The Scarecrow's Kiss

By Michelle Woody

In 1980, serial killer Joseph Parrish was killed in a raid by local authorities and his bizarre world uncovered.

Now, Russell Kenyon has come to do a segment on Parrish for his show, Spooky History, hoping the report will be his show's saving grace. With a new victim missing, talk of Parrish's curse has spread through town. Russ quickly finds himself involved in the case, finding the body bound and dissected in Parrish's fashion.

Russ changes his direction, hoping to catch the killer for his show. He feels protected in the town where people vanish, feeling invited by the killer. Yet, he also feels watched. He is haunted by the scarecrow that guards Parrish's land.

Russ finds few allies in town, working against the local sheriff and a town spooked by a legend. His attraction to the chief deputy, Jared Hatcher, a young man with eyes of an angel, takes him by surprise.

It quickly becomes clear it's not a copycat killer. Russ must protect the ones he loves, the town he's grown fond of, and uncover the mystery of the deadly scarecrow's kiss before he finds himself suffering a fate worse than death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 20, 2004
• ISBN: 9780595779567

Book preview

THE SCARECROW’S KISS

Michelle Woody

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

The Scarecrow’s Kiss

All Rights Reserved © 2004 by Michelle Woody

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.

iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc.

2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100 Lincoln, NE 68512 ISBN: 0-595-33171-8 (pbk) ISBN: 0-595-66758-9 (cloth)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

SAVING GRACE

DUTY AT HELL HOUSE

AN ALLY ARRIVES

DAY OF SURPRISES

JASON HATCHER

JARED’S DUTY

TROWER’S PARTY

THREATS ON ALL SIDES

EDDIE WOLFE

A PAST ERASED

THREE FALL

SAM TAKES ACTION

EDDIE’S BATTLE

JASON’S CONFESSION

RESCUE ATTEMPT

A LOOK AT 1980

THE LOVERS AND THE VICTIM

ANOTHER BODY

PROOF OF THE SCARECROW

CONNER’S NIGHT

MADISON’S MAGIC

A DEPUTY ATTACKED

THE JOURNALS

BETRAYER DISCOVERED

THE CHARGE

THE EVIL CONFRONTED

A NEW WATCHER

Thanks to

M&D,

M, M&M, and

Our Father and His Son

SAVING GRACE

In 1980, the small Midwestern town of Ravenwood was rocked to discover the gruesome secret a seventy acre farm held when a six-year-old boy was reported abducted and a witness led authorities to the home of Joseph Parrish. There, the startling discovery of Parrish’s attempted sacrifice of the boy to his gods was made. The child, Eddie Wolfe, had been sliced down the chest cavity, still awake and crying for his mother. A gunfire exchange wounded two sheriff deputies and cost Joseph Parrish, then age thirty-three, his life. Upon further investigation of the land, one hundred fifty bodies were discovered, ranging from children to adults, human to animal.

The families were given closure to the mysterious disappearances of their loved ones and the dead were laid to rest. Files were searched in several counties for possible matching identities in cases of the missing and the case was considered closed.

For twenty-four years, the quiet town lived in the shadow of the Parrish home that held such horrors. That is until the night of September 30th, less than one week ago. A new missing person case was opened by local authorities. Eleanor Halgrove, age seventy-two, simply vanished from her home without a trace. With no signs offoul play and no leads as to her whereabouts, authorities not only face the task offinding the woman, but also of asking, could the Parrish curse be coming true?

In 1980, the town’s local paper reported that Joseph Parrish’s last words were a vow of revenge upon those who stopped him and promises his revenge would be worse than they could imagine.

The renewed interest in Joseph Parrish does not come simply because this town of almost two thousand people has not had a murder since then, but because Eleanor Halgrove was the closest neighbor to the old Parrish farm. From her front window, she

could look down into the fields of Joseph Parrish, where many of his victims were crudely buried.

After twenty-four years of peace and healing, it may be that Joseph Parrish has added a number to his count. It may be that Joseph Parrish is now at one hundred fifty-one, and the number may grow substantially before he is put back to rest.

Russ Kenyon read over his speech once again. It would be his opening speech in the segment of his show, Spooky History with Russell Kenyon, the basic syndicated late night investigative show, full of gimmicks and bad actors in ridiculous re-enactments. Russ’ own investigations were becoming more and more laughable themselves the longer he worked for the show. Russ and his cameraman, Mark Harris, traveled the States, searching for any spooky story and set out to prove it was true, despite knowing all along they would never succeed.

