The Horror of Devil's Root Lake

  Copyright 2016 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition

  Dark Season Books

  First published: September 2016

  This book's front cover incorporates elements licensed from the Bigstock photo site.

  “Once upon a time, there was a monster. An actual, real monster, like you hear about in stories. And this monster killed children. Hundreds and hundreds of children.”

  When her son Charlie is killed in a tragic accident, Emily Carter sets out to discover the truth. Convinced that Charlie's death is linked to other supposed accidents, she's determined to prove that someone or something targeted her son. But as she continues to dig for the truth, Emily starts to realize that the explanation might be darker and more horrific than she could ever have anticipated.

  The Horror of Devil's Root Lake is the story of a woman who refuses to accept that her son's death was an accident, and of an ancient evil that waits impatiently in the forest for its next victim.

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Emily Carter - Today

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part Two

  Pvt. Stephen Fleming, 308th Regiment

  - Many Years Ago

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Part Three

  Emily Carter - Today

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Epilogue

  Tommy Jones

  - Many Years Later

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The Horror

  of Devil's Root Lake

  Part One

  EMILY CARTER

  TODAY

  Prologue

  “You worry too much, Emily! You can't hover over Charlie all the time. Let him have some fun or he'll never grow up!”

  I watch Charlie for a moment longer, as he plays with other children on the far side of the park, and then I turn back to Elizabeth.

  “For God's sake,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “Your face is priceless. He won't thank you for smothering him, you know. Children need some rough and tumble to toughen them up, especially at this age.”

  “I know,” I reply, glancing over my shoulder again, “I just -”

  “Glass of wine?”

  Turning back to her, I'm shocked to see her pouring a glass. Clearly amused by my surprise, she smiles as she puts a finger to her lips.

  “Just our little secret. Come on, we need a break every so often.”

  “I'm fine, thanks,” I tell her. “I'll just have water.”

  “You want me to drink alone? Seriously? At lunch? What kind of a friend are you?”

  “The kind that's not much of a drinker,” I continue. “Thanks all the same.”

  “Suit yourself. But for God's sake, stop worrying about Charlie. Pam's watching him.”

  I look back toward the lake, and I see that Pam is explaining a game to the kids. Charlie looks like he's having fun, as if he hasn't even noticed that I'm over here on the grass with the other adults. I guess maybe I can be a little frantic sometimes, and Charlie should be more confident now that he's five years old. Plus, Pam has two children of her own and I know she's more than capable of keeping the kids under control. I watch for a moment longer as Charlie and the three others continue playing, and then I turn back to Elizabeth.

  “Doesn't your neck get tired?” she asks.

  I frown. “Sorry?”

  “Constantly turning this way and that.”

  “I'm sorry,” I reply, as she pulls a pack of cigarettes from her bag. “Bad habit. Craig says the same, he thinks I'm too fussy. I guess I just worry about Charlie. There are so many awful stories in the news all the time and -”

  “Oh, screw the news.” She takes a cigarette from the pack. “Want one?”

  I shake my head.

  “Are you sure? It'll calm your nerves.”

  “I don't smoke. You know that.”

  “So start. You're a bundle of nerves, Emily.”

  Glancing over my shoulder again, I see that while the children are still playing, Charlie has separated from the group a little. He's looking past the lake, toward the horizon, and for a moment it seems as if something in the distance has caught his attention. Just as I start to wonder whether something's wrong, however, he turns and runs back to join the others. Reminding myself that I really need to stop being an over-fussy Mom, I turn to Elizabeth and see that yet again she's grinning at me.

  “Don't say it!” I warn her.

  “What?”

  “I'm not being over-protective,” I mutter, pouring myself another cup of water. “I just like to make sure Charlie's okay, that's all.”

  “Nice summer dress,” she replies. “Very motherly.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It wasn't a compliment.” She takes a swig of wine. “Just because we've had kids, that doesn't mean we have to conform to some awful stereotype. We can still have fun, take some time off now and again, and even try not dressing like a debutante from the goddamn fifties.”

  “What's wrong with the way I dress?” I ask.

  “You look like a ghost.”

  “You don't know what you're talking about.”

  “You have boobs,” she continues, “so why not show a little cleavage? And you have legs, don't you? Why are you all buttoned-up, like an English maid?”

  “It's just an old dress I found in the closet and thought I could wear again,” I tell her. “There's nothing wrong with being a little modest.”

