Mister Picket Blackmaw

By Jae Mazer

People are disappearing in the small community of Picton. 

It's not big news in the city where Freya lives, but when she stumbles across the story in her local newspaper, whispers from her guilt-ridden childhood call her back to the life she thought she'd escaped decades ago. Answering the summons of her o

• Language: English
• Publisher: Feathered Tentacle Press
• Release date: Feb 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088010631

Book preview

Chapter One

The season of Freya’s death began with a funeral and ended with murder.

She sat on the edge of her bed in her comfy suburban bungalow, and though she didn’t know it yet, it would be the last time her weight would leave an imprint on the comforter with the tiny blue flowers. She hated the carpet—rough Berber a drab yellow somewhere on the spectrum between lion and desert sand—but she would miss that too once she realized she’d never again feel it on the soles of her calloused feet.

Worrying the newspaper between her fingers calmed her nerves, both the crinkling noise and oily touch of the newsprint drawing attention away from the bottom of page two. Though some might have found the story in question intriguing, it hadn’t been deemed as important as the political musings on page one, or the local sports team taking the series on the top of page two. But the eyes staring back at her from the page, black and hollow, blamed her. Beckoned her.

Freya folded the paper, taking care to not tear the already over-fondled pages, and tucked it in her suitcase between a blouse and a pair of torn-for-style jeans. Blue is calming, yes? she thought as she zipped up the suitcase, convinced she had packed anything and everything she needed. Unsure whether she’d be gone the weekend or a full week, she’d packed too much, as she always did. Better comfortable than wanting, I always say.

She rose off the bed, smoothing that floral comforter and tucking the corners, leaving the bedroom looking ready for show. The myriad outfits hanging in the closet caught her attention—shiny and matte, floral and striped, all sheens and textures. Her eyes sank lower, to the rucksack on the floor, its frayed straps a blotch of ugly marring the feminine surroundings. She’d been unable to rid herself of it. Those straps had rested upon her husband’s shoulders as he trod through marsh and field, bullets whirring past his brown curls as his battalion dealt death and misery across a land that did not belong to them. She could still hear the sound that rucksack had made as it slid off his shoulder and hit the laminate flooring of their entryway when he returned from his last tour of duty, a mere wisp of the man she’d once known.

So many thousands of miles that pack travelled on his back, in vehicles, over sand and rock. Both he and it had returned home, but now only one remained. After a few years of night terrors and fits of rage, William silenced the demons in his mind with a noose in their garage. The last thing he saw were shelves full of gardening paraphernalia and Christmas blow-up ornaments and oil stains on a concrete floor. Bumps in the night reminded Freya of the sound of William’s feet thumping against the wall as he hung, lips purple, eyes red and fixed. Funny, the mind, conjuring memories of flawed perception. Those feet had come in contact with nothing but the air above his overturned chair. Nevertheless, she heard thumping every night. In her head and in her heart.

Now only the pack remained, a fixture crumpled on the closet floor while William lay rotting in a box beneath dirt and worms.

She’d not leave it behind as William had left her. With timid fingers, she flung the strap over her shoulder, resting the pack on her back and imagining William’s muscles pressed against her shoulder blades. A pain bloomed in her belly as the weight of the pack registered in her mind, but she shook her head, scrambling any and all memories hanging on those straps. Without a second thought or glance behind, she left her home for the last time.

Chapter Two

The fuel alert on the old Buick dinged, accusing Freya of neglect. Not realizing how long she’d been driving, her eyes had not once dropped to the gauge, and now that audible alert sent a jolt of panic through the marrow of her bones. She realized, then, how alone she was. If she ran out of gas, no one would come. She could call a service, but that would be money and time. And what would she do, so far away from her home? She had no family or friends to speak of. There were acquaintances at work, but they were merely cardboard cutouts filling space; she knew nothing of them and them of her, and she was quite content with that. Except that now, she was truly alone. And that hungry fuel tank threatened to expose her isolation.