The trip to Ravenwood was different for Russ. This time Russ had begged for the assignment funding, needing one last chance at remaining employed. About to be cut from the budget, Russ hated the show, but it was the best and only offer he had. He wasn’t ready to lose his source of income. So promising to obey all the rules and to turn in the kind of story the producer wanted to see, Russ begged for a chance to follow up on some news clippings he had received in the mail.

The clippings had arrived anonymously, with a simple letter addressed to him, saying the articles might interest him. Most of the articles chronicled the events of 1980 and the horror that kept being discovered one grave at a time, and was followed up with a recent article about Halgrove’s disappearance. The local reporter was crying out the curse had started while the sheriff was trying to nip any talk of a curse. No doubt Russ’ appearance wouldn’t help the sheriff s case, but that didn’t matter to Russ. It sounded like a good story. Just the facts of what happened in 1980 would have been interesting enough.

What if it is starting again, and I’m right there to catch it all for television, Russ silently asked himself, fighting back daydreams of the awards he would win.

It was society. They demanded the gore, the drama. And Russ needed a paycheck. So he found himself traveling in a rental car that didn’t suit him, to a small town he had never heard of, to shoot some footage of a rundown farm, interview some of the locals, and then head home and write his tale of the curse coming true.

Russ laid some of the articles out before him on his lap, looking closely at the photographs of the man that had done such atrocities. He looked harmless enough, ole Parrish did. ‘Country boy’ would have been a good way to describe

the man. He didn’t really have that insane evil in his eye the way some serial killers did, yet his eyes were unsettling all the same.

Russ started to pick the particular article up that held Parrish’s best photo when the articles were blown about by Mark rolling down his window a bit to toss his cigarette butt out onto the highway. Russ gave his driver a dirty look after managing to catch all his articles. There are ashtrays, you know?

Mark shrugged, rolling the window back up.

That’s littering, by the way, Russ added, turning his attention back to his work. You shouldn’t smoke those things.

Anything else? Mark asked.

No, that’s all. Russ didn’t look back at Mark, letting the young man drive on. Their three hundred mile drive from the airport to the small town was starting to feel like an endless drive through Hell in a rental car that was barely comfortable enough for the producer’s young son, much less two grown men. Their film equipment had just barely fit in the trunk, making the back seat full of luggage. It wasn’t the accommodations Russ was used to from the station, but as they were last in line for expense money and first on the chopping block, Russ knew he was lucky they offered to pay for anything. If they were unsuccessful at getting some ratings with the bit on Parrish, Russ had no doubt the expense for the trip would be withheld from his severance pay. He would appreciate the small car’s bill then, but at the moment he was still free to curse it at every mile marker.

The Parrish story felt different to him, though. It wasn’t just a ghost story to scare only the locals. The story was full of facts, of an obscene amount of victims, complete with bizarre rituals, a curse from the murderer, and possibly a renewal of the killings. The story might actually pan out to be his saving grace. Russ could reclaim his dignity, give his notice, and move back to his dream of having a network job.

All from a story of a crazy man who sacrificed the pure so he could be immortal, the unfortunate who stumbled across his path for the joy of torturing them, and the animals he claimed allowed him to see into the future and speak to his divine being who promised Joseph his revenge.

Ready for a break from that stuff, Russ gathered up his articles and notes, tucked them inside a notebook, and laid them in the backseat. Tired of being in the car, he tried to readjust his position, his six-foot-one frame tucked in nice and tight in the front seat. He would let the other side of his butt fall asleep for a while. It wouldn’t be soon enough until he was out of that damn car and that damn suit and having a good meal.

Running a hand over his hair, Russ caught a glimpse of himself in the side mirror. He looked tired from the flight and the travel. He hoped that didn’t translate over into his tapings. The one thing he had going for him was his female fan base. With his rugged features, tanned skin, and full dark-blond hair, his good looks had helped considerably with the ratings and he figured that was why he had been allowed to stay on the show as long as he had. He wasn’t the typical weird science geek that usually did those ghost stories. Russ looked more like a jock, a baseball player that he had one time wanted to be.

