorted parts were now strewn across the entire house. He vacillated between tears and laughter as the voice inside his head screamed instructions. The man from the garage was still alive, although barely so. The steak knife had broken off in his chest. But the garage was full of tools and the screwdriver was sharp and fit nicely in Lionel’s small hand as it tore into the man’s flesh. The lad’s swinging arm had eventually tired from the effort.
The man moaned as Lionel dragged him by his ankles through the kitchen and to the basement steps. It took some effort but he found the strength to kick him down. His limp body rolled to the bottom where it landed with a moist and sickening thud.
Once the first deputy arrived, the voice assured him more would be on the way. Lionel hid in the linen closet and watched through the louvered door as the second officer slowly made his way through the house. The voice screamed in fury as the man passed in front of the closet on his way into the bathroom. Her blood is on your hands! You let them take her! The price for blood is blood!
A short while later Lionel sat quietly on the floor in the twins’ room, careful not to further disturb their desiccated butterfly wings. The golf club rested beside him, its steel shaft twisted and slick with blood. The voice in his head had grown quiet, leaving him alone with his thoughts and quite exhausted.
When Griggs found him asleep and drenched in blood he assumed the boy was merely one more victim. The deputy wrapped the boy’s limp body in blankets and cradled him in his arms until the State Police arrived. Deputy Frank Griggs was the only one to walk out of the house that night. Young Lionel and Sheriff Tanner were brought by ambulance to the small hospital in Cadillac, forty-five minutes north of Bedlam Falls.
While they went north, John Tanner was rushed south by ambulance to the nearest trauma center two hours away in Grand Rapids. To keep
Dick left it idling and went to work digging the rock out of the dry earth. His grandson, just a few weeks shy of his eighth birthday, quickly became bored and restless in the cab of the great reaper. All of those levers and buttons started looking a bit too interesting and before he knew it the combine was roaring to life and once again spitting plumes of black smoke into the air.
In no time, the rotating thresher blades began to shuck the skin from Dick’s bones like so much ripened corn from their husks. His screams echoed across and in between the rows of corn, causing great flocks of crows to take flight with shouts of their own. The boy hit the kill switch and jumped from the cab only to find bits and pieces of his grandfather clinging to stalks of corn four rows deep in every direction. The reddened teeth of the reaper smiled menacingly at him as he ran screaming into the stalks.
Now, seven years later, Buck stood staring down into a bathtub filled with…God knows what, and for the first time since that muggy summer night in the cornfield felt his stomach clench, and despite the cold rain clinging to him, beads of sweat spilled over his brow. He removed his Stetson and wiped his already damp forearm across his slick forehead.
The beam from his flashlight rose from the butchered remnants in the tub to rest on the single blood-scrawled word on the tiled wall above. The air whistled out of him in a whisper, “I’ll be God damned…”
His mind raced to connect the dots. At the sight of that word scrawled in blood an odd sensation of déjà vu washed over him. I’ve seen this before, he thought.
As he stood in the dimly lit bathroom on the verge of clarity his world went black, courtesy of a nine-iron to the back of his head.
Lionel’s world was quickly unraveling. Bodies and their assorted parts were now strewn across the entire house. He vacillated between tears and laughter as the voice inside his head screamed instructions. The man from the garage was still alive, although barely so. The steak knife had broken off in his chest. But the garage was full of tools and the screwdriver was sharp and fit nicely in Lionel’s small hand as it tore into the man’s flesh. The lad’s swinging arm had eventually tired from the effort.
The man moaned as Lionel dragged him by his ankles through the kitchen and to the basement steps. It took some effort but he found the strength to kick him down. His limp body rolled to the bottom where it landed with a moist and sickening thud.
Once the first deputy arrived, the voice assured him more would be on the way. Lionel hid in the linen closet and watched through the louvered door as the second officer slowly made his way through the house. The voice screamed in fury as the man passed in front of the closet on his way into the bathroom. Her blood is on your hands! You let them take her! The price for blood is blood!
A short while later Lionel sat quietly on the floor in the twins’ room, careful not to further disturb their desiccated butterfly wings. The golf club rested beside him, its steel shaft twisted and slick with blood. The voice in his head had grown quiet, leaving him alone with his thoughts and quite exhausted.
When Griggs found him asleep and drenched in blood he assumed the boy was merely one more victim. The deputy wrapped the boy’s limp body in blankets and cradled him in his arms until the State Police arrived. Deputy Frank Griggs was the only one to walk out of the house that night. Young Lionel and Sheriff Tanner were brought by ambulance to the small hospital in Cadillac, forty-five minutes north of Bedlam Falls.
While they went north, John Tanner was rushed south by ambulance to the nearest trauma center two hours away in Grand Rapids. To keep
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