While working on the new story “Chew”, I found a lost folder of horror stories I’d started more than 10 years ago. Intrigued by tales I’d forgotten, I started opening files. This one is dated February 8, 2007.
NOTE: this is a classic writer procrastination trap.
I read it quickly at a coffee shop and was pleasantly surprised. There are some quaint things, such as references to VCRs and a payphone, but I’m also referring to my writing style. The double space after a period and using space bar to indent are notable examples. But otherwise, I think it holds up and I could see myself returning to it.
In the spirit of the Halloween season, I present the opening of “Witch Hunt” unedited. I hope it puts you in the mood to write your own thrilling tale, or to sit down in a cozy place with a favorite scary book, movie, music, or video game.
A man in his early sixties sits at his kitchen table, surrounded by the typical breakfast accoutrements: a plated of eggs, bacon, and toast, a cup of coffee, a pitcher of orange juice and a newspaper, which is folded upon its spine to hold open an interior page. Dressed for the pending workday, the man ate casually, reading the paper while keeping an eye on the small white television on the counter. His wife, in a white terrycloth robe, busied herself with the clean-up, while keeping an eye of her own on her husband.
“Looks like we’ve got a nice weekend coming up,” he said. “Be perfect for taking the kids and grandkids out to the lake for a picnic.”
“Yes,” she agreed with a smile. “I saw the same thing on the internet this morning.” She never missed an opportunity to remind him that she was more computer savvy than he.
“How you learned how to work that thing, I’ll never know,” he said, referring to the computer she had insisted they purchase.
“Oh, you know how I like to fiddle,” she said, still keeping her night classes a secret. He has his secrets, she had hers.
A loud beeping from the TV drew their attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, good morning,” interrupted a tan news anchor. “We have late-breaking news and exclusive footage from a breakout in Split Rock prison in upstate Vermont.”
“Split Rock?” she asked, “I’ve never heard of it. Have you, Hank?”
Hank O’Leary didn’t respond. He stared intently at the television, his fork hanging loosely in a hand raised partway to his mouth.
“Hank?” The fork clanked noisily onto his plate as his fingers forgot they were supposed to retain their grip. Only his eyes moved as he looked sideways at his wife.
The news report continued. “Two hours ago, there was a breakout from Split Rock, a forgotten maximum security prison in the small town of Piety, Vermont. Sources at the prison say only one person escaped, but left several inmates and prison personnel dead.”
“Oh my God,” Hank whispered. “She’s loose.”
“She?” his wife asked, beginning a barrage of questions that would make a prosecuting attorney proud. “Who are you talking about? How would you even know anything about this? They wouldn’t have had a woman locked up in a men’s prison. Hank, what is going ON here?”
Hank pushed his chair away from the table. He barked commands at his wife as he left the kitchen. “Sarah, you know that emergency number for my work that I told you to never call? Call it. Tell him I’ll be there in thirty minutes and hang up. Then get my jacket and car keys and meet me by the car.” He hurried upstairs, assuming she would do as he requested. Five minutes later, he was returning down the stairway, carrying an olive drab duffel bag in one hand and a matching backpack over his other shoulder.
Sarah was indeed outside by the car. Her face suggested she was not happy about his treatment of her, and she was not one to let such a thing pass. “Henry, I’m not your servant—I want an explanation.”
Henry opened the rear driver’s side door and placed his bags inside. “Did you call the number?”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“Did you call the number?” His voice crackled with fear, and it was reflected in his eyes as he turned to face her from behind the open door.
His demeanor scared her. In her nearly forty years of knowing her policeman husband, Sarah had never known him to be afraid of anything. She grabbed his shoulder as he shut the door. “I called the number. The man said OK and hung up. Hank. Hank, what is it?”
“I don’t have time! I have to get to Westhaven!” He tried to push past her, but she was as immovable as an offensive lineman.
“What’s in Westhaven? What does it have to do with this breakout?”
He stared up at her. “You don’t understand! She escaped and I have to stop her!”