In his past, sports had been his love. It had left him with the muscles and the washboard stomach women loved, even though his knee wasn’t up for the sports gig. He had gotten into broadcasting by accident and found he enjoyed the investigation. Years later, he found himself on the road in a cheap rental with a tired camera man, a bleak future, and a financial statement that made his bad knee seem like an asset. You’d better make good this time, he told the image staring back at him in the tiny mirror.

The face he saw in the mirror didn’t feel like his own. The man that stared back at him looked like a golden-boy from a movie, not the troubled reporter that he felt like. He noticed how square his forehead appeared with his hair combed back from his face. His green eyes looked dull in their narrow space, a perfect nose dividing them. His clean-shaven cheeks did little to erase the age that was settling in his face. Russ felt that the burdens he carried were beginning to show. For his age, he was feeling like an old-timer amongst the crew at work. At thirty-four, he was finding even his bosses were younger than him. All the more reason, he told that image in the mirror, that the story has to be a success and offer a release.

The exit for Ravenwood was well marked. Russ was grateful for the small blessing. Soon, they would be out of that car. Exiting the highway, they took the Business Loop and headed towards town. With vague directions on how to get to the farm, they drove almost three miles before they were given an option.

Should we buzz town first, or go to the farm? Mark asked. Mark Harris was one of the youngsters that Russ was having to deal with. Mark was twenty-three, with dark and handsome features that kept him in the company of women. While Mark was young and relatively new to the reporting field, Russ found him easy to work with. For almost a year they had worked together solidly. Mark was one of the few Russ could tolerate at the station.

Let’s just go to it, first. We’ll check out the town tomorrow. The turn should be before town, anyway. Russ looked back at his notes. Farm Road 625?

Yep, Mark nodded. This is it. He turned left off the Business Loop, and headed them out into more expanses of countryside. It should be around here somewhere, Mark sighed, looking in front of them as if there would be a marker or a tour guide ready to collect parking money.

I don’t think we’ll miss it, Russ said, looking from side to side for clues they were getting close. The farmland that lined both sides of the road was a beautiful sight to Russ’ worn eyes, having been in the big city for so long, but he quickly reminded himself he wasn’t there on vacation.

Having worried they wouldn’t easily find the Parrish farm, Russ felt like a fool when they did approach the area. Even if he hadn’t known the history of the place, he would have guessed the overgrown, rundown farm they were approaching had an evil history to it. He had been worried they would miss it, and yet it practically called out to them, inviting them into its hell. Even with the sun still shining, Russ felt as if they had just entered night.

Russ muttered a softly spoken curse as Mark turned the car into the drive. The drive was a mere remnant of a gravel road that the weeds and grass had overtaken. Some of the grass stood taller than the car’s hood. The little car managed to traverse the washed-out drive but it made Russ regret not pushing for a SUV.

The small farmhouse sat atop a hill, hidden from the road’s view by trees. Most of the trees there were dead, but the trees that still lived were barren of their leaves. The pasture land beside the house was surrounded by woods, all browning and dying faster than the rest of the area.

The one-story house loomed over them, its frame beginning to whither from neglect. All the windows were broken out with only bits of jagged glass remaining. The front door hung on a rotting frame, open just enough to see the darkness inside the house. In the yard hung a scarecrow, resting on its post, facing what at one time had been a bountiful crop, now only dying weeds. The purple coat and black pants and hat of the scarecrow were weathered, same as the house.

We’re going in there? Mark asked, an expression of pain upon his handsome face.

We are. We can do it now, in the daylight, or later, in the darkness.

Let’s get in there, Mark said. He shut off the ignition and left the car, heading to the trunk for his gear.

Russ stepped out of the car, looking up at the house. He was curious if the shell of a house had ever been a real home, or if even when it was built it had that evil feel. The outer boards had weathered, the paint fading away many years before. The covered porch that ran the length of the house was sagging. Russ

questioned the porch’s strength, hoping his step onto its neglected wood wouldn’t send the house falling down.

A strong wind blew around them, causing the weeds to sound as if someone was walking towards them. The trees groaned as they leaned with the wind that was blowing in a storm. Russ hoped they were done before it started. Curse or no curse, he didn’t want to be in that house in a storm at night.

Mark assembled his camera in the car’s trunk, then hoisted it up on his shoulder. Ready as I’ll ever be.

