Software Vault: The Gold Collection/Software Vault - The Gold Collection (American Databankers) (1993).ISO/cdr11/rubyv21.zip/RUBY21-5

Text File | 1993-06-04 | 36KB | 717 lines

Copyright 1993(c)

                        Cassadaga Realty
                        By David Mitchell

     A thin, bony finger came up to his face. He began twisting
the corners of his mustache, much like he did when he was
writing, between his thumb and fore finger. Samuel Coggins,
'The Master of Mystery', was in deep thought.
     In front of him stood an old two-story house made of deep
red brick. His hand moved slowly from each side of his
moustache, twisting the course hairs on his upper lip.
     "Well," he finally spoke, not looking directly at the real
estate agent. "Needs a little work . . ."
     Denny McCormick, an employee of Cassadaga Realty, assured his
potential customer, sharply, slyly, but he was not too pushy. No,
Denny McCormick was a skilled salesman. He would lead on like the
owner wanted to sell the house, but not too badly.
     "Well Mr. Coggins, the owner is motivated to sell the home.
You see, his wife passed away and he just doesn't need the house
anymore. I talked last night with the gentleman and he said that
he would go as low as one hundred ninety thousand, that's sixty
thousand below the appraised value." Mr. McCormick had dug the
hole, a big one. Now he waited to see if his intended victim would
fall in.
     Samuel wrapped his arms behind his back, cupping one hand
in the other, and walked slowly around the house . . . again.
Every twenty feet or so he would stop, look up at the roof or
down at the foundation, grimace, and continue. When he reached
the back yard, he looked, not at the house, but over the cliff
which separated land from ocean. Such a beautiful view, he
thought to himself.
     And it was. Endless ocean lay before him. A huge
bristlecone pine tree towered over both the backyard and the
cliff which led to the rocky beach below.
     The sound of the waves.
     The sound of the winds.
     Perhaps this was the place where he could begin writing
again. Writers' block had hit him hard. Since the divorce he
hadn't written anything; hadn't been able to. It wasn't a MESSY
divorce, a fairly good one as far as those things go, but it had
left him 50 percent poorer, and 100 percent brain dead.
     It was a good twenty minutes before he reached the front of
the house. Samuel walked over to Mr. McCormick, hesitated,
scratched the balding spot on top of his head, and spoke the
magic words which every salesman loves to hear.
     "I'll take it."
     Denny McCormick smiled and extended his hand toward Samuel.
"Welcome home Mr. Coggins, and congratulations."
     "Thank-you Mr. McCormick. Do you mind if I look around the
house some more? I'll meet you at you office tomorrow morning
at say . . ."
     "Ten?" the agent suggested.
     "Ten it is." Samuel agreed. "Do you mind if I hold onto the
key until then? I'd like to get a few . . . decorating ideas."
     Denny McCormick raised an eyebrow, frowned at first, and
then, as if sensing the possible loss of the sale it he DIDN'T
surrender the key, reached into his pocket and handed it to
Samuel.
     "No problem at all Mr. Coggins, and remember, ten o'clock
tomorrow morning at my office."
     "Until tomorrow then." Samuel said, and the two shook hands
went their separate ways. Samuel toward the house, and then
inside. Denny McCormick away from the house, and then down
route five, toward Cassadaga.
     He wandered aimlessly from room to room without much
thought. His wife had always taken care of the decorating and
he hadn't a clue what to put where, why, or when.
     Discouraged, he glanced at his watch and read the time as
six in the evening. It would be dark soon, and much cooler, as fall
was on hand on the western coast of Washington.
     He left through the back of the house, letting the screen
door bang against the wooden frame which had held it firmly in
place for all these years. The wind had picked up quite a bit,
and the bright afternoon colors were gone from the darkening
sky, leaving only a hit of warmth in the air. When he reached
the edge of the cliff, he stopped and gazed down and over
the ocean in front of him. The tide was coming in, he could
tell this by the powerful sound of the waves crashing on the
rocks below. Far away on the horizon he could make out a large
commercial barge, probably filled with lumber from the Cascades
or the Blue Mountains he decided.