This caught Sarah off-guard. “Hank, both of these places are far outside your jurisdiction. Just tell me what’s going on!”
Hank used her momentary distraction to push past her to open the car door. He got hurriedly in, slammed the door and moved his hand to the ignition. Realizing he didn’t have the keys, he looked up at his wife, who tantalizing shook the keys at him. Angrily, he rolled down the window. “Sarah, I don’t have time for this!”
She crossed her arms, her eyes blazing with anger of her own. “You will get the keys when you tell me where in the hell you’re going,” she said quietly, making little attempt to keep her tone level. “If you want to save time, take me with you and tell me on the way.”
“I can’t!” Hank was nearly beside himself. “Just give me the keys, Sarah. Please! I have to go!”
Sarah stood like a statue before him.
Hank placed both hands on the steering wheel and stared out of the windshield. He let out a deep breath and then turned to face her. “All right,” he said. “All right. Come here and I’ll tell you.”
Sarah relaxed her stance as leaned toward the car window. “Finally you’re talking sense.”
Hank’s eyes greedily followed the keys as they reappeared and hung at arm’s reach just outside the car window. He leaned toward his wife as though to confidentially tell her something. His arms struck out like a cobra and he snatched the keys from her hand. He was rolling up the window before she realized what was happening. He turned the key in the ignition and looked back at Sarah, who simply stood there, unable to comprehend his actions. Knowing she couldn’t hear him, he mouthed the words, “I’m sorry. I love you.” Then he shifted the car into reverse and backed out of the driveway.
As Hank drove away from his house for the last time, he watched his wife in the rearview mirror, still standing in the same spot she had when he took the keys from her. Despite it being forbidden, if he found an opportunity to call her to explain, he would. But he didn’t own a cell and he knew he didn’t have time to stop at a payphone. He took a last look at his wife, and then returned his attention to the road.
Sarah stood rooted to the spot for several minutes, her mind numb with confusion. Her eyes stared forward, seeing nothing. Finally the call from a bird roused her from her stupor. She searched her memory, trying to remember anything like this happening before. She knew that it hadn’t, but still, it was all she had to start with to try to begin to comprehend what was happening. There was nothing even remotely similar to this.
After a few more minutes, Sarah returned to the house. Not knowing what to do with herself, she returned to the kitchen, coaxing her to get back some semblance of the life that had been disrupted only minutes before. She intended to start the dishes, but the newsbreak was still playing on the television. She pulled out a chair and sat down, putting her hands into the pockets of her robe. She found the cordless phone in her pocket and she removed it, willing it to ring. When it did not, Sarah returned her attention to the news report.
“…we have confirmation of twelve dead and seven missing, making this the deadliest prison breakout in Vermont history. I expect that before this day is over, authorities will be calling this the worst in New England,” the anchor editorialized.
“If you are just tuning in, there has been a breakout at Split Rock maximum security prison in upstate Vermont. Joining us again live from Piety, is ace Channel 5 reporter, Tiger McCauley. Tiger?”
The image on the television split into two screens, the anchor on one side, and reporter Tiger McCauley on the other. He was unnaturally tan, and the price of his tailor-made suit was rivaled by the expense of his dental work. An old prison with high stone walls stood in the background. Smoke rose from the prison and there was a large hole in the facing wall.
“Thanks, Jeff. As we reported first on Channel 5, there are twelve confirmed deaths this morning, though how and who killed them, is uncertain. I spoke to a former warden this morning, and his expert opinion was that an escaping prisoner would not stop to take the time to kill people as he went.”
The anchor interrupted. “What, in his opinion, caused the other deaths, Tiger?”
“Well, Jeff, he said that prisoners often riot when an escape happens. He thought the deaths were revenge killings: prisoner-on-prisoner or prisoner-on-guard.” He paused for effect, then added, “There may have been a few that died during the explosion, though the cause of that is still to be determined.”
“Did the escapee cause that?”
