The Horror of Devil's Root Lake Read online

  “I think of him as more of a creature than a man,” he mutters. “Something that shouldn't really exist. Something that has no place in the natural world.”

  “Silverlake, Ohio?” I whisper, leaning closer to take a look at the first newspaper cutting, which seems to be about the death of a little girl who wandered onto a train-line back in 1980.

  “Again,” he continues, “you're going to think I'm insane, but a while back I started a project to catalog every child death that could possibly be linked to this monster. Then I separated out the cases that really don't fit the known parameters, and I've been looking for commonalities in the rest. Obviously there's still a lot of noise in the data, a lot of false positives and gaps, but I'm getting there. Slowly.”

  Flipping through the folder, I find many more records. Some I recognize from my own research, while others are completely new to me. It's clear that while Luke has launched his own exhaustive project, he's taken a different approach to my work, and it's fascinating to find all this fresh information ready and waiting to be analyzed.

  “1795,” he says suddenly.

  I turn to him. “I'm sorry?”

  “That's the oldest one.”

  “You've gone back as far as the eighteenth century?”

  He grabs another folder and opens it, and then he hands it to me so that I can see the copy of an old newspaper story.

  “One of the most interesting cases occurred in Boston in September 1880,” he continues. “A little girl walked in front of a horse and was killed. Witnesses reported that she seemed to be listening to someone on the other side of the street at the time, even though there appeared to be nobody there. There'd also been an incident four days earlier, when the same girl had almost stepped off a bridge. She told her parents that a man had been calling to her from below, and that she'd felt compelled to go to him.”

  “Sure,” I reply, “but...” I read the rest of the news report, before turning to him again. “1880? That's more than a century ago.”

  “I know.”

  “But you can't possibly...”

  My voice trails off as I realize that he's serious.

  “There are older stories too,” he continues. “Like I said, 1795 is the farthest back that I've been able to check.”

  “Sure, but...”

  Again, I'm not quite sure what to say. The whole idea seems completely ludicrous, almost insane. Then again, I know how easy it is to appear crazy to people who don't understand your obsession.

  “I made a conscious decision to not exclude any possibilities,” he continues, “even if they seem beyond belief. I still haven't found any kind of pattern, though. The incidents seem to take place almost randomly, at different locations all across the country, and so far there's no rhyme or reason. Frankly, I'm starting to feel as if I've hit a brick wall. I'm no closer to figuring out who this man is, what he wants, where he comes from, how to find him... Either I'm spectacularly bad at searching, or he's spectacularly good at covering his tracks. Really, the only firm thing I've come across is...”

  I wait for him to finish the sentence.

  “Is what?” I ask finally.

  “I don't...”

  He pauses, and it's clear that he's holding something back.

  “This might make me seem even more insane,” he continues, “and out of my mind and... I don't know, what other words do you have to describe someone who lost touch with reality?”

  “Don't worry about that,” I reply. “I'm way beyond that point.”

  “There's one thing I discovered that I keep coming back to,” he explains. “Something that maybe has some kind of link to all of this. It's pretty nuts, and sometimes I think I'm just clutching at straws but...”

  Again he pauses, as if he's worried about sharing this information with me. After a moment, however, he mutters something under his breath and heads over to the bookshelf on the far side of the room. He takes a moment to slide out an old book, which he then brings back over to me. Even as he starts opening the book, I can see that it's old, with the heavy front cover almost falling away from the spine. The lettering is faded, with the brown ink starting to bleed into the discolored paper, but I can just about make out the book's title.

  “Urban Legends of the New World,” I whisper. “A book of fairy-tales?”

  “It's a collection of stories that people used to tell in the New England area, ranging from the late eighteenth to mid nineteenth centuries. Ghost stories, warnings, tales of witches, the usual superstitious nonsense. But...”

  His voice trails off as he turns to the book's halfway point. The spine creaks and the pages look as if they might fall out at any moment, but he turns carefully to the next chapter.

  “The Legend of Chanciechaunie,” I read out loud. “I've never heard of it.”

  “It's not one of the better-known stories in the book,” he replies. “In fact, it never really caught on and became a staple of American life. In some ways it's actually pretty forgettable, but in others...”

  Again, he seems momentarily lost for words.

  “The story goes,” he continues, “that one day a demon, or an imp, or whatever the hell you want to call him... One day, this thing appeared in the forest near a town named Malmarbor and took up residence in the forest. Now, there are different versions of the story, different accounts, and none of them quite agree, but this creature was apparently named Chanciechaunie, or in some versions he was called Bal or Krenzik. In one telling, the whole thing's more complicated and the creature's name is supposed to be something completely unpronounceable, something about the eighth emblem of Attaroth. In another version, he's some kind of demon that escaped from Hell and burst through the ground, and started haunting the trees.”

  I open my mouth to tell him that this is too much for me, but at the last moment I hold back.

  “I know,” he says, as if he's read my mind. “That was my first reaction too.”

  “It just seems...” I pause again. “It's a lot to take in.”

