Seventeen Skulls

By Joe Powers

Someone is stalking and killing the residents of a homeless shelter in Beaverbrook. And he’s doing it from a cell at the Garden Island Super-Maximum Security Penitentiary, over a thousand miles away.
Notorious serial killer Eldon Grant has discovered the ability to travel through the Shadow Realm – a dark and sinister conduit that lies in the murky fissures between the physical and astral planes. This allows him to return to his old stomping grounds and resume his rampage without leaving the cozy confines of his cell. It’s the perfect crime.
But his actions haven’t gone unnoticed.
As the bodies pile up, shelter worker Jennifer Brennan vows to get to the bottom of the murderous spree. Along with a disjointed group of companions, she sets out to learn who’s responsible and figure out a way to stop him before they draw his attention and become his next victims.

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Aug 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781955086660

Joe Powers

Joe Powers is a Canadian horror writer and long-time fan of the genre. From his introduction to the genre when he watched Bride of Frankenstein on a stormy Saturday night at the age of six, he’s been hooked ever since. Hundreds - or maybe thousands - of horror movies later, that one still ranks among his favorites. Among his many inspirations he lists Stephen King, Jack Ketchum, Alfred Hitchcock, Vincent Price, Peter Benchley, and Richard Matheson. In his own stories he enjoys introducing the reader to flawed, believable characters and leading them on dark journeys with unexpected twists. He isn’t afraid to mix and match genres, fearlessly weaving horror into noir, western, or sci fi.Joe’s short stories have appeared in various anthologies and collections, both at home and abroad. Terror in High Water is his debut novel. In his spare time he's a dog lover, avid hockey fan, and creative writing instructor. He lives in New Brunswick with his wife, Sheryl, and an assortment of furry creatures. Follow Joe at www.joepowersauthor.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

Buddy wanted a drink, and he meant to have one. The shelter had a strict no-alcohol policy, but that wasn’t about to deter him. Buddy was a regular at the shelter. He had been for years, though nobody seemed quite sure just how or when he’d first found his way to Beaverbrook. The only thing anyone could say for certain was that he’d been a part of the cultural landscape for as long as they could recall. Almost everyone knew who he was, and he was instantly recognizable. Besides his mysterious origins, he was a walking caricature. Barely five feet tall and rail-thin, with oversized ears and an ever-present grin, he spoke with a lilting, untraceable accent that brought a smile to the face of whoever he spoke to. Buddy was also an alcoholic. A functioning alcoholic, but an alcoholic nonetheless. The old joke was that nobody ever knew he was drunk until he showed up sober one day.

The shelter was the Gibson Wellness Center, a homeless shelter for men. It was located in a massive, ominous-looking brick-and-mortar building on the outskirts of the downtown core. The maze-like structure had been a hospital decades earlier, before being decommissioned and converted into government offices and public service outlets. One such service provided there was the homeless men’s shelter. Between late September and early May, the shelter housed several hundred men. But with only fifty beds and a first come-first served policy, spots filled up fast. That was especially true early in the year when the nights were still chilly enough to make sleeping outdoors unpleasant.

Buddy hovered in the hallway near the common area, trying to appear nonchalant. He snuck a peek around the corner toward reception. The daytime receptionist, an attractive young redhead, named Kellie, went home at five each night. This was a scheduling oversight that left the door unsupervised until the night supervisor, Charlie, arrived at five-thirty. Charlie was the guy responsible for checking people in from five-thirty until eight. At that point, he locked the doors for the night and spent the rest of the evening doing crossword puzzles and policing any trouble that arose. Charlie was a nice guy, but he took his job seriously. He was quite vigilant about the 8 P.M. last call, as the men called it. And he had a zero-tolerance policy about them wandering in and out once they’d checked in.

The reception desk was vacant, and nobody was milling around the reception area or outside the front door having their last smoke before coming in for the night. He took one last look around, saw no sign of Charlie, and strolled as casually as he could toward the front door of the shelter. He was signed in already and, if he escaped unseen, had at least a couple of hours until the doors closed for the night. He probably had about an hour to move around freely; after that, his re-arrival would draw unwanted attention. Buddy wasn’t looking for attention. All he wanted was a little taste. Satisfied he was unobserved, he pushed the door open and stepped out into the cool May evening.

He rounded the corner of the building and followed the wall toward the river. A tall hedge ran along the length of the building and ended where the path opened onto a small courtyard and common area out back. There were a few benches and picnic tables there, where the men who stayed at the shelter often ate their lunches during the warmer months.

