Where Faintest Sunlights Flee: A Supernatural Thriller

By Noel Brittain and Johnnie

WELCOME TO LETHE
"EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED"
EST. 1888
POP. 5897 In 1959, outside an old cemetery in a small Alabama town, two teenagers were found burned to death in their car. Twenty years later, on a routine police check, a police officer finds the charred corpse of a dog in that very spot. A group of teenagers, intent on solving the crime themselves, finds the answers to their questions-but some secrets are best left buried. As adults, they would like to forget, but when the lives of their children are at stake, they will be finally forced to deal with the mystery that has been plaguing their town for decades.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 10, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469744926

Noel Brittain

Johnnie-Noel Brittain, born in Alabama, is an accomplished, winning author, having written and produced several plays, including A Very Shaky Branch and Sardines, in Georgia and Alabama. He has twice won the Ghost Writers in Disguise horror writing contest. Brittain is a Fulbright scholar and teacher who currently resides in Chattanooga, Tennessee.

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All Rights Reserved © 2003 by Johnnie-Noel Brittain

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-28891-X

ISBN: 978-1-469-74492-6 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

This is for my mother, Lois

Contents

P A R T I

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

P A R T II

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

P A R T III

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

P A R T I

History

"Below the thunders of the upper deep, Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee About his shadowy sides; above him swell Huge sponges of millenial growth and height; And far away into the sickly light, From many a wondrous grot and secret cell Unnumbered and enormous polypi Winnow with giant arms the slumbring green. There hath he lain for ages, and will lie Battening upon huge sea worms in his sleep, Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; Then once by man and angels to be seen, In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die."

—The Kraken, Alfred, Lord Tennyson

CHAPTER 1

THE AWAKENING

Not much is supposed to happen in a small, sleepy town in the heart of the South.

That’s what Sergeant James Miller had always thought. He and Ellen, his wife of two years, had moved to Alabama from Los Angeles a year ago, the summer of ’79—a few months after the shooting. He finally got the nerve to pack up and leave the City of Angels—angels indeed—and move to the quiet, off-the-map town whose rich heritage had charmed him as a boy through the colorful stories of his grandfather. His grandfather, who grew up and lived most of his life here, often told him tales, some real and some make-believe, some funny and some scary, and some happy and, of course, some sad. Nevertheless, they all had a hypnotic effect that seemed to draw him here.

As he entered the city limits once again during his early morning patrol, which started at the police jurisdiction line, continued through the heart of the downtown area, and concluded at Betty Rae’s Coffee Shoppe—where he always had a light brown waffle with thick maple syrup, two eggs over-medium, hash browns, topped and scattered, with a steaming fresh cup of coffee made especially for him—the headlights of his police car flashed across the sign, hiding in the darkness. He looked at it as if he were reading it for the first time:

WELCOME TO

LETHE

EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED

EST. 1888 POP. 5897

Expect the unexpected. That’s exactly what he had forgotten to expect and the reason behind his leaving L.A. He had grown tired of the increasing violence and crime rate, but he never thought he would actually move—that is, until the bullet from the masked man’s gun pierced his left shoulder. He rubbed his shoulder briefly as he remembered. After that, he was gun shy—afraid to touch his weapon. He had gotten over it, though, but the fear of being shot again never left him for a moment. He saw potential gunmen in the faces he passed; everyone was suspect. It wasn’t so bad at first, but it began to affect his job performance. Easily provoked to anger, often without real cause, he became moody, overly sensitive, and sometimes withdrawn. Finally, on the brink of punching his wife when she asked him to repeat what he had just said to her, he broke down and cried.

I’m scared Ellen. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. We’ve got to get away, he had sobbed.

Ellen was supportive. Without her support, he might have wound up one of the lost souls wandering the streets of L.A. In fact, it was her doing that got them here in the first place.

