BUMP IN THE NIGHT
by Andrew Shepherd
Sheriff Wayne Braxton found himself in the woman’s makeshift care unit. The few medical professionals in Hickory Falls had set aside a space for this woman to recover before they could send her to the nearest city for the help she would need in the long-term. It had been a few days since she was found at the base of that tree, and the two of them sat in an uneasy silence. Braxton checked his watch for the dozenth time in the last hour, before finally clearing his throat.
“So,” led the sheriff, his low Appalachian drawl dragging the syllable out, “the doctors say you’re improving far faster than they anticipated.” Braxton let the sentence hang in the air before continuing, taking in everything the woman on the bed was doing. As she had been for the last hour since she woke up, her stare was aimed out the window, her focus seemingly somewhere beyond the tree line. It had been like this the last time he came in her room as well, since the moment she woke up she never let that spot leave her eye. Wayne was slowly starting to lose his patience with the constant silence, in this moment deciding he was going to somehow get her to talk.
“The doctors figure you can be transferred to a better facility within the next couple days…” That didn’t even seem to faze her, Braxton noted, before he pressed on.
“Ma’am, I understand that you went through some sort of traumatic event out there in the woods, but I would appreciate if you would cooperate.” She still seemed not to be hearing him.
“Can you at least tell me what happened out there? The area’s not really known for wildlife that could mess someone up the way you were hurt. Even a simple description would help.”
The thing that ate at the sheriff was that he knew she was able to respond to others. When a doctor or a nurse would come in, she would speak in hushed tones to them, as if purposefully trying to hide even her voice from the sheriff. No matter how Braxton looked at it, she was clearly doing this on purpose. Sensing he had no other option, the sheriff decided to opt for the nuclear option: “Ma’am, we haven’t been able to locate your traveling partner since your incident. You wouldn’t happen to have any information regarding her whereabouts, would you?”
The shift in energy was palpable. Her focus snapped so totally away from whatever point in the distance she was starting at, that Wayne could swear he heard it.
“What’s it to you?” she spat out. Her voice was sharp, far more nasally than he was expecting. Despite that, the venom lacing her words was unmistakable. Wayne considered his next words very carefully, taking a moment to think. It didn’t help that—now that the woman’s focus was drawn on him—he could feel the radiating fury underlining it.
“Well,” the sheriff finally said, “my staff and I can’t make heads or tails of whatever happened to you. Even reaching what seemed to be the end of the trail, we couldn’t find anything except for the freshly mussed dirt.”
The statement was met with a silence nearly familiar to what had hung between them before, though now Wayne had to withstand the wilting glare from the woman bedridden before him. There was something that nagged at him about the glare though, something off. Wayne started to understand what it felt like to be prey in that moment, there was an analytical underpinning to the way that she looked at him now. She was sizing him up, though for what the sheriff couldn’t tell. Wayne had opened his mouth to speak, but the woman in the bed had been quicker to the draw.
“What did you say your name was again?” A simple question, but something about her tone didn’t sit well with him.
“Well, I’m the sheriff of Hickory Falls; Wayne Braxton’s the name…could I get yours, ma’am? You didn’t seem to have any identifying paperwork in your room at the inn.”
With this, the woman broke the dead stare at the sheriff, looking off somewhere else in the room as if to consider what she wanted to say. After a beat, she replied simply, “Amelia,” and left the silence to hang between them. Amelia glanced back to that same spot somewhere beyond the room before looking back at the sheriff.
“Well, Amelia.” The sheriff paused for a moment, taking a second to rub the back of his neck, “You sure seem focused on something out in the forest. Would you be willing to talk about what happened out there?” The sheriff was about to add to that statement when Amelia started to chuckle, short huffs cut with some sort of pained gasp at the end before she started to speak again.
“Mr. Braxton, would you consider me lucky to be alive?” Amelia looked at the sheriff with something, he thought, that could have been akin to serenity if the smile slowly spreading across Amelia’s face ever reached her eyes. Wayne swallowed hard, tugging at the collar of his button-up shirt as he spoke.
“The doctors say that it’s a miracle that you didn’t bleed to death before you were found. Moreover, it’s especially miraculous that you were able to recover as much as you have in such a short period of time. I would consider that to be pretty lucky.”
Once again, a silence hung in the air between the two. Amelia returned her gaze to the window before stating, “There’s more to this town than you realize, Mr. Braxton.”
This time, Wayne followed her gaze out the window. There, on the edge of town, that birch tree streaked red with this woman’s blood seemed to look sickly even at this distance. The sheriff felt his voice catch in his throat a moment, sweat beading up on his brow as his brain struggled to put everything together.
“What do you mean ‘more to this town,’ ma’am?” The sheriff’s voice came out thinner than he had intended, something that the woman before him almost seemed to relish in. Amelia almost seemed to relish in the nervous energy radiating off the sheriff.
“Why, Mr. Braxton, do you not know anything about the town you claim to protect?”