“The Vermont Corrections spokeswoman says they are still looking into it, though some of the wounded eyewitnesses say that the prisoner somehow caused the explosion with her bare hands.”
Sarah looked up as the anchor broke in again. “Excuse me, Tiger, did you say ‘her bare hands’? The escaped prisoner was a woman?”
“That’s right, Jeff, though how or why she came to be in Split Rock has not been explained. And authorities have banned the press from speaking further to any eyewitnesses at this time.”
The dialogue droned on for several more minutes, but Sarah didn’t hear any more. She replayed the morning’s events in her mind, coming back repeatedly to the fact that her husband knew it was a woman who had escaped.
Hank kept both hands on the wheel as he left the onramp and got onto the highway. He pressed the accelerator down firmly and the speedometer quickly edged its way up past seventy. He stared intently at the approaching road, but it was clear he was seeing things beyond the pavement. It had finally happened. The witch was free.
His late-model Buick easily passed eighty as he passed cars here and there, their drivers blissfully unaware of the imminent danger they were in. Hank recited all the steps in his head as he drove, trying to keep his thoughts from straying back to the wife he never expected to see again. So involved with his thoughts was he, Hank nearly missed his exit to a connecting highway.
Ten miles to go.
Wanting to keep up-to-date with the morning’s events, Hank turned on his radio and pressed preset buttons until he found a station reporting the prison break.
“Prison officials are no longer commenting on the identity of the escaped prisoner, only stating that she is unarmed, though extremely dangerous, and that they expect to catch up with her before she crosses state lines.
“However,” continued the voice, “this reporter has just been informed by our crack research staff that we can find no record of a female prisoner ever being housed here or transferred here for temporary holding. In the interest of providing our listeners the thoroughness they are accustomed to, our research staff has gone back through forty years of records and has come up with nothing.”
Hank listened intently as mile marker after mile marker disappeared past his car. “I now take you to Cyndi Webberly, at the county courthouse. Cyndi?”
“Thank you, Jake. I’m at the Wesley County courthouse doing research on the history of Split Rock prison, a prison that until a few hours ago, had remained unknown to most Vermont residents. It’s one of the oldest prisons in the state, dating back to its construction date of 1648…”
Hank looked at the radio. “It’s 1646, you cow,” he growled. “Do your research.” The woman continued talking about the history of the prison, but Hank didn’t hear any more, already knowing most of it and assuming the reporter would continue to muddle the facts. Seeing his exit, he signaled his turned off the highway. He turned down the radio as he searched his memory for directions he had been given more than a year ago. Fortunately, Hank had near-perfect recall, and within a few minutes, he was pulling up in front of a new house just outside the city limits of a town whose name was unimportant to Hank.
He stopped his Buick by the curb and waited, immediately concerned. His contact should have been waiting for him, ready to leave without delay. The old Swiss watch on his wrist audibly ticked away another thirty seconds. Hank’s mind raced as he watched the second hand move. There was no way something could have happened. Only two people knew this address and the importance of the man inside: Hank and the man who had given it to him.
Hank twisted around in his seat and unzipped a pocket in his backpack. He pulled out a heavy object wrapped in an old rag. He removed the heavy revolver and tossed the rag into the seat next to him. He exited the car and kept the engine running.
Sarah hadn’t moved in half an hour. She soaked in every detail, hoping for some clue to her husband’s strange actions. But nothing seemed to help; nothing seemed familiar. Finally, the report was paused for a commercial break. Sarah stared at the television a moment more, then dialed the police station.
“Hey Suzi, it’s Sarah. Yeah, Hank’s wife.” She paused, listening. “I’m fine, thank you. Listen, are you aware of anything going on with that prison break in Vermont?” She paused again. “Yes, I know—terrible. You’re not aware of Hank working on anything up that way, are you? Yes, I suppose he might have landed someone up there. No, I’d never heard of that place, either.” Sarah furled her brow. “No, no big deal. He just left in a hurry this morning upon seeing the report. Thanks Suzi.”