  Turning again, I watch as the children continue to play. They seem to be having fun, racing across the park in pursuit of a bright red ball, and I wait to see Charlie's face. After a moment, however, I realize that he doesn't seem to be with the others. Pam apparently hasn't noticed, but Charlie has gone off on his own, although I can't see him right now. I look around, telling myself not to panic, but as the seconds tick past I begin to feel a flash of concern in my chest.

  “Are you sure you don't want some wine?” Elizabeth asks, sounding a little bored. “
Come on, join me on the dark side! I usually don't mind drinking alone, but this is such a nice, sunny afternoon! You have to be my co-conspirator.”

  Not wanting to fuel her constant complaints about me being too fussy, I simply continue to look for some sign of Charlie. I've known Pam for years, and I'm certain she wouldn't just let him wander off. He probably just needed the toilet, and she sent him to go behind a tree, but my heart is pounding and I can feel a sense of fear starting to churn in my gut and reach up toward my heart.

  “Emily?” Elizabeth continues. “Seriously, come on, let's -”

  Suddenly I spot something in the lake. The water is glistening under afternoon sunlight, but there's a dark object bobbing near the shore. I tell myself not to overreact, that there's no reason to be scared. After a moment, however, the light changes slightly and I see that the shape is a little boy, and he's wearing the same red shirt and cream trousers as Charlie.

  He's face down in the water.

  “Charlie?” I stammer, knocking over Elizabeth's wine glass as I get to my feet. I freeze for a moment, before starting to run down the grassy hill toward the lake. “Charlie!” I scream. “Somebody get him out of there! Charlie!”

  Chapter One

  Five years later

  “Cash or card?”

  “Cash.”

  “Two nights?”

  “Two nights.”

  “Are you parked out front?”

  “I am.”

  He taps at the computer for a moment, squinting slightly even though he's wearing big, thick glasses. After a moment he glances at me, smiling, as if he expects me to start a conversation. I smile back, but I don't say anything and finally he looks back down at the screen. He hits a few more buttons, and I can't help wondering what's taking so long. I'm ready to drop.

  “You wanna pay extra for plastic sheets?” he asks finally.

  I stare at him, not quite sure that I heard right.

  He taps a couple more times before glancing at me.

  “Sheets on the beds are cotton. Or something like cotton, anyway. Faux-cotton. For an extra five bucks a night, you can loan plastic sheets to put under 'em. In case of, you know...”

  He pauses, staring at me with a hint of anticipation in his eyes.

  “Spillage,” he adds finally.

  I open my mouth to reply, but for a few seconds I'm honestly not quite sure what to say.

  “It's just, damage to the mattress has to be paid for, so we offer the plastic sheet option for people who think they might engage in activity that...”

  His voice trails off.

  “Well,” he adds. “You know. People are weird sometimes.”

  “I'll be fine,” I stammer. “I really just need the room. To sleep in.”

  “Totally.” He forces a big grin and taps some more. “No problem. We just offer the plastic sheet option, that's all. You'd be surprised how many people take it up. Not that this is a dodgy motel, you understand. We keep things running smooth and clean here. Absolutely. You're completely safe. It's just that... Well, some of our customers worry about...”

  His voice trails off.

  “Spillages?” I ask, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Exactly.”

  Checking my watch, I see that it's almost midnight.

  “If you don't mind,” I tell the guy, “I really just want to get into the room. So I can sleep.”

  ***

  Plastic sheets might have protected the mattress in this room, but somebody should've spared a thought for the carpet, the walls and the ceiling. There are large, brown-edged stains running all across the wallpaper, and the carpet has several spots that are strangely dark. Even the ceiling looks to have been sprayed at some point, with arcs of yellow running across the mottled cream. When I check the bathroom, the place stinks of bleach, but it seems fairly clean until I notice several small mushrooms growing in the corner of the shower cubicle.

  Then again, for $20 a night, what did I expect?

  Once I've washed my face, I haul my backpack onto the bed and pull out the folders. I spent fourteen hours on the road today with barely a rest-stop, and somehow now I'm both exhausted and wired at the same time. I guess it's my body that's exhausted, while my mind is racing and filled with ideas about tomorrow's interview. I've gone over the folders so many times, I know each and every page by heart. I could recite the entire thing page by page... Yet somehow, I feel compelled to check them again, just in case there's some small detail I might have missed. There's a wooden chair next to the window, and a small table with plastic flowers, so I grab a soda from the vending machine outside and then I sit down to check the first folder

  After a few minutes, I realize this is dumb.

  It's the third folder I should be reading.

  The third folder is the one that has notes about Daniel Mackenzie.