     The sunlight quickly faded away, leaving only a hint of
orange and yellow on the horizon. He glanced into the night
sky, witnessing the various stars make their evening debut,
dimly twinkling, then glowing brightly.
     A flock of crows were flying overhead in circles, searching
for just the right tree to sleep in for the night. After a few
moments, they settled for the giant bristlecone pine next to
him. He glanced up into the tree in a lazy daze. He counted
roughly twenty of the black crows amongst the twisted branches
of the old tree. After a few moments, their cawing blended
perfectly with the crashing waves below and the cool evening
wind. Totally relaxed, he closed he eyes and waited for
inspiration to strike.
     What seemed like five minutes later, he opened his eyes
back up and glanced casually at his watch. The time was now
eight in the evening. Had he been standing here for two hours
already? Shrugging his shoulders, he turned around and headed
toward his car, never noticing that the crows were now gone, but
had never left . . .
---------------------------------------------------------------
     The car Samuel drove was one of the few things in life he
still enjoyed. He loved sports cars with a burning passion and
it showed, not only in his choice of cars, but in the way he
drove them as well.
     He test drove the Porsches, nice cars, no doubt, just not
him. It was the same story with the Corvettes, Mustangs and
even the new Mercedes sport car. They were all too . . . common,
and the Lotus Turbo Esprit was everything BUT common.
     Samuel liked the look, the feel, the smell of the lotus,
and the acceleration and handling were second to none. The
exterior was as black as a moonless, starless summer night. The
interior was a smokey taupe leather.
     Expensive.
     Beautiful.
     Fast.
     Those words pretty much summed up Samuel's Lotus in a nut
shell.
     He pulled onto Route 5, and quickly accelerated to a
cruising speed of seventy miles per hour. The road between
Calarney and Cassadaga was full of twists and turns. Samuel came
to the conclusion that this road was MADE for him and his lotus.
     The bucket seat wrapped around every contour of Samuel's
body. Special four-point seat belts were installed, as well as
a mild two-point roll cage for safety, and the way he drove this
beast, he needed them.
     With the headlights on high beam, radar detector on wide
band scanning, Samuel down shifted from forth to third. The
engine roared to life and the turbo began its oh so familiar
whining as he pushed the accelerator to the floor.
     75 . . .
     85 . . .
     A curve.
     65 . . .
     60 . . .
     Straight away.
     70 . . . 80 . . . 90 . . .
     Shift to forth.
     95 . . . 103 . . .
     Grin from ear to ear.
     110 . . .
     An 'S' curve.
     Brakes.
     Downshift to third.
     70 . . .
     60 . . .
     55 . . .
     Straight away.
     65 . . .
     75 . . .
     85 . . .
     Shift to fourth.
     95 . . .
     Giggling.
     105 . . .115 . . . and climbing.
     Laughter.
     Total control.
     Absolute power.
     The roaring engine echoed music through his ears. Every
bump, every notch n the road registered signals to his hands VIA
the leather wrapped steering wheel. Samuel was so engrossed in
his own world, he never noticed the approaching headlights
reflecting in the rear view mirror.
     A glance at the speedometer revealed the needle approaching
one hundred twenty nine miles per hour. RPMs' were at 6200 and
slowly climbing. Heart rate was near maximum beats per minute.
Adrenaline flow was out of control. It was a wonder how he was
able to keep from smashing into the trees on either side of the
road when he was passed.
     A curve.
     Brakes.
     115, 105, 90 . . .
     Shift to third.
     80 . . .
     70 . . .
     And the car that had been following him passed him!
     Disbelief barely scratched the surface of what Samuel was
feeling. Had to have been a Ferrari or a 911 Turbo Carrera,
maybe even a ZR1 Corvette.