Sarah clicked off the phone with a beep. She stared at it in her hand, trying to decide what to do next.
Hank cautiously approached the front of the house. Quietly opening the screen door, he tried the knob of the main door, not bothering to knock. He quickly entered the house and closed the door behind him. The sounds of children came from upstairs, as did the sound of their doting mother, who was scrambling to get them ready for the bus. Hank paused, looking up the stairs to ensure no one saw him. He then moved on, gun at this side, not giving them a second thought. If something was wrong, things certainly wouldn’t be progressing normally upstairs.
Hank walked toward the kitchen, but the sounds of a television diverted him toward another room. He moved to the doorway of a comfortable-looking den, complete with leather couches and a television the size of Hank’s bed at home. The room was not occupied.
“Honey,” came a voice from around the corner behind him. “Are you—oh my God! Who are you?”
Hank whirled around to see a woman in her early twenties, dressed in a prim business suit with hair that still hung limply after a shower. Guessing her to be his contact’s wife, Hank took a step toward her. “Please listen, I’m—”
The woman’s eyes widened as she saw the revolver and she screamed. Hank raised his hands to quiet her, still holding the gun, and sight of it did nothing to calm her. He cursed quietly, remembering he was a stranger holding a gun in her house. He began to put the gun away. “I’m sorry, I’m just—”
A clicking sound just behind his ear interrupted him. The woman’s eyes moved from Hank’s gun to something behind him and she screamed again. He whirled around and raised his gun in one fluid motion. His eyes first saw the matte-black handgun pointing at him, then at the young man holding it. The weapons were so close they nearly touched.
“Don’t move, asshole,” said the young man in a calm voice. Hank didn’t move, but studied the man. The man’s suit complimented the woman’s, and since they were about the same age, he assumed this was her husband. Further conclusions about the man were interrupted as his wife began to scream again. “It’s alright, honey,” he said. “Take the kids and get out of the house.”
Hank bit his lip—they were wasting time. “Are you him?” he asked in a low voice that only the man could hear. Behind Hank, the man’s wife whimpered as she tried to calm down what sounded like two crying girls. “Are you him?” he repeated.
“Him, who him?” asked the man. “I know who I am. Who the hell are you?”
Hank’s mind screamed obscenities at the man, but his face remained placid. This was not going well, and he couldn’t afford the time or the chance that someone would get hurt. Releasing a breath that suggested he was giving up, Hank began to lower his gun. The man’s eyes, which had been going back and forth between his family and the intruder, finally locked on Hank’s gun. Using the same quickness he had used on his wife, Hank’s arm struck out and grabbed the man’s gun around the trigger. With a simple twist, he had disarmed the man. Using his gun hand, he pushed the man toward an open chair.
“Are you him? The Archer?” Hank’s words were drowned out by the woman’s screaming again.
“What—what did you say?”
Hank kept his gun on the man and repeated, “Are you The Archer?”
“Y-yes.”
“Then please tell Mrs. The Archer to shut up,” said Hank, lowering his gun. “I’m the Anvil.”
Sarah sat on the bed in the room she and Hank had shared for the last twenty years, staring off into space. Every drawer sat overturned on the floor. The contents of the closet were strewn across the bed. The connecting bathroom was in a similar condition of disarray. Sarah had just spent the last fifteen minutes turning the rooms upside down in the hopes that she would find something that would answer the thousands of questions circling her head.
Not knowing what to do next, she used a remote to turn on the small television that sat on a low bureau near the end of the bed. As expected, the news break was still on.
“Here again are exclusive images from security cameras in Split Rock maximum security prison. I do need to warn our sensitive viewers that some of these images are graphic and may not be appropriate for everyone.” Sarah watched as several images flashed on the screen. She didn’t listen to the accompanying narration, but it was unimportant. The images spoke for themselves.
