contribute to Sharyn’s unreasonable fears.
Thorn knew what the problem was. He was a man of science, but he still had a boy’s love of science-fiction and the fantastic. He had never outgrown his love of the amazing tales of Edgar Rice Burroughs, H.P. Lovecraft and the like. That same love had led him into the fields of anthropology and archeology in the first place. Moreover, he believed it was important that he maintain a youthful sense of adventure in his work. Scientific pursuits tended toward drudgery, and the scientist had to take inspiration where he found it if he didn’t want to become a drudge himself. Of course, he never let those fantasies creep into his actual work, and until now he’d always been able to keep the two worlds separate, but this current project was somehow different. This time the fantastic
wanted
to intrude upon the rational world—as it had in his searching conversation with Sharyn. He’d done her a terrible disservice. He needed to make amends. He decided he would take her some flowers when he saw her tomorrow and keep the visit carefree and cheery, with no shoptalk and no mention of anything upsetting.
His conscience somewhat assuaged by his future intentions, he reread the entry for June 26, 1866.
The missing women returned to their homes in the dead of night and were not discovered until the next morning. Most were naked, but a few wore blood-stained garments indicative of their participation in the Abominable Slaughter. The women were confused and could not explain their collective absence, nor could they explain the dried blood on their persons, beneath their fingernails and even in the hair of their privates. Nor were they the least concerned about the gore or about their memory lapses. When asked what had happened to the menfolk, not one of them could answer. But neither did they seem unduly concerned with the missing men. When at last they were told of the slaughtered remains found in the forest, they all seemed genuinely surprised, but not a single female seemed shocked. To a woman, they accepted the news of their Butchered men with a singular lack of emotion. The death of a family dog would’ve evoked more of a reaction than these women exhibited.
I talked to a few of them myself. There was a coldness in their eyes that unnerved me terribly. I could not look long into those dead eyes without fearing the Evil lurking behind them.
But the thing that terrified me most was coming face to face with the girl I’d previously seen eating human flesh. I remembered her well enough—her gore-smeared face will haunt me to the end of my days—but she recognized me not at all. Looking into her blank face convinced me that the women truly had no memories of their murderous rampaging.
I confess I was afraid to spend another night upon that ridge. A common burial ceremony was held for the recovered remains of the dead men. I prayed aloud over their graves and silently prayed for the souls of those women responsible for putting them there, and then I departed just before dark. I was more than willing to risk the Dangers of night travel than spend a night near those Possessed women.
Thorn leaned back in his chair and sucked thoughtfully on his pipe, conjuring a bucolic image of Liza Leatherwood. He was convinced the old girl possessed information he needed to further his investigation, but he didn’t know how to get it out of her. She was a stubborn old bird, too sly to be manipulated into letting anything slip out. But Thorn could be stubborn too, especially when he was on the hunt for buried secrets. He decided he would try her once more before writing her off as a dead-end, a lost source. Tomorrow morning he would have a heart-to-heart with the woman, put his cards on the table, tell her what he knew and hope for the best.
Somewhere in these hills was an unmarked mass grave hiding the old butchered bones of the missing men of Widow’s Ridge. If Thorn could find it and set up a dig,
Thorn knew what the problem was. He was a man of science, but he still had a boy’s love of science-fiction and the fantastic. He had never outgrown his love of the amazing tales of Edgar Rice Burroughs, H.P. Lovecraft and the like. That same love had led him into the fields of anthropology and archeology in the first place. Moreover, he believed it was important that he maintain a youthful sense of adventure in his work. Scientific pursuits tended toward drudgery, and the scientist had to take inspiration where he found it if he didn’t want to become a drudge himself. Of course, he never let those fantasies creep into his actual work, and until now he’d always been able to keep the two worlds separate, but this current project was somehow different. This time the fantastic
wanted
to intrude upon the rational world—as it had in his searching conversation with Sharyn. He’d done her a terrible disservice. He needed to make amends. He decided he would take her some flowers when he saw her tomorrow and keep the visit carefree and cheery, with no shoptalk and no mention of anything upsetting.
His conscience somewhat assuaged by his future intentions, he reread the entry for June 26, 1866.
The missing women returned to their homes in the dead of night and were not discovered until the next morning. Most were naked, but a few wore blood-stained garments indicative of their participation in the Abominable Slaughter. The women were confused and could not explain their collective absence, nor could they explain the dried blood on their persons, beneath their fingernails and even in the hair of their privates. Nor were they the least concerned about the gore or about their memory lapses. When asked what had happened to the menfolk, not one of them could answer. But neither did they seem unduly concerned with the missing men. When at last they were told of the slaughtered remains found in the forest, they all seemed genuinely surprised, but not a single female seemed shocked. To a woman, they accepted the news of their Butchered men with a singular lack of emotion. The death of a family dog would’ve evoked more of a reaction than these women exhibited.
I talked to a few of them myself. There was a coldness in their eyes that unnerved me terribly. I could not look long into those dead eyes without fearing the Evil lurking behind them.
But the thing that terrified me most was coming face to face with the girl I’d previously seen eating human flesh. I remembered her well enough—her gore-smeared face will haunt me to the end of my days—but she recognized me not at all. Looking into her blank face convinced me that the women truly had no memories of their murderous rampaging.
I confess I was afraid to spend another night upon that ridge. A common burial ceremony was held for the recovered remains of the dead men. I prayed aloud over their graves and silently prayed for the souls of those women responsible for putting them there, and then I departed just before dark. I was more than willing to risk the Dangers of night travel than spend a night near those Possessed women.
Thorn leaned back in his chair and sucked thoughtfully on his pipe, conjuring a bucolic image of Liza Leatherwood. He was convinced the old girl possessed information he needed to further his investigation, but he didn’t know how to get it out of her. She was a stubborn old bird, too sly to be manipulated into letting anything slip out. But Thorn could be stubborn too, especially when he was on the hunt for buried secrets. He decided he would try her once more before writing her off as a dead-end, a lost source. Tomorrow morning he would have a heart-to-heart with the woman, put his cards on the table, tell her what he knew and hope for the best.
Somewhere in these hills was an unmarked mass grave hiding the old butchered bones of the missing men of Widow’s Ridge. If Thorn could find it and set up a dig,
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