Trick or Treat: A Bedlam Falls All Hallows Eve Special (Asylum Lake: Parting The Veil) Read online

  October 31, 1971

  Bedlam Falls, MI

  The boy’s hand felt awkward and small holding the heavy wooden handle of the oversized kitchen knife; yet his delicate fingers carried a strength and dexterity far beyond his young age. The blade easily pierced the exposed flesh, deftly carving meaty chucks that collected in moist piles at his feet. The pungent odor of his handiwork filled the otherwise tidy kitchen.

  He went about his work seemingly without thought, the faintest trace of a sly smile curving his thin lips. The last warming rays of late afternoon sun filtered through the window over the sink, stretching long shadows across the soiled countertop. Eventually, the blade ceased its mindless dance and the boy relaxed his boney fist from the stained wooden handle — letting the knife fall into the discolored sink.

  He paused to reflect upon his creation – softly tracing his fingers across the carved flesh, probing the gouges and holes which he had so deftly whittled away.

  Walking from the kitchen, his hands and arms sticky and soiled, Lionel Collins made his way through the vacant house and up the stairs to his bedroom. There, he would prepare for his evening, the soothing voice inside his head providing ample instruction, and strength, to complete the tasks ahead.

  Small towns are notoriously quirky, and Bedlam Falls’ quirkiness started from the moment of its founding. As Oliver Bryant Bedlam stepped from his horse-drawn carriage to survey the tree-swept fields of the as-yet unsettled acreage he had just purchased, his booted foot slid from the carriage step. His fall to the ground, although relatively short in distance, ended with a fractured skull courtesy of a rock hidden within the grassy plain. Bedlam died from his injuries two days later, and as word of the accident spread beneath headlines and over telegraph proclaiming “Bedlam Falls”, the small northern Michigan town’s name was sealed.

  More than a century later, Oliver Bedlam’s grave, marked precisely at the spot where he had fallen from his carriage, remained one of the most visited sites in all of Bedlam County. Of course, the majority of visitors were of the drunken teenage variety; Falls’ Rest Cemetery had become the chosen location for late night teenage debauchery.

  Deputy Frank Griggs was recently enough removed from his teenage years to still understand the lure of the secluded gardens of earth and stone. It was for this reason alone that he “patrolled” the area. Nothing was ever amiss in the cemetery, but the kids did keep him fully stocked with beer and on more than one occasion he was able to catch a brief glimpse of a nipple or two. Yeah, between the beer and the breasts, a slow drive through the cemetery was better than anything playing at the drive-in.

  Tonight, however, the stone garden was eerily quiet. Griggs’ had expected to hear Rod Stewart’s Maggie May wafting from car stereos, but instead was greeted with an ominous stillness; the feeling of a calm before a great storm. The shadows played tricks with the young deputy’s nervous eyes as he drove slowly through the winding dirt road toward the massive iron gates that marked the only entrance/exit from the cemetery.

  A pained wail broke the silence, echoing through the night and sending a chill through Griggs’ thick body. “Ho-ly shit,” the shaken deputy exclaimed to the empty cruiser. “What the fuck was that?”

  The cruiser eased to a stop as Griggs scanned the moonlit graveyard. Nothing seemed out of place, at least not from the relative safety of the car. Frank had little time to consider his options as a second cry erupted from the darkness; this one, definitely animal in nature.

  “Fucking dogs,” Frank groaned in relief. Earl Stubbs had served as cemetery caretaker for more than 30 years. It was the half-wit’s job to keep the riff-raff out, maintain the grounds, and basically keep the dead tucked safely into their beds. The job didn’t pay much, but it came with one nice perk; free rent in the small house on the northern edge of the cemetery. Earl kept to himself and did a fair job of maintaining the landscaping, but it seemed every stray dog in town somehow made it into his care. Griggs could only imagine what trouble the beasts were getting into with all of the noise.