The quality of the images was grainy at best and the television station had selected only those shots that were clear enough to see what was happening. The first image showed the exterior of one of the buildings. The next showed the wall exploding. Then, a figure with dirty hair down to her knees appeared in the center of a gaping hole from which smoke still issued. It appeared to be a woman wearing an old, filthy dress. Her face was lowered, but her arms were outstretched. The next shot was of the woman with a hand raised and a body seeming to fly through the air away from her. In the next shot, the woman continued moving forward as the body flew towards another wall.
Sarah gasped as the next image showing the body hitting the wall, its neck bent at an unnatural angle. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Sarah put her hand over her mouth as she leaned toward the television, trying to see where the woman had gone.
The image suddenly changed again and the entire screen was filled with a horrific face. It was so pale—as though it had never seen daylight—and appeared nearly translucent. The woman may have been beautiful once, but now her features were twisted and gaunt. Her skin stretched tightly against her skull, as though the bony face beneath was trying to force its way through the thin membrane. Beneath where her eyebrows had long since disappeared, her dead, black eyes squinted in an attempt to protect her dilated pupils. Her nose was shrunken and little more than bump with two slits. Beneath that was a gash of a mouth, filled with long, sharp horse-like teeth that were brown with filth. The entire image was framed by a tangle of dirty hair that had not been washed in years. It trailed across her face as though blown by the wind.
Sarah shrieked and lowered her head, seeing the phone she still held in her hand. It reminded her she did have a connection to whatever her husband was doing. She pushed a button on the phone and chose a number from a list of recently-dialed numbers. As she held the phone to her head, she turned as something in the doorway caught her attention.
A man in a black suit and sunglasses stood there. “Where is the Anvil?”
Hank stood near the man nicknamed The Archer, who was still sitting in his chair. The television behind him showed a commercial for breakfast cereal. “Why weren’t you waiting for me outside? We are wasting precious time.”
“I was about to, I mean, I’m ready. It’s just…”
“What?” Hank asked, not trying to hide his irritation.
“The TV, it was showing reports of the escape.”
Hank counted to five before answering. “I know. I saw it, too. Let’s go.” He helped the man to his feet and they moved to leave the room. Then they turned as the news report returned.
“More tragedy in Vermont this morning. Fires spread in capital city Montpelier as, seemingly simultaneously, a swarm of locusts has descended upon the city.” Video of the city played on the screen, attracting the attention of both men. The voiceover continued. “The smoke and estimated millions of locusts have effectively blacked out morning sun over Montpelier. City officials have deemed these events ‘a terrible coincidence’ and denounce any speculation that they are somehow related to the breakout from Split Rock prison this morning. However, this KVJR exclusive home video footage seems to suggest otherwise.”
The image changed to a grainy VHS-quality recording of screaming people running in the streets. At first it appears they are running from locusts. And then a strange figure appears on the screen. Clothed in the dirty remnants of a dress that floated upon the wind, a woman with very long, very dirty hair moves toward the camera. Suddenly, the camera image turns this way and that, as though flying through the air. When it stops, the auto-focus takes a moment to adjust, and then the horrible face of the woman is visible. Her stare freezes the two men to the spot, and then the image turns to static.
The phone rang, making both men jump. The Archer had the phone in his hand before Hank could react.
“Don’t answer it!” cried Hank as the phone rang again.
“But I know this number,” said the Archer looking at the display. “It’s yours.”
The phone rang again. Both men stared at it.
The hair prickled on the back of Hank’s neck. “Don’t answer it,” he repeated.
A heartbeat later, Hank and the man he only knows as The Archer are running from the house, as though chased by the devil himself.
Sarah lies on her stomach, her lip bleeding. She pants heavily and blinks her eyes several times. Her eyes focus on the black shoes of the man that attacked her for no reason.
“Your name is Sarah,” says a cold voice above her. “Where is The Anvil, Sarah?”
“I don’t know,” she responds breathlessly.
“Liar,” the man spits out, grabbing the back of her head and getting her to her feet. He holds her by the hair on the back of her head and stares into her eyes. She stares back defiantly, trying to kill him with a look. “Your bones are brittle old woman. Soon I will be picking your marrow from my teeth.” To emphasize his point, he smiled a horrible smile, revealing two rows of pointed teeth.