Jimmy knew that Ellen loved to hear him talk about the South. It seemed she treasured the romantic image that he had so carefully painted in her mind with his grandfather’s stories and some from his own experiences drawn from his visits with his cousins. Yet, neither he nor Ellen had ever given much thought to moving here, at least, not until the shooting. Most of her relatives lived in California, so the thought of moving away from them was nearly unthinkable. However, living in L.A. daily reminded James of what happened, and that did neither of them any good. So, she made a few phone calls and found out that an English teaching position was available in the town that James seemed to love. She asked him if he would like to take some time off, fly to Alabama, visit his relatives, and relax. The idea of going there instantly put a smile on James’ face. When she asked him about what he thought of the prospect of living there, he picked her up and gave her a twirling hug.

Careful with the baby, she said, pointing to her stomach. She had set up an interview during that week and the superintendent, eager to breathe some life into the comatose education of the school district, hired her enthusiastically, despite her condition.

Finally, they could start a new life and bring his baby into a world he could love, forgetting the big city life haunted by violence, struggle, and crime. For the first year, his life in Alabama with Ellen and their newborn baby had been fantastic. The people here were so friendly; the air was clean, and time, abundant. This was a direct contrast to the hustle-and-bustle of rush hour traffic, the profane shouts of pissed-off pedestrians, and sickening scent of the smog. Best of all, there was hardly any crime in Lethe. At most, there was a DUI arrest or a case of vandalism. There was nothing here to be afraid of. He didn’t worry about dying from a bullet wound like he had when he lived in L.A., or that is, until yesterday.

The life he led in L.A. was utterly incomparable to his life here with Ellen, but the tremor that shook the town yesterday in the predawn hours was the equalizer between his two existences. He had never heard of earthquakes in this part of the United States, no matter how mild; however, he did some asking around and found out that there was a fault lying under this part of Alabama, allowing for the possibility of earthquakes. And, today’s mild earthquake, a 4.2, very similar to those he experienced in L.A., drew an unwanted parallel that resurrected a few of his old fears. Tonight, when he dressed for work, he felt a slight tremor of his own—the tremble of his hand as he placed his gun in its holster.

As he turned left up Dothard Hill Road, the last checkpoint of his patrol other than Betty Rae’s, he glanced down at his gun. A chill of fear raced down his back, seeming to grow stronger as the car ascended the hill. He quickly dismissed this fear as the heebie-jeebies he got from this final check point of the patrol, the old cemetery at the top.

He stopped the car at the top of the hill and shined his spotlight on the twisted iron gate of the forgotten cemetery that lay decaying in the background. Then, he saw something unusual and knew he had to stop. Getting out of his car, he discovered the body of a burned dog lying in front of the cemetery gate. It had to be fresh—smoke was still rising from its blackened corpse as the wind scattered nomadic autumn leaves across it.

Some people are just sick, he said as he covered his nose with one hand and, after removing the handkerchief from his pocket, pulled what was left of the dog’s carcass into the ditch. As soon as the dog was out of the way, he heard a deep hum. The sound startled him, and he looked up quickly toward its source. The old streetlight, which had remained dormant through every patrol he had made here, was coming on. As it reached full power, it began to flash violently like a strobe, probably from a shortage somewhere in the wires. Still, it amazed him as he stood mesmerized.

I’ll be damned, he said. "Expect the unexpected."

CHAPTER 2

SHADOW AND SHADE

Who knows what lies In the shadow and shade? A forgotten voice, An oblivious place? Dreadful thoughts, Your hidden fears, Awaiting the time To reappear. So wait for the morning, Watch for the light, Try to be strong, It will be all right. The shade knows you’re coming, And the shadow prepares. Walk in the darkness If you dare.

—David

Billy, David whispered across the aisle to his friend who was barely paying attention. Billy! he whispered a little louder. David was persistent; he was concerned with the task at hand. He never quit and he never failed to reach his goal,

although sometimes he gained a few undesirable side effects along the way. David Horton would be any parent’s dream child: he never gave up expensive piano or trombone lessons, he never quit the football team after paying for an expensive uniform, and he never stopped doing his chores when he was halfway finished. David always followed through. Once though, he collapsed of heat exhaustion while mowing a huge lawn in the hot July sun. When he became conscious again in the hospital room, sweat still soaking the light brown hair that was pushed aside on his forehead, he said, I gotta finish that yard. His mom just laughed with a few tears in her eyes and kissed his forehead.

