Sunset in Biwabik
Something stirred in the small midwestern town as Elton Waverly stumbled down the street towards the Biwabik Police Department and opened the chipped door. He twisted the knob, his blood-soaked fingers slick on the brass. I need to get cleaned up. He wandered through the dark halls. Regan was asleep, but Kim was awake, still downing brandy at three in the morning and crying over a newspaper from the 80’s. Elton left her alone. Often it felt as if he was the only officer in Biwabik. He made his way to the bathroom and began to wash the blood off his hands. As the red stain left his skin, memories flooded back to him.
It was midday, the sun beat down on Elton’s face as the chase began. A woman screamed as a purse was yanked from her arm. Around corners, Elton followed the sinister silhouette of a thief. Elton kept up despite his age, the feeling of opportunity carrying him violently forward. The thief rounded the corner to the farmer’s market, darting between stalls as Elton followed from the side. The perp looked behind him, clutching the handbag he’d run away with. He slunk through the area and dipped into the butcher’s. Elton followed. A blast of cold air woke him- the meat locker was open. Elton darted in, shuffling between the hanging flesh. The thief stood somewhere to his right, holding a meat hook. The clink of chains and breath in the cold were all too familiar to him. The thief swung his hook as Elton ducked to the side as the hook cut through the hanging cuts and showered him in gore and blood. The hook let out a clang as it touched the floor and Elton dashed forward, delivering a punch to the thief’s sternum. He was knocked backward and left sprawled on the floor as Elton towered over him, covered in giblets and entrails. It was a kid, same as all the nuisances in Biwabik. Same story as always. The arrest was a hollow victory. Life here was like a Zoetrope. Sure, things moved forward, but life followed the same routine day in and day out. And the duty fell on Elton to keep everyone in line. Change brewed as he returned to reality. The darkness of the bathroom was overpowering now. Elton tried to breathe as little as possible as he moved down the darkened hall to his desk, hoping the lack of oxygen might make the walk more interesting. It didn’t. Elton fell asleep in his office that night as dreams of unsolvable crimes danced in his head. A liquor of mystery to fill the vessel in his heart.
When Elton woke, he found his wish suspiciously granted. An envelope stained with a crimson streak lay in front of him. It sat there, on his desk, unmoving, unassuming. It fit right in, next to empty glasses, his corroded ashtray, and his Smith&Wesson. He needed most of the things on his desk from time to time. With a quick cut from his prized letter opener, the wet paper of the envelope gave way to a simple message.
The Jungle alley.
Last Night.
Murder.
- Candace
Elton gathered his things once more and prepared to leave for the Jungle. It had been ten years since there was a murder in Biwabik.
The Jungle was a harrowing place. It was a long alley between the bank and arcade- where people were most likely to drop coins. The Jungle provided a home for the underground of Biwabik, the parts of the town that many did not care to acknowledge. Even without the smell of death in the air, one could tell the impoverished were unable to afford certain hygiene. Tents lined the wide alley between the bank and the arcade. Normally the Jungle was quiet. Not today. An older woman ran through the crowd and towards Elton.
“I’m Candace. You’re Waverly, right? We needed you. Thank the lord.” Candace had a strange dance to her voice, as if a shard of optimism survived within her shriveled visage.
“Has anyone touched the body?”
“No sir. We been too scared.” Elton sighed with relief as he made his way down the alley. That’ll make things easier. He pushed through the crowd and was taken aback by the cadaver. Something was off about it. Bones had bent in places they shouldn’t have, the neck was twisted at an odd angle and clothes were torn apart, revealing bruises underneath. Elton tripped over his words.
“Who- Who was this?”
A child, not older than twelve, piped up.
“No-one been able to tell. We ain’t turned the head over.” Elton shakily put on his gloves and gently turned the body over. The buzz of flies was louder now, muttering emerged from the crowd. The top half of the cadaver had been eviscerated, the skin scratched and fleshy. Some sick bastard did this. From the reaction of the crowd, the body had been recognized.
