The Worm Man: A Novel

By Mary Frances Hill

Third-grade teacher and aspiring artist, Kate Boswell has been through a lot in her forty years of life. She faced her childhood friend’s murder, a late-term miscarriage, and most recently, the death of her husband. When Kate sells a series of drawings at a gallery show to an anonymous buyer and saves her farmhouse from foreclosure, she’s sure the bad times are over, but after the lucrative sale, Kate’s favorite student, Cassie, goes missing.
Kate is convinced that the Worm Man, the serial killer who abducted her girlhood friend, has grabbed Cassie too. Cassie was collecting worms in a bucket when she disappeared, and earthworms are the Worm Man’s calling card. It all makes sense—except it doesn’t. The Worm Man has been dead for a decade.
Desperate to find Cassie, Kate joins forces with Globe reporter and Worm Man expert, Tom Kingsley. Together, they travel to Maine and follow up on a promising lead. When Kate is dubbed delusional, her involvement in the case strains her relationship with her new boyfriend, a local cop, and it puts her career in jeopardy. Fearing she’ll lose her freedom and the life she’s only recently started to rebuild, Kate is forced to confront the most frightening ghost of her past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jun 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665721769

Mary Frances Hill

Mary Frances Hill, received her MA in counseling psychology from Rider University. Like many of her protagonists, she’s infatuated with New England and its picturesque towns filled with history. When MF isn’t writing, she’s walking her dalmadoodle, watching HGTV, and spending time with her husband and adult children. She currently lives in Southern California. The Worm Man is her first novel.

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Copyright © 2022 Mary Frances Hill.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue

in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-6657-2175-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-2176-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022906841

Archway Publishing rev. date: 06/03/2022

Contents

Author’s Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

About the Author

To my mother, who loved all books, but especially mysteries and thrillers.

Author’s Note

T his story, which is primarily set in Merrimack County, New Hampshire, was inspired by vacations spent in the lovely town of New London. Though the author describes local businesses, recreational sites and schools, these depictions come from her imagination and memories. Please read this with a flexible open mind. Enjoy.

Chapter 1

2018

Monday, August 13th, 3:43 p.m.

I tighten my grip on my portfolio case, say a quick prayer, and enter the Wyndham Gallery. As white walls and framed pops of color surround me, the door clanks shut, causing me to jump. You can do this, Kate. You’ve got to do this. Once upon a time, you earned an art degree. Don’t forget that. Trembling, I tuck some hair into my bun, smooth my cotton tunic, and look up.

Evelyn Taylor, the gallery owner, is seated behind her desk. Her manicured fingers rest on her laptop keyboard. When I greet Evelyn, she nods. She knows me. My late husband, Glen, an architect, designed her building, not that this means anything.

In the past, whenever I’ve pitched her my work, she’s always rejected it. I’ve simply brushed off her rebuffs. But today is different. To say I’m desperate is an understatement. Glen died of leukemia eleven months ago. His medical bills crushed me. I’m about to lose our New Hampshire farmhouse, his dream home. I have to pull in some cash. But this moment is about more than money. It’s about me proving my worth as an artist, as a person. Since Glen’s death, I’ve felt purposeless, lost.

As I approach her, Evelyn’s gaze drifts to my portfolio case. She purses her lips. Show’s less than a week away, Kate. I’m no longer reviewing or accepting submissions.

I take in her sleek bob and designer pantsuit. But it’ll only take you a few minutes to look over my drawings.

Evelyn taps her Rolex. I’ve got an appointment in Manchester. Gotta get rolling. Traffic on I-93 is a bitch these days.

Please, Evelyn. Just take a peek. I gesture at the towering gallery walls, the steel beams, and the canned lighting. Glen’s firm did a nice job with your space.

She cocks her chin at the Mercedes in the lot. I’ll give you five minutes. But only because I’m not eager to climb into that hot car.

You won’t be disappointed.

I hand her my sketchbook. As she thumbs through it, sweet, innocent eyes gaze up from the pages. This makes total sense. I’m a third-grade teacher and love drawing kids, especially my students. I’ve filled my sketchbook with their curious, eager likenesses. I consider these drawings my best work. Evelyn squints at the images, and I hold my breath.

Well, technically these really are quite good, she says. This little girl with the white-blonde hair, you drew her a number of times.

That’s Cassie, I say. Cassie was in my class two years ago. She’s a sweetheart.