The courtyard was empty, and Buddy passed through without a glance, still pleased with himself for having gotten out undetected. This, coupled with eager anticipation at what waited for him in the clearing ahead, spurred him on even quicker.

The path wound through the wooded area before opening onto a wide-open space in the trees along the riverbank. It was a popular spot due to its relative obscurity and lack of police presence and was frequented by the city’s homeless population. Two of the benches from the courtyard had been dragged down there at some point, but it was otherwise unremarkable save for empty liquor bottles, scattered cigarette butts, and food wrappers. A large barrel, painted blue with City of Beaverbrook stencilled on the side, stood nearby. Tall grass filled most of the open area, except where it had been trodden down by the various people who frequented the hidden oasis.

Buddy entered the clearing, looking around for signs of anyone else. He saw he was alone, and his heart sank. Unsure what to do next but unwilling to return to the shelter empty-handed, he took a seat on one of the benches. A breeze rustled through the trees, and he shivered, reminded that though the days were getting warmer, the warm summer nights hadn’t yet arrived and were still a ways off. He briefly questioned the wisdom of risking missing the window at the shelter and being forced to sleep outdoors on the chance that the guy would come through in time. He considered giving up and heading back inside but couldn’t force himself to that extreme. The allure of a nice warm bed and a hot meal was strong, but the call of the bottle was stronger.

He huddled on the bench with his arms wrapped around himself, unconsciously tapping one foot on the ground as he scanned the path in both directions. In the distance, he could hear traffic on the streets further up the riverbank, mingled with the sounds of nature in the copse of trees and down along the bank. It always amazed him the short distance one had to travel to find elements of the outdoors, even in the heart of the city. He often saw ducks and other birds in and around the water, and the chittering of squirrels was a constant presence in the summertime.

A soft sound to his left snapped him back into the present. A small man with something tucked under his arm strolled across the clearing toward him. He walked stiffly and glanced over his shoulder frequently as he approached. Buddy thought he looked nervous, and he neither moved nor spoke as the stranger drew nearer.

You Buddy?

The man spoke in a quiet, nasal voice. He looked like he might be the sort who would stay at the shelter, though Buddy didn’t recognize him. He nodded, trying not to stare at the package the man was carrying.

You got the money?

Buddy nodded again. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and fished out a fistful of crumpled bills and assorted coins. The man watched closely while Buddy counted out the agreed-upon amount. He handed the money to the man, who quickly snatched it and stuffed it inside his jacket pocket. He reached into the bag and pulled out a clear bottle that contained an opaque, brownish liquid. Buddy’s lips trembled with the hint of a smile. He wasn’t a fussy man, but bourbon was his favorite by far. The man seemed to sense Buddy’s eagerness, and with a cruel smirk, he took two steps away and casually flipped the bottle over his shoulder toward Buddy. For one brief, terrible moment Buddy was terrified he was going to miss, that the bottle would slip through his fingers and smash to bits on the bench. He caught it perfectly, though, and heaved a sigh of relief. The man gave a cruel little chuckle, and with a sarcastic tip of his hat, disappeared into the trees without another word.

Buddy clutched the bottle in trembling hands and examined it closely. The seal had been broken, and the level of the contents was a little lower than it should have been. Buddy wasn’t surprised by this. In addition to paying more than normal, losing the first drink to the supplier was a common, more or less accepted occurrence when buying bootleg liquor. In truth, he would have paid even if the bottle had been half empty. He unscrewed the cap, tilted the bottle back, and drained nearly half in one long gulp. He winced, shook his head, and blew out through his lips. Good stuff, he muttered.

He woke sometime later, huddled under the tree with his knees drawn up to his chin and his arms wrapped around himself. He shivered uncontrollably, hardly able to believe it could be so cold in May. It’s the rain, he thought. It gets into your bones, chills you right down to the core, and stays there.

He groggily looked around and tried to get his bearings. It was dark, especially in the middle of the clearing, where none of the city’s lights penetrated. The stars were all hidden by heavy black clouds. Aside from his noisy shuffling as he staggered to his feet, the steady whisper of rain on the branches and boughs above him was the only sound. He was utterly alone, with who knew how many hours to get through until daylight.

Over the patter of the rain, he thought he heard a soft thump nearby. He sat perfectly still, listening. He heard it again, over by the benches. He strained to see through the darkness, but nothing moved that he could see. He heard another sound as if someone were dragging something heavy across the wet grass and mud of the trail.