“It’s Jon! Jon Tucker!” A sorrowful wail called from the back of the alley. Elton motioned for the crowd to move, and they dispersed, revealing signs of a struggle that painted a fuzzy picture. Jon had been murdered outside, but someone pulled him from his tent while he was sleeping. The atmosphere was dead. Tension condensed in the air, burning hot and thick like syrup. It dripped from every crack in the concrete, spilling out of the tents and hobo stoves. It pooled onto the ground and peppered Elton’s mind with questions. He pulled the child to the side of the alley.
“Hey, do you mind if I speak to you for a little, kid?”
The child nodded vigorously.
“Did you know Jon? Tell me about him.” Elton was normally patient, but he was giddy, eager to wrap the murder up, step by step.
The child sniffed. “Jon was a cook. We brought him the raw food and he’d toast it up for us. Boiled water too. Last few months, though, Jon wasn’t having it good. Got sick a couple times, lost what money he had. We had to start takin’ care of him.”
“Did Jon do anything to hurt someone, maybe?”
“Jon was a good man. On my life, wouldn't ever do somethin’ like that.”
“I see. Thank you.” Elton stood up and began to observe the scene once more. Jon’s legs were relatively unharmed, and his sleeping bag pointed in the direction of the hole in his tent. He’d been grabbed, possibly by the head or shoulders, and dragged out of his tent into the center of the alley. Why would they move him when they could have killed him in his own tent?
“Dunno sir. But I wonder if it was one of them Wilcox boys. They’re always messin’ about down there by the stoves. Jon wasn’t pleased, but he never said nothing.”
Elton realized he had spoken out loud. The boy was trailing him, mimicking his limp, his squint. Elton let himself smile.
The Wilcox boys were uncooperative. But Elton could see they didn’t have it in them to kill. They were teenagers, sure, but they had too much on their mind for murder.
By night, Elton had returned to his office. He turned the motives over in his head at his desk. Money? Everyone in the Jungle was dirt poor. Which means they wanted cash, but Jon didn’t have enough money to make the murder worth it. Jealousy? From what he’d heard, Jon was a good man, but he’d been stricken by hardship. Not the kind of lifestyle anybody would want. They are good people. Elton was confused, unable to parse a motive. That was the most important part. Who would kill Jon Tucker? And how? The wounds at first looked animalistic. But upon closer inspection, the many cuts and scratches were methodical, major blood vessels and arteries severed with each incision. Elton took a breath, inhaling a whiff of the atmosphere. His heart beat faster as excitement coursed through his body. He let sleep take him again, but not without a final thought of cosmic gratitude.
The last of the summer mornings crept into Elton’s office. There was no envelope on his desk, only the news. Upon closer inspection, however, the lightly packaged newspaper held another harrowing message. Writing had been scrawled in red over the inside, along with a crude insignia. A phone call would have been more convenient. It was far more unsettling than it had any right to be. There had been a second death in the Jungle.
Elton moved out of the police station, and was met with a cold rain. The faces of Biwabik hid behind black umbrellas, masking their identities. Elton grew hurried, walking faster than he had before, splashing through the rainy streets. Eventually, he reached the jungle once more. Once again, he was greeted by panicked, sorrowful wails. The Jungle was hidden from the rest of the world, sealed off. It was easy to ignore. Elton stepped into the alley.
The shredded tent stank something awful. A disgusting, wretched stench. It was worse than corpses, rotten meat— anything Elton had smelled before. The ribbonlike shreds of the tent were moist and strewn across the alley. It was as if an animal had torn through the Jungle. Elton glanced around, searching for a clue, something to expand the scene. Jon’s body was gone. Someone had gotten to it before the forensics department could.
“Who moved Jon’s body? I told everyone not to touch it!” The crowd was silent, their focus now turned to the patch of bloodied ground where Jon was the day before. Fear came over their faces. A quiet dread and desperation. Nobody had touched the body.
Elton ran to the tent, eyes darting from corner to corner- the fresh body, unfortunately, was present. This one was recognizable. It was the child that had spoken to Elton the first day he came to the Jungle. Elton vomited. His vision blurred, for which he was thankful. The feeling of failure, regret, that washed over him felt crushing. Elton felt obligated to stay for the mourning. Jon was a loner, but the child had a family. The tent was rolled up and burned, and the body was disposed of in a burning dumpster, a standard for the Jungle’s residents. They wept and ate a little more than they usually did. Behind the dirt caked onto their faces, the denizens of the Jungle harbored a true empathy for one another. Hardship forms bonds.