What? You’re gonna get me in detention, David! whispered Billy.

Turn to page 234. You gotta read this poem. It’s cool.

Man, I don’t wanna read no poem! I don’t even wanna be in this class! Billy said, his voice increasing its pitch.

You guys better be quiet. Mrs. Miller’s looking back here, said Chris, a friend sitting in front of David.

Chris, David, Billy…you three have detention this afternoon, ordered Mrs. Miller, a new teacher at their school. You will shelve books in the book room for one hour. Be here promptly at 3:05 when school dismisses, understand? In the year that she had been there, she had made quite an impression. Fresh out of UCLA, she brought with her new ideas about education and a zeal for teaching that had gained her a kind of celebrity status in the small Northeastern Alabama town. She also brought, however, some strict ideas about discipline that did not settle well with certain students—mainly the ones who received it. It had been writing time in her eleventh grade English class, requiring intense concentration and silence. Chris, David, and Billy had broken that silence—a felony in Mrs. Miller’s book.

* * * *

At 3:05, the three boys reported to the book room to pick up where they had left off, from yesterday and the day before, shelving the numerous books that had fallen during the brief tremor that shook the town a few weeks ago. The book room was long and narrow with long-stemmed light fixtures hanging from the high ceiling. The bookcases towered above them; dust, dancing in the light, lingered in the air.

I can’t believe I’m in detention for the third day in a row, all because you wanted me to read some stupid poem, Billy complained as he ran his hands through his thick black hair. With the exception of girls, Billy didn’t like much of anything these days. Since his father died over a year ago—around the beginning of 1978—he had become a little bitter to everyone. He was the typical rebel without a cause; he even bought a motorcycle against the protests of his mother.

You’ll get killed on that thing, she often said, and I’ll be left alone without you or your father!

He hated for anyone to mention his father; his death had been extremely painful. One afternoon when his mother was out of town visiting his grandparents, he waited for his father to pick him up after basketball practice. The coaches and other players offered him a ride home, but he declined, as he knew his father would be there soon. After waiting for over an hour as the day turned dark, he walked home. He felt abandoned, betrayed. He was even afraid. The house became a maze, enormous and unending, with terrors waiting behind closed doors. He safely found his bed where he lay until he got the proverbial call and knock on the door. His mother was hysterical, telling him that his father was killed in a car accident in Mabian, a larger city a few miles outside Lethe where he worked.

It’s not stupid, David said. Just read it. Here, I brought my book with me. David showed the book to Billy and Chris. Chris, the most intelligent of the three, began reading it immediately. He was the youngest of his class, having turned sixteen only two weeks before school started. He used to be shy, only becoming more outgoing when Billy and David became his friends three years ago. In early middle school, he was considered a bookworm, a teacher’s pet. His thick, black glasses and his slick, mid-parted blond hair didn’t help his reputation either. But, in the summer before eighth grade, he moved next door to David and Billy, who lived across the street in the same subdivision. The three boys played baseball all summer and became good friends. As the friendship carried over into school, Billy and David helped to erase his nerdy image by providing a few tips on how to dress, walk, and talk. He even gained more popularity with girls, although not with the one he wanted—Kimberly Horton, David’s beautiful and popular younger sister. Kimberly, however, didn’t seem to know or see that Chris DeLaney existed. She was interested in boys from the other side of the tracks, so to speak—rough and tough bad boys like Billy.

I still don’t wanna read it, Billy protested. All I can think of right now is my date with your sister tonight. It’s gonna be hot!" Billy said.

Don’t talk about my sister like that, man.

Hey, this is cool. I just can’t believe it’s in our English book, Chris said. He then began to read the poem aloud. "Who knows what lies in the shadow and shade? The lights in the room flickered. A forgotten voice, An oblivious place?"