Kilometer after kilometer of field and tree whizzed by the window as Freya’s anxiety swelled in her throat. The cocoon of populated society had given way to sparse farmland, which, at the time, was beautiful and peaceful, but now magnified her helplessness. She cranked the radio, trying to drown out the sound of her screaming worry, but the radio jockey seemed in cahoots with the empty fields threatening to consume her.

… leaving the surrounding communities shaken in the wake of what is now suspected to be a fourth missing person. Authorities continue to assure the public that these discoveries have not yet been connected, but a recent leak has revealed a potential calling card found at each of the sites—

Punching the power knob with a trembling knuckle, Freya silenced the litany of doom and returned to the thickening dread of the empty countryside—though it wasn’t so empty anymore. On the horizon, nestled amongst the hoodoos and withered trees, a rusty sign appeared. Its haphazard letters pierced and deflated her ballooning panic.

The market was the same as the day it was built. A lone building on the highway, gas pumps at the side. City folk would call this a gas station, but it was where locals got all their necessities. Though now, Freya imagined, many people would opt for the new Costco, if they planned well enough. It was a half-hour drive, but a quarter of the price. But there was something comfortable about shopping local. A familiarity that soothed the woes of the day in ways an impersonal warehouse with throbbing veins of fluorescent lighting never could.

By the time the Buick glided alongside the row of gas pumps, Freya felt downright exhausted. Her muscles yawned and joints popped as she stretched her arms to the sky before feeding her metal beast, a ride that had carried her for more than a decade. William’s ride, actually, but she was the one who’d warmed its driver’s seat most often.

Since he chose to leave, Freya thought.

A voice licked the inside of her ear like a feathered tongue. William’s voice, full of venom. "You should have known."

Freya grabbed the hand on the gas nozzle, pinching the web of flesh between her fingers to distract her. She did that a lot; between each of her fingers were crescent-shaped scabs from this very thing.

After the tank was full, Freya decided she was not. A little bell sang out as she pushed her way through the yellowed glass door into the familiar market of her childhood. The young man behind the counter surprised her—this was a work environment more suited to an old fellow named Lewis wearing a trucker cap and chewing on a sprig of wheat with the few teeth left in his large head. But no, she got a Justin or a Brock wearing a Deadmaus shirt, his hair shaved at the sides and dyed a neon shade of green. He wore sunglasses inside, probably to hide his love of other breeds of green.

Coffee beckoned her before anything solid. She’d been driving for the better part of a day, something she hadn’t pulled off in a good while. In fact, since William died, she hadn’t journeyed farther than her beaten paths to work, the shops, and occasionally the theatre. This trip, though familiar, whispered echoes of a dark childhood. Picton had once been home, a place of laughter and learning, of innocence and growth. Now it was a locked trunk full of screaming memories.

Long day? Greenhair’s glasses were now on the counter, revealing eyes of icy blue.

Freya conjured a smile and a nod. Long drive, yeah.

Where are you headed? Greenhair—Phil, so said his name tag—rang in the coffee and selection of hot nuts and pastries without ever looking away from Freya’s face.

Not far now. Picton.

A brief pause. Uh, why?

Freya laughed. Indeed. I’m actually from the area. Haven’t been back in years.

Picked a shitty time, ma’am, sorry to say. Have you been following the news?

Freya waved a hand, dismissing the information as rubbish. I don’t care for news.

Greenhair arched a brow. There’s a killer out and about. Thinkin’ you should care about that.

Freya picked up her colourful, glistening donut. Everything will kill you these days.

Taking care not to check his expression, for fear that he might check hers, Freya dipped her head and slinked out the door, the bell shooing her on her way.

Chapter Three

Freya beat nightfall, but only by an eyelash, the setting sun a mere glow above the horizon when she pulled into the motel. There were no cars in the lot, for which she was thankful, but she wondered if the clerk might be named Norman. No matter. She had to sleep. Tomorrow would be a long and trying day.

It wasn’t Norman, but a portly woman with crimson lipstick and freshly blued hair that tended the office. The owner, Freya guessed, judging by the lack of a vehicle outside and the trailer around back. The woman was warm and friendly, though she reluctantly bookmarked her trashy romance novel to tend to her sole customer.

Just one night, please. Freya slid her card under the glass.

