Desire

By Orville Burch

Some investigators believe that a spirit remains after death to complete a burning desire--even if that desire is murder.

 

When Rachel Law's paranormal investigation team picks up the EVP of a young girl crying and begging for help, she is drawn deep into a mystery that has spanned twenty-years.

 

In the seemingly peaceful farmland of rural Missouri where trucks out number people, and there are more barns than houses, you wouldn't expect a terror to linger over the countryside like a persistent mist—you would be dead-wrong.

 

The small community of Franklin Furnace has never gotten rid of the Chocolate Man, an evil man who used chocolate candy to lure young girls to his grasp. Homer Elwood, called The Chocolate Man by the media, was captured once, tried, and convicted. But he escaped during a blizzard and was presumed to have died. But young girls keep disappearing and the police have not been able to find a single clue.

 

Rachel Law knew all about desire and how some ghosts remained behind to carry out one more task. Still, the possibility that the abductor was a murderous ghost chilled her to the quick. She knew that she would do all she could to end the horror.

 

There were so many unknowns with this investigation, so she started with a list of things she was sure of:

 

First, Homer Ellwood, the Chocolate Man, had abducted and killed the first little girl.

 

Second, Homer was tried, found guilty, and imprisoned. He escaped and has remained at large for the past twenty-years, and might be dead.

 

Third, eleven little girls are now missing from her community of Franklin Furnace.

 

Fourth, she was going to stop him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Orville Burch
• Release date: Oct 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201981723

Orville Burch

Orville Burch has dedicated his entire life to peeling back the curtains on the windows of the unknown. Growing up on a rural farm surrounded by forests and streams prepared him for a career in natural science. He earned a PhD in biology, while exploring the natural relationships of community structure. With roots in the tri-racial Melungeon people of the Appalachians, his interests in their life lead him to study with Native American elders and to travel and interact with several African-tribes. This resulted in the development of Warrior-Theme self-help based on ancient wisdom applied to the modern times: I Warrior. His interest in the unknown took him on adventures hunting cryptids, ghosts, and UFOs. He now writes paranormal fiction. He is the author of twenty-five peer-reviewed scientific articles, paranormal fiction, and self-help nonfiction. He currently lives in Pennsylvania where he writes, researches, and investigates the paranormal.

Book preview

Chapter 1.

At seven-years old, Mary Johnson was the best shadow tag player in Franklin Furnace, Missouri. All her friends knew that it was useless to try to step on her shadow, to make her become it. She was quick and always one-step ahead.

Twice, Mary’s mom called them to come in, but each time they had begged for a little more play time. It was really dark out and the light from the front porch was casting wonderful shadows. Standing in the darkness, a man watched them run and play. As she pulled into the darkness her friends ran after one of the other kids.  Mary was about to dart out again when a voice stopped her and her friends. The voice said over here.

Mary turned toward the voice and saw a man holding a piece of chocolate. Later, the kid’s description was of little use. He was old, young, tall, short. Some said he smelled funny. The only thing they all agreed to was that he had a dirty brown paper bag and was offering Mary some candy. One of the older girls yelled, it’s Chocolate Man, and they ran into the house screaming for help. Mary Johnson went for the candy.

When a serial killer roams your community, there is no such thing as a good day. There may be snippets of normality, even times of joy, but the day is not totally good. You might go for months without thinking about the killer, but deep in your mind, he is there, waiting to resurface and often at the most inappropriate times. You might even go on picnics, celebrate the holidays, and lead a normal life, but the killer is always there. Waiting for you to make a mistake.

My name is Rachel Law, a serial killer has been a part of my normal for sixteen-years. He came to my community when I was six. That was also when he first desired me. Instead of being able to act upon his desire, he had to settle for another little girl. At the time, I had no idea that I was a target. That information came out at his trial.

Today, I’m twenty-two years old, co-own a small used book shop, I’m still alive, and living in Franklin Furnace. Eleven little girls are not so lucky.

Burners out, Mara said as she handed me the latest edition of the local newspaper; The Furnace Burner.

Any good gossip?

Didn’t look yet. You want some coffee?

Yeah.

And how is Edgar this morning? She asked as she headed into the kitchen. Edgar fast on her heels, knowing that there was always a special treat waiting for him.