     75 . . .
     80 . . .
     Tire squelching on the curve.
     75 . . .
     He crept slowly behind the car now in front of him. He
recognized the familiar half oval tail lights and the dual tail
fins.
     It was a 57 Chevy.
     "NO FUCKING WAY!" he yelled out loud to only himself in the
car.
     Straight away.
     No acceleration from the Chevy.
     Shift to forth.
     Swerve to the left lane.
     80 . . .
     Samuel pulled along side his competitor. From what he
could tell, the Chevy was painted a flat, burnt orange. The
windows were tinted dark black all around, even the windshield.
     And something ... something was sticking out of ...
     He laughed. A blower ... The Son-of-a-bitch had a blower
sticking out of the hood.
     "O.K. asshole, let's see whatcha got for balls."
     Downshift to third.
     85 . . .
     90 . . .
     He quickly pulled in front of the Chevy and entered the
approaching curve at such a speed, he almost lost control.
     A glance to the rear view mirror.
     The Chevy was there, right on his ass.
     Straight away.
     Shift to forth.
     95 . . .
     105 . . .
     A curve.
     Brakes.
     95 . . .
     85 . . .
     75 . . .
     Downshift to third.
     Straight away.
     75 . . . and holding . . .
     This time the Chevy slowly crept up on his left side.
Samuel flipped on the interior lights and gave the thumbs up to
the driver of the car.
     For a second, he could have sworn that he saw the driver
with a lit blow torch, lighting a cigarette. The Chevy slowly
accelerated past him and, once in front, blinked his lights on
and off twice, then accelerated away, faster than should
have been possible, supercharger or not.
     85 . . .
     Shift to fourth.
     A curve.
     Brakes.
     Downshift to third.
     75 . . .
     But the Chevy never slowed, in fact, it picked up speed,
ignoring the curvature of the road.
     When Samuel exited the corner, the Chevy was no where to be
seen. It had simply vanished.
     Without as much as single chirp, the radar detector blared
at full intensity. A police car, sirens blaring, lights
flashing, laid rubber from its hiding spot from behind a sign
which advertised CW's Tavern. Samuel hit the brakes. but a
quick look at his speedometer still showed hit at 67 miles per
hour. Still much to fast to plead innocent.
     "SHIT!" was the only word he was able to speak as he slowed
and pulled off the road. A few seconds later, a skinny police
man with a ticket book in one hand, flashlight in the other,
approached his window, and tapped on it.
     Samuel rolled down the window.
     "Evening," he muttered.
     "License and registration hot shot." The office answered.
     Samuel dug through the glove box and then his wallet. He
gave both of the required documents to the police officer and
thought about asking him why they didn't stop the Chevy. It HAD
to have flown by them seconds before he did. Not wanting to
have to explain how a 57 Chevy was able to out run and out
corner a seventy-five thousand-dollar Lotus Turbo Esprit, he
kept quiet.
     "Hey Henderson!", the officer yelled back to the police
car, "This here is that Samuel Coggins fella you always read!"
The officer stuck his head up to Samuel's window. "You ARE that
'Master of Mystery' fella, aren't you?"
     Samuel was used to being recognized, but never liked it,
until now. He hated the autograph seekers, but this was the
first time he loved them.
     "Yes officer, I am, and please, call me Samuel."
     "Well Samuel, you were doing seventy five back there in,
say, what kind of car is this anyway?"
     "It's a Lotus."
     "One of them 'James Bond' cars eh?"
     Samuel grinned. "I guess you could call it that."
     A big man, not muscular in any sense of the word, just
plain flabby fat, appeared next to the officer.
     "No shit Johnson?" Henderson said disbelieving, "THE Samuel
Coggins?"
     "That's what his license says big boy. Here take a look."
     Samuel opened his door and climbed out of his car. In
front of him stood Laurel and Hardy. A big man, Henderson was
his name, was holding an old paperback book of 'Someone's
Watching', one of his older stories, and a skinny man, called
Johnson. Johnson was going to be the hard ass, he could tell.