Elton thought as the body burned. I can’t let this happen again. Elton steadied himself. He would spend the night in the Jungle. The sun dipped behind the arcade and the alley fell silent as people shuddered into their tents. A quiet scraping and clunking sounded from the arcade. The children would play until ten, when they would be shepherded home by worried parents. Elton laid down in an empty tent, his hand hovering over the pistol on his hip. The dark hid things from him, planting unease in his tired mind. Eventually, his fear gave way to boredom, which then gave way to sleep.
His dream today was not pleasant. He stood in a hayfield. It was empty, lonely. Screams called from behind him. A woman was tied to a large, wooden pole, surrounded by townsfolk he recognized from a history book. The woman tied to the pole was one of the Bannock who inhabited the area, although they were scarce now, Bannock were widespread during the founding of Biwabik. Elton winced as the woman let out another scream. The fire had started at her feet. It spread quickly, wrapping her in flame. She continued to scream, her body contorting and melting as she struggled to free herself. The ropes had burned through, but so had she. The townspeople watched in horror as flesh sloughed off her charred bones, igniting the Hay below them. She was not the only one to burn that night. Once the fire reached Elton, he jerked to consciousness. He sat awake for what was most likely a few hours. Something was moving outside. It was pitch black, but Elton was familiar with the sound of footsteps. He unholstered his pistol and poked his head out of the tent. The Jungle was silent. Elton crept down the alley. A loud thud broke the deadly silence- Elton instinctively fired a shot down the alley. The brief flash of the muzzle sent the darkness scurrying back- revealing a figure hunched over a mangled mess. A scream called down the alley, Elton kept shooting, each flash illuminating the perpetrator and deafening Elton. The person crouched over the pile of flesh was nude, with mottled skin, and bald. They payed no mind to the gunshots, still cutting into whoever was on the ground. Eventually the darkness returned, leaving Elton stunned and exhausted.
Elton woke with a start. He was in the open, having fallen asleep somehow. Was it a dream? Was it something else? Elton peered around the overcast alley and moved to where he remembered the killing. It was no dream. Dear God. A solid crimson trail led further down the alley and up the wall of the arcade, as if the body had been dragged vertically. Elton began to feel a strange, cosmic dread as he knew his wishes had been heeded.
Something was on the move in Biwabik.
Elton didn’t get out much. But the fresh air did something to calm his nerves. Plus, it was something to do while his car was in the shop. As he walked the trail, the forest was strangely silent. It was autumn, and the rain had all but stopped. A strange drought hung in the air. Elton tried to forget what had happened two nights before- he wanted to scream, but even out in the woods, so far from anyone else, his lips felt stitched shut. He was stoic to a fault. Elton let out a sigh and kept walking. He took in the slight whistle of the wind as it made his coat billow behind him. Shuffling along the path, he felt a crunch below his foot. He raised his boot, the decomposing corpse of a sparrow mired on the path. Elton observed the bird. Strange. A wide path of leaves led off the trail, deep into the woods. Elton followed. Was this here before? The path led upstream through Snake River, dotted with flesh-stained animal bones. They grew more frequent as Elton followed the river.
Elton followed the path, realizing the river had brought him in a loop, back to town. The disturbances in the undergrowth were leading him into Biwabik. As Elton reached the drainage pipe at the end of the river, he noticed a red trail moving through the water. A patch of fungi was leaking a crimson substance into the stream, near the drainage pipe. Elton observed the growth. It was on a raised patch of ground, and it looked fresh. Elton grabbed a chunk of the fungus and inspected it. The distinct purple-cabbage shape revealed it was Sporocarps- corpse fungus. Elton began to dig, and he didn’t need to go far. Just a thin layer of dirt covered the now-familiar sight. It was the body of Jon Tucker. The disturbances in the undergrowth led further into town, and small flecks of red dotted the pavement, providing a trail for Elton to pursue. He steadied himself as the sun darted behind the first snow clouds of the year.