The sheriff wracked his brain, trying to put together anything from the town’s lore that might possibly relate to whatever Amelia was alluding to. He was never one for history; something about it never really stuck in his head that well. While he wouldn’t call himself a “big picture” kind of guy, he was more focused on upholding the law than focusing on the past. It took him a long moment to figure out what he could possibly say, Amelia’s eyes seeming to bore deeper into this soul the longer she looked at him. It wasn’t until he remembered something his dad had told him, something about why law was so important for his small town, that he had something. After a moment to straighten everything out, he managed to string together something he thought was good enough.
“I believe the town is named after the demise of some sort of criminal, Stephen Hickory or something like that. He used to rule over this town with an iron fist, and, eventually, the townspeople had managed a revolt against him that ended with him being thrown over the waterfall near Hickory Lake.” The sheriff paused when he finished his shaky history lesson. He knew that there were key details that were missing, considering he was basing it off of the barest hint of a memory. The look on Amelia’s face couldn’t tell Wayne whether or not that answer was satisfactory. She still wore some sort of amused smile on her face, as if a child had confidently told her the worst lie ever heard. It was impossible for the sheriff to tell if she was considering what he said or if the sheer inaccuracy of it was making her bite back a laugh. The sheriff was struggling to figure out what else to say to her, and by the time he thought he had something, she finally let out another pained chuckle.
“Well, Mr. Braxton, you have some of the story correct. Stephen ‘Hickory’ Porter certainly ruled this town in the past, but the means are where you get it wrong.”
Looking at the woman now, Wayne landed on “smug”. The look that creeped across Amelia’s face had to have been smugness. That was the only answer, he just couldn’t recognize it on the face of a stranger.
“Well, ma’am, while I might not be the best with local history, I don’t see what this has to do with what happened out in the woods.” Wayne paused for a moment just to see if the look on Amelia’s face would change, but she still seemed to be content in her smugness.
“Since I answered a question from you, could you answer a question from me?” Another pause, still no real change.
“Could you tell me what happened out there, what happened with your traveling partner?”
It seemed like, with that, the façade was starting to fade. While Amelia didn’t look away or try to hide the smile slipping from her face, the severity of her stare seemed to falter in that moment. And that was all it took for the weird, severe atmosphere that had overtaken the room to break. Wayne put that gripping fear from his mind, seeing Amelia as just a woman driven by loss, probably lashing out at the first person to try and sit down with her and work this all out. He was starting to feel bad for her.
“Ma’am, I know this is probably very difficult for you, and I know I might sound like a broken record, but anything you could give us might help us find her and make sure she’s safe. If we act fast, we might be able to get her back safe and sound.” He had barely finished speaking when Amelia had snapped back to his face, her eyes doubling down on digging into his soul. The smile from before was replaced with a firm frown.
“I think you need a history lesson before you can even think to start your search.” Wayne puzzled over this response; he couldn’t quite wrap his head around the series of events that were unfolding. He wanted to just get a straight answer out of this woman, but she seemed intent to drag him through this line of inquiry the longest way she could.
“If it’ll help us find your buddy, then by all means,” the sheriff started, fighting desperately not to let the exasperation show in his voice.
Amelia closed her eyes. “You are correct in your assessment that Stephen Porter ran this town with an iron fist,” she started, her tone low and slow.
“But your story fails to capture what truly happened. I suppose local retelling has watered down the details over the generations, but Stephen Porter had more power than a mere common crook could possess. Certainly more power than a colonial government could muster.” Amelia paused here for a moment, she almost seemed to derive some satisfaction from this story. The sheriff could see that same almost-serene smile spreading across her face as she spoke.
“Porter was a well-learned man,” Amelia continued, “and was quite taken by research into things most men dare not dream to meddle in; Porter was a researcher of the paranormal. He knew of local legend tying this area with a connection to something beyond the mortal plane and, when he was able to pinpoint where he needed to be in order to attract the attention of something on the other side, he set off to perform his dark ritual. Deep in the woods, outside what would soon become the town of Hickory Falls, Stephen Porter performed his dark sacrament. This is what granted him the power to rule over the town.” Amelia’s eyes remained closed as she finished her recounting, and the smile had resumed taking purchase on her face.
The sheriff looked on at her, his face a mix of confusion and his nonbelief. He pinched the bridge of his nose and stood up from the chair he occupied across the room from the bed. He just wanted to leave.
“You expect me to believe that Hickory Falls is named after some sort of, what, dark magician?” The sheriff couldn’t keep the exasperation out of his voice this time.
“If you were so keen on not helping me, then you could have just let me leave hours ago. You didn’t have to waste my time with some sort of nonsense story.”
Whatever the sheriff had planned to say next was immediately shut down by the loudest sound he had ever heard.