I took both copies of the paper and walked over to the bay-window in our shop. Mara and I have been best friends since we met in kindergarten and are about as opposite as two women could be. While she grew into a soft-beauty, people described me as a hard-beauty. She was always cute, petite, and quiet almost to a point of being shy. I’m not petite with a muscular build, and I’ve never been quiet. We both have dark hair. Mara’s is soft like spun chocolate. Mine is darker, almost ebony. Her eyes are a warm brown, while mine are ice blue. People know that we think alike and are always together. Even my dad calls us twins.

I selected one of the chairs in the bay-window area of our shop and curled up. As I browsed through the current edition, I wasn’t expecting any earth shattering revelations. To call the Burner a newspaper, at all, was grossly stretching any known definition. Well, except the ‘paper’ part. Mark Elliott, owner and publisher, was old school.

He and the paper are community friends, have been since 1978. He started the newspaper as an outlet for his rants against government intrusion in our life. Now, the paper still includes an occasional rant, but it is mostly full of local gossip, conspiracy theories, and occasionally a few good coupons.

I admit that I enjoyed reading his views. They mirrored the ones I heard from my parents. I had finished a short article when Mara returned with two cups of coffee. Edgar announced his approval of the snack and landed on his perch to read over my shoulder.

Mark is bringing up his favorite conspiracy again.

Which one is that? Mara asked as she took a seat and picked up her copy.

The one about the railroad, Jessie James, and Confederate gold.

Oh. That one, Mara laughed. It’s kind of hard keeping track of all the conspiracies.

I always wanted that legend to be true. I believed it when I was a little girl. I was always digging for buried treasure.

You still believe it. Don’t try to tell me differently.

I guess I do at that, I laughed.

Remember that time we dug a hole in your dad’s apple orchard? He was so pissed.

It wasn’t the first time, or the last, that I had gotten it in my head that I knew the location of a treasure. You think we should start looking again?  Discovering treasure would sure give our shop a boost.

It’s only been a year. It takes time for a small business to get going.

Yeah. I’m impatient. As if that was some earth-shattering confession.

The store isn’t enough of an adventure for you!

Not that. I don’t know. I feel restless. You’re probably right.

Probably? Who you trying to kid? Mara laughed.

What if everyone who warned us was right? Opening up a used book store here, even one as cute as Relic, might not have been the smartest decision.

You know I’m right about adventure and excitement. As for the store, we can’t help this is where we live. You are not going to be satisfied running the market, either. Give it time.

After college, Mara, and I got really busy. Some say we burned the candle at both ends. Others claimed we had ignited it a few times in the middle as well. We made the final push that transformed the little seasonal roadside vegetable stand, which we had operated since we were twelve-years-old, into a fully operational market. That little business had served us well. It grew up with us, but it was never my desire, it was something to do.

Then Last year, against the advice of all the sane people we knew, we opened a small used book, and eclectic antique shop, which we call Relic. It’s our home away-from-home, our office, my passion. It is over decorated for our farm-community. Most visitors tell us that the shop would be better suited for a ritzy area of New York or even St. Louis. But in fashion, style, or ideology, however you want to measure, we might have as easily set up shop on the moon.

Relic is housed in an old Cape-Cod style building situated dead-center in the town of Franklin Furnace. That isn’t saying much since our ‘down-town’ consists of four businesses. Right next door to us is Sally Gilmore’s beauty parlor, a place for perm and gossip. Across the street are the post office, and the town newspaper. The latter, which is known as the Furnace Burner, is a weekly staple, dishing out conspiracy theories, old gossip, and advice ranging from controlling weeds to growing weed.

––––––––

Did he run our ad? Mara asked as she paged through the paper.

Yeah. Buried deep on lucky page number thirteen.

Next month we might be able to afford to pay more and move the ad up a few pages.

Mara turned to the page and looked for our advertisement. For each of the last five issues, she announced new acquisitions and bargains. As she turned the page, she must have seen the grainy picture of a little girl staring up at her. The heading under the picture read ‘Lost.’

Did you read the article on page fourteen? Mara asked.

I just noticed it.

The picture was of Anna Marie Scott. It was an old picture taken sixteen-years-ago, a few days before she went missing. In the picture, she smiled at the camera, showing her missing two front teeth. The article reminded the readers that Anna Marie was the first child to go missing from Franklin Furnace, but not the last. It went on to further remind about Homer Ellwood, the accused killer. There was information about the trial and how Homer was sent to a mental hospital. How he escaped three times, but was only captured twice. As of today, no one knew where he was, or if he was alive.