Elton followed the trail of bloody breadcrumbs down the street. He walked faster- if he moved too slow the snow would cover the tracks. As he rounded the corner, Elton was met with the sight of After Hours Tobacco, a small smoke shop on the fringes of biwabik. The trail led to the glass front, which had been torn to pieces. Standing in the contorted storefront was a small, disheveled woman. Behind the counter, the slumped figure of Tony, the owner of the store, lay. The glass had shattered inward, leaving small cuts on Tony’s face. Blood had begun to pool over the table and floor as the woman sat in the corner of the shop, smoking a bone pipe. She recoiled her lips from the pipe and spoke.
“Ain’t nothing you gonna do about it.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said. You’re a detective, aren’t you? Answers don’t bring people back to life.” The woman glared at Elton, her beady, black eyes casting a dark, frightening feeling over the room. Her skin was the texture of tree bark, and her knotted and gnarled fingers crept deftly around the carved pipe.
“Did you see anything of what happened?” Elton inquired, frustrated.
“I didn’t take you for a blind man. It’s rather easy to see that there’s a vvitch around.” Elton took a final look at the woman before examining the body once more. It was consistent with those in the Jungle- bruised, scratched, and cut. However, the body was far older than those he’d seen before- this area of town was desolate and Tony must not have seen many customers. The smell of wet swampwater hung in the air, perforating Elton’s senses. He opened the back door. The dim, croaking lightbulb cast a fading light across the room. Bloody handprints and finger strokes lined the walls, and as Elton stepped back he realized they were more than an accident- they formed a pattern, no; an image. On the back wall, a crude drawing of an animalistic creature was etched out of blood- it had morbid, skeletal features. Although the piece was amateur, Elton felt it was alive.
The woman spoke again from behind Elton. “Tol’ja. Ain’t a natural creature capable of sick stuff like this. It’s been a long time since a VVitch showed up in Biwabik.” Elton continued to study the wall. Behind the initial drawing of a beast hung a painting of a house. It was one Elton recognized, and it had stood since before the town was called Biwabik. In the painting, the house was rendered in an open, grassy field. Along the left side of the door was a long, twisted stripe of blood- he was unable to tell if it was part of the painting. The house was important. Elton knew it.
Elton called the police station to report the incidents and started out of the store. His phone was almost dead. The house. The house. Elton racked his brain for something. It was old and stood just outside the town, in a wood that used to be a wheat field. A family lived there, the descendants of the first settlers of the town. It had been in their family for generations. Tony. Tony was a younger member of the family- someone’s son-in-law. Still, it was a chilling coincidence.
Elton made his way to the house, stepping along a footpath that slithered through the forest. It was decrepit and creaked like an ancient beast, but there was life within. Elton rapped gently on the door. A woman answered him. Her hair was straight and black, her clothes formal. She wore a plain black dress with a bonnet over her head. Elton extended his hand for a shake, and she accepted. They held eye contact for several seconds before she stepped aside to let him in. Elton peered around the cabin. It was lightly furnished. Everything looked handmade, furniture was made from skins and plates and silverware were carved from wood or bone. A loud thunk sounded from the next room as Father Lee threw a log onto the fire. Elton recognized him- Father Lee had a painted portrait in the town hall, for some great achievement or other. His family were the founders of Biwabik, the old blood. Father Lee was a man of great stature, dressed in a white button up, black pants, a black jacket, and a wide-brimmed hat. A long, chinstrap beard dangled from his bold-featured face.
The Lee family ambled around the house, going about their lives. Many were cooking, others prepared the table for dinner, occasionally glancing at Elton. He scanned the cabin as a glint of modernity caught his eye. A pump-action shotgun was mounted on the wall. On the fireplace below it sat eight twelve-gauge shells. Elton ran his finger along the stark steel of the gun. The matte black juxtaposed with the earthy browns of the cabin startled him. The shotgun sat at attention, stock folded, waiting for action. It was in mint condition, never fired. Not a scratch defiled the fresh gunmetal.
“Father Lee?” Elton tried to get his attention.
“Whatzit, boy?” Father Lee had a harsh tone, but a vestige of kindness boiled within him.
“You’re short one round of full capacity. A SPAS-12 takes nine rounds.” Elton recounted the rounds on the mantle, making sure he was correct.
“Not so. There’s one in the chamber already. Won’t have time to load the gun when I need to use it.”