I smile. Teachers aren’t supposed to have favorites, but I’ve got one. It’s Cassie. Because I tutored Cassie in math after school, at the park and at our house, and Glen regularly drove her home, he got to know her too. He claimed the architect in him liked that she preferred watching Tiny House Nation and The World’s Most Extraordinary Homes over playing with American Girl dolls. After our tutoring sessions, Glen and Cassie often designed and built doll and birdhouses in our barn. On occasion, they met at the lake and made sandcastles. Though their close relationship was unusual, I didn’t question it. My late-term miscarriage prevented Glen from having the family he desired. If spending time with Cassie made him happy, who was I to judge? And Cassie’s mom, Lauren, who’d just had a baby, seemed to appreciate Glen’s help. It takes a village to raise a child. Isn’t that what people say?

Evelyn shuts my sketchbook and gives it back to me. Skill-wise, these drawings are excellent. But they’re simply not provocative enough. Come back when you’ve got something special. Your work is strong, just not compelling. These won’t sell.

My chest tightens. But I sold seventy similar drawings at the PTA fundraiser carnival last spring. And those were just freehand drawings. I did them in five minutes while the students were posing, well, sort of. Half the kids were eating cotton candy while I was drawing them. The others were playing with their ticket stubs and twisting their glow-bead necklaces. I have a website, I add when Evelyn glances at the door. People hire me to draw their children quite regularly, especially Merrimack County residents. Someone will buy these if you include them in your show. I guarantee it. Since I launched my site seven months ago, I’ve sold 180 plus portraits. The school parents and staff still rave about my carnival sketches.

Evelyn shrugs. Of course, they do. Everyone loves pictures of their friends and family members, hence the popularity of Facebook and Instagram.

But—

Like I said, your technique and your talent, they’re undeniable. But I’m running a business here. I’ve got a reputation to uphold. I need pieces critics and art aficionados are going to notice. What I want are images that’ll make industry people talk. Faces of sweet children, well, to put it bluntly, are boring. Too tame.

Please—

I’m having another show in December. Come back then.

But—

No, not this time.

As Evelyn grabs her keys off her desk, I slip my sketchbook back into my case. My hand shakes, the case falls to the floor, and a drawing slides out. Bloodred squiggles cover the page. Instinctively, I reach for the drawing.

Evelyn swats my hand away. What’s that?

Nothing, I tell her. Absolutely nothing. Just something I scribbled. A doodle.

She plucks the drawing off the floor, studying it. When she grins, I recoil.

In the drawing, a four-fingered hand grips a bloody snowball. Pieces of red yarn and worms poke out of the snow mound. As a teen, back in New Jersey, I witnessed my best friend Whitney’s abduction. Whitney was murdered five days after she was snatched. Her killer, the Worm Man, died before he was caught and arrested. What I’d drawn was her murderer’s hand and his calling card, earthworms.

I stare at the hideous drawing and shiver. The night I created it, I wanted to rip it up. But I knew the piece was exceptional, worth money, so I tucked it into my portfolio case for safekeeping.

Evelyn fingers my gory drawing. We’ll do a series. We’ll display six of those kid drawings: the overbite girl, the scooter kid, the boy with the dimples, the freckle-faced twins, the girl sucking her thumb, and that girl you drew a dozen times, the one with the white-blonde hair.

Cassie, I say.

She nods. We’ll juxtapose the kid pics with this bloody one. The effect will be shocking. My take is forty percent. You price your pieces. She points at my snowball hand drawing. What do you want to charge for this one?

It’s isn’t for sale, I snap. I don’t want it exhibited. It doesn’t fit my brand. It’s—

Perfect for my show. Look, Evelyn says when I bite my lip, just so we’re clear, I’m not interested in the others without this one. Alone, they’re dull. This one completes the message. She jingles her keys. It’s all or nothing? What’s it gonna be, Kate?

I picture the stack of unpaid bills on my breakfast table and think about my farmhouse and the countless hours Glen spent refinishing the hardwoods, painting the trim and sills, and tiling the bathrooms. As Evelyn grabs her briefcase, I do the math in my head. Three hundred dollars times seven minus Evelyn’s forty percent equals one thousand two hundred and sixty dollars, enough to cover a mortgage payment and make a dent in my property tax debt, but not so much that I’ll turn off buyers.

You’ve got a deal. Three hundred each. I hand her my sketchbook. And thank you. I truly appreciate the opportunity.