     "Mr. Coggins," Henderson spoke out, hand extended, "it's a
pleasure to meet you sir. I've read all your books."
     "Well thank-you very much Officer Henderson. Would you
like me to sign your book?"
     "Oh would you? That would be terrific!"
     Henderson grabbed the pen out of his partner's skinny
fingers and gave it, plus the copy of 'Someone's Watching' to
Samuel.
     "Can you make it out to David Henderson?"
     "Sure thing Officer Hend ..."
     "Call me David."
     "O.K. David."
     Samuel scribbled the words:
                    To My Good Friend, David Henderson.
                    Samuel Coggins.
     And handed it back to the man.
     Officer Henderson was to excited for words to describe. A
big, boyish grin reached from ear to ear, much like the one
Samuel wore when he drove over 100 miles per hour.
     "Oh thank-you Mr. Coggins, How can I ever thank you
enough?"
     Samuel realized that he was in the driver's seat for this
chapter of their conversation. His writing hand reached upward
toward his moustache, twisting the corners. First the right,
then the left. He was looking for the right way to approach
what he was about to suggest.
     "My insurance on this car is high enough as it is . . ."
     "Think nothing of it Mr. Coggins." Henderson broke in,
"Just try and keep it at the speed limit."
     Before the other officer, Laurel, was able to put in HIS
two cents in this conversation, Samuel had ended the chapter
with a handshake, a slap on the back, and a wave goodbye. Then
he quickly entered his car and drove away.
     By the time Samuel reached Cassadaga, the evening was still
young. Not as young as it WOULD have been if he had still been
doing warp factor two, but still young enough to catch a movie
at the Bijou or perhaps a round or two of pool at the tavern.
He passed CW's Tavern on the edge of town, where Route 5 becomes
Main street. As he drove down Main Street, the Bijou came into
view. 'Firestarter', by Stephen King was the feature
presentation. A good-sized line stretched from the ticket booth
and down the sidewalk. Samuel parked his car, placed the cover
over it, and walked to the back of the line.
     His mind began to wander.
     Stephen King. Now THERE was a writer. Better than he ever
hoped to be, that was for sure. Samuel admired Stephen King
greatly and, deep down in his gut, knew that King was indirectly
responsible for his OWN writing career. He hoped to meet him
someday and thank him.
     "How many?" A young girl's voice called from behind the
glass.
     Samuel fished a ten-dollar bill out from his pocket. "One
please."
     She handed him three dollars and fifty cents back.
     He felt like saying "SHIT! six fifty to see a movie? Do I
get a kiss? Or are you just going to fuck me dry?" Instead, he
walked in mild astonishment to the concession stand.
     "What (chew chew snap) can I getcha mister?" Another young
girl called out.
     "Medium popcorn with extra butter and a large Coke."
     Had he spoken to soon? He thought twice and grabbed for his
wallet. There were two more tens in there, and chances were that
he would need at least one.
     "Your total is four eighty-three sir"
     Sure you could rent the movie on video tape for about two
bucks, but it's just not the same. You had to have a big movie
screen, loud Dolby audio, a chilly room, hot buttered popcorn
and a Coke to REALLY enjoy a Stephen King movie.
     It was around eleven when the movie was over and Samuel
thought about going to the tavern up the road, but decided to
call it a night. The second he latched his seat belt, a burnt
orange blur belonging to one supercharged 57 Chevy, flew past
him, trumpeting the sound of 'Charge' from a hidden musical
horn.
     Samuel shoved the gear shift into first and dropped the
clutch. The sound of squealing tires and whining turbo filled
the air as he flew from his parking space.