Let’s do it, then. Let’s get some footage of the front, and of that scarecrow. And back there, Russ pointed, gently turning Mark so the camera followed his point, That would be the Halgrove place. Standing where they were, if they looked to their right at the hilltop across the road, a small white house sat dark as its owner was no longer there.

Looking once again at the Parrish house that eerily invited them inside, Russ took a step forward, anxious to get his footage. They would come back the next day and Russ would do his formal intro he had written on the way there, but that night, with the stormy weather and the creepy feeling he had, Russ wanted to capture the interior material. Just keep rolling, he instructed Mark as the two men walked towards the house.

The front wooden step was as rickety as the tilted front door. Russ told Mark to be careful, as Mark’s view was limited through a camera’s lens. Getting the front door open proved to be more difficult than Russ expected. On the other side of the door was twenty-four years of leaves and dirt. It was as if Russ was the first person to open that door since the night Eddie Wolfe was rescued.

Stepping inside, Russ turned his flashlight on. The large beam illuminated the entire room around them. The front living area was to Russ’ right as he stepped in from the door and three bedrooms lined the left side. From newspapers stacked from floor to ceiling, to the scarce furniture in the rooms, every item was ruined. Every room was the same, weathered by rain and nature.

The kitchen held a simple stove and a fridge that appeared to be one of the first made. The bedrooms held only mattresses that laid on the floor. There were no photos or paintings on the walls. There were no carpets, no televisions, nor phones. All this Russ noted for the camera, filming each room in turn.

All that was there was a stench. It was more than an earth smell, more than rotting wood. It was a stale, heavy stench that was in every room, and grew stronger the closer they approached their final destination. Russ covered his mouth and nose with his hand, but it didn’t keep the overwhelming stink out.

The basement of Joseph Parrish’s home was the place he had sacrificed his many victims, having built his own table to hold his sacrifices. With knives and no concern for the victims, Joseph Parrish had sliced each one open, removed their organs, and then disposed of the bodies in shallow graves on his secluded farm. The amount of blood that had been spilled and allowed to sink into the earth floor had been phenomenal and the smell of that alone had sickened some of the rescuers that night in 1980.

Even after so long, the smell was getting to Russ. He could only imagine how horrendous it had been that night when it all came to an end. Taking shallow breaths to avoid breathing the smell in, Russ led Mark through the kitchen to a door in the wall that hid a staircase. Opening the door had been like detonating a stink bomb. The stink hit them like a wave of solid air.

Damn! Mark cussed.

If only we could capture the smell on film, Russ said to the camera. I’ve never smelled anything as terrible as this. There is no smell to compare it to in my knowledge.

Russ looked down the dark staircase, shining his flashlight around the area he was about to enter. The stairs were handmade, mere boards that led straight down. Russ turned to face the camera as he went down the stairs, trying to find the words to capture the stench he was entering.

At the bottom landing, Russ found a secure stance on the bottom stair. Quickly looking ahead of him in the darkness, Russ saw the walls were lined in concrete blocks but the floor was simple dirt. The ceiling was low and the darkness was unforgiving.

Holding the flashlight up for Mark to film the earthen torture chamber, Russ took a step onto the basement floor. With his attention on the camera, Russ started his report of how Parrish brought his victims down those stairs, to this very room. He moved slowly into the middle of the room, shining the light around the room behind him, judging the interest by Mark’s actions.

But at one turn, Mark caught his breath and reflexively moved back so quickly that Russ knew they weren’t alone there. Russ felt the rush of blood through his body as a fear took him that he didn’t want to experience. Keeping the light pointed in the direction of whomever had startled Mark, Russ turned, expecting to face a lawman, or even a killer. For the lawman, Russ would have his excuses. For a killer, he would be ready to fight. But what he saw froze him.

Behind him, Mark had lowered the camera and was throwing up. Russ wanted to look away from what his flashlight illuminated, but couldn’t, his eyes held on the sight before him.

Strapped to the table Parrish had made was an old woman, her cold eyes staring hard at the ceiling above her, her chest cavity opened and completely void inside.

DUTY AT HELL HOUSE

Within hours, the whole town was talking about the discovery. Some thought it was just a hoax put on by the television crew that had come to town. Some believed it was a copycat killing by someone too lazy to create his own style. Some said it was Joseph Parrish come back from the dead to finish his task.

