CHAPTER V
Her Name Was Raven
Westman sat in his patrol vehicle and searched the Internet on his phone. He pulled up a screen and spoke to himself quietly as he skimmed the article. “Her name was Raven…guilty of witchcraft in 1870, a year after Hilliard had been incorporated…residents, confused and scared by her dark practices, attacked her at her home on Halloween night and set her on fire…Raven ran into the cornfields where she burned to death…body never recovered…”
Westman looked out the window to see if York was on his way back yet. There was no sign of him.
Westman stepped out of the car and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He shut the door and put his hand on his gun holster as he started to make his way up the driveway.
The air was getting colder and the cornstalks rustled as Westman walked along the side of the house. A loud ‘kaw’ caught his attention and he looked up into the sky. He watched the pitch black raven fly overhead and land on the roof of the barn again.
Westman gulped nervously and moved slowly towards the barn. The door was open and he could see nothing but blackness inside. He put his hand on the barn door and peeked his head into the darkness.
“York?” he quietly called out. There was no answer from inside.
Inside the barn, a creaking sound emerged from the dark. It sounded like someone walking on a fragile wooden floor. Westman’s heart began to beat faster – he could feel it throbbing in his ears.
“York?” he whispered into the barn. He couldn’t see anything. He reached for the flashlight on his belt and flipped it on. He pointed it into the shadows and moved it along the back wall. In the small glowing circle of light, he saw hay bails sitting against the wall – one of them with a pitchfork sticking straight out of the top of it. He continued to slowly move the light across the wall. There were boxes covered in white sheets, rakes leaning up against the wall, and…a black cauldron.
Westman squinted to make sure he saw it right. The cauldron was large – maybe five feet across and three to four feet deep. Something was sticking out of the top of it, but he couldn’t see what it was.
Westman took a small step into the barn and slowly walked through it, keeping his flashlight focused on the cauldron. He got close enough and noticed that there was a bloody arm hanging out of it.
“What the…” Westman leaned over the cauldron and pointed his light directly inside. It was York – his bloody body mangled, twisted and contorted into unnatural knots. “My God!”
Westman stumbled backwards and dropped his flashlight and the bulb shattered. He tripped over something behind him and fell flat on his back. He looked behind him, as his only light source – the partially open barn door – closed and locked on its own.
Westman’s breathing picked up and he was starting to panic. “Help me! Somebody help me!”
He rolled onto his stomach and began to crawl in the direction he had seen the barn doors close. He reached his arms out, gripped the floor and pulled himself to his knees. He stood up and looked around. It was too dark – he didn’t know which way was up.
He spun around aimlessly in circles, frantically looking for any kind of salvation. “Help me!” he called out again before being silenced by a whispering “Shh…”
Westman froze and he felt every single hair on his body stand on end. He began to feel flushed and flu-like. His beating heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest.
The icy touch of a brittle and quivering hand gripped the back of his neck and he screamed. He started to cry as the ominous grasp tightened. The fingers started to feel so cold that they burned. Westman’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he could no longer breath. The last thing he thought of was the stench of his skin melting.
The blackness became darker.
~
Detective Miller sat in the Hilliard Police Station an hour later with the old man who discovered John’s body. They sat together in a small interrogation room. Miller hit record on a voice recorder and slid it into the center of the table.
“State your name and age,” Miller said.
“George Courtney, 65 years old.”
“Tell me, George, how did you discover the body?”
“We were at the Harvest Festival and I was getting apple cider for my granddaughter and I. My granddaughter tugged on my shirt and asked me what that man was dressed up as. I think she was a little frightened by what we thought was a costume. I saw the man walk out of the pond and I approached him – I could tell something was off with him. When I made contact with him, a stream of muddy water spewed from his mouth and he collapsed to the ground.”
“Wait…he walked out of the pond?” Miller questioned.
“Yes, sir. I know there are signs posted that say no swimming, fishing or wading. I thought he was just out to cause trouble.”
“He walked?” Miller asked again.
George nodded. “Yes. Why?”
“Because that boy’s been dead for ten years. There’s no way he could have walked.”
“Detective, I know I’m getting older,” George laughed, “but I know what I saw.”
Miller didn’t respond. There were about a million different thoughts racing through his head – none of them even remotely plausible.
As the afternoon progressed, the clouds over Hilliard started to darken and small rumbles of thunder echoed in the distance. A cold wind blew through the city, delivering a ghostlike chill. There was a storm coming…