Evelyn and I speak about mounting and framing the pieces and details pertaining to the upcoming show. She slips my horrific hand drawing and my sketchbook into her briefcase. We exit the gallery, and she climbs into her Mercedes. As she drives away, in my mind, I see my murdered childhood friend, Whitney Bay, eyes wide, arms flailing, and snowflakes hemorrhaging from her white-blonde hair.

I walk across the parking lot, and the sour taste of guilt fills my mouth. What’s wrong with you, Kate Boswell? I think. What kind of person profits from her childhood friend’s murder? It’s sick. Wrong!

I vomit on the asphalt and retreat to my SUV. Weaving and swerving, I drive home to my farmhouse, where I check my window and door locks until my knuckles bleed.

* * *

Despite my initial freak-out in the galley parking lot, the week that follows my pitch to Evelyn passes quickly and uneventfully.

It’s mid-August. I’m still on summer break from teaching. Hoping to gather information for next year’s astronomy unit, I attend a lecture about the Milky Way in Concord. The next day, back at home, I clean out my SUV, do yoga, draw, and text my mother. I’m keeping tabs on her. My father suffered a fatal heart attack five years ago. I’m an only child and Mom’s on a sightseeing tour, traveling through Europe. But though I’m busy and Mom’s texts indicate that she’s having the time of her life, I’m haunted by the bloody snowball hand drawing I gave Evelyn. Like a horror movie, scenes from Whitney’s abduction replay in my mind.

* * *

I see Whitney walking beside me, kicking snow. In my memory, her lips move. Straight up, now tell me! she belts, mimicking the late 80’s pop-star Paula Abdul.

Do you really want to love me forever? oh, oh, oh, we sing in unison.

So glad my mom’s not here, Whitney mutters, rolling her eyes.

The teen me laughs as Whitney presses her fist against her lips and tilts her head back like she’s guzzling a drink. A dance move, the teen me decides. Following her lead, I attempt a pirouette in the snow, throw my head back and mimic her guzzling motion.

I blink, and the scene changes. I see Whitney wiping snow off the park slide and climbing the slide ladder. I see a man with steely-grey eyes. He’s staring at her. Whitney slides, and the man charges toward us and grabs her. As he slams her head against the metal slide base, her red mitten flies off. He scoops her up and carries her, running.

Give her back! the teen me shouts, chasing after them.

I blink again, and Whitney and I are in the back seat of an old Chevy sedan. She’s limp, not moving. The man with the steely-grey eyes is in the front seat. A hatchet and bucket of worms are on the floor by my booted feet. When the man turns and grips the Chevy’s headrest, the teen me grabs the hatchet and slams it down on his hand. As I bolt from the car, the man’s bloody finger sails toward the windshield.

You little bitch! he snarls, tell anyone, and I’ll cut off yours! Don’t think I’ll forget you!

I blink a third time, and I’m alone in the snowy park, no Whitney and no steely-grey-eyed man. I see the old Chevy fishtailing down the icy road.

* * *

Desperate to ward off these memories, I binge-watch Netflix, swim laps at Bucklin Beach, bake a batch of butter cookies, organize my linen closet, and sketch a sixth-grader from my church.

Before I know it, it’s Saturday, the evening of Evelyn’s show. I’m at the Wyndham Gallery, and the place is packed. My legs are yogurt. I want to bolt home and hide beneath my bedcovers. It’s just one night. Woman up. Sell your pieces, I tell myself, hesitating in the doorway.

New London, population 4,397, doesn’t have a movie theater, a mall, or a bowling alley. Residents participate in recreational activities at their churches or the schools or through the community sports programs. The Barn Playhouse, the library, and Colby Sawyer College provide cultural programs for the town. But regardless of the limited night scene, I’m surprised to see so many locals milling about. I didn’t expect the press either. Three reporters, wearing press-credentialed lanyards, chat with Evelyn. I stare at the reporters and the crowd and my stomach dips.

I didn’t invite anyone. Since Glen’s death, I haven’t wanted to socialize. People who haven’t lost a spouse, think I should be over Glen’s death by now. But I’m not, not even close. The only time the sad empty feeling dissipates is when I’m teaching or drawing. The stress of being without the man who was my everything continues to overwhelm me.

But tonight’s anxiety isn’t just about losing my better half. No one in New London knows I witnessed Whitney’s abduction, and I’m determined to keep my secret under wraps. But the bloody snowball hand drawing makes me feel as if I’m outing myself. Even worse, I’ve got this sense that by exhibiting my image of the Worm Man’s bloody hand, that I’m potentially resurrecting a monster. In other words, I’m taking that cursed Annabelle doll out of the cabinet, brushing dust off that Jumanji board and rolling the dice. Though it’s completely illogical, I’m worried that something awful is going to happen because of my lack of respect for the Worm Man’s evil. Okay, so I’m being ridiculous.