     He was gaining on the car. Almost to its bumper now. The
Chevy seemed to be playing with him. Samuel would gain a
little, then the Chevy would just explode away from him as if he
were standing still. Without warning, the Chevy darted into the
gravel parking lot of the tavern. Dust flew everywhere as
Samuel tried to keep up. As he rounded the building, sliding
sideways, he was astonished to see ... nothing. Nothing
except for about ten to fifteen people staring at him from the
parking lot.
     Embarrassed, he pulled his car into the nearest available
parking space. He jumped out and walked up to the group of
people starring at him.
     "Evening," he said.
     No response.
     "I was chasing a car ..."
     No response.
     "It was an orange 57 ..."
     Before he could get those words out all the way, everyone
turned around and walked back into the building. Seconds later,
it was business as usual.
     When Samuel entered the Tavern, the first thing that he
noticed was that there wasn't anything TO notice.
     Simple as that.
     A few barstools, a pool table, a dance floor and some Hank
Williams on the Jukebox. Definitely a 'what-you-see-is-what-
you-get' kind of place.
     He sat on one of the empty stools. "Draft please" he said
sheepishly.
     The barkeep returned with a frosted mug filled with foaming
beer. "Names CW", the man said, "You're that Samuel Coggins
Fella ain't cha?"
     "Yep."
     "You bought that old McHenry place yet?"
     "I close on it in the morning." Samuel's eyes showed
surprise and a little concern. "How did you know that?"
     "It's a small community, Mr. Coggins. Nothing happens
around here without everyone finding out about it. That house, Mr.
Coggins, is haunted."
     The words hung there and fit perfectly into their own
little piece of time, as if they BELONGED with that house.
     "Is that a fact?" Samuel finally said.
     "That it is Mr. Coggins. Been a lot of strange things
happen at the old McHenry place over the last hundred years or
so."
     Samuel interrupted him. "Does it happen to have anything
to do with a burnt orange 57 Chevy?"
     "That's a different story altogether, Mr. Coggins. It
has nothing to do with the McHenry place at all. If you stop by
another time, I'll tell you that one. Anyways, back in 1885
Lance McHenry built that house piece by piece. It had taken him
every bit of five or so years to build it, and then, in the turn
of the century, his whole family disappeared without a trace."
     The Barkeep hesitated for a moment to refill Samuel's mug,
then he continued the story.
     "Not so much as a clue to what had happened to them was
left behind. Why, hell, all their clothes and belongings were
still in the house, even the dog was there. As the story goes ..."
     Samuel raised his hand to his moustache once again and
began twisting the corners. The Master of Mystery began to
resurface. "Without a trace eh?" he asked with some doubt.
     The Barkeep's answer was strong and positive. "Without a
trace, Mr. Coggins."
     "Well I just can't imagine ..."
     "It isn't just some country story that's been told over and
over my friend. It's the truth. Check into the background of
the house if'n you don't believe me." The Barkeep sighed and
continued his story.
     "The year was 1915 or somewhere there abouts. Carlton
Calarney and his family had come to the United States from
Ireland."
     Samuel's eyes widened. "There's a town called Calarney up
Route 5 from here isn't there?"
     "The very one Mr. Coggins. Mr. Calarney started a small
logging business in what was back then a dirt road leading off
into the foothills of the Willapa Mountains." He paused for a
moment, poured himself a beer, took a drink and continued. "In
1930 or so, Carlton Calarney sold the business and put a large
chunk of his earnings into building a Hospital, school and
church in what is now called Calarney. Carlton Calarney put
that place up the road on the map."
     Another swig of beer, for the both of them.
     "Now as the story goes Mr. Coggins, Carlton had bought most
the land between Calarney and Cassadaga. This included the old
McHenry place which had sat empty for thirty years or better.
Rumor has it that he almost tore the place down and built
another home on the same piece of land, but he didn't. He
completely renovated the house from top to bottom, side to side.
They moved in the fall of 1930 and were never seen again."
     "No shit?" Samuel was beginning to show much more interest
than before.
     "No shit." C.W. answered. "Without a trace. Their clothes,
belongings, everything was left untouched."
