THE BONE SHAFT
(the first 2000 words)
Prologue: Red Gate
“Can you please stand and state your names for the court?” the judge asked. His silver handlebar mustache was bushy and curled up at the ends. It danced when he said the word ‘please.’
A middle-aged woman in an orange jumper and a young, virile man in a soft, black suit rose from their chairs. The woman’s hands were cuffed and chained to her feet. “My name is Autumn Withers.”
“My name is Nate Jackson. I am representing Ms. Withers.”
The courtroom was quiet, patiently absorbed.
“Ms. Withers,” the judge said, “you have been charged with multiple murders, kidnapping, and arson, along with over two dozen more offenses. I have no doubt that you’ve discussed with your lawyer the potential punishments for these crimes. Due to the magnitude and abhorrent nature of this case, I am prepared to do everything in my power to expedite these proceedings with swift and vehement judgment. Counselor, what does the defense plead?”
“Not guilty, your honor,” the lawyer said. A rumble of murmurs and whispers permeated the courtroom as the gathered townsfolk were struck with confusion and anger. “By reason of insanity,” he continued. The courtroom cacophony grew exponentially, as the spectators verbalized their dissonance.
“Quiet!” the judge ordered, banging his gavel thrice. As the room settled, he looked out into the court’s seats. Common folk with good hearts and steady jobs, farmhands, bus drivers, schoolteachers. The small town’s population was a tight web of six thousand, and they looked out for their own. “Mr. Jackson, the town of Red Gate believes in justice. We are a people of moral and civic pride. Some members of our community are descendants of the original settlers and the Lenape alike, and many consider our town sacred.” He pointed to a plaque between the two flags behind his bench. “Wuhhala Wtakolsin. It means…”
“To protect and preserve,” Autumn said, interrupting the judge’s speech.
“Yes, Ms. Withers. We have lived by these values since the beginning. Counselor, are you sure you want to take this to trial?”
Nate looked at his client, saw the anguish stitched into her skin and the unyielding fear in her eyes. He turned to the judge and said, “Without a doubt, your honor.”
“So be it,” the judge said. “Trial starts next Monday morning. You have one week to solidify your case and change this entire town’s mind. Good luck to you, Ms. Withers, and may God have mercy on your soul.”
*****************🐇*****************
During their meetings in the days prior to the trial, Nate tried to quell Autumn, offering up as much sincerity and reassurance as he could provide. He was genuinely concerned and committed to fighting for her innocence. He had developed a strategy and created an outline for her testimony. Against most of his colleagues’ advice, he believed that she had to take the stand; she had to be heard. He had spent the better part of the last thirteen months listening to her experiences as she revisited the horrors, nightmares she had survived. She was terribly hesitant to share at first, questioning her own sanity, as her mind must have betrayed her. She feared no one could believe such a tale, especially one so gruesomely spun. Eventually, she realized that she had nothing to lose. She opened up about everything to Nate. Sometimes over the phone, sometimes in a cell. Another visit, another story. No matter what type of craziness she spewed, he continued to show up. Before long, she believed in him, and she believed that he believed her. She wasn’t insane.
“I know it’s going to be hard,” Nate said. “Families will be there. Pictures of the bodies will be shown to the jury. The prosecutors will paint you as the villain before you even take the stand. But you’re not the villain, Autumn. And I believe I can show Judge McKay and the jury that you were not in your right mind when all this transpired.” He clutched her hand from across the table. “Okay? We will make sure everyone knows that you are not the villain.”
Autumn agreed with a subtle nod and a whimpered, “Okay.”
“Good. Now, we both know what happened to you was unbelievable. It was damn near impossible for me to wrap my head around it. But that is going to work in our favor. As we’ve discussed and rehearsed, you will explain the phenomenon to the court.”
“And they’re going to think I’m a fucking lunatic. That’s why they locked me up to begin with. I tried to explain all of this to the police, but they just found the bodies each time and charged me with a new murder.”
“Exactly,” Nate said aiming finger guns at Autumn.
“What does that mean? ‘Exactly?’”
“I know it sounds counterintuitive, but it’s the only way to spare you from being vilified more than you already are, and from eventually being sent to the chair. We have twenty-four hours left to make this testimony as powerful as it can be. And all I want you to do, Autumn, is tell them exactly what you told me. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“And I want you to start with Isaac.”
After listening to the lawyer’s incessant guidance and scrutiny, Autumn was left with a small hint of hope for success, as their brief preparation window blinked away.
*****************🐇*****************
The day of the trial, Nate and Autumn sat through a grueling campaign of character assassination, tortuous commentary, and a constant barrage of loathsome stares from the jury. The prosecutors presented enlarged pictures of the victims, the blood on each one more vibrant and disturbing than the last. A vast collection of evidence was gathered on the table, tagged and bagged for submission. A video camera, an expensive watch, a birthday invitation, none of it made sense to Autumn. She could feel something familiar stirring inside her memory, but it was too far to reach, too heavy, like grasping at wet fog. She had imagined holding the watch in her hands, tracing its face with her fingers. She thought if she could only unwind the damn thing.
“Ms. Withers!” the judge shouted. “Did you hear what I said?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I said your lawyer has called you to the stand.”
Autumn stood up unsure of how long she had drifted into her imagination. As she walked over to the stand, she could hear low hisses and disgruntled puffs of disdain exiting the judgmental mouths of the jurors. All of them. But she noticed something else; something hummed in the courtroom. She stood behind the stand, vowed her truth over the bible, and sat down. The court was filled with her neighbors, as sweaty as they were hateful.
“Ms. Withers,” Nate started, nodding a reassuring smile at Autumn, “Can you please tell the court how long you have resided in Red Gate?”
“My entire life. Forty-eight years.”
“And what do you do for a living?”
“I am the owner of the Bone Shaft Bar and Grill.”
“Great. I’m sure everyone in this court recognizes you, especially since you work almost every day at one of the most premiere eateries in the entire county. So, I wouldn’t be incorrect if I said that most of those in attendance today are past customers of yours?”
“That is likely, Mr. Jackson.” Autumn searched the room for unfamiliar faces and could only find a few.
“But we’re not talking about those people are we, Ms. Withers? I would like to know more about the people who aren’t present in the court room. I would like you to tell us all about the people in those pictures on the board over there.” Nate walked to the evidence board between the judge and jury and touched each of the photos with his fingertips. “Can you tell us about them?” Nate pulled a tacked photo of an elderly man from the top left corner of the board, presented it slowly to the jury before bringing it in front of the stand. In front of Autumn. “And I’d like you to start with Isaac.”
Autumn winced away from the photo, the sight of Isaac’s body in such a misshapen form triggering her flight response, and her gag reflex.
Chapter One: Old Man Isaac
It was late November, the first real snowfall of the season. It was an aggressive one that forced the town to shut down at 3pm. While most of the state found itself in panic mode during the state emergency, scrambling to the stores to clear the shelves of bread and milk, the town of Red Gate embraced the alert. They were almost thankful for a fresh coat of snow to muffle the usual chaos of commerce and traffic. The townsfolk found a certain level of relief, as the weather compelled them inside to be with their families by the fire.
Autumn didn’t have a family. Or a fireplace at home. She stayed at the bar. Most winters, the plows were caught off guard and main avenues would remain untouched for a few days. But, like her neighbors, she accepted mother nature’s gift and welcomed the retreat. The Bone Shaft was her second home.
Autumn sent all the workers home for the duration of the storm. Her assistant manager and good friend, Sandy, was the last to leave. She had asked Autumn if she wanted to come over for dinner, and maybe wait out the storm watching Christmas movies on the couch. Autumn declined and calmed Sandy’s friendly worries. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll be fine. I have a ton of P&L reports to finish before December. The heat’s on. There is so much food. And these damn tables need a good detailing.”
“Well, if you change your mind, let me know. I’ll have Rusty come get you in his truck.”
Autumn laughed at the thought. “Does your brother still have a crush on me?”
“Absolutely,” Sandy said as she walked out, closing the door behind her.
Autumn waved Sandy off and walked to the kitchen for rags and wood oil. She couldn’t remember the last time the place was so quiet. No tickets were printing. The fryer wasn’t bubbling. Her cooks weren’t yelling at their food runners. Except for the hood’s fan above the fryers and grill, the kitchen was almost silent. She flipped the switch, and the fan came to a clunky halt. She had left one tv on in the dining room for the weather channel. The reporters were hammering on about accumulations and wind gusts. She grabbed a few towels from the chef’s stash and found the wood oil under the server’s cabinet. As she bent down to grab the bottle of Murphy’s, she realized the reporters were no longer discussing the snow. They weren’t saying anything at all. The tv was off.
I didn’t lock the door. Autumn cracked the double doors and stuck her head out, scanned the bar and tables for anyone. Nobody was there. She checked the tv and confirmed that it was off. “But how?” she said softly in her throat. She assumed the snow was the culprit, possibly disrupting the satellite service, but she wasn’t any less unsettled. She took her cleaning supplies over to her makeshift workstation and set them on the table. “Maybe I will take Sandy up on her…” Autumn stopped talking out loud. She stopped moving completely and held her breath, as she had noticed the front door was slightly open, letting a small pyramid of light and snow into the bar. The wind made things worse, pushing and pulling the heavy door in and out at the same pace as her breath, like the door was breathing with her. Fuck that. She sprint walked over to it, and started repeating louder and louder, “I have a gun. I have a gun,” then slammed it shut. She released a peaceful breath and a calm, relieved smile. I don’t have a gun.
“You don’t have a gun,” a voice said behind her, lurking in the shadowy corner of the dining room. Autumn screamed and immediately opened the door, which threw a cone of snow-white light onto the figure's shoes.
In her panic, a slice of curiosity. Before hauling her ass violently out of the door in her non-slip business casual work shoes and running like a crazy woman through the snowdrifts, she glanced back at her would be murderer.
“No, wait. Don’t go,” the voice pleaded.
Fucking Isaac. “Are you fucking kidding me, Isaac?” she said, angry, mostly at Isaac, but a bit at herself for how quickly she became a coward. “You scared the ever-loving dog shit out of me.” The blood returned to her face and she shut the door, ready to engage the bar’s most popular houseless patron.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Winters,” Isaac said, creeping out of the corner. His long silver hair poured from his red beanie like stained curtains around his face. He was wearing a gray hoodie under a brown leather jacket, two pairs of pants, and white sneakers. No gloves. He looked cold and wet, and scared. “I noticed the pig was still lit.”
Autumn shook her head. I should’ve never got that neon monstrosity. “It’s okay, Isaac. You hungry?”
“I’m okay. Thanks.”
“And it’s Withers, by the way.”
“What did I say?”
“You said ‘Winters.’ It’s Withers, as in dry up and shrivel. But don’t worry about it. I’ve been dealing with that since I was a child. The group home headmaster would call me Winters on purpose, claiming my parents who left me there were cold bastards; that’s why they named me after the worst seasons. But screw him. I love Halloween and Christmas. And this snow? So perfect. It’s like a cozy blanket draped over the town.” Realizing she was talking to a man with zero reasons to enjoy the weather, she changed the subject. “So what brings you in here anyway? Trying to get out of the storm?”
Isaac nodded. His nose was glistening at the tip with clear snot. His cheeks were rosy bulbs. His beard was long and knotted. Santa Claus down on his luck.
“Okay. I’ll be here for a while. Feel free to relax by the heater. Get yourself warmed up.”
“Thank you.” Isaac then sat at the table nearest to the vent, took his jacket off and crossed his hands on the table.
Autumn looked at Isaac, felt for him. She was very familiar with his reputation in Red Gate, as she had thrown him out several times in the past for being a troublemaker. He would occasionally snatch unwatched beers from the bar. She’d throw him out and ban him for a few weeks. Then, he’d return asking for some food and she would kindly oblige. Every time.
“So you were an orphan?” Isaac asked.
“I suppose you can call it that. But I don’t like to discuss it,” Autumn said, finishing off her first table. “Hey, I’m gonna make some tea. Would you like one? Might warm up the chill in your bones.”
“Yes, ma’am. That would be very nice.”
Autumn returned with the tea, kicking her way through the double doors. “Hey, I never asked you why you turned off the tv. You really creeped me out.” But Isaac didn’t answer. “Isaac?” Christ, not again. A low, vibrating hum flickered the jukebox. The televisions fizzled in and out. She walked over to where Isaac was sitting, but he wasn’t there. She turned and scanned the room for movement and noise, but there was only emptiness and the sound of her own breathing. Then, she slowly felt her grip go limp, releasing the tray holding the drinks. The porcelain mugs exploded into an echo when they shattered, as she saw Isaac on the floor in front of the bar. His body was contorted and broken into pieces. The bones in his limbs bent in unnatural ways. He was twisted into a star. She fell to her knees at the sight, thoroughly overwhelmed and severely freaked the fuck out. Her face couldn’t shake the horror, leaving her mouth open and her eyebrows flexed into shock. The humming she had heard earlier grew into a drum-like cadence that matched her rising heartbeat.
After a significant bout with reality, she walked over to him, and knelt next to his disfigured corpse. She couldn’t see his face, so she leaned in closer against her natural instincts to not fucking do that. Then, she noticed blood in his beard first. Moving closer still, she traced the trail to his empty eye sockets. Where are his eyes? With immediate regret, she began to slowly back away, shimmying on her butt. She made herself look away.
Isaac reached out and snatched her by both of her wrists. Autumn screamed. His fingernails dug into her tender flesh. He twisted his head back into its normal, alive position, his neck bones crunching and popping the whole way. Then, he looked at her with his bloody hollows. “Medhik machkeu,” he said without moving his lips. The words garbled out from his throat, but they reverberated like a voice in a sewer. “Medhik machkeu.” He repeated it over and over. Each time sounded more liquid than the last, like Isaac was in there, drowning in his own blood and fluid.
Autumn could not break free from Isaac’s grip. She screamed and kicked and cried. The floor trembled beneath them. The bar lights grew brighter until they popped sporadically, showering her in glass. Isaac leaned into Autumn’s face, placing his cold nose inches from hers. The humming became a dull chant. She tried to close her eyes, but she wasn’t allowed. Her body was locked into place by a force much stronger than her. She was held face to face with Isaac as his serpentine spine coiled into place. She had no choice but to gaze into his moist eye holes. A plume of red mist escaped the gaps where Isaac’s eyes used to be. Slow and intentional tendrils of opaque smoke curled around Autumn’s head. Isaac’s mouth remained agape, still producing his strange words from the watery cave in his gullet. The creeping vapor seemed to embrace the sounds; the humming, the words, all rising in frequency and volume, faster and faster, louder and louder, blaring in Autumn’s ears and head. The arching mist, now surrounding Autumn completely, came to a head in front of her, like a serpent with no eyes. She could only stare at it, but she knew what it wanted.
“Do it.” Autumn couldn’t take any more of the torture. “Do it already. Just fucking do it!”
The snake of smoke darted forward and into Autumn’s eyes, emptying itself from Isaac’s collapsing carcase. The last of its lingering tails exited Isaac and were sucked into Autumn’s pupils. Isaac dropped to the floor and shifted back into his star.
Autumn, with new, vibrant crimson eyes, stood up. The cadence of heartbeats and echoing chants had ceased. She looked down on what was left of Isaac. The trails of his blood surrounding his star-shaped body resembled a dreamcatcher. He had been spent, used up and dried out. Autumn revealed a small grin. “Withers.”