As my five fellow artists stand near their pieces, their nametags pinned to their blouses and lapels, I wave to Evelyn. I collect my nametag off her desk, and position myself near my work. Desperate for a distraction, I study the room.

Images of deformed nudes, the pope brandishing a sword, Iraqi soldiers, abstracts, and photographs of a burning teepee adorn the walls. As my fellow artists converse with their guests and smile, I make a beeline for the bar. I request a glass of pinot grigio and down it. As I grip my empty wineglass, Lauren Rossi, the mother of my favorite student Cassie, saunters over to my series. Lauren, a stay-at-home-mom, smiles at my piece of her daughter. As she points at my gruesome snowball drawing, three PTA moms surround her.

Lauren is poised, polished, blonde, and curvy. She’s basically everything I’m not. Most women adore her. But there’s something off between her and me. Even though I taught and tutored Cassie, and Cassie was Glen’s little buddy, Lauren steers clear of me. Whenever we do interact, I find myself questioning the effectiveness of my deodorant.

As Lauren chats with the PTA moms, policeman Liam Messer, taps my arm. Thank you, Jesus. It’s someone I like, someone who genuinely likes me. I can literally feel my muscles relaxing.

Liam’s been good to me since Glen’s death. He’s kind, protective, patient, and rugby player hunky. Tonight, he’s wearing khakis, a blue blazer, and loafers. He should look boring, too preppy. But he doesn’t. Liam’s a catch. Even since he moved here from Boston a few years ago, we’ve been running into each other at the local coffee shop, Grounds, and he regularly picks up his niece, Emma, from Kearsarge Elementary, where I work. Though were good friends, Liam’s made it clear that he’d like us to be more. He’s been asking me out, off and on, for the past six months. I’m super attracted to him. We’ve even kissed a few times. But though his lips are delicious and I can see myself having something solid and real with him, I’m simply not ready for a relationship with any man.

As I twist my wedding band, Liam gestures at my hideous snowball piece. Love the kid pics, Kate. But what’s with the bloody snowball?

I force out a laugh. I devoured a meatball sub, fell asleep, and dreamt about all of that.

Liam winks. You mean you don’t always dream about me?

I …

Randi, my closest friend and a fellow third-grade teacher, elbows me. She grins at Liam. My girl, Kate, here only fantasizes about George Clooney. Randi hugs me. Good to see you out and about, Kate, but really, no personal invite? I had to find out about this shindig from Evelyn.

I shrug. Sorry. You’re absolutely right. I should have invited you. I’ve been holed up for so long. Since Glen … I’ve lost my people skills.

They’ll come back, Randi says, patting my wrist. Give it time.

Randi has two sons, eight and five years old. So how are Mikey and Justin? I ask her.

Randi, who has the physique of a gymnast and the energy of an Olympian, tightens her shirtdress sash. Crazy. They’re at home, terrorizing their sitter.

As Randi and Liam talk, I scan the crowd. Lauren and the other PTA moms have migrated to the pope oil painting. Two of Glen’s architect colleagues, Harris and Reese, are now staring at my drawings. Their voices float toward me.

She’s an aspiring portrait artist, correct? Harris, Glen’s partner, says, eyeing my pieces. I assumed she’d draw Glen.

If not Glen, then one of his buildings or their home. Glen loved that old farmhouse, Reese says to Harris.

I nod. Reese is correct. Glen did love our old farmhouse. And despite its age, my initial concerns about its isolation, and all of Glen’s half-finished projects, the place is home to me too. I can’t imagine living anywhere else, which is why I have to sell my drawings and get that money to pay my mortgage.

I frown at my grisly hand drawing. Don’t get any ideas. If you weren’t so potentially valuable, I’d put you through a paper shredder. Just because I didn’t destroy you before, doesn’t mean I won’t now. Don’t tempt me.

As I gaze at the ghastly piece, Randi tugs at my sleeve. Kate, where’d you go? Evelyn just announced the featured artist award winner. It’s you! Go! Randi nudges me toward Evelyn. She wants you to answer questions. You know, a Q & A with the patrons.

I look up. The guests, reporters, and featured artists are all staring at me. As they clap, I stumble over to Evelyn, who hands me a blue ribbon and a $500 check.