     Samuel raised his mug toward the Barkeep which in turn
filled it to the rim once more.
     "So the place has been empty for 60 years?" he asked with
genuine interest.
     "Oh, for about ten years or so now. Widow Burns was the
last."
     "And what happened to her?"
     "She's still alive, but she's at the state hospital. Went
crazy she did. Went crazy and killed her husband and two small
boys, right there in the house."
     "Tell me about it." Samuel eagerly demanded, "I'd like to
know everything."
     "Not much is known. Of what IS known is that she claims
God took them and that's all. They never found their bodies
either." C.W. wiped his forehead with a towel he had picked up
from behind the counter. "That brings us to current times Mr.
Coggins."
     "Current times C.W. ..." Samuel muttered from far away in
thought.
     "You still going to buy the McHenry place?" C.W. asked
shyly, quizzically.
     Samuel raised the mug once more to his mouth and finished
the last of the warm beer. He sat the mug down on the counter
and stood up. "You bet." he said, and, after placing a ten
spot on the counter, turned and walked away.
     The Master of Mystery was back.
---------------------------------------------------------------
     Samuel was awakened from a peaceful sleep in his hotel room
bed by an over eager telephone ringing off the hook. Half
asleep, half awake, he threw his arm toward the end table and
grabbed the receiver.
     "Yeah . . ." he mumbled
     "Mr. Coggins? This is Denny McCormick."
     "Yeah ..." The name still not registering with the real
estate company. One thing was for sure. The voice on the other
end of the phone was clearly agitated.
     "From Cassadaga Realty Mr. Coggins? We had a closing at
10:00 a.m. this morning?"
     Samuel cradled the phone between the side of his face and
shoulder, then grabbed his watch from the end table. It read
10:30. "I'm running a little behind Mr. McCormick." He said
sleepily, almost yawning over the phone. "I'll be there in
thirty minutes."
     "Fine Mr. Coggins. I'll see you in thirty minutes."
     CLICK.
     Samuel replaced the receiver and stumbled from the bed to the
shower. By the time he had finished getting ready, he was amazed
that only fifteen minutes had passed. It was astonishing how fast
one could get ready when one didn't have a woman to wait on.
     When he finally pulled into the parking lot of Cassadaga
Realty, he glanced at his watch and noticed that from start to
finish, it had taken him twenty-three minutes. Not bad if he
did say so himself.
     Samuel was greeted at the front door by Denny McCormick.
The two exchanged the hand shakes and the pleasantries of good
morning and such, then walked into the room to finalize the
purchase of the house.
     The whole transaction took a whopping twenty-five minutes
and Samuel found himself walking toward his car with the deed
and keys to the house, a bottle of cheap champagne, and a black
coffee mug which said in dark red letters Proud Home Owner.
     Samuel spent the next three days moving in. There was
water to deal with, electricity, telephones, furniture, and a
dozen other little things to get finished. Throughout these
three days, he hired a handyman to help out around the place.
Herbert was a tall, slender man, ghostly in color. Samuel guessed
he had to be at least seven foot tall, maybe more. His skin had a
dry, leathery look to it and his teeth, all three of them, were a
dark, spoiled yellow.  When he smiled, his mouth opened wide,
giving Samuel an unappetizing look at the stringy, foaming saliva
which stretched from the roof of his mouth to the rotting gumline
below.
     Herbert wasn't handsome.
     But his work.
     God, his work was amazing.
     There were thousands of Jacks of all trades, but Herbert
was one of the very few who was a master of ALL of them. In
the last three days, Herbert had put up a fence, cleaned up the
yard, painted the complete interior of the house, and pressure
cleaned the outside to boot.
     The evening of the third day, Samuel walked around the house
with a freshly-lit pipe clenched between his teeth. Herbert had
done everything that needed doing and Samuel didn't think that he
would need him anymore, at least not on a daily basis. He would
still have Herbert come out twice a month for the yard and a few
things here and there which were sure to pop up.
