The Forgotten Curse Read online

  The Lake Crimes III

  The forgotten curse

  Chris Raven

  Copyright 2017 Chris Raven

  Title: The Lake Crimes III: The forgotten curse

  Author: Chris Raven

  Copyright of this edition: © 2017 Chris Raven

  Date of publication: July 3, 2017

  Any form of reproduction, distribution, public communication or transformation of this work can only be carried out with the authorization of its owners, except as provided by law.

  You, always you, even if you don’t want to.

  How am I not going to dedicate all my stories to you if you have filled mine with light?

  Index

  Swanton, August 2016

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  Burlington, September 2016

  I

  Swanton, August 2016

  I

  “... For years I thought it was thanks to my will that I had stopped seeing them and hearing them. I was proud of the power of my mind, of my self-control ability, but the reality is that the water fell asleep and drove them away from me. And now they’re back.”

  The whole time I’ve been talking, I’ve kept my eyes fixed on the table. I didn’t dare to look at Eloise. I know she is a person open to these topics, but, if I had seen in her eyes the slightest shadow of doubt about my sanity, I would not have been able to speak anymore. Now I raise my head and look at her, afraid that she will laugh at me, point at me and shout: “Eric, the nutcase.”

  She doesn’t laugh or look at me with pity or fear. She kept silent for a few seconds, frowning as if she were making a great effort to assimilate all the information I have provided to her. She has in front of Joan’s book and the notes that I have taken in the library with the names of the victims and the dates of the droughts.

  “Let’s see if I’ve understood everything...” Eloise moves the papers across the table as if she was to understand better this madness by placing the information in another position. “According to what you say, there is a ghost...”

  “Well, I don’t know if it’s a ghost. I certainly don’t expect it to be a flying body with a sheet-like the one that appears in the book.”

  “Call it ghost, spirit, lost soul or negative energy. That doesn’t matter.” Eloise seems annoyed by my interruption, so I decide to stay quiet and let her think aloud. “The point is that there would be a ghost that, for some reason that we don’t know, now and then forces a man from Swanton to murder three children to save the life of his son. By the information we have, there have been many occasions when these men have ignored it and their son has died, as happened in 1941, 1960 and 1979.

  “That’s it. In those years there is only one child who drowned in strange circumstances.”

  “However, we assume that in 1930, in 1949 and in 2001, the father to whom the Spirit was showed up to, decided to do everything in his power to save his son. That’s why in those years we have a series of three murders.”

  “I’m not so sure that in 2001 that happened. I’ve already told you, I suspect that the murderer might have been Peter Anderson’s father. According to his wife, he became half-crazy and spent the day talking to an invisible being, promising the death of three children if he returned his son.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense,” Eloise denies with her head, while she takes one of my paper-notes. “Look, in 2001, there was also a drought. I bet the spirit sought a new murderer.”

  “It may be, but I’ve asked Dunning to investigate it. We don’t lose anything by waiting to see what he tells us.”

  “Yes, especially since knowing who the murderer was in the year 2001 is the least we care about, now.”

  “What do you mean, we don’t care? I have come to Swanton to discover precisely that. I don’t feel like spending the rest of my life getting visits from my dead friends.”

  “Your friends’ spirits will not do anything to you. They’re just asking for your help.”

  “Well, sometimes I don’t think so. I don’t like the way they look at me...”

  “You have to open your mind and see everything in perspective. The first thing we need to do is prevent more deaths. To do this, we must destroy that spirit.”

  “Let’s do it. Call it with the Ouija board, you cast a spell on it, and we’ll finish it off.”

  “It’s not that simple. I don’t know what that being is, nor the power it has...”

  “But you expelled it the last time without any problem.”

  “Only luck.” Eloise outlines a half-smile and shrugs. “When it showed up, I got so nervous that I started reciting the Roman demon expulsion ritual because I couldn’t think what else to do.”

  “But the spirit left.”

  “It left because it wanted to or because it had finished what it had to do.” Eloise crouches, ashamed. “I don’t know what it is or how to beat it. We are not going to invoke it until I know what we’re up against and how to control it.”

  “What are we going to do in the meantime?”

  “I think that tomorrow you will have to take another tour to the library to borrow all the books you find about the History of the town and old local legends... For such a vengeful spirit to emerge with so much power, something terrible must have happened in Swanton. Our mission is to find out.”

  Although it has taken me longer than expected, I think I have all the books we need. My backpack is so full of books about Swanton that it looks like it’s about to burst. In my life, I would have believed that they could write so much about such a small town. Most are books written by local historians, fans who decided to investigate and publish a small edition of copies for their family and friends, leaving one to the library. I do not know the validity of these studies, but, given that we try to find out something about a ghost, I do not think that I can ask for much scientific rigor.