  Griggs exited the cruiser clutching his flashlight and exhaling a plume of vapor into the chilly air. The pale beam sliced through the darkness, revealing a maze of tombstones amidst a tangle of brush. “Here poochy, poochy, poochy.”

  Griggs’ calls were met with more silence. He stepped carefully between the stone monuments and markers, allowing the beam from his flashlight to trace over the inscribed names and dates of the deceased. This area of the cemetery, tucked away in the southeast corner, was relatively new, with plots used only within the last half dozen or so years. The oldest plots, dating back to the late 1800′s when Oliver Bedlam slipped from his carriage, rested neatly in the center of the vast field.

  After several minutes Frank neared the edge of the cemetery’s grounds. Here, as the open field gave way to the thick Michigan woods, the young deputy finally found the source of the recent commotion. The sight made his stomach clench with knots of fear.

  Sweeping the light across the lone tombstone before him, Griggs could barely discern the etched name beneath the years of weather and what appeared to be fresh blood.

  Rylan Walters

  1920 – 1960

  Loving Husband & Father

  Griggs’ had met the former sheriff on a single occasion – and once was more than enough for him to take measure of the man; a thick-headed blow hard and not nearly the law man that the current Sheriff Buck Tanner was. Even still, Frank admitted to himself, the bastard’s grave didn’t deserve this kind of treatment.

  Strewn about the area were bits of what the deputy could only assume had recently been a dog – perhaps multiple dogs. His suspicion was quickly confirmed as he moved his light from the carnage on the ground to the blood-soaked wooden handle of a shovel sticking up from the freshly turned earth near the headstone. Placed atop the handle, eyes bulging from their sockets, rested the head of a German Sherperd. Frank’s knees buckled as his stomach emptied onto the soiled ground before him.

  Shaken, the deputy’s mind raced with a myriad of thoughts. Turning from his grisly discovery, Deputy Frank Griggs made his way back through the garden of stone to his cruiser. There, in the safety of the car, he contemplated his next move. Surely, he would call it in to the station. The Sheriff would know what to do. But Frank wanted to be the one to notify next of kin. He had shared several classes with her during high school, and although they ran in different circles, he thought the news may best be received from someone she knew.

  “Maddie,” Frank said anxiously into the radio, “Get the Sheriff out to Falls’ Rest.” It took only moments to relay the gory details to dispatch. “Let him know that I want to notify next of kin,” he paused before continuing. “And Maddie, one more thing, can you get me an address on Joanna Walters…I mean Reed; Ken Reed’s wife. I’ll drive by once the sheriff arrives.”

  Dear Reader –

  Whether you’ve taken the full dive into the mystery of Asylum Lake or merely scratched the surface with this bonus chapter, more thrills and chills are forthcoming with the pending release of Grave Undertakings – the chilling sequel to the indie smash Asylum Lake.

  In the meantime, here is an excerpt from Asylum Lake. It happens to be the chapter which is most commented on by readers and reviewers alike and fits nicely with the All Hallows Eve story you just read.

  Thanks for dipping your toe into the chilling waters of Asylum Lake.

  R. A. Evans

  November 2, 1971

  Bedlam Falls, MI


  Blood spilled by violence leaves a stain far different from blood which is shed in any other way. As Lionel stood on the tips of his toes at the kitchen sink, he was surprised by how much more difficult blood was to wash away than the dirt he was accustomed to. The dish rag had done little to clean the gore from beneath his fingernails. It had taken a fork from the drawer to scrape most of it out. As for the streaks and spatters that coated his forearms, neck and face - they seemed to be a lost cause. Lionel had considered showering, but that would have meant removing what was left of Mrs. Reed from the bathtub. In the end he did what he could with a wet towel and decided not to worry about the rest.

  Not that the mess was limited to the kitchen; bloody tracks led from one end of the small Cape Cod to the other and smeared fingerprints were on everything from the kitchen knives to the golf club he discovered in the hall closet. Even the hedge clippers he had picked up in the garage were bloodied and broken. The blades had actually bent and snapped clear off from the wooden handles. The dull and rusty shears had worked just fine on the kids, but Mrs. Reed was a big woman with thick bones and thick bones, he learned, required a hacksaw. Lionel had to make the long walk from the bathroom to the garage three times for new blades.