  “Don't focus on that right now. What matters is that according to all the legends, this Chanciechaunie creature watched the people of Malmarbor for a few weeks, refusing offers of food and water, and then one day the leading men of the town went out to the forest and asked him to leave.”

  “Why?”

  “It's not really clear. I think he just made them feel deeply uncomfortable. Anyway, apparently Chanciechaunie took great offense at this request, and decided to punish the town by making all the children lose their minds. Again, different versions have different numbers, but there were between twenty and forty children in Malmarbor at the time, and it's said that overnight they all became insane. Screaming, chanting, attacking their parents, ripping out their own eyes, desecrating graves, blaspheming... You name it, they did it. And the parents of Malmarbor had no idea how to stop it all. This went on for days, until...”

  He turns to the next page in the book, where a small pen and ink illustration accompanies the text.

  “Until one night, Chanciechaunie led all the children away into the forest, and they were never seen again.”

  Taking a closer look at the illustration, I see that it shows a bald, hunched figure sitting beneath a twisted old tree. His face is shriveled and angry, but there's also a smile on his lips, and children's toys have been left scattered at his feet.

  “Is that supposed to be him?” I ask.

  Luke nods.

  “The last part of the legend,” he adds, “is that ever since he took offense at the people of Malmarbor, Chanciechaunie has enjoyed stealing children from all over the country. He leads them away from their parents and takes their souls. He leaves their bodies to die, but their souls are taken to some far-off place.”

  “A bit like the Pied Piper?”

  “Only superficially. The roots of the two stories seem to be completely separate, as far as I can tell.” He looks down at the illustration for a moment. “It's said that Chanciechaunie is still out there, sti
ll taking children. Nobody knows where he takes them or what he does with them, but the core part of the legend is that he lures them away from their families.”

  I stare at the illustration, before turning to him.

  “But this is a fairy-tale,” I point out. “It's a story for kids. You can't actually be taking it seriously.”

  I wait for him to admit that he's just teasing me, but something in his eyes makes me realize that he's serious. I had Luke pegged as a level-headed guy, but it seems that he genuinely thinks this bizarre Chanciechaunie story might have some connection to everything that has been happening. I guess desperation can make even sane people clutch at straws.

  “There's something else,” he says after a moment. “I see that look in your eyes, but just go with me on this for a moment. There's one more thing that hints at a link.”

  “Luke -”

  “I survived meeting this thing,” he adds. “The session you came to tonight was for survivors, and I'm one of those survivors. When I was four years old, I almost died three times in the space of a few weeks, and I remember seeing a figure watching me on each occasion. I remember him calling to me, reaching into my mind and telling me that I had to obey. He pushed my thoughts aside and made me listen to his. I just heard these three words over and over again, until I had to do what I was told.”

  I can't help but sigh.

  “It's true!”

  “What three words?” I ask.

  He pauses. “Come with me.”

  “Is that it?” I continue. “If you were four years old, it's doubtful that your memories are even -”

  “I remember it very clearly,” he adds, interrupting me. “The only difficult part is the guy's face, which somehow I could see at the time but... I can't explain it, but now it's blurred, like something's keeping it hidden. For years, I wondered if maybe I was wrong, if I'd been imagining the whole thing, but as soon as I stumbled across the story of Chanciechaunie, everything clicked together. I'm certain that this is the figure that was trying to lure me to my death. It's just a feeling, deep down. The book describes Chanciechaunie as a creature that's half alive and half dead, constantly suspended between the two states. That's as close as anyone has ever come to describing the sensation I felt when the figure was watching me.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but I guess I can't exactly tell him he's wrong to feel this way.

  “And yes,” he continues, “I have seen a therapist about it all. Doctor Henrik Schrader at the Loftborough Institute, Tuesday mornings at ten, every week for the past decade.”

  “I didn't mean to -”

  “This is just one of the many possibilities that I'm working on,” he adds. “It doesn't hurt to keep an open mind, right?”

  “Sure,” I reply, “but I just...”

  “You've been looking for a more rational explanation?”

  “Something a little more grounded would be good.”

  “I get that. It's what I want too. I just...” He pauses. “It scares me. The thought that something's out there, that something's preying on children, that it might come back... I can't rest until I know for certain that I'm wrong. And I really, really hope that I am.”

  “Daddy?” a voice asks suddenly.

  We both turn, to see Luke's daughter Alice standing in the doorway, with a dark brown toy bear trailing in one hand.

  “I'm sorry, honey,” Luke says, heading over to her, “we didn't mean to wake you. Let me get you back to bed.”

  “Who's this lady?” she asks, rubbing her tired eyes.

  “Just a friend.”

  “Hi, Alice,” I say with a faint smile. Truth be told, I've avoided children over the past few years, just because I'd rather not feel the way I used to feel around Charlie. Now that this little girl is in the room, however, I can't help feeling a flash of concern in my chest. I can fully understand why Luke's so desperate to keep her safe, even if he seems to be a little paranoid.

  “It's too late for you to be up,” he says, taking her in his arms and lifting her high, before turning to me. “Emily, we have a spare room. You're more than welcome to stay with us.”