“Hm.” Elton drew away from the weapon, continuing around the house. Members of the Lee family were indistinguishable in dress, the women wearing flat black dresses and bonnets, and the men bore collared shirts with black coats and pants, with chinstrap beards of various lengths dangling from their faces. Elton moved down the family hall, portraits of ancestors from the founding days of Biwabik. One was painted in a much different style, far younger than the others. Joseph Lee. Dead, Eighteen-Thirty-Three, sixteen years old. Eighteen-Thirty-Three. The year the British abolished slavery, the year the house was built, the year Biwabik was founded, the year of famine and fire. Stories of the Lee family’s tumult during the year were easy to come by in town. A wildfire, a famine, and a plague not just in the same year, but in the same month.
Elton called out to Father Lee. “Have you got any journals from the eighteen-thirties, Father Lee? I may need some for my inquiry.”
Father Lee grunted and led Elton into his study. He thumbed through a cabinet for an eternity before producing a manuscript that was a few years from crumbling to dust. Good reading was a distraction from a good mystery. Elton parted the pages. They were brown, crinkled. Like old skin. 1828. The voyage begins. 1829. Arrival. 1830. Breaking Trail. 1832. Settling In. 1833. Homemaking. January. We Gather Lumber. February. Suspicion. March. VVitch.
“Big Lee doesn't trust that woman, does he.” That’s what Morgan said to me this mornin.’ She’s awful suspicious, as usual. I’ll bet she believed Big Lee the second he told her that the prayers she said at night were cursin’ us. She ain’t a witch, no. I’ve heard her pray, her words were kind, even if I didn’t understand ‘em. I’ll bet she’s blessing us rather than anything else.
Feb. 8th, 1833.
Morgan was on about the woman again. I told her “She ain’t a witch just because you don’t know her. Hell, she probably thinks we’re cursin’ her when we say ‘grace’ before each meal.” Morgan stopped talking to me after that. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.
Feb. 9th, 1833.
I spent some time with the woman in the woods today. Her clothes were softer than anything I’d ever felt. Made from the fur of angels, I said. She didn’t understand, but she laughed anyway. She showed me how to make dough out of acorns. Might not be a witch, but she sure is magic.
Feb. 10th, 1833.
Deer meat is delicious.
Feb. 11th, 1833.
Big Lee took the woman from the forest last night. She’s tied to a stake in the center of the field now. I’m too scared to go help her. I prayed that good would be done, but nobody answered. None of this would’ve happened if Morgan had kept her damn mouth shut.
Feb. 12th, 1833.
They burned her last night. I watched. They broke her ankles so she wouldn’t run. The field caught fire and Morgan died with Big Lee. I shouldn't feel happy about that.
Feb. 18th, 1833.
Buried her. After days in the field, everyone was scared to go in. Her head was split open from mouth to top and some awful mushrooms were growin’ out. Gross and snake-shaped. She laid naked in the field for days. When they carried her away, she looked like she was meltin.’ She kept on bleeding even as they buried her. Now that the field is clear, Joseph’s gone to cut some wood to build a cabin. Won’t have to stay in tents anymore.
Feb. 19th, 1833.
Get out your den
The VVitch is walking again
Hope she spares me,
Lord.
Elton shut the book. It was dark outside. No way to get home on foot, and the Lees sure didn’t own a car. Elton’s phone was dead. Temperance told him he could stay in the servant’s quarters. They were buried deep within the bowels of the cabin, which was deceptively large. No windows, two beds next to each other. The one to the right of Elton was empty, but he still didn’t feel alone.
There were no dreams that night. No haunting premonitions. Only the slow, creeping horror that Elton felt upon walking down the hall. The house was silent. The clock struck four. Click. The noise sounded like a gentle knock on a door. It was piercing, bouncing back and forth inside Elton’s head. A smell moved down the hall. It was wicked, vile. It was similar to the burning flesh Elton had smelled during the cremation, but there was a hint of rot pervading it. At the end of the hall, a mass lay. It was Father Lee. Elton cautiously approached the body. From about ten feet away he could make out the condition of the corpse. It was viciously lacerated, with more anger in the incisions than Elton had seen before. Clothes were caked with blood and appeared stuck to the body. Father Lee’s head was out of sight, too far to the left to be visible from the hall. Click. The body was dragged out of view. Elton froze. Whatever killed him- whatever killed everyone- was still here. Elton moved left, into the kitchen.Everything was dark. Elton stepped forward as he felt a sharp pain in his head accompanied by the sound of metal clashing against itself- he had walked into a pan. His head was spinning.