The ribbon and the check are tokens, trinkets so you can remember this night. The real prize is the press you’re gonna get, Evelyn says, smiling at me.

And your gallery’s gonna get, Harris shouts.

Evelyn laughs. Well, I should reap some benefits for discovering her. She motions to my drawings. "Congratulations, Kate. Your collection, Innocence vs. Evil: A Study in Contrasts, is going to be featured in the Arts and Entertainment section of the Boston Herald, The Globe, and The Concord Monitor, and mentioned on my gallery’s and Art New England Magazine’s Instagram pages. I’m sure the coverage and articles will lead to big things. She motions to the crowd. Does anyone have any questions for Kate?"

My knees weaken. The attendees’ features blur.

A woman whom I recognize from my yoga class waves her hand. The news is filled with reports about mass shootings, hate crimes, and war. Kate, did you draw the bloody hand drawing to symbolize the toll of protecting children in today’s violent world?

Before I can respond, Louise, one of the PTA moms, says, I’m not sure about that. But I’m certain the snow symbolizes sadness, and the earthworms represent hope for the future. You know. ’Cause snowy winters are bleak, and worms help plants and life grow.

Oh, and the red string means protection and good luck. Red strings are in trend. I wear one, Heather, another PTA mom, adds, motioning to a red string encircling her wrist.

I … My lip quivers. I’m not prepared for this. It seems since Glen’s death, I’m ill-prepared for life in general.

As I search for words, a grey-bearded man wearing a press badge clears his throat. Folks, let’s get real. Ms. Boswell didn’t come here to teach Art Themes 101. I mean, come on. She doesn’t lecture at Colby Sawyer College. The woman’s a third-grade teacher for Christ sakes.

I lock eyes with the reporter. I know him, but from where? Mr.?

Kingsley, the reporter says. "Tom Kingsley from The Globe."

I nod. Mr. Kingsley is correct, I stammer. As most of you know, I am a third-grade teacher. I swallow. But I’m afraid you’re all overthinking this. I wish I could tell you that I had an agenda, some sort of master plan, a specific message or theme I wanted to convey when I created my drawing. But I didn’t. I simply put pencil to paper, and that bloody drawing on the wall over there came out.

I plaster on a smile. But I’m glad my drawings have made you think. We all bring our unique experiences and perspectives to galleries. That’s what makes shows like this so interesting. You’ve all inspired me. Thank you for that. I tap my forehead. But based on your reactions, I’m thinking I might need therapy.

The crowd laughs. Kingsley raises his hand.

Do you have something to add Mr. Kingsley? Evelyn asks.

Yes. I’d like to clarify my previous statement. When I said before that Kate was a third-grade teacher, I wasn’t implying that she’s not talented or is undeserving of her award. I simply meant that to understand her pieces, we need to focus on who she is as a person, her unique life experiences, her personal history. He gestures at me. As a girl, Kate—

The room spins. My heart drums. I know what’s happening. It’s happened to me a thousand times before. I’m having a full-on panic attack. Liam seems to sense I’m in trouble.

A toast! he shouts. A toast to Kate Boswell, to the five other talented artists whose work adorns these walls, and to Evelyn Taylor for making this night happen.

To great art! Evelyn says.

To great art! everyone shouts.

Liam whispers in my ear, Let’s go somewhere quiet.

Quiet sounds wonderful, I murmur.

As Liam guides me through the crowd and toward the back exit, I glance at Kingsley. An image of a cluttered New York City office and a younger, thinner, clean-shaven Kingsley pops into my head.

That reporter interviewed me when I was living in New Jersey. He was writing a book about a childhood friend of mine, I say.

Liam huffs. Something tells me he’s working on a sequel.

Liam pulls me through the back exit. The door shuts. We’re alone and surrounded by cars. It’s a warm, humid evening. The sun is a sinking orb. The world seems different out here, calmer and safer. As cheerful voices seep through the gallery windows, my breaths come easier. The feeling of doom that threatened to paralyze me dissipates. Suddenly I’m disgusted with myself for bolting.

I motion to the gallery behind me. Why am I hiding? Everyone’s inside. I should go back in. What’s wrong with me?

Don’t be so hard on yourself, Liam says. Tonight, would be a lot for anyone.

He squeezes my shoulder. His touch comforts me, feeling right. Still, I back away.

Okay, I say, "so I didn’t actually want to be here tonight. I don’t like crowds, talking in front of groups, or selling myself. But I’ve dreamed of having success as an artist my entire life. And