He was convinced somebody had to be moving around out there. For just a moment, he hesitated to call out. Not everyone who spent time around the clearing was friendly, and announcing his presence could prove a dangerous mistake. As he stared toward the benches, he detected the faintest hint of movement, a slightly darker shade of black against the shadows. If he hadn’t been staring directly at the spot, he would have missed it entirely.

Something about the stranger’s posture triggered Buddy’s memory, and he struggled to put his finger on who it might be. He didn’t have enemies, none that he knew of anyway, so odds were good it was an old acquaintance. Maybe someone who used to stay at the shelter, or maybe from his AA meetings.

The loneliness of his frigid solitude finally won out over safety. He sat up, eager for some company. Hey there, pal, he called out. Over here, under the tree. Got anything to drink?

The stranger turned and began to approach the tree. Buddy, ever helpful, leaned over and pushed a branch back out of the way. He squinted into the shadows, his mind too fuzzy to determine who his new companion was. A faint hint of cologne wafted through the air and sparked a sudden memory. Buddy’s eyes widened with recognition. He’d only ever known one man who’d worn that particular cologne.

Well, I’ll be damned. Is that you, old-timer? I ain’t seen you in years. Where ya been? Come on in here, sit and have a drink with me.

Chapter Two

Corrections Officer Chris Quinn strolled along the hallway of Cell Block D. He cast a cursory glance inside each cell as he passed. The only sounds in the prison hallway were the soft click of his boots on the concrete floor, the rattle of keys on his belt, and the occasional soft snore from one of the cells. There was little to no activity on D Block most of the time, especially after lights out. After four months on the job, that was exactly how Quinn liked it. Beats the hell out of gen pop, he thought.

Quinn’s first nine months on the job had been down in general population surrounded by, as most of the COs put it, a bunch of animals. He’d jumped at the chance to transfer upstairs to the Supermax and never looked back. The graveyard shift was beginning to create tension at home, but he was sure that would smooth over in time.

His radio crackled. How’s it looking up there? Will Chang, the other officer on duty, checked in.

Good. Quiet. On my way down. Quinn didn’t bother to look inside the rest of the cells as he passed by.

***

On the bunk in the third cell from the end, the lone occupant lay on his side with his back to the cell door, covered by a heavy woolen blanket. Each of the single-occupancy cells was more or less identical to all the others on the block: each contained a steel toilet and sink, a small desk and chair, and a metal-framed bed, covered by a thin mattress, with a footlocker built-in. On the narrow bunk, the elderly prisoner stirred, swung his legs over the side, and sat on the edge of the bed. His internal clock told him it was just before midnight, which meant the guard had probably already passed by. He rubbed the back of his neck but quickly paused with confusion. In the dim light, he regarded his hand, which dripped with water.

Now that’s interesting, he mumbled. I’ve never brought rain back with me before.

Chapter Three

Jennifer Brennan’s day was off to a bad start. She rolled onto her side with a groan and peered at the alarm clock through one sleep-deprived eye. There were vague memories of the previous night that involved Brad, a guy she’d met days before and would likely never see or hear from again. It involved a lot of vodka and a brief, unfulfilling sexual encounter, immediately after which he got up to go to the bathroom and never returned. She woke up feeling hungover, embarrassed, and ashamed. Even though she wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and stay in bed all day, she forced herself out of bed.

On her way to the shower, she paused and stared into the mirror. The face that stared back at her looked tired and old. She took a step back and gave herself an appraising look. Her blue eyes appeared almost black and were ringed with dark circles that alarmed her. She ran her fingers through her matted hair and thought it might be starting to thin up top. She pressed her breasts together and twisted back and forth, checking herself from all angles, then let them return to their normal, lower-than-she-would-have-preferred position. With a sigh, she stepped into the shower, and by the time she emerged twenty minutes later, she felt a little better. She got dressed and put on some makeup, and by the time she was halfway to work and well into her second cup of coffee, she felt almost normal again.

The pouring rain did little to soothe her mood, and as she pulled up to the wellness center, the sight of the police car and the ambulance, along with the small crowd of onlookers, made her wish once more she was back in her bed. She glanced in the mirror, grimaced at the dark circles around her eyes, and opted for her glasses to help with the cover-up.

A police officer was talking with the receptionist, Kellie, next to his car. They stepped aside as the ambulance drove past and pulled out into the street. Jennifer noticed the lights and siren were not on as it left and braced herself for whatever bad news awaited her. Kellie and the cop glanced toward her as she approached, and she forced a smile.

Good morning, Kellie. Officer, she said, as cheerfully as she could manage. Everything all right here?

I’m afraid not, ma’am, the policeman said, looking grave. And you are…?