Click. Click. Click. Click. The sounds grew louder and faster, forming a buzz like the tail of a rattlesnake. Elton smelled it before he saw it. The stench precluded the silhouette outlined in the overcast light. It was hunched, and not much shorter than Elton. It was human as far as he could tell, but the head was disrupted by something. It was too dark to get a clear picture before it lunged, dashing past Elton and embedding what seemed to be a hand into the wall. “LLIK!” Elton quietly moved away from the thing as it wrenched itself away from the wall. “WonkI erehw.” Its whispers sowed seeds of fear deep into Elton’s mind. He knew who it was. The Hay VVitch was walking once more. She seethed with a foul hatred, her immortality simply a vessel for her broken, vile body. Elton slipped into the living room, the windows shining the traces of morning light onto the wall. The VVitch rounded the corner. She stood opposite of Elton, with her head in full view.
It was a contorted, fungal shape. Split from the upper lip to the top of the head, flesh gave way to plant and mushroom growth that swayed back and forth in the cool breeze. Her hands were blood soaked, and her fingers tapered into vicious, wooden claws. The forest was part of her, her fuel. Vestiges of what used to be eyes twinkled under layers of fungal growth. Saliva dripped from her infected maw. She was nude, and her skin was pale. She shivered and shuddered, holding steady despite her discomfort. Gashes ran along her body, home to mushrooms and all manner of molds. Her legs were broken just below the knee, her feet twisted backward away from Elton. She was in great pain. She stepped forward, the crunch of her bones punctuating her stride. Without warning, she dashed, slamming Elton into the wall. The VVitch tore into his body with her talons. Elton felt her rage, her anger become part of him as each of her wicked fingers pierced through his flesh. Elton tried to force her off, but where his hands pushed, her body was sharp. She held him down, her saliva dripping onto his face, his sides burning as claws tore through his body. With the last of his strength, Elton jammed his finger into her eye, sending her screeching backward as it burst. Black bile sprayed from the wound, showering the living room in vile liquid. Elton looked around the room for something, anything to finish her. She regained her focus and prepared for another dash, diving forward as Elton stepped to the side. His back slammed against something cold and sharp. Steel. Elton reached behind him, his hand wrapping around the grip of a chambered Sporting-Purpose Automatic Shotgun. Thank you Chekhov. Elton flicked the safety off before firing a round of buckshot into the VVitch’s rotten tissue.
She screamed, releasing the torment trapped inside her for hundreds of years. The wounds on her chest spewed a thick, black liquid. Her body began to disintegrate, falling like barbequed meat off of her bones. Her teeth began to drop out of her skull as the fungus and plant matter growing from her skin withered and dried. The VVitch dropped to her knees, her legs clean of flesh. She moved again, taking a final, feeble swing at Elton’s leg. Her talons struck short, scraping through the hardwood floor. Elton Gazed into the VVitch’s eyes as the last bit of primal life left her body. He collapsed, landing on his back. He was bleeding badly. He reached into his pocket for his phone- it was far from operational. Not a speck of electricity tainted the Lee House. Elton tried to call for help, but he felt as if someone was crouching on his chest. His lungs would not inflate. Elton felt a twinge of something at the edge of his mind. Another consciousness. It was deep, primal. Elton let his eyes close.
When he awoke, Elton was at his desk. It was morning. He looked around, studying the office. A newspaper sat next to an empty coffee mug. He reached for it- there was a sharp pain in his side. He lifted his shirt- the wounds were far from healed. It was only then that Elton realized how disheveled he was- his shirt was torn and caked with blood, his pants stained with bile. He stood up, ready to make his way home. His car was parked outside of the police station. ready and waiting. He sat down, buckled his seatbelt and slipped a Donovan disc into the CD player. Elton took a deep breath as he began the drive back home. As far as he knew, the VVitch was dead. But there was still an undeniable strangeness slithering through Biwabik. There would always be another mystery. But these days, answers were hard to come by.