Wonder why he dredged this up? Mara asked.

Before I could respond, Edgar started cawing and flapping his wings. We looked at him and he seemed to be intensely staring at the picture.

He acts like he recognizes her, Mara said.

He wasn’t even born yet, I said to Mara. Then to Edgar I asked, What’s wrong?

I talk to Edgar all the time. It is mostly a one way conversation, because if he understands English, which I sometimes think he does, I certainly don’t understand crow. Edgar cawed a few remarks and then paced back and forth on his perch.

The article says there are eleven little girls missing from our community? Do you remember that? I asked.

I didn’t think it was that many.

How could I have pushed all those memories so far back?

We all do it. It is called the Mandela Effect.

"There’s a name for it?

"Yeah, it’s a phenomenon that makes us question even the most mundane memories from the past. Named by paranormal researcher Fiona Broome, it's basically remembering something that doesn't match with historical records."

Interesting. I’ll need to chew on that some. Do you remember when they found her body?

Yeah. We were what, six at the time?

Yeah. Six. Jesus, Mara, where did the time go?

Seems like yesterday. 

The article brought back all the memories. For most of us, this was the first time anyone had been murdered. It was a cool September, summer was on the way out. There was the chill of the night air and the colorful changes to the leaves on the trees. But even more telling of a summer’s demise was the shopping for school clothes and supplies. School started on a dark note, Anna Marie Scott was missing. Franklin Furnace is a small community that typically gives up most secrets like they were stored in a sieve. But this secret it held fast.

She was the first missing child from our rural community. We all had seen pictures on milk cartons, but those kids lived far away. Missing kids came from St. Louis, or New York City, or some other big city, not from Franklin Furnace.

I remember that Dad joined the search party, in fact, the entire community turned out to look for her, I said.

We lived in a snug little community at a time when kids walked everywhere and played out way past dark. Now, over dinner each night, families talked about the new dangers. For many nights, we were cautioned to be more careful, and to not talk with strangers. Some families even installed locks on their front door.

A scary time. I remember hiding under the bed on a couple of nights. Not sure why, but something made me want to, Mara said.

I think all the kids were afraid. I remember how the teachers talked about her and cautioned us?

But with each passing day, they talked less and less about her. After a few weeks, no one went out and searched anymore. Life got back to normal, but a different kind of normal.

I remember when Halloween came around that year, Mom wouldn’t let me go out, Mara said.

I wasn’t allowed to go alone. Dad took me to the homes of friends and relatives.

I remember how I cried because I wasn’t going to go get candy. Mom bought extra, but it wasn’t the same, Mara said.

By Thanksgiving, it seemed that everyone had forgotten about Anna Marie, or at least they put that topic far to the back burner. Parents no longer talked about it at home. We weren’t warned each night to be careful. Then Christmas came with all the excitement of family get-togethers, wonderful food, presents, and decorations. I made cookies for my friends, and helped Dad cut, and drag home, a big pine tree.

Christmas even seemed different that year, but I couldn’t figure out why. I still strung garlands of cranberries and popcorn for the birds. Mom took me to the Alpine Chocolate Factory, and we bought boxes of chocolate covered fruit and nuts. Life seemed normal in most ways, but almost as if people were forcing it.

I know what you mean, it was like everyone forgot what it was like, and had to pretend to be normal, Mara said.

Exactly! Like a bad play, with bad actors.

I think we still do that. You know? Overreact to common things to shield ourselves from the horrors.

Displacement activity, I offered. Even animals do it to avoid unpleasant alternatives. Like two birds will face off and then instead of fighting they start cleaning themselves. As if on cue, Edgar began preening.

I guess that could explain it. Seems logical. I remember, when the holidays were over and it was time to get serious at school once more, I was really sad. I didn’t want to take down the decorations.

Me either. It seemed to me that taking the decorations down was like admitting that winter had won. I told Mom that when I got my own house, I was going to leave the lights up year round—like Uncle Danny.

Mara laughed, I think your Uncle Danny is doing that for an entirely different reason.

