The Horror of Devil's Root Lake Read online

  Or maybe I'll just end up losing my mind.

  Leaning back on the bed, I close my eyes for a moment and try to reset my head. I have no idea of the time right now, but I've been working for several hours and I haven't made any breakthroughs. Then again, I haven't made a real breakthrough all year, and I'm starting to think that the trail might have run cold. Maybe my search is at an end, and I'm simply a failure.

  “Don't give up,” I whisper.

  I take a deep breath.

  “You'll find something eventually,” I continue, trying to give myself a little impromptu pep-talk. “You will!”

  I pause, holding my breath, and then I sigh.

  How many times have I felt like I'm at the end, only to find some new thread I can pursue? Maybe I'm just desperate, but maybe – just maybe – I still have a chance.

  Sitting up again, I take another look at the map, where I've used yellow dots to make all child deaths in the country over the past decade, and red dots to mark the cases where there's some hint of the strange man's presence. This map is the centerpiece of my work, it's the connector that's supposed to tie everything together, but lately it's been getting more and more complicated without actually revealing anything useful. Sometimes I think I should just remove all the dots and start again, but then I'd be admitting that the past few years have been wasted. Deep down, I'm certain that I must be missing something.

  “There's a pattern,” I whisper to myself. “I just have to see it.”

  The problem is, I've been staring for years at this map, and all I see are random dots.

  “Where are you?” I mutter, hoping that I might suddenly see a central location, a place the man returns to time and again. “Where do you go?”

  Suddenly someone knocks on the door. I look over, convinced that the motel manager is probably here to bug me again. I really don't want to be rude, but at the same time I can't let him distract me from what I'm doing.

  “I'm fine, thank you!” I call out. “I really don't need anything!”

  Another knock.

  “Emily Carter?” a woman's voice says, sounding a little hesitant. “I'm sorry, but... I need to speak to Emily Carter.”

  I pause for a moment, before clambering off the bed and making my way cautiously toward the door. Taking a look through the peephole, I see an elderly woman waiting outside. She looks to be in her sixties, maybe even her seventies, but that still doesn't put me at ease. After all, I wouldn't put it past Craig to send someone like this to track me down, thinking that I might be more easily caught off-guard. He very nearly got me in Denver, and since then I've been borderline paranoid.

  “Miss Carter?” the woman continues after a moment. She looks into the peephole, as if she can sense that I'm here. “I'm sorry to disturb you, but it's very important. I believe you spoke to my daughter Alison this morning. Alison Mackenzie?”

  This could still be a trap.

  “I'm afraid I was rather devious,” she adds tentatively. “My name is Jeannie. Jeannie Mackenzie. One of Alison's neighbors noted down the details of your car, you see, and I decided to drive around some of the local motels, hoping to find you. And finally I... Well, I've spent several hours trying to track you down, and I can only ask that you at least hear me out. It's very important that I speak with you.”

  Damn.

  I'm still not convinced that I believe her, but I can't send her away. I guess I just have to take the risk. Besides, if Craig sent her, I can still get away.

  After removing the chain, I pull the door open a little and peer out, just to make sure that this woman hasn't brought anyone else with her. I look toward the office, then across the parking lot, then over past the fast food place, but I don't see anyone watching the place. I probably already look like a paranoid lunatic, but I can't take any chances. Craig's men can show up anywhere, at any time.

  “Miss Carter,” the woman says, with tears in her eyes, “I know you must be tired, and I know you're probably very busy, but... I believe you spoke to Alison earlier, and I'm afraid she might not have been very honest with you. Please forgive me for tracking you down, but it's vital that I tell you the truth. Alison won't ever admit what really happened to poor Daniel, but if you're serious about investigating these deaths, I feel you should know everything.”

  She pauses, as if she's waiting for me to let her inside.

  “Please,” she adds. “It won't take long. Even if you end up thinking I'm a mad old woman, I can't leave until I've told you what I know. I could never forgive myself.”

  “The place is a mess,” I reply. “Do you mind waiting while I tidy?”

  She looks past me, toward the bed where all my papers are strewn across the sheets.

  “I've seen worse,” she says with a faint smile. “Please, Miss Carter, this is about what happened to Daniel. And maybe to a lot of other children too. It's about the man who watches them die.”

  Stepping back, I let her into the room. She steps past me, staring at the bed, and I can only assume she must think I'm completely crazy. I wouldn't blame her, either. If I walked into someone's motel room and saw papers everywhere, and maps with scrawled scribbles, and old soda cans on the floor, I'd probably think they were crazy too. All I'm missing is a tin-foil hat.

  “You're taking the whole thing very seriously,” she says after a moment, turning to me. “That's good. Someone had to. I'm sure there's method in your madness. Well, not madness, but... How long have you been doing this?”

  “A few years,” I reply cautiously. “Five.”

  “Since you lost your own child?”

  A shudder passes through my chest.