The woman smiled. Well, yer payin’ by card, which makes me think you ain’t him. So you are welcome to stay as long as you like.

Freya already knew, but asked, regardless. Him?

The crimson lips drooped into a serious pout. Girl, come now. You haven’t heard? There’s a killer in our parts. Reckon you better watch, pretty young thing like yourself.

Tucking a tendril of wispy blond hair behind her ear, Freya smiled. Haven’t been called pretty lately, and I’m sure not young. Not anymore.

Four decades into life, Freya figured she was all but finished with living. No children, dead husband, dead-end job. So much death. And no desire for birth or resurrection. Freya was done. Not suicidal, mind you, but just chugging along, straight shot to the grave.

Bollocks, the motel owner said. She heaved herself out of the chair and came through the door, hand extended. Vera, if you please.

Nice to meet you, Vera. Freya.

What brings you ’round our parts? Vera led the way towards the line of rooms with faded doors and ragged curtains shielding a view of stale beds and stained carpets.

Not so much around but back. I’m from Picton.

Is that so? Vera squinted her eyes into small slits before she shrugged. Well, can’t say I know all the folks in the area. Certainly not the ones who stop here, cuz they ain’t from here, yeah? Vera laughed, her chins jiggling with humour. So visiting the family, then?

Nevermind, old crone. Leave me be. Something like that.

Vera did not smile. Instead, concern flattened the joy on her face. You okay, my love?

Fine. I’m here for a funeral.

Vera set her hand upon her chest. My word!

No, it’s okay. But it’s not. I wasn’t close to the deceased.

They stood in front of door number four, but Vera did not relinquish the key; she rolled it in her hand, her eyes evaluating every inch of Freya. Then why did you come here, if you weren’t close to the departed? All this way?

It was an excuse. A reason for coming.

Because I have to do something.

Freya swallowed. To take care of old business.

Vera’s shoulders lowered, her guard dropping. Well, be careful. People are wound up, what with all the goings-on.

With a nod, Vera handed over the key, and Freya opened up the door to her dank, dark room. She tossed her suitcase and the rucksack on one bed and sat on the other, her heavy head dropping into her hands as she listened to Vera’s feet crunching away across the gravel lot. Once the lobby door clicked, the sound jarring Freya’s last nerves, she released the sobs she’d been holding in her throat since death had discovered her, gawking at her from the bottom of page two.

Chapter Four

Sleep did not come easy. Freya was in a strange place, with a murky tomorrow looming on the horizon. Thankfully, she had prepared for the occasion, bringing with her a buffet of pharmaceuticals to lull her into slumber. After having a good hard cry, Freya brushed her teeth, took the pills, changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt, and cocooned herself in the bed to watch syndicated comedies until she dozed off.

But she didn’t stay asleep for long. A crash woke her. Freya did not open her eyes. I’m dreaming, she thought as she pulled the covers to her eyebrows. It’s the wind, she told herself. Or more guests have checked in.

She listened. It was quiet. Relinquishing her white-knuckled grasp on the blanket and peeling it down to her chin, she opened her eyes and surveyed the room. It was dark as ink outside, and the only light was the flickering of an adult cartoon dancing on the television. The volume was low—too low to have been the source of the crash that jolted her out of a drug-induced rest.

I didn’t really hear anything.

It was a dream.

It wasn’t a dream. Freya knew it the minute she heard another clank, then a clatter. The noise was coming from the bathroom. Propping herself on her elbows, Freya watched the small space between the shag carpet and the cheap pressboard of the bathroom door for any hint of movement. But it was dark as black beneath; the bathroom had no window and the light was off. Even if there was an undead troupe dancing Swan Lake behind that door, she would never tell by sight alone.

Pipes. The building settling. A raccoon, maybe.

Freya pulled back the covers, exposing the rest of her body, hesitant to set her feet on the floor for fear stiff fingers would wrap around her ankles. She pushed off, jumping away from the bed, and rested her hand upon the cold brass handle of the bathroom door. Without lingering to think, she entered.