So the cheerful part of winter turned to the part that everyone just desired would end. That was when her body was found, during the dreariest part. She was found much too late. She had been murdered in a way too terrible for the newspaper to print, or for parents to talk about. For weeks, she was front page news again. Kids were once more cautioned and afraid. Then, like Anna Marie, the story faded away.

The man who murdered her was captured. His name was Homer Ellwood. I remembered reading how he was hunted down and captured. They found him hiding in the basement of the Alpine Chocolate Factory. That night, I cried thinking about how happy I had been buying candy, and all the while, Anna Marie, and her murderer, were in the building.

At the time the Alpine was the leading employer of many people in our community. The factory produced truckloads of candies that were shipped all over. Today, like Anna Marie, it is nothing more than a ghost of its former self; abandoned and falling apart.

When I heard the phone ringing in my ear, for a second, I wasn’t sure who I had called.

Make it fast. The voice on the other end growled.

I recognized the gruff voice of Mark Elliott, owner, writer, editor of the Burner newspaper. Somehow I had called him. Mark is an old hippie, like my parents, and like many of the people living in our valley. He retained his long hair, now pulled back tight into a pony tail. There was more gray than black, and the back was longer than the front, as if the constant pulling of the hair had also pulled the hairline backwards as well. Mark had grown soft, not fat, but almost chubby. His hippy beard was immaculately trimmed, and he always wore a three-piece suit.

Mark. It’s Rachel. Do you have a few seconds?

Barely, and not much more.

He sounded really rushed. I couldn’t imagine why. But Mark likes to build drama, even where there is none to be built. 

Sorry, Mark. I’ll call back.

No. It’s okay. Sorry to be so brusque. The damn phone has been ringing since the paper went out.

That’s why I’m calling as well. I read the article about the missing kids. I didn’t remember there were so many.

Cover up. It happens everywhere. The police don’t want it known. They will probably trump up a charge to arrest me, or something.

I wouldn’t worry about that.

That’s because you’re young and naïve. Kids today are not politically aware like we were at your age. Talk to your dad, he’ll tell you. Kids today, sit back and allow shit to happen, wait for the government to take care of them.

I thought about trying to defend my generation, but I knew that a kernel of what Mark said was true. In college, there were so many kids who had no clue. Even some of my cousins drifted through life. I doubt many could name the president of the United States. I decided to let that comment drop.

How many kids in total? Do you know? I asked.

Ask me what you really want to know.

I wasn’t sure what to ask. I wanted to know everything. You think there is a serial kidnapper, or murder in our community?

Ask your boyfriend. Getting information out of the police department is like fucking a fly.

Mark was referring to Officer Keven Manley, who everyone called Kman. He wasn’t exactly my boyfriend. The term ‘boyfriend’ is easy to define. What I have with him is way too complicated for that definition.  I was not about to fall into a reporter's trap and confirm or deny. That left the analogy to the fly. I tried to imagine what that analogy even meant. I settled for difficult, and decided it was best to skirt both topics and ask a question, Why did you print the article?

I assume you mean why now? I hope you are not one of those who want to hide from the truth.

You’ve known me since the day I was born. Have I ever been that type?

No. Guess not. So what do you really want to know?

I want to know what happened to those girls and who is responsible. Do you know more than you printed?

Only speculations... He hesitated way too much. Anyone, not even a bad snoop, could miss that something was hidden. And I’m a good snoop, so it jumped out at me.

Only speculations? I prompted.

Nothing I can put in ink. Figured the article would spur interest, light a fire under Kman’s ass, or something.

I’m sure he’s doing everything possible, I said. I knew I was going to do my best to find out. What can’t you put in ink?

Perhaps it’s time he starts doing the impossible. Hell, they can’t even find Homer. Not sure if he is dead or alive. Doubt our police department could find their ass in the dark.

So, you think Homer is alive? I thought he died in that big blizzard? Is that what you can’t put in the paper?

So where’s the body? See if you can get an answer to that simple question.

You think maybe a copycat killer?

I think the death of one little girl is one too many.  If you’re going to snoop around, be sure to keep me posted of what you find.

Mark, wait. What else do you know?

Ask Kman about the letters. Once you do that call and we’ll compare notes.

What letters?

Ask Kman. Got to go.

I didn’t make any firm commitment. Mark is an old family friend, the same age as Dad. I liked him and loved how he was determined to preserve the old newspaper business. I didn’t completely trust his motives or his tactics.