  Grabbing the red folder from the bed, I quickly find the first page of the Mackenzie section. Even this part, which was only added a few weeks ago, is carved into my memory. The pages are printed, albeit with scores of handwritten annotations that I've added while I've been on the road. When I finally get home – if I finally get home – I really need to retype these and add all the amendments. Plus, I've got all those recordings to transcribe and file, and then I'll have to get on with the really hard part, which involves cross-indexing all the new material with everything that already existed. That'll take two weeks, easy, and I'm not sure when I'll next get two weeks off.

  I'll find the time, though.

  I always do.

  Reaching into my pocket, I take out a foil packet. At times like this, nicotine gum is a life-saver.

  Eventually, a little after 2am, I reach the end of the Mackenzie papers and consider going through them one more time, before realizing that I really should get some sleep. I double-check the interview notes for the morning, and the directions, and then I grab a bottle of pills from my backpack. The Zonolon is good for knocking me out, but it can make me drowsy the next day, while the Mericillin is usually only good for short bursts of sleep. Rummaging deeper into the bag, I haul out a bottle of Lepsicoln, which would definitely zonk me out fast and help me sleep, even if I'd have crazy nightmares and wake up in the morning with a strong metallic taste in my mouth. Finally I decide to go with the Lecadol tablets, since they're good for calming my nerves and I usually shake less the next day after I've taken them.

  I don't want Alison Mackenzie to take one look at me and tell me to get the hell out of her house.

  I wish I could get hold of some Clerobenzopyl, but for that I'd need a prescription, and a prescription would leave a paper trail. And a paper trail would be a big problem.

  Carrying the pills through to the bathroom, I pour a glass of water and then take four pills, before adding a fifth for luck. I remember the days when one pill was enough to knock me right out, but I guess I've grown resistant over the years. I drink some more water, just because I know I should stay healthy, and then I spend a few minutes brushing my teeth and generally getting ready for bed. To be honest, I take my time with this part, because I want to delay what happens next. After maybe ten minutes, however, I glance at my reflection in the mirror and see my tired, baggy eyes, and I realize that there's no point trying to avoid the inevitable.

  I pause for a moment, listening to the silence of the room.

  Just do it.

  Come on, Emily, what are you waiting for?

  You perform this same sad, pathetic routine every night anyway. It's not like you're suddenly going to stop sometime.

  This is who you are now.

  “Goodnight Charlie.”

  I shudder as the words leave my lips.

  For a moment, I think back to the nights when I'd tuck Charlie into bed back at the house. He had an old Masters of the Universe duvet cover that had once belonged to his father, and he loved that thing more than anything else we ever bought for him. I remember how I used to kiss him goodnight and turn off the main light, leaving just the
lamp next to his bed, and then I'd oh-so-gently slip out of the room and leave his door slightly ajar. Then I'd go to the main bedroom, where Craig would usually be ready to sleep, and I'd settle next to him... Safe in the knowledge that I'd have to get up again at 7am to get Charlie ready for playgroup. I was a mother then. I was happy.

  “Goodnight Mommy.”

  That's what he always said to me.

  Even after all these years, I somehow hear his voice in my head at bedtime. I never see him, I'm not that crazy, but I definitely hear him and – even now – tears well in my eyes for a moment. Sometimes I even think I might spot him one night, but I guess that would mean I'd really lost my mind, and I'm kinda hoping I won't get to that stage. I mean, so far I'm holding things together reasonably well.

  Knock on wood, anyway.

  If only Doctor Hamlin could see me now.

  The last thing I do before going to bed, as usual, is check my phone. I switch it on and see that there are only three missed calls today, which is down from four yesterday, and none of them are from Alison Mackenzie, which I guess means the interview tomorrow morning is still on. I switch the phone back off, just to be safe, and then I head to the window. Parting the drapes, I look out at the parking lot, but there's no sign of anyone out there. No-one sitting in a car, watching the place, and no-one taking photos of the door to my room. No-one following me, at least not anyone I can see. And I think I'm pretty good at spotting those assholes by now.

  A moment later I spot a guy wandering away from the nearby fast-food place. He slows a little, almost as if he's checking the plates of the cars, but after a few seconds I see that he's simply fumbling with his food. A moment after that, he stumbles off in the other direction, barely able to walk straight. Just a late-night drunk.

  Finally I settle on the bed, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the Lecadol to kick in. I should manage two, maybe even three hours of sleep. That'd be good, that'd perk me up before morning. I need to be sharp, because this is one of the best and freshest leads I've tracked down in the past few years. I'm long overdue a breakthrough, and deep down I can't shake the hope that I'm getting close. If Alison Mackenzie can't or won't help me, I don't know what I'll try next. I feel like I'm at the end, but I still don't have any answers.