The meager light from the television shone off the dull porcelain of the bathtub and the foggy mirror. A quick scan gave Freya information she already had: the bathroom contained a bathtub and shower, pedestal sink, and a toilet. There was no movement, and no sound. She held her breath and flicked on the light switch.

The naked bulb above the vanity whined to life, pouring light over the bathroom. In stark contrast to the ivory fixtures and flooring, a black smudge sat against the wall, still as stone. Freya gulped a painful swallow of air as her heart seized.

It was a little girl of no more than eight, with sleek, dark hair cascading over her yellow nightdress. There was something off about her. Something unnatural. She stared at Freya, unmoving. Her face was too smooth and featureless—her eyes, nostrils, and mouth solid obsidian painted onto a pale palette. Freya eyed the yellow nightgown, trying to catch the rise and fall of the girl’s chest as she breathed, but found only stillness.

Honey? Freya’s voice echoed like a tiny mouse squeaking in a large tunnel.

The girl startled, and the painted mouth widened, tendrils of ink cracking across her face like diseased veins. Her hair parted, exposing a fractured skull, gaping wide and oozing darkness. That darkness spread, consuming the little girl, her yellow dress, and the bright white of the bathroom. Freya was frozen in fear as the blackness parted around her like a river, flowing into the motel room and creeping up the walls like vines. The sludge coated the television, shrouding the light, enveloping the room in darkness. Freya could see nothing, but felt that black pitch creeping up her legs and fumbling up her torso. Pain clenched Freya’s stomach and wrapped over her shoulders like the straps of the rucksack. Viscous red fluid poured from Freya’s vagina, soaking through her pajamas and coagulating with the black fluid from the girl. It reached her face, slithering into her mouth and over her eyes until nothing remained but dark and the screams in her mind.

Chapter Five

Freya’s nightmare stuck to her thoughts like gauze on a gaping wound, moist and seeping long after she woke. It was daytime; light filtered through the tattered orange curtains, revealing a dance of dust that swirled in the sunbeam with Freya’s every movement. Glaring at the prescription bottle beside the bed—those pills had one job and they’d failed—Freya rolled out of bed and shambled to the bathroom to make herself presentable for the day.

After a quick shower, a touch of makeup, and a tousle of her short blond hair, Freya packed her things and headed out the door. She didn’t intend on staying long. After the funeral she would head towards home, stay at a chain hotel in a city along the way.

Why did I even come?

Because she had to. The time for doing nothing had come to an end.

Checkin’ out so soon? Vera waddled up to the Buick just as Freya tossed the suitcase and rucksack in the trunk.

Funeral’s at ten.

Then a reception, likely.

Yeah. I’ll catch a bit of it, but I’ll head out early. Long drive home.

Indeed. Vera eyed Freya, sending cold shivers up her spine. Long day ahead of ya. You gonna be okay?

Freya answered with a forced smile. As she pulled out of the gravel parking lot, she glanced in her rearview at Vera, whose arms were crossed over her ample bosom, bright red lips a beacon through the plume of dust.

Regardless of her nightmare, the motel stay had been the easy part. Freya hadn’t come right into town much as a child; a country girl, she had stayed close to home, save a few trips to town for appointments or special events. As she drove, familiarity seeped in, a bittersweet dichotomy of warm memories and horror. She passed the Henderson farm, their cows still chewing cud—though obviously they were new cows since last she’d laid eyes on the fields. Then came the mill, black remnants of bonfires around its fire pits, empty beer cans peppering the well-used lot. By the time she reached the town sign, she was eight years old again, her blond locks flowing out the window of her daddy’s Buick. The scent from Jacobi’s Bakery summoned drool beneath her tongue, and the hydrangeas in baskets hanging from the old iron light poles glimmered in her eyes.

A single blink washed it all away. A closer look out the windshield revealed the truth: the boarded-up windows of the bakery and planters full of rot hanging from rusted, weathered light poles. The years had not been kind to Picton.

Age and neglect bring all things to seed, Freya thought. Except painful memories. Those flourish with the passing of time.