  “That's really kind of you,” I tell him, “but I have a motel booked already.”

  “Are you sure? If you're sticking around town for a few days, there are some things I'd like to go over with you. I mean, two heads are better than one, right?”

  “I...”

  Pausing, I realize that even though I don't like the idea of working with someone else, I might actually learn something if I stick around. I shouldn't let my social anxiety nix the chance to pool resources.

  “I might be here for a few more nights,” I say finally. “Sure. We can see what we come up with. Maybe I can even read some more about this Chanciechaunie character.”

  “Who's Chanciechaunie?” Alice asks.

  “Nobody,” Luke says quickly, almost panicking.

  “Nobody,” I add, realizing that I made a mistake by even uttering that name. “Goodnight, Alice. Sleep tight.”

  “I'll just put her to bed,” Luke continues, carrying Alice out of the room. “Don't go anywhere. There are a couple of other leads I want to run past you before you go to your motel room.”

  “Sure,” I mutter, looking back down at the battered old book. “It can't hurt to poke around. Even if some of these ideas are a little too far-out for my liking.”

  “Do you want me to read you another bed-time story?” Luke asks his daughter as they head through to her room.

  “No thanks,” she replies. “I'm too old for silly stories.”

  ***

  An hour later, once I'm back in my car and I've lowered the passenger seat to make a sort-of bed, I stare out the window and look across the dark street, toward the unlit church. There's still a part of me that wants to hit the road first thing in the morning and never look back, but I keep reminding myself that I should take advantage of the opportunity to look through Luke's research.

  Still, I work best alone. I've learned to live that way, and this is only a temporary stop. Besides, the longer I stay in one place, the bigger the chance that Craig's men will eventually track me down and drag me away.

  One more night. Then I have to get moving again.

  Chapter Eight

  “And will you be wanting jam with that croissant?” asks the friendly guy behind the counter as I count out some coins. “Breakfast's not really breakfast without jam, is it?”

  “I'm fine, thank you,” I reply, forcing a smile.

  “At least have some butter.”

  “Really -”

  “On the house,” he adds, as if he's sensed that I'm trying not to spend too much. “I can't in all good conscience let you eat a dry croissant, can I? We're not barbarians here in Redfield.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, handing him the money before taking my plate and heading across the diner. Before I've made it to the booth by the window, however, I realize that I'm still being watched, and I look over my shoulder just in time to see Marie ducking out of sight behind one of the other booths.

  She's a terrible spy.

  Sighing, I take a seat and start spreading butter onto my croissant, but from the corner of my eye I'm aware that Marie is moving to another booth, presumably so she can get a better view of my activities. I don't know quite who or what she thinks I am, but evidently she has time to pursue me all morning. I first noticed her as I reached the town square, but I wouldn't be surprised if she found my car during the night. I can't help but shiver at the thought that maybe she even watched me while I was sleeping.

  Still, I guess she's harmless.

  For the next few minutes, I pick at the croissant while looking at some files I brought in from the car. Slowly, however, I start to become aware of Marie edging closer, and finally she appears next to my booth, as if she's no longer concerned about being seen. I turn to the next page of the file, figuring that I'll let her start the conversation, but after a couple more minutes I realize that she seems cont
ent to simply watch me.

  Finally, sighing, I look up at her.

  “Hey Marie,” I say with a faint, friendly smile. “Do you want to join me?”

  “What are you doing here?” she asks.

  “Well, I'm -”

  “What do you really want with us? Why did you come to Redfield?”

  Suddenly she sits opposite me, staring with wild eyes. Reaching into her shoulder-bag, she rummages for a moment before pulling out her phone, and then she taps furiously at the screen.

  “This is bad,” she mutters. “Really bad.”

  “What's bad?” I ask.

  “We didn't want any attention.”

  “I'm sorry if I'm being intrusive,” I tell her. “I'll only be here for a few more days, and after that -”

  “Look!” She thrusts the phone toward me, and I see a social media post with a familiar name at the top.

  “Alison Mackenzie?” I whisper, shocked to find that she's posted a long diatribe, railing against people who show up at her house asking about her son's death. She mentions me by name, and she also mentions Luke and the survivors' group. I knew she seemed quite unstable the other day when I visited, but I had no idea she was going to go off the deep end like this.

  “We've talked about this over and over,” Marie continues. “Some of the others thought we should have our own website, or a page online, describing what we experienced and encouraging other people to join us. But Luke and I said that was a bad idea. We pointed out that we don't want random strangers showing up. It might not be safe!”

  “Why did she have to mention my name?” I mutter, realizing that Craig's private detectives will certainly have discovered this post by now. Then again, they showed up at the Hartford motel the other day, so I guess they already knew I'd been in the area. As long as they haven't somehow discovered that I came to Redfield, I should be okay.

  “You're not like us,” Marie says suddenly.

  I turn to her. “What do you -”

  “You haven't seen him! You don't know what it feels like to have him inside your head!”

  “If you're talking about -”