Whatever the real reason, Jared Hatcher knew how his night would be spent: running people off the Parrish place. Jared hated that old place, ever since he was a kid. It was the creepiest place, even when the Parrishs lived there. In all the years he had served the town as a sheriff’s deputy, Jared had never had to step foot on that evil place, just merely drive by it, or spook off a few kids parking. That night was going to be different.

Jared had been listening to his scanner that day as he had been getting ready for work. When the call came across of a body discovered at the Parrish farm, Jared couldn’t believe his ears. He had hoped he was still asleep and suffering a nightmare, but he didn’t have that comfort. He wasn’t dreaming and it was true. The victim had to be ole lady Halgrove and he could only guess the details of the scene. No doubt someone had displayed her the same way all of Parrish’s victims had been.

Within minutes of hearing the call be dispatched, Jared’s phone had rang. It was work calling him in early. Once word got around town, Jared and the other five deputies would have their hands full calming those in a panic, running off those curious to see more, and trying to find who really killed Eleanor Halgrove.

Jared had quickly finished dressing, deciding to let the wind dry his short dark hair. He double checked himself in the mirror, but something more than his clean shaving job caught his attention. Hoping it was just some residual tiredness that bogged him down, Jared found himself caught in staring at his reflection. His deep-blue eyes appeared a bit dull to him. He was thirty years old with a youthful appearance, but that day he carried a serious expression. He had been told that he had the face of an angel, but that day the angel was burdened. It was a dread about going to work. It was a dread about how terrible the case of Hal-grove’s murder was going to be.

Where the dread had come from he couldn’t tell, but he forced himself back into his routine, hurrying to get to the job he loved. Climbing into his Jeep Wrangler, he backed out of his drive, waving quickly at his neighbor as she watched him leave, and hurried off to work.

The town square was less than a ten minute drive from his house in the old historic district. Jared found it full of traffic that day, a bit of its normal afternoon rush mixed with those curious folk watching the action at the sheriff’s office. It sat on the end of the south turn, a simple white-painted brick building with the office hours painted on the glass door. The two-story building held three jail cells in the basement, deputy offices, Dispatch a garage, and a receptionist on the first floor, and the sheriff s office on the second floor. Three patrol cars sat in the front slanted parking, with two four-wheel drive rigs in the back parking lot where the officers could park their personal vehicles. A red Ford sat in the front lot next to the patrol cars. Jared guessed it was the television crew’s.

Driving around to the back lot, he parked next to the building since he would be on the graveyard shift. He shut off the ignition, took his keys and soda and stepped out of the Jeep. Walking around the corner of the building, Jared headed to where his friend and co-worker, Patrick Sinnon, sat on the curb across the street. Patrick puffed on a cigarette, his gaze fixed on the traffic of the square.

Patrick was Jared’s connection in the night. After ten, it was just Jared on the street and Patrick in the office, taking the calls and dispatching. Patrick was an old man, young in his spirit, but put on desk duty when he had battled Joseph Parrish that fateful night years ago and now walked with a limp because of it.

Jared crossed the street and sat next to Patrick, looking at the man he considered family. Tonight’s gonna be fun, huh? Jared asked.

Why do you think I’m out here smoking? Better than in there. Patrick’s deep voice carried the taint of a smoker and a subtle British accent from his days of living abroad. Patrick’s face was aged with wrinkles that made him seem older than he was, but his full head of white hair gave the man an attractive charm. Jared had always wondered what had kept Patrick, so cultured and intelligent, in that town when such brighter futures had been waiting for him elsewhere.

Wild in there, too? Jared asked, shaking away the cigarette Patrick offered him.

"That news crew is in there. Sheriff’s pissed. Damn reporter, Willie, in there stirrin’ the shit. Phone’s ringin’ of the hook with people afraid he’s come back."

Great, Jared sighed, finishing the last of his soda, suddenly feeling the urge for something stronger.

Patrick squashed his cigarette on the ground. I said they shoulda burned that place down. Now, here it is again.

Think it’s something? Not just a copycat?

Patrick shook his head, a distant look to his gaze. I saw Parrish’s eyes that night he died. Full of fire. He’ll be back, I said. Patrick paused, looking Jared in the eyes. Looks like I was right.

Jared was silent, bothered by his friend’s statement more than he wanted to admit.

Patrick’s grave expression melted away, a strange smile on his face. There’s a cute guy in there, too. Two of them.