As she rolled up Main Street, Freya noted things that were no longer, but also new things—a homeless person occupying a bench, young people trading secrets and product in cobblestone alleyways. The wind fluttered posters attached to poles and walls, advertising missing people, lost pets, and appliances for sale, all of equal importance. Freya pressed the gas, eager to leave the once-cozy town core behind, and entered a suburbia that must have sprouted after her departure. Cookie-cutter houses loomed, two-story homes packed so closely together she could have run through the entire neighbourhood across the rooftops. This was where the affluent lived, with their shiny new vehicles and precisely manicured lawns.

That would never be Freya. She had a low-level job as an entry clerk in a basement office, making just enough to pay the bills, her work of nameless consequence to those affected. She’d never done anyone any good. Quite the opposite, in fact.

William’s voice screamed in her mind. "Why didn’t you do anything?"

You knew.

You left.

Suddenly, every light pole she passed wore a noose as a necklace, her husband swinging to and fro, blood-burst eyes staring into the car. Freya fixed her gaze forward, trying to keep the car on the road, the lines and sidewalks blurring with her tears. The Williams were all chanting now, monotone, in unison.

You knew. You left. You knew. You left.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

Freya screamed and slammed her foot down on the brake, nearly bashing her face off the steering wheel. She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears.

Freya knew that when she opened her eyes, they would be gone, just like they always were.

She opened her eyes to the morning sun, and light poles devoid of swinging, speaking corpses. All that was left was a single pig walking along the side of the road, snorting in the gutter. Freya released the brake, sliding her foot to the gas but letting the car roll by the hog, who lifted its head and looked deeply into her eyes. It licked its thick tongue over its muck-encrusted snout as it stared at Freya, its curly tail twitching with suspicion. Once Freya had passed the pig, she looked in her rearview mirror to see if it was still watching her. But as she expected, it wasn’t. There was nothing there at all.

Freya sped up until she reached the old oak church on the outskirts of town. It was nestled in the trees and exactly as she remembered it from her mother’s funeral: simple, tall, with clean white paint—the townsfolk painted that thing every year, the rest of town be damned. On top was a heavy iron cross, perfectly straight, summoning everyone from miles around. Instead of beckoning Freya, it seemed to holler at her to leave and never come back.

There was something else atop the chapel. A figure, tall and white, rotting and splintered, its elongated face gaping at her from behind the cover of the cross.

You don’t scare me, Freya lied to the emptiness of her car.

She pulled the Buick into a spot amongst a sea of cars.

Freya and William did not marry in a chapel. Aside from being an atheist or agnostic or indifferent to the whole concept of belief, Freya had no one to attend the service. No daddy to walk her down the aisle, swipe a tear from her face as he handed her off to William. But that bothered Freya less than the absence of her mother. While Freya donned her own simple gown, she imagined her mother’s slender fingers working the buttons and plucking loose threads. Her mother would have worn a blue dress; blue was her mother’s favourite colour. The softness of the sky and the passion of the sea, she always said. She and her mom would have laughed and cried over red wine and bellowed Bette Midler tunes at the top of their lungs. It would have been magical, having her mother at her side. For the wedding. For a great many things.

Freya lingered there, toying with the threads on her dress and imagining what ifs until the church bell rang, announcing the beginning of the service.

Chapter Six

We are here today to remember fondly the life of Carson Engle, taken from us too soon and sudden. Take comfort, though, that this is all part of His plan. The pastor’s voice was a booming drone that filled the church, keeping everyone’s attention at the front of the chapel. Freya was glad she had waited to enter; everyone was already seated with eyes forward, eliminating the opportunity for pre-service reunions and small talk. She wanted to pay her respects, show people she gave a shit—which she didn’t. Not really. Not about Carson.

The church was packed, each pew filled with elbow-to-elbow mourners. People toting little ones on their laps, senior citizens with walkers and canes at their sides. Seemed the whole town had come out for Carson despite the fact that he was just another one of the herd, and a forgettable one at that. Last she knew, Carson had a lackluster marriage to the president of the chess club and sold hack insurance from behind a screen in the comfort of his own home. Not even a blip on the radar of accomplishment. Nevertheless, these people wept and wailed as if he’d had a meaningful, powerful impact on