  I had feared that the librarian would not let me take the books, but, when I told her I needed them to make a doctoral thesis on the history of Swanton, she has gone crazy with the idea and has started to take out books and more books. Every time I lie better. If I keep doing this for a long time, maybe I can make a career as a swindler.

  My fantasies about a possible criminal life are cut by the root when I see Dunning waiting for me, leaning on his car in front of Eloise’s garden. I greet him with my head, I leave the bike at his side, leaning against the fence, and I extend my hand, friendly. He continues with his arms folded to his chest, ignoring my greeting.

  “Hey, kid. I’ve already investigated what you asked for.”

  “Have you found Mr. Anderson? Have you been able to talk to him?”

  “No, I haven’t been able. And I don’t think anyone could do it because he died sleeping on the street during a cold wave in 1998.”

  I abstain to tell him that he is parked in front of a lady’s house who could. I get the impression he wouldn’t take it well. Besides, that fact has felt like a ton of bricks.

  “Well, then that means he couldn’t have been guilty of the crimes of 2001.”

  “Exactly. I had to ask for a favor to a cop friend of Montpelier and all for nothing.”

  “Well... You thought it was an interesting clue. I’m sorry if it hasn’t worked.”

  “You made me believe that it could be an interesting clue with that craze of yours of sticking your nose in things that are none of your business. Now I’m going to have to drive
up to Maquam Shore to tell Mrs. Anderson that her husband has been buried for nearly twenty years in a Montpelier common grave. The most probable is that she strives to recover the body, so I will have to advise her on how to request the exhumation and the transfer of the corpse... Do you know how much work will take me to have followed your stupid clue?”

  “I insist that it was not that stupid, and besides, you will also have the satisfaction of the job well done. Aren’t you glad that Mrs. Anderson is finally going to know where her husband is and that she can give him a decent burial?”

  Dunning doesn’t answer me. He looks at me squinting even more his black badger little eyes while clenching his teeth. For a moment I think that he will not control himself and he would hit me such a punch that it would leave me tattooed on the asphalt, but instead of that, he takes out a cigarette, parsimoniously he lights it and puffs it a couple of times before talking again.

  “Listen to me well, kid... I don’t want to repeat it more times. I want you to stop investigating and go sightseeing. Otherwise, you’re going to spend more than one night in the police station’s dungeon.”

  I know I should nod, put a good boy’s face and continue doing what I wanted when Dunning disappeared of my eyesight, but something inside me tells me not to do it. I’m sure he hates me, and he’s predisposed to take as rubbish anything I say, but I still decide to run the risk.

  “I’d love to follow your advice, Sheriff Dunning, but I won’t be able to do it. I think we’ve discovered some very interesting information that you should know.”

  “Have we? Who?”

  I pick up the bike, open the gate’s door and I get in Eloise’s garden, while I indicate him with a nod to follow me. He hesitates a few seconds, looking suspiciously at the house. I have to contain a smile. I didn’t think Dunning was afraid of the village’s witch. It’s going to be an interesting conversation.

  When we finish explaining everything to him, Dunning stays silent for a few seconds before releasing a nervous giggle. He shakes his head in denial as he gazes over the furniture, crammed with strange objects, of Eloise’s room.

  “This is one of those hidden camera prank shows, right? Who set it up? My wife?”

  “What we have told you is very serious,” answered Eloise, fixing on him her dark eyes. “We’re talking about the possibility of more dead children appearing. I don’t see the funny side of it.”

  “And I don’t see the point in this.” Dunning hits the table with an open hand, causing Eloise’s tea service to tinkle. “Do you want me to believe a single word of this madness?”

  “What other explanation do you find?” I ask. “There are groups of similar murders since 1930. Do you think we’re looking for the oldest serial killer in history?”

  “I don’t know what all this information means. I don’t even know if they’re real.”

  “Don’t worry about that. We don’t need you to believe us right now. We’ll give you a copy, so you can take it to the Police station and investigate them.” Eloise turns to me. “Eric, would you be so kind as to copy the dates and names of the drowned children, so the sheriff can check it out?”

  I nod, I take some sheets from my backpack and start copying the list as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, leaving Eloise the responsibility to convince Dunning.

  “The information that Eric is so kindly copying for you, has been extracted from the St. Albans Messenger. I’m sure that in the records in your police station you will be able to find the corresponding files.”

  “Let’s imagine for a moment that I believe what you’re telling me, even if it’s not that way.” Dunning lifts an eyebrow, sarcastic. “Are you telling me that the culprit of all those deaths is a ghost that only comes out when it doesn’t rain? Does its sheet shrink if it gets wet?”

  Eloise puffs, desperate, while Dunning lets out a giggle too sharp for his huge body. I decide to ignore them and keep copying names. I don’t think I’m going to get any good by getting in between the two of them.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We still do not know the reason why crimes only happen in times of drought, but it is like so. When we investigate more, we can tell you the cause.”