Why you telling me? Jared asked, feeling defensive automatically when he hadn’t meant to be.

Single, aren’t ya? Looking?

Not looking. Don’t go playing matchmaker, please. Cute guys do nothing but break hearts and I’m not lookin’ for that. Jared stood, deciding to brave the chaos of the station rather than discuss being single with Patrick who was like a father to him.

Just be careful out there tonight. This is no laughin’ matter.

I’m too scared to be laughing, Jared said, going back across the street. He walked to the front of the building, running his hand over his hair to calm it down if it needed it. He never fussed too much with his hair, letting the drive over in the Jeep dry and style it, knowing his hat was going to kill whatever style he did give it.

He pushed the door open, and stepped into the station, finding it the most alive he had ever seen it in his years there. There were two deputies on phones, and the receptionist, Laura, trying to handle as many calls as she could. In the small front waiting area, a young man sat, his head bowed as if it made him invisible. Willie Whalox, the local reporter, was arguing with Laura to be let into the office area, demanding to speak to the sheriff.

For Jared’s comfort level, it was too much for him. Laura buzzed him through the small door that separated the waiting area from the offices. He was careful to not let Willie slide through behind him.

I demand to have first scoop on this, Willie said, pressing against the door, his face close to Jared’s. Jared could smell the Old Spice cologne on the man. Willie was a frail, aging man, fueled only by the quest for ‘the scoop.’

I’ll have the sheriff call you later, Jared said, his soft-spoken words seeming to have been swallowed up by the commotion, but Willie apparently heard them for he stepped back, a bit of his charge gone.

You do that, he said, returning to the waiting area and taking a seat.

Letting out a sigh, Jared walked through the islands of desks that held phones ringing and deputies talking, feeling that duty out at the Parrish place might not be so bad after all. There were no phones there but one: his cell phone.

He made his way to the break room in the back of the building, knowing the sheriff was back there. The break room was a large cafeteria-style room with a small kitchen and fridge, and five small tables. The room served as the duty roster, impromptu interrogation room, meeting area, sleeping quarters, and kitchen. On a busy day like that one, Jared knew the sheriff would be there. Rarely was a meeting held in the sheriff s office.

Jared stepped into the large room, finding Sheriff Sam Mansfield standing in the corner, arguing with someone on the phone. At one of the tables sat a blond-haired man that Jared recognized as Russell Kenyon. Jared smiled at him, hoping his cheeks weren’t blushing, but he felt they were.

Deputy, Russell said softly, leaning closer to him, I’d like my tape back.

ce-p

Tape?

Don’t talk to him! the sheriff barked, lowering the phone a bit from his mouth.

Jared took a step away from the celebrity. The sheriff returned to talking to whomever was on the phone, leaving Jared the uncomfortable silence of waiting. He didn’t look at Russell and tried to not look like an idiot just standing there. He simply watched the sheriff argue.

Sam Mansfield was a bulldog of a man, in his late forties. A military man before retiring from that to go into police work, he was a bulldog of a sheriff, as well. His anger was quick to boil. He was shorter than Jared, stocky, having at one time been solid muscle, now beginning to show more of the characteristics of a middle-age father with a wife that could cook. Sam’s facial features were strong, softened by bright blue eyes that generally shined out from his anger-redden face. Jared was often mistaken for Sam’s son because of their eyes being the same color. Jared sometimes questioned if that was why he was on the night shift; to keep them separated.

The sheriff hung up the phone, and turned to Jared. Will you and Randy go out to the Parrish place. Make sure no one, I mean no one, gets in there. Especially these two.

Jared looked at Kenyon then, following the sheriff s point. Jared assumed Sam meant Kenyon and the quiet one out in the lobby. Yes, sir. Whalox is out front, as well.

Great. Just great. Run him off on your way out.

Sure, chief.

I want no one talking to these guys. Sam turned his attention to Kenyon. I don’t care where you got the permits from to film out there, I don’t need this stirred up any more than it is. Understood?

Yes, sir, Russell answered, respectfully. If I could just have my tape back.

The tape is now evidence. I can’t give it back to you, you know that.

Russell let out a sigh of defeat, Fine.

You two are free to go, the sheriff said. But stay away from that place. I will have you arrested for disturbing a crime scene no matter if you do have permits.