     Once, twice, Samuel circled the house, looking for Herbert.
     He wasn't there.
     His ladder was in the back yard, propped against the giant
bristlecone pine, his tools were there as well.
     Concerned, Samuel checked inside the house for Herbert,
thinking that he might be doing some touch up painting or
something along those lines.
     No Herbert.
     Samuel was past concern now, and a jolt of terror and horror
ran though his heart and soul.
     Herbert's truck was still here.
     He wasn't inside.
     He wasn't outside.
     The ladder was propped against a tree, the giant bristlecone
pine.
     Samuel made a loud shriek and ran toward the tree. Herbert
had fallen from the ladder and down the cliff, he was sure of
it. When he reached the edge, he peered down, almost falling
over himself.
     Nothing.
     He couldn't see that well. Herbert MIGHT be down there, but
even if he were, he couldn't do anything to help him. Quickly,
Samuel ran for the house and grabbed the telephone. He punched
in the numbers 9-1-1 and then waited eagerly for the cavalry to
arrive.
---------------------------------------------------------------
     What was only a few hours seemed like a few days. The
police, fire, even Timothy Evans from W.O.L.F. television showed
up. The search was unsuccessful: Herbert was nowhere to be
found. Laurel and Hardy asked him the usual questions about
when was the last time he had saw Herbert alive. Timothy Evans gave
a fantastic fifteen minute special report of how Herbert had
simply disappeared in the old McHenry place, how the house
continues to claim lives, even in these modern times.
     Samuel, calm and collected, weighed the evidence.
     The fact was that Herbert had disappeared.
     The fact was that it had happened many times before.
     It was too simple, even for Samuel to believe. Had everyone
simply fallen down the cliff? He didn't think so. Herbert
could very well have, but not a whole goddamn family, no way.
     There had to be more to it than that.
     HAD to be if he was going to make a story of some sort out
of it.
     The next day Samuel found himself eager to do a little
research on the house. Research, after all, was one, if not THE,
most important part of writing.
     An old wooden building, white in color, was his first stop.
A battered sign stood in front of the building identifying the
place as being the 'CASSADAGA PUBLIC LIBRARY'. When Samuel
entered the library, he was immediately met by Winnie Sungtig.
     "Hello there young man." The lady said "What can I do for
you today?"
     "I'm loo ..."
     "Looking for anything in particular?"
     "Yes I am, my nam ..."
     "Samuel Coggins. Everyone knows that young man. Heavens,
yes. So speak up boy, what are you looking for?"
     "Infor ..."
     "Information on the old McHenry place eh? Well there ain't
much information on it." She began to walk away and down an
isle. "You coming or what?"
     "Yes Ma'am."
     Miss Sungtig was quite a character. She had to be at least
ninety years old, maybe more. Her hair was white as snow, and
for her age you would expect a few more wrinkles than she had.
She was a fit woman Samuel concluded, and he watched as she
fumbled through a pile of ancient index cards in a rotting
cardboard box. A few moments later she took off down another
corridor. At the end of the corridor, she took a right and sped
down the back of the library to a door. It was amazing how fit
this woman was. She had a walking pace on her that was faster
than his. When Ms. Sungtig opened the door, a flight of stairs
led down into a damp basement. The musty smell of old things
filled his nostrils. When they reached the bottom, Ms. Sungtig
was on the loose again. To the right, the left, down an isle.
Then she stopped and waited for Samuel to catch up. When he
did, Ms. Sungtig was pointing to the top of a shelf.
     "The old back issues are right here Mr. Coggins. Help
yourself, but remember, clean up your own mess. Your mother
doesn't work here."
     "Yes Ma'am."
     "And when you get finished, I'll have a pile of books that
will be needing your signature on them Mr. Coggins." And with
that, she ran up the stairs and was gone.
     Shrugging his shoulders, Samuel turned to the job at hand.