This is Jennifer Brennan, Officer, Kellie said. She’s one of our social workers here. She turned to Jennifer with a sympathetic look and lowered her voice. It’s Buddy, Jen. They found him in the clearing by the river.

Buddy? She couldn’t believe it. Of all the men she would have guessed would be next, Buddy would have been near the bottom of the list. He was one of the regulars at the shelter, a recovering alcoholic in his late fifties, and a gentle soul without an enemy in the world. In the cases of many of the previous victims, an argument could have been made for a motive for foul play. But Buddy seemed like the least likely victim of the forty or so men who currently frequented the facility.

How well did you know him?

He’s been a resident at the outpatient program here off and on for months. And an occasional guest at the shelter for more years than I’ve been here.

He was receiving treatment?

For addiction, yes. Try as he might, he struggled to get on top of his addiction and suffered relapses from time to time.

Why would he have been down by the river if he was staying here at the shelter?

The rules here are clear: nobody is allowed in when they’re drunk or high. In the warmer months, some of the men will sleep down by the river, where it’s cooler and offers some cover to help avoid being arrested. She shook her head. This is terrible. Was it the same as before?

The officer raised an eyebrow and shot her a quizzical look. Before? What do you mean by that?

I mean, there have been others killed here, all in a similar fashion. I wondered if Buddy had died the same way.

He looked confused. What others? Who else knows about this? Have the police been informed?

Yes, of course, they were, each time. As for why nobody knows about it, you’ll have to ask your superiors because I’m at a loss to explain it myself.

Before he could reply, Kellie chimed in. Is there a number we can reach you at, Officer? In case we have any questions or anything?

He handed her a card, assured them he would be looking into the claim of additional deaths, and with a tip of his hat, climbed into his car and pulled away. Jennifer was mildly annoyed at the abrupt end to the conversation but did take notice of the hat-tipping and thought it was nice, in an old-fashioned sort of way.

She retired to her office and slumped at her desk. It was barely nine o’clock, and she was already mentally drained. She’d been looking forward to a light day of paperwork and as little human contact as possible, but that seemed unlikely now. The idea of another victim was always there, hovering in the back of her mind, but it jolted her that it had happened today and to Buddy of all people. She knew this would preoccupy her mind all day and that no work would get done until she’d looked into it and done something about it.

That’s eight, she thought. Assuming Buddy is the same as the others, he’s the eighth one. In…how long? A year and a half, maybe? In any other demographic, eight bodies in that amount of time would be grounds for a full-on investigation. Her face grew hot as she thought about the fact that these men were being ignored based on their economic and social status. She took such things very personally. She’d dedicated her professional life to the protection and betterment of the men under her care, and when the police couldn’t be bothered when the men’s lives were in actual peril, she felt compelled to do something about it.

But what? With every new body, she’d contacted the police, both local and the RCMP, scouring their ranks for someone, anyone, who would pay attention and see the pattern developing with the slayings. They would say all the right things, tell her they’d look into it, thank you for your concern and for bringing this to us. But at the end of the day, nothing changed. Nobody ever contacted her for information or insight into what might be going on or to bring her up to speed on any new developments. To the best of her knowledge, no officer or detective had ever shown up at the shelter beyond the initial call when the body was discovered. Aside from her, nobody cared.

Suddenly her eyes widened. She’d been going about this entirely the wrong way. She knew somebody who would not only care but would make everyone know exactly how much he cared. The police might be able to simply brush her off, but she had access to someone with a long history of stirring the pot and getting results, particularly with the police. She smiled as she picked up her phone and called Bernie. Minutes later, she grabbed her jacket and was on her way back out into the driving rain.

Chapter Four

Garden Island Correctional Facility was situated on the southernmost tip of Garden Island, a narrow sliver of land off the coast of Kingston, Ontario. The original building on the site was a fortress constructed in 1811 in preparation for impending war with the United States. Situated approximately five miles off the Kingston coast, it was considered a prime strategic location. How impregnable it was would never be discovered since not a single shot was fired, at it or from it, during its entire history. When hostilities with America ceased in 1814, the fortress was converted into a military barracks, but its inconvenient location made it impractical, and it was decommissioned in the 1830s. Thereafter it was used only sporadically and stood empty and untended for decades at a stretch.

In 1902 the Canadian government once again saw the strategic advantage to the island and constructed one of the nation’s first and, at that time, most modern and sophisticated maximum security prisons. A ferry service for visitors and family members was established in the 1920s, and by the 1950s, the beginnings of a tiny town had begun to spring up near the opposite end of the island. A motel, grocery store, two restaurants, and a laundromat formed