Jared heard an agreement to the order, but he doubted that Russell Kenyon really meant that. If Russell was a reporter like Whalox, nothing would stop him from going back out there.

Jared turned and walked out of the room before the sheriff got a hold of him with his grumpy attitude, aware that Russell was behind him. He concentrated on locating Randy rather than think of the handsome man that walked the hall with him. Stopping at the first desk on his left, Jared was glad Kenyon went on by. You ready to go? Jared said to the young man that sat there.

Sure thing.

While Jared waited for Randy to gather his things, he watched Russell Kenyon go to the quiet man in the lobby. They left quickly. Willie Whalox left as well, perhaps going to follow his competition or threaten them, Jared couldn’t decide. Taking a set of keys for the patrol car, Jared walked out of the station with Randy following, giving up on guessing what the trio of reporters were up to.

Jared went to the driver’s side of the last patrol car, stealing one last glance at the two city reporters, then got in his car and prepared to begin his night of duty at the house from Hell.

A patrol car was parked across the drive up to the house on the Parrish place. The deputy that was the most intimidating of them, Glen Sheridan, stood beside it. Glen was a body builder, standing inches taller than Jared. While Jared considered himself strong with a solid frame, when it came to trouble, Jared was glad to have Glen’s presence at his side. It was with reluctance that Jared ordered Glen back to the station then. With the haunted house behind him and the curious or angry townsfolk before him, Jared felt outnumbered.

Once Glen was gone, Jared and Randy parked their cars across the drive, standing at the edge of the road to spot trouble before it got too close. Randy watched one way while Jared covered the other. Majority of the traffic that passed was just the curious, hoping to catch a glimpse of a body being removed, or to see the terrible house for the first time. Jared waved those people on by.

Jared had missed the body removal and the investigation of the house. He didn’t mind that fact all that much. From where they stood, not real close to the house, Jared could smell the strong stench Glen and the others had complained of and it was strong enough out there. Actually being inside the house might have made Jared too sick to be of any use.

As the story flew around town, Jared waited for the angry and the fearful people to arrive. It had been hours since the original discovery and Jared could only imagine how far-out the story had become. The night’s weather wasn’t going to make it any easier for him. There had been flashes of lightning and the roll of thunder most of their time there, but the rain was holding back. When it did unleash, Jared doubted it would stop any of the brave souls that came there. Bundled in his coat and gloves, Jared waited for the chaos the night would bring.

Time passed quickly for him and Randy. Most of the people simply yelled curses to Joseph Parrish from their windows as they drove by. Most people just looked. And when Jared thought his night stood a chance at being halfway decent, a red Ford drove by and parked at the side of the road near him. He had been expecting them, surprised they had taken so long to return.

Russell Kenyon and the quiet man left the car. The quiet man carried a large video camera. Russell led the approach, with a smile on his face. Deputy, he said, offering a hand to Jared. Let me properly introduce myself. Russ Kenyon. This is Mark Harris, he nodded to the cameraman behind him. "Spooky History. "

I know, Jared nodded, politely shaking Russ’ hand. You heard my orders. No one is allowed on the grounds.

I have permission to film here.

A flash of lightning drew Jared’s attention to the sky briefly, then back to Russ. Not tonight. This is a crime scene. Only officers allowed. Once it’s cleared, I’m sure you’ll be able to film. Lightning danced across the sky, lighting up the fields around them.

Deputy, Russ pleaded, please understand my position here. I don’t mean to harm the case. I only wish to report on it.

Jared shook his head, Sorry.

Russ’ next sentence was cut short by Randy yelling at a man that had sidestepped him. Jared turned to see a man darting past Randy. The large man held his arms bundled up tight to his chest, hiding something Jared couldn’t see from his position. Jared left his place, not concerned with the two reporters.

Whoa, Charlie, Jared said, getting in front of the man and placing his hands on the man’s arms to stop him. Jared smiled at the childlike face Charlie Ratcliff held. Charlie worked with the county road crew as an explosive technician. He knew then what the man hid. Charlie, you can’t go up there. Jared examined the two large sticks of dynamite Charlie held tightly to his chest.

I’m gonna blow that house back to Hell, and that bastard with it. The smell of alcohol was thick about him.

Okay, Jared nodded, keeping a light tone with the bulk of man that could have easily knocked Jared back if he chose to, but not tonight, okay? We still need to check some things out there.