----------------------------------------------------------------
                               ***
     Four hours had passed and Samuel had managed to go through
countless stacks of newspapers. He had found three articles,
two with pictures of the victims, on the mystery surrounding the
old McHenry house. The articles were amazingly short and to
the point. In all three articles, no explanation was found. It
was simply stated that the individuals had disappeared without
a trace and were presumed dead. He had almost called it a night
when he found the fourth article, the article surrounding the
Burns family. Although Mrs. Burns was never charged with
anything, she had gone insane after the incident had happened.
It explained how she was institutionalized and went on about a
few little things, and that was it. The article DID have one
thing which was useful. It was a family picture.
     Samuel took the articles he had found and went upstairs to
make copies of them. After he finished, he went back down to the
basement, cleaned up his mess and left the library. He almost
escaped the unofficial book signing Ms. Winnie Sungtig had
scheduled for him, but she literally grabbed him by his right ear
as he snuck out of the library.
     When he reached home it was dark. Samuel made himself an
easy dinner of soup and sandwiches and began his research.
     Over and over he read the articles.
     Nothing.
     There wasn't anything which helped him at all. Perhaps
C.W. might be able to shine some light on the subject. He would
check in the morning.
     Discouraged, he tossed the articles aside and went to bed.
The mystery would have to wait, at least for another night.
                               ***
     Samuel didn't sleep that night. He tossed and turned,
letting his sub conscious try and find a solution to the
mystery. He awoke more exhausted than he had felt when he had
gone to bed.
     Things didn't add up.
     Maybe the house was haunted and they left? If THAT were
so, why didn't they ever resurface?
     There weren't any answers.
     And what about Herbert? HAD he fallen off the cliff?
Everything seemed to point to that but still ...
     Samuel gathered the pile of newspaper articles he had
scattered around the living room. He found a pair of scissors
and cut the faces from the articles, including the family
portrait of the late great Burns family. He found some glue and
an old piece of paper. Painstakingly, Samuel glued the pictures
next to each other and made a sort of 'makeshift' photo album of
the deceased, which he place on a clipboard.
     Every line of their faces, every curve, every feature. He
studied and knew them all.
     What did these people have in common? Was there something
about them all which was the similar? If there was, what was it?
     Through the back door he went, deep in thought. Clipboard
in one hand, his moustache in the other, he circled the house
a few times, staring at the pictures, wandering, then he stopped
and sat down in the back yard, next to the huge bristlecone
pine.
     The sound of the waves and wind relaxed him beyond
realization. He starred at the bristlecone pine. It was a
monster alright. The tree must be at least one hundred years
old. Its thick twisting trunk, although not more than ten feet
tall, was at least that much in width. The roots were hard and
deep set within the rocky soil on the edge of the cliff. The
bark was ruff and bulging with big swirling knots, ... knots
which resembled ...
     Samuel looked at the pictures on the clipboard, then back
to the swirling knots on the tree.
     Faces.
     The knots on the pine resembled the faces of the missing
people.
     There was Mr. McHenry, Mr. Burns, his kids, and ... yes,
it had to be. Although he didn't have a picture of Herbert, he
could make out his face, plain as day. His face was now a knot
in the old bristlecone pine.
     An itch.
     He scratched.
     But the itch was buried more than skin deep.
     But the itch was his leg, which was now part of the
bristlecone pine.
     Screaming, he tried to get away from the tree.
     He couldn't move.
     His entire lower back was part tree and part flesh.
     Frantically he struggled, ripping free from the tree only
to have another part of his body consumed.
     Samuel screamed once more, then he was gone, although a new
swirling knot appeared on the tree.
                               ***
     The police and reporters came. Nothing was found. The
search lasted only a few hours, same as the other
investigations, then a folder with the name Samuel Coggins
across the top of it was filed away and soon forgotten.
     Samuel Coggins, 'The Master of Mystery', was gone, like the
crows, but had never left.
                               END