Braxton hit the ground, hard, shock grasping at his system. Pain and ringing and the sudden violence had rocketed through his mind, and it took a moment for him to remember the physicality of his body. When he did return to his senses, he checked himself over for any wounds. When he was sure that there was nothing wrong with him more than a painful ringing in his ears, he noticed the wind. His eyes checked the windows first, maybe they had shattered, and his instincts drew him there first. When his eyes tore back to the woman in the bed, he found so much to take in that he wasn’t sure where to start; Amelia was standing on the bed. Beyond that, everything about her seemed to be different, maybe it was the warm light of the setting sun playing tricks on him, but her previously pale blue eyes seemed to be dark as night. The wind whipping around was throwing her hair around in a tumultuous cacophony. Amelia looked down at him with a mix of malice and satisfaction in her eyes.
“Does this strike you as nonsense, sheriff?” Amelia boomed, her voice mixed in a demonic harmony. “Stephen Porter made a deal with something on the other side, something far more powerful than you could even imagine. It granted him abilities not unlike this, and he used these powers to keep an entire town in check.”
The room, to Wayne’s eye, was being drained of color as Amelia spoke. Whatever she was doing was altering the space around them, and the sheriff’s mind was barely able to keep up. He could feel the shock clawing at his system, as everything he knew started to crumble around him. He was struggling to find something to lock onto, to keep his mind rooted in the moment, when he noticed something about Amelia. She seemed to be the only thing that seemed to retain its hue. And then the sheriff noticed a dark spot on the small of her back. Right underneath where she was injured, it seemed the wound had reopened when Amelia rose. The back of her shirt was slowly starting to bloom crimson.
“H-how does this explain what happened to your traveling partner?” Wayne practically screamed over the wind. He knew that he needed to stall Amelia in some way if he wanted to get out of this alive, her injury would have to stop her eventually.
Amelia looked out the window with an almost sad look on her face, even as the power coursed through her veins. “Stephen’s notes never explained what the being on the other side would want in payment when you made contact. Cecilia and I…” Her voice had lost the demonic reverb as she spoke, and the wind seemed to slow with each syllable. “We prepared everything we could think of; live animals, items of value, even going so far as to amass as large a food supply as we could.” She paused, her posture slouching somewhat as pain stinged at the corners of her eyes.
“Ultimately, it was a live sacrifice. The beast took Cecilia from me. Apparently, it always takes the thing you treasure most in the world. For Stephen it was his son, for me…” her voice trailed off, as her balance got worse and worse. The pain of her open wound was starting to draw her out of consciousness. The sheriff started to rise from his position on the floor as Amelia started to fade. He slowly started reaching for the handcuffs behind his back, hoping that he could restrain the woman to prevent another outburst like this. He reasoned that, while it wasn’t the best plan, it would have to do until he got some answers.
“I…am sorry for your loss, Amelia. I truly am.” This time the sheriff spoke low and slow, as he edged closer to bed.
“I can’t imagine what that kind of loss must be like.”
In the bed, Amelia was nearly slumped over, barely able to hold herself up. The amount of blood that had collected in her shirt told the sheriff she wouldn’t be up for much longer.
“Let’s get you back into bed now, get some orderlies in here to help put you back together. Hopefully we can get you right as rain before too long.” The sheriff had gotten within reaching distance of Amelia when his fingers fumbled, and his cuffs hit the ground.
The clattering of the cuffs had been enough to draw Amelia back into the present, the adrenaline coursing through her, overwriting the pain she must be feeling. Her dark eyes landed squarely on the sheriff and there was a sudden blast of light. The sheriff found himself thrown across the room in a fraction of a second.
“You think you can shackle me here, Braxton! Your pitiful cuffs can’t stand in my way!” Amelia bellowed, the reverb settling comfortably back into her voice. She extended her hand towards the wall with the window, and with another burst of light she tore a hole through the side of the building.
“We will meet again, Sheriff Wayne Braxton. You have my word.”
With that, Amelia took off into the distance. Wayne was barely able to pick himself up off the ground—being thrown into the wall had more than bruised his back. His eyes followed the trail of blood that Amelia left, finding that it grew thinner and thinner the further out he tracked it. Somewhere along the way, it either stopped or simply became too hard to see. The sheriff spared a glance around the room to find the only unbroken chair that remained, the light filtering in through the hole in the wall practically raising it to divinity. Settling in, he let the pain wash over him. His head was swimming, both from the thrashing and from the information finally taking hold. Braxton wasn’t sure how to take it all—the fact that there was so much more to the world than he was aware of; that magic was real. That his home harbored such a powerful secret. All he knew was that it didn’t sit right with him.
Braxton looked off towards the tree line, in the rough direction that Amelia had been looking towards all day, and let his mind rest there. If there is something out there, he reasoned, then I’m gonna have to get to the bottom of this. The sheriff, still, wasn’t ready to leave his spot in the broken room just yet. After I get myself put back together.
Andrew Shepherd is a senior pursuing a Baccalaureate in Art with a focus on Illustration. They enjoy storytelling in the many forms it takes with a special interest in visual storytelling. They hope to one day share that love of storytelling with the world.