“What—what do you want?” she gasped, her strength faltering at the sight of herself reflected in his sunglasses.
“You know what I want,” the man said simply. “I want what is in the Keep. The Anvil knows how to get to the Keep. Where is the Anvil?”
“I-I don’t—”
Knowing Sarah’s answer already, the man didn’t wait for her to finish it. He tossed her across the bed, relishing the thump her head made when it the wall on the opposite side. He walked around the bed and picked up Sarah’s limp body.
Hank was back on the highway, The Archer in the seat next to him. The Buick sped on, going over eighty again.
The Archer cleared his throat. “The, uh, there are usually cops on this road.” Getting no response, he changed the subject. “So you’re The Anvil. I thought you’d be, you know—”
“What?” Hank asked, not taking his eyes off the road. “Younger?”
“Yeah. No. I don’t know,” The Archer stammered. “More like me?”
“I am like you, kid. Just like you,” Hank replied. Just forty years older and taking this a helluva lot more seriously than you are.”
The Archer stared at him. “What are you talking about? You see that stuff in the back seat?” he asked, pointing over his shoulder. “That my gear, ready to go, all the way down to the manual that tells me what to do in case of a situation like this.” He finished with a smug smile.
Hank was not impressed. “The Anvil makes the call,” he recited. “The Archer takes the call. The Anvil comes for the Archer. The Archer is ready for the Anvil.” He looked sideways at the other man. “You were not ready for me. I had to wait.”
“I’m sorry. I’m usually Mr. Punctuality,” said The Archer with a bit of resignation. Then his face lit up. “I thought I could glean some useful information from the news report.”
“Don’t do any more thinking. That’s why we have rules,” retorted Hank. “We follow the rules and everything works out. Understood?”
The Archer knew there was no arguing the point and changed the subject again. “My name is Eddie Brinkman.”
Hank kept his eyes on the road. “It doesn’t matter.” Seeing Eddie’s face sink, Hank softened his tone a little. “Hank Marshall. I’m sixty-two years old, nearly retired. I have two sons, both married. And a wife at home who might be—” he trailed off. “It doesn’t matter. None of who we were matters.”
“Well, it matters to me,” Eddie responded defensively. “I’m twenty-five, have a great job, married to a gorgeous wife and we have two beautiful daughters, Evie and Ava. It matters to me and I’m going to come home safely to them.”
“I hope to hell you do, kid.”
They rode in silence a few more minutes until Eddie broke the silence again. “And I never ever thought I’d hear from you,” he said quietly. When Hank didn’t respond, he said, “So that was your wife who called me, Mr. Plays-by-the-rules?”
“Yes.”
“She know what’s going on, then?”
“No.”
Eddie turned toward him. “Yet you still had her make the call.”
Hank looked sideways at Eddie. “Yes.”
Eddie let the word hang in the air a moment before continuing, hoping, but not expecting, that Hank would elaborate. “Why’d you do that?”
“I-I don’t know,” Hank said, “I guess I wasn’t really prepared to have to make the call.
“Hmm. Why’d she call back?”
“I don’t think it was her.”
This caught Eddie off-guard. “What?”
“I think someone got to her first. I think someone found out or knew who I was, and arrived too late at my house to stop me from reaching you.”
“Wait on a second,” said Eddie, his mind racing as he tried to comprehend this. “You’re saying someone is trying to stop us and now they are at your house with your wife?” He stared at Hank, waiting for the man to respond.
There you go. As a first draft beginning, I’m happy with the flow. Whether I modernize some of the details, I don’t know. There’s something to be said about a world where smartphones don’t make communication and research easy for characters, but we’ll see. I’ve got a few projects in line ahead of this, but hopefully it doesn’t sit, forgotten, for another 16 years.
Good luck with your writing!
Mike
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© Michael Wallevand, October 2023
The Lost Royals 