The light fixtures, attached to long beams, began to swing a little. "Dreadful thoughts, Your Hidden Fears, Awaiting the time, To reappear." The lights suddenly went off.

Okay…what happened? David asked. There was no answer. Guys, this is not funny. We’ve got work to do, so turn the lights back on! David jumped back as Billy grabbed him and yelled. Chris turned the lights on again. The two were laughing hysterically.

You looked so scared when I jumped at you! Billy said, laughing.

How would you know? The lights were off, David said.

When I turned them on though, you were white as a ghost! said Chris.

I wasn’t scared—I only thought it’s silly wasting our time when we can get finished with what we need to do and get outta here, he explained.

I still can’t believe this poem is in our English book. Mrs. Miller would never teach us this, Chris said.

It was kinda neat, I guess, Billy said regretfully. Who wrote it anyway?

"It says here—David. Hey Dave, I didn’t know you were a poet," Chris joked.

Ha, ha. Another laugh at my expense. I’m really lucky to have friends like you two.

David? That’s it? David who? Billy asked.

I don’t know. Let me look in the index. Chris began looking up the name David. It had to be someone’s last name. No one went by the solo name David, except for a statue. In the Ds, he found no reference to David as a last name. Sure, there were several Davids listed with other last names, but nothing that indicated who wrote the poem. So, Chris turned to the table of contents and found that O Captain, My Captain by Walt Whitman was supposed to be in its place. He flipped the pages back to the poem on 234 and turned the page. No Whitman poem was there. Seems like you have a misprinted book. We better get you another one, so if we study the poem by Whitman, you’ll have something to go by, Chris said.

Wait, David said before Chris closed the book.

What?

Look—on the bottom of the page. Was that there before? David asked. Billy, now curious, stopped his finger drumming on the counter by the wall and came to look at the book himself. Chris looked down and read the scribbled handwriting that went diagonally across the bottom right corner of the page.

Old Graveyard Road, he said aloud. No, I don’t think that was here before. But that couldn’t be possible. We must’ve not seen it.

Hey, that’s the road up Dothard Hill. It goes out to the Ruined Cemetery, Billy explained. Some people say it’s haunted.

No way. That’s just an old, scary campfire story. It’s not true, David said.

I heard it was true. I heard that twenty years ago, two teenagers went parking up on that road and stopped to make out in front of the gate of the graveyard. It was then called Lethe Memorial Gardens instead of the Ruined Cemetery.

Why would they go to a cemetery to make out, especially that one? David asked.

Let him finish, Dave. I haven’t heard this story, Chris said.

Well, the graveyard wasn’t always that way, Billy continued, telling the story verbatim as he had heard it told to him every year at summer Boy Scout camp. It was a nice quiet resting place until those two were murdered there. They were found burned to death, lying in thick puddles of blood outside their car. Blood was everywhere, even on the inside of their car. After that, people started burying their dead elsewhere. And in 1960, a tornado came through Lethe and struck the graveyard, smashing tombstones left and right and damaging the huge iron gate around it. No one went there anymore. Some took it as a sign of warning—first, the murders; then, the tornado. From then on, it was called the Ruined Cemetery and Dothard Hill Road was nicknamed Old Graveyard Road. And, if you go to the cemetery on a clear night, you can hear the souls of the dead kids echoing in the woods of the hill.

I don’t believe that murder story. I can believe that a tornado hit the place, but the other part is hard to swallow, David said, shelving some books. Now, are you two gonna start helping me or what?

There is a way we can find out though, Chris commented. "There are boxes of back issues of the Mabian Press over there. We can look it up."

The trio looked over at the boxes that climbed the far wall where a burned-out light hung looming overhead. They all seemed hesitant. Part of their fear was finding out the story was true. The other part was being afraid to walk into the darkness that seemed to swallow them up already.

CHAPTER 3

INVESTIGATION

Do you think we’ll have to look through all these boxes to find it? Billy asked, lifting the top off a box sitting alone on the floor. Dust escaped from its rectangular coffin and joined the rest of its family