  The white plastic bracelet hung loosely on his wrist throughout the entire ordeal. It, too, had been stained beyond any hope of coming clean. Most of the words, however, were still legible beneath the smears of blood.

  Ellis Arkema #00981

  SOUTH WING, LAKE VIEW ASYLUM

  DOB: UNKNOWN

  RESTRICTED

  Lionel liked the feel of the cool plastic against his skin. He had found the bracelet while fishing with his father. It was the only thing he had hooked all day. He felt compelled to hide it away in his pocket before his father could notice. Ever since then he had gradually set aside most of his other interests, everything from comic books to baseball cards, and instead found himself spending his time alone in his room imagining stories about who Ellis Arkema was and how he may have lost that bracelet in the lake.

  At times it almost felt as if he were listening to someone else tell these stories, a faceless and shadowy voice inside his head that was both scary and reassuring. Sometimes the stories made him cry and other times he laughed out loud. It all seemed to make his parents more than a bit uncomfortable. He had thought, and the voice agreed, that maybe he should keep the bracelet a secret.

  He turned from the sink and decided to make one more trip through the house before leaving. He followed the trail of blood and gore from the hardwood floor in the kitchen to the orange shag carpeting that led through the living room and down the hallway. A dead body is difficult thing for anyone to move, and at only twelve, it had taken quite an effort for Lionel to drag it all the way to the bathroom.

  The door to the nursery the twins shared was wide open. He could see their small forms huddled close together on the floor as he paused in the hallway. The pools of blood that spread from under their lifeless bodies formed giant wings in the carpet. It was an oddly beautiful sight with the pale light coming in through the window falling gently across their outstretched wings. Their bodies, he reasoned, were mere cocoons from which he had helped them escape. He envied the flight of their spirits.

  Slicing their tiny throats had proven to be much more difficult than he had anticipated, but the hedge-clippers had taken away their hands and feet quite easily. As he continued down the hall, Lionel tried unsuccessfully to remember where he had put them.

  The bathroom looked like someone had flung red paint violently across the walls and floor. Spattered blood ran down and across the mirror hanging over the vanity and onto the toilet nearby. The broken hedge-clippers had been thrown into the corner near the trash. Dull hacksaw blades and an assortment of knives and other tools lay scattered coldly on the tile. The back of the toilet reminded him of the meat case at Dell’s Grocery, filets and various other cuts of the late Mrs. Reed were neatly stacked into three identical, gooey rows. Blood trailed from the oozing stacks down the side of the tank and onto the floor, forming clotted pools.

  Lionel drank in the coppery smell of the blood and gore, a devious smile flashing across his innocent lips.

  Stepping carefully toward the tub, he attempted to avoid the slick pools of blood. He had slipped and fallen once already, banging his elbow painfully against the toilet. It had sent a jolt throughout his entire arm that throbbed with every step he took.

  Looking up, Lionel noted sadly that the shower curtain had been torn aside and hung clumsily by the three remaining rings that still encircled the pristine rod. The one part of the bathroom that remained untouched by the gore around it.

  He stared into the red soup of bones and chunks as they floated on the surface of the nearly over-filled tub. Others pieces rested at the bottom and clung to the sides of the tub; he fought the urge to reach in and stir them around with his hand. Instead, he raised his eyes to look at the shower wall. A single lonely word, written in blood, glistened on the white tile…

  The sound of heavy footsteps approaching from down the hall roused him from admiring his handiwork. Lionel’s knees wobbled and his thoughts became fuzzy as a wave of dizziness washed over him. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples in an attempt to ease the feeling. When he opened them and caught sight of the grotesque display that surrounded him, a mixture of bile and recently eaten cookies rose in his throat. It burned as he swallowed it down.

