The Devil's Dirt Road Read online

  The Devil’s Dirt Road

  Copyright

  Ben Kalcher 2014

  Erinholm Publishing

  This short story is based on events of the

  authors own imagination. Any resemblance to actual events

  or to anyone dead or alive is purely coincidental. The author wishes to

  express his gratitude for downloading the short story.

  Thank you.

  Also by Ben Kalcher

  Mouse and Cat

  Whiskey

  The Devil’s Dirt Road

  When the clock chimes midnight,

  It will get to eat…

  October 31st 1839

  Thursday, October 31st, 12:30 A.M.

  It has an appetite for human flesh. Its dark eyes watch from the treeline as its sharp teeth long to penetrate the soft, supple skin of its victim. It waits patiently, sensing that victim moving closer. For the first time in years, it will get to eat before disappearing back into the dark abyss from which it came, until it hungers again.

  As for the victims, they never see it coming; powerless to its aura, a death so certain and so horrifying that it would make the hair stand on end on the bodies of even the toughest of men. It leaves its victims begging for an instantaneous death, but it always opts for a slow, painful demise. First it peels the victim’s skin away before pulling the unfortunate soul apart limb by limb. It plays with its victims until their very last breath. No one has ever seen the creature and lived to tell the tale. Many have fabricated stories and myths about it, but even then, they are merely fantasies; old wives’ tales that fail to describe the true horror that the victims face.

  Tonight, it gets to eat…

  ---

  Thursday, October 31st, 2:19 A.M.

  Weak and tired, the young girl focused all her energy on gripping the horse’s reins. The horse, tired from the intense journey, stood hunched over a large puddle, looking down at its own reflection; it sensed danger but was too tired to react. In a trancelike state, Rachael climbed down off the horse, and with little unease, walked away from it. A calm breeze washed through her hair, weaving each strand delicately. She reached up and, with the tips of her fingers, massaged her scalp. Her hair was greasy and unwashed, long days of travelling across the country having done her hair and skin no good; the rain has done little to help either.

  Leaving the horse behind, she headed towards the blocked-off dirt road. She gently pushed aside the branches of a low-hanging tree and manoeuvred through the gap. Gravel crunched under her weight as she moved slowly down the dirt road, which had been barely used for a long time. Amongst the trees, the cries of a crow broke the silence, as the skeletal arms of the trees mockingly waved her on with the help of the wind. If only they could talk… but that would be silly; everyone knows that trees cannot talk.

  She could feel a presence, but couldn’t sense any impending danger. Amongst the bushes and trees that lined the road, something moved. Drawn to it, Rachael crossed from one side of the road to the other to investigate. This was the moment to which she had been lured, the moment that this trancelike state was drawing her to.

  Slowly, a tall, menacing figure strode out of the treeline and stepped in front of her. The trance that had its grip on her was finally broken. She blinked her eyes and looked around in a white panic as a scream as loud as any she had ever heard escaped her throat. She turned in horror and was about to run just as a long, clawed arm grabbed her, piercing her shoulder. She cried out in pain as she was dragged back forcefully.

  She began kicking her legs frantically in an attempt to escape, but it was no use; her petticoat restricted her movements, and the pain in her shoulder was excruciating. The dark, mysterious figure grabbed her other shoulder without piercing into her body. Her left shoulder was now covered in blood, as was the top of her dress. They stopped moving for a moment as the creature bent over and ran its long, slimy tongue along her neck line, getting a taste of her supple skin. The smell of rotting flesh was overpowering. Rachael felt sick but managed to avoid throwing up.

  The creature pulled again, dragging Rachael into the treeline and further from the road. Her screams were now frantic as all light from the sky above disappeared. She fainted from the loss of blood.

  The groans of the creature now filled the night sky as it took her into Hell.

  ---

  Thursday, October 31st, 7:43 P.M.

  Detective Michael Cartwright rubbed his eyes, trying to fight the sleep that was attempting to force itself on him. Opposite him, Detective John Watts was shifting through paperwork, which was his forté. He looked away and reached for his cup, half full of three-hour-old black coffee. He stared into the dark abyss, contemplating whether to finish what he expected would be a very bitter drink or make a fresh cup. In the top drawer of his desk, a bottle of brandy remained half full — Watts would say it was half empty, that was just his sense of humour, either could be true — but the main thing was that he had a means of escape from the bitter, cold coffee.

  ‘You know, staring at it won’t make it any warmer,’ Watts said, smiling to himself, eyes fixed on the paper in front of him. If Watts wasn’t at a desk or alongside Cartwright, he would be found in a public house, drowning his last bit of sanity away.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The coffee. That’s as warm as it’ll get.’

  Cartwright put the cup down. ‘I’ve got to develop my magic powers.’

  ‘If warming liquids is your magic power, you’ve definitely drawn the short straw.’

  He sighed. ‘I suppose I have.’ Cartwright stood up and walked over to the window. A heavy downpour crashed against the glass. The street below was barely recognisable through all the rain. Horse drawn carriages made their way along the cobbled roads, resembling phantoms of the night.

  ‘Doesn’t look as if it’ll stop,’