  “I'm sorry,” she continues, “I didn't mean to be indiscreet. This is a very impressive set-up you've got going, though. You've quite clearly put a lot of work into it.” Making her way closer to the bed, she looks down at the various folders, papers, scans, newspaper clippings and other items I've been collecting. After a moment she walks around to the other side, stopping when she sees the unfolded map with all its little yellow and red markers.

  I can't begin to imagine what she must think of me right now.

  “I like to have them physically with me,” I explain. “If they were digital, if they were on a screen... That wouldn't work for me. I've tried, but I need them in my hands.”

  She nods. “I understand. And this map, is it -”

  “My car's always loaded down,” I continue, with a faint hint of fear in my chest, “but it's how I sort things in my head. It wouldn't make sense to anyone else, but it works for me.”

  “Of course. And this map -”

  “Maybe my methods seem old-fashioned, but -”

  “Why don't you want to talk about the map?”

  I open my mouth to ask what she means, but she glances at me and I can tell she sees right through my panic.

  “I won't ridicule you,” she continues. “I'm way, way beyond that point, Miss Carter. I'm sure you've had your fill of people telling you that you're crazy. Maybe you've even come to half believe that yourself. It must be very difficult to doggedly stick to the cause day in and day out, knowing that you might be on a hiding to nothing. You must require tremendous confidence. It's all rather heroic.”

  “I'm no hero,” I tell her.

  “But -”

  “I'm just doing what I have to do. Being heroic would mean moving on, putting this in the past. Living again. I can't do that.”

  “Tell me, how do you manage to keep the faith? In the middle of the night, when a little voice in the back of your head tells you you're wasting your time, how do you keep going?”

  “It's not about faith,” I reply. “It's about the truth.”

  “But what if you're wrong?”

  “Then I'm wrong.”

  “But -”

  “And that would be fine,” I tell her. “I'd rather be wrong. I'd rather that these were all coincidence, rather than thinking for one moment that there's this creature out there, this man who...”

>   My voice trails off. I can't even say the words.

  She stares at the map for a moment longer, before turning to me again.

  “My daughter Alison won't let anyone talk about the man,” she explains, with fear in her eyes. “As I'm sure you discovered earlier at the house, she flies into quite a rage whenever anyone even hints that he might exist. She simply clings to the official police report. Believe me, she and I had many arguments about the subject before I finally realized there was no point trying to change her mind. I suppose no-one really wants to believe that there might be someone out there, someone who's responsible for all of this. Someone so wicked and cruel.”

  “But you do believe?” I ask.

  “I don't know,” she replies with a sigh. “I keep my options open. Sometimes I think I'm just a crazy old fool, clinging to superstition. Then again, I've been able to look into things a little myself. One of the neighbors reported seeing a man loitering near the house just before Daniel wandered into the path of that truck. She wasn't able to give a description, but she said enough to make me wonder. Enough to get me started. Although I never took it as far as you've managed.”

  Stepping closer, I realize that so far she seems to be talking about the same strange figure I've been hunting for the past five years.

  “What do you think he wants?” she asks. “If he's real, I mean. Do you think he simply has a sixth sense about when children are going to die, and he chooses to go and watch? Or do you think there's something malicious about his actions?”

  “I don't know.”

  “It could all be a pile of lies and half-truths, of course,” she adds. “Coincidences, misunderstandings, lies... It could be nothing at all.”

  “It could be nothing,” I reply.

  “Or it could be something.”

  I nod.

  “Sometimes,” she adds, “it sounds rather like something left over from a fairy-tale.”

  “I don't believe in fairy-tales.”

  “You referred to the man as a creature just a moment ago.”

  “Slip of the tongue.”

  “So you think this is something natural? Something that can be explained by logic?”

  “It has to be.”

  “Daniel was a smart boy,” she continues. “I know one can never predict a person's behavior, especially a child, but I find it hard to believe that he'd wander straight into the path of that truck. Especially when the only witness said he was looking straight at the vehicle as it hurtled toward him. That's the part I just can't get past. He wasn't running out into the street after a ball, or walking without looking where he was going. By all accounts, he stepped out calmly, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. Tell me, Miss Carter... Was it the same with your own child?”

  I pause for a moment.

  “My son,” I say finally. “He... I mean...”

  My voice trails off. I've had to explain what happened to Charlie so many times, and it should be easier by now, yet somehow I can never quite find the right words. I always have to start from scratch.

  “It's okay,” she continues. “I can see the answer in your eyes. Do you mind if I ask... How old was he?”

  “He was five.”

  “And when did he...”

  “Five years ago.”

  There are tears in her eyes now. “And this man, this figure... He was spotted in the neighborhood when your son was killed?”

  I nod. “After checking online,” I tell her, “I found other instances that seemed remarkably similar. My husband thought I was just struggling to cope with my grief, he told me I was being hysterical, but the more I read about this urban legend, the more I began to think it might be true. Or at least, that there's a chance. I mean, maybe there's some sliver of truth at the heart of it all.”

  “There's most definitely a chance,” she replies, “even if the majority of people refuse to listen.”

  She makes her way to the far end of the bed, where she stops for a moment and looks down at one of the open folders.

  “Transcripts,” I explain. “I've interviewed the parents of eleven children who've died over the past decade.”

  “And was the man seen in all those cases?”

  “In six of them.”

  “Did you get a good description?”

  I shake my head. “That's one of the recurring themes. People see him, but they don't really see him, if that makes sense. Nobody can describe his features.”

  “Perhaps that's how he would like things to remain,” she suggests.

  “I just can't figure out what he wants,” I continue. For the first time in my life, I've found someone who seems to agree that this is worth investigating, someone who doesn't treat me like a lunatic. “He's been seen all over the country, but there doesn't seem to be any kind of pattern and in each case there's only one witness who's spotted him.”

  I grab one of the other folders and open it for her to see. I've never really shown my work to someone else, but she seems sympathetic.

  “If you look here, you'll find that I've cross-referenced major national and international events, as well as lunar cycles, solar flares, anything that could conceivably help bring out some kind of pattern.”

  “But you've found nothing?”

  “Not so far, but I'm thinking that perhaps I need to weed some of the false positives from my data-set.” I start flicking through to another section of the folder. “Just give me a moment. I need to find a set of sheets that show military testing routines. I know it's probably a long-shot, but I'm kind of self-taught when it comes to this stuff and -”

  “I don't need to see the details,” she replies.

  “There are some correlations,” I continue, struggling to locate the sheets I want her to see, “but I know those don't necessarily imply causation. Still -”

  “Emily...”

  “There's a danger of drowning in data,” I tell her, “but maybe if I have a second pair of eyes to take a look at it all, I can start seeing the wood for the trees. I can explain the system I use for cataloging everything, and then you can go through the folders.”

  “Emily, please...”

  “And then -”

  Suddenly she takes the folder from me but – instead of looking at the documents – she closes it and sets it on the nightstand.

  “Do you want to start with the map?” I ask, a little breathless now. “Again, I'm really struggling to find any kind of distinct pattern, but -”

  “I don't have a mind for all of this,” she replies, interrupting me, “and I'm too old to go rushing around searching for the truth. I didn't come here this afternoon because I want to come with you and try to find this man myself. I'm too exhausted for all of that, and he's already taken my only grandson. Nothing can bring Daniel back, or your own son.”

  “But if we can stop him doing this to other children, then -”

  “A noble sentiment, and I commend you.”

  “He took my only child,” I reply, trying not to panic. “If you think I'm right about this, you have to help me go through the evidence.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Then why -”

  “I came to give you this,” she continues, reaching into her pocket and taking out a small, slightly tattered piece of card. “It's not much, it might not even help you at all, but it's the one way I might actually be of use. One can at least hope, anyway. Tell me, have you ever been to Redfield in North Carolina?”

  “Redfield?” I pause, trying to think back to all the places I've visited over the past few years. “No,” I say finally, “I'm pretty sure I haven't.”

  “And you've never heard of these people?”

  She hands the card to me, and I see a name on the front, along with an address and a time.

  “Survivors' meeting,” I read out loud, “Sunday evenings, St. Martin's Church... Redfield? What does this have to do with me?”

  “One of their members came to visit Alison about a month ago,” she explains. “As you can imag
ine, she blew up and threw the poor man out before hearing much of what he had to say. He left the card, hoping that she might get in touch once she calmed down. Of course, she didn't calm down at all, and she threw the card away. It was just by luck that I managed to save it from the trash. I don't really know why I was keeping it, I certainly had no intention of getting in touch with these people myself or going to one of their meetings, I just... I suppose I thought it might be useful some day.”

  “Survivors' meeting,” I mutter again, staring at the card with a hint of suspicion. “What does this mean? Survivors of what?”

  “These people are like you, Emily. Well, not exactly like you, but they want to get to the truth.”

  “North Caroline is over five hundred miles away,” I point out. “I've spoken to so many parents already, people who lost their children, but none of them -”

  “These people aren't parents,” she continues, interrupting me. “I can't do anything else to help you, Miss Carter, but perhaps I can at least put you in touch with a group of like-minded men and women. They aren't parents of children who died. They're people who, when they were children, survived something awful. I think they're people who survived encounters with this man.”

  I feel a shudder pass through my body as I stare down at the card.

  “Perhaps you should talk to them,” she tells me. “And perhaps you should keep an open mind about the cause of all this. If you find other people who think like you, maybe you'll find it easier to believe in fairy-tales.”

  Chapter Four

  “And some Lecadol,” I mutter a short while later, spotting the tell-tale white-and-orange bottle on the shelf behind the pharmacy counter. “Um, two bottles, please.”

  The pharmacist hesitates for a moment, before turning and grabbing the bottles. I can tell he's not impressed, and he probably thinks I've got some kind of addiction, but right now I don't care. I just need to finish picking up supplies so I can hit the road. It's almost a little after 11pm and I've got a long drive ahead.