  “What the…Oh, Lord no!” A pained cry came from the next room.

  His heart began to pound so heavily he thought for sure it would beat right through his chest. The room was spinning now as fear swept through him. He felt the earth shift beneath his feet and thought for sure he would faint. Just as he was ready to give in and let go the voice inside his head began to scream. “Kill him! Kill him now!”

  His arm shot forward involuntarily and grabbed the broken hedge-clipper shear from where it lay on the floor. As he caught sight of the bracelet on his wrist his racing heart slowed. He took in a single deep breath and blew it out releasing it in a slow and soft hiss. A quiet calm settled upon him.

  The sound of more footsteps, this time retreating quickly towards the living room, urged him forward. He stepped into the hallway and silently made his way towards the twin’s room. Anger rushed through him as he looked at their once perfectly posed bodies now lying disturbed on the floor. Their butterfly wings had been trampled by large booted feet.

  He followed the fresh tracks from the room. He could hear movement ahead and emerged to see Mr. Reed standing at a small desk in the living room with one hand pressing the phone to his ear as the other frantically tried to turn the rotary dial. His blue work overalls were stretched across his large frame and his dark brown boots creaked as he shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot. Below the soles of his sneakers, red patterned designs etched themselves deeply into the carpet.

  The dull shear bit into the palm of Lionel’s tiny hand as his grip tightened around it.

  “P-p-pl-ease…something has happened,” he cried into the phone. “They’re dead…my babies…they’re dead.” And then the revelation that he hadn’t seen his wife lying with the kids dawned on him. He dropped the phone and quickly turned; ready to run back into the bloodied mess he had just retreated from. Lionel struck quickly and brought the rusty shear up and across the much taller man’s throat with one quick and surprisingly powerful stroke. The dull blade tore into his neck as he cried out for his wife. Her name rose in a gurgling spray of blood that spread across the room and onto the bookshelves and wall. It ran down the screen and across the top of the large console television that sat nearby. Reed fell to the floor at Lionel’s feet where he lay twitching…and finally, dying.

  Lionel dropped the blade and casually stepped over the body. He reached down and pulled the knob on the television and then turned the dial until the theme song from Gilligan’s Island began to waft from the set. He walked to the sofa and plopped down on the edge of a f
reshly blood spattered cushion. Beneath a thick coating of blood that now included both the dried and fresh varieties, an impish grin played across his delicate features. His eyes remained frozen on the gore covered television screen as he absently worked at wiping the bracelet clean on his pants. Within minutes the sound of sirens outside drowned out Gilligan and the Skipper arguing about coconuts. Lionel heard neither, however. He was lost to the voice inside his head.

  Deputy John Tanner was the first to arrive at the Reed residence. He knew Ken Reed only in passing, mostly from Sundays at church. They shared polite handshakes and brief, innocuous conversations about everything from the weather to the current sad state of the Lions. Ken was a big man, quiet and definitely not one to be rattled easily. Tanner was at the station when Ken’s call came in and the voice he heard over the line carried with it neither the size nor strength he had always attributed to him. Its tone had left the deputy rattled and more than a bit curious about what could panic the mountain of a man so horribly.

  From the outside, at least, he found the Reed home to be nothing less than ordinary. Piles of leaves dotted the large yard and a single rake leaned precariously against the mailbox. The garage door was open and no vehicles were in the driveway. He parked on the street and cut the sirens, leaving the lights on.

  He reached for the radio and pressed it to his lips. “Maddie, you read me? It’s John. Where the hell is Frank?” Maddie worked the dispatch for the Bedlam County Sheriff’s Department and Deputy Frank Griggs, simple words couldn’t describe him. He was…an experience. And John had been experiencing Frank’s antics since they were in grade school together. He had long suspected that Frank and Maddie were more than merely co-workers, which was frowned upon by the Sheriff, but he hadn’t the courage to inquire. If they were happy then he was happy for them.