  “I’ve already told the kid that I don’t want you to investigate more...”

  “Neither the kid nor I have to obey you. We are not doing anything illegal and you cannot prevent us from continuing.”

  “Sorry, but the “kid” is here in front and he would like you to call him by his name.”

  “You shut up, and copy for me as well the dates of the droughts.” Dunning stops me, showing me that he will not treat me with more respect even if I ask him.

  “What for? If you think this is all nonsense...” I mock him.

  “You copy it, and I’ll tell you if it’s nonsense or not.”

  Eloise stands up and begins to collect the cups of tea, concluding the conversation. She’s leaving for the kitchen without even saying goodbye to Dunning. I hope she’s not so angry with him as to curse him or turn him into a toad, because I believe still, that he can be a valuable ally. I finish copying all the information and I pass it to Dunning. He folds the paper in any way and keeps it without any care in the shirt pocket. I’m beginning to fear it’ll end up in the first wastebasket that he passes by.

  “Check it, please. It’s important.”

  “Important? I’m going to check it out to show you that you’re just making a fool of yourself and so you can stop bothering me.”

  “Seriously, Dunning... If we’re right, there will be more victims on that list soon. I’m sure you don’t want to have another kid’s death on your conscience. Check it out and come back to talk to us.”

  He denies with his head, while he releases another of his shrill giggles. When he turns, I hear him murmur something like “pair of nuts”, but I pretend I have not heard. I walk him to the door and I watch him as he crosses the garden and comes back to his car. When he has opened the door, I call him again.

  “Dunning, please. Check it.”

  I think he perceives in the tone of my words that it is really important to me because he firmly nods a single time before struggling to fit into the driver’s seat. I stay on the porch and when the car has already disappeared after the first corner, I look up to the sky. It is already dusk and the whole line of the horizon is dyed with reddish and orange shines. I was taught as a kid that that means that the next day will be radiant and sunny. Despite the beauty of the landscape, I can’t help but shudder.

  II

  We’ve been reading books about Swanton’s History for two days. It is visible that they are written by amateurs. They have no rhythm, many of them are lost in long and tedious explanations and even some are riddled with grammatical and spelling errors. After two hours of reading, I told Eloise that we were not going to get anything out of this unrelated collection of information and gossip, but she just looked me over her silver-rimmed glasses and ordered me to continue working.

  In these two days of deadly boredom, I have remembered a thousand times those investigation scenes that appear in novels and movies. In some, just by opening a book or sitting in front of the computer, the protagonist finds the information that will allow him to continue his investigation and solve the case. In others, after suggesting to you that they have been working for a long time, that magical “suddenly” occurs in which the information they had been looking for appears. I do nothing but to think that this “suddenly” will never happen, that I will have to spend days and days reading pages and more pages so that in the end we find nothing.

  Eloise’s home environment is not very helpful. She insists on not allowing me to open any window because that would break the spiritual protection of the house. The heat is unbearable and the smoke from Eloise’s pipe, which at first seemed aromatic and pleasing, keeps me in a condition between drowsiness and dizziness. I take a look at the book I just started: Relations with Native Americans in the Lake Champlain Area from its Disc
overy to the War of Independence. Only the title already promises more hours of yawning and nodding off. I’m considering if Eloise would be very upset if I told her that I’m going to shelve the books for a while to go out for a bike ride when two knocks sound at the door. Before she can say anything, I jump up from the chair to go and open. Whoever it is, it’ll give me a few seconds of light and fresh air.

  “Don’t forget to cover the threshold with salt again when you close.” Eloise yells at me from the living room. “You got the package over the dresser at the entrance.”

  After shouting to her not to worry, I open the door to meet Dunning’s huge figure. I greet him with a smile, but he doesn’t seem happy to see me. He is very serious, even more than usual. For a few seconds, I ask myself if I have done anything that may have disturbed him and that he would take me straight to the dungeon. He grabs me tightly by the arm to pull me and lead me to his car.

  “A little girl has disappeared, just like you said. I need you to help me.”

  When we leave Norah Ackerman’s house, I feel sick and want to vomit. To remain silent, contemplating her father’s gesture of concern and her mother’s tears, while Dunning interrogated them, has represented for me an almost insurmountable exercise of willpower. Listening to their hypothesis that she might have been lost or that she may have been kidnapped and that someone could ask for a ransom made me want to run out of there. They think they’re going to get her back. They don’t know what I know. If we do not do something to prevent it, she will appear in a few hours floating upside down in the waters of the Champlain.

  Dunning pats me on the back and passes me a picture of little Norah. I hold it in my hands, trying to prevent them from shaking. She is only three years old and she is a beautiful brunette with very curly hair and a round, huge eyes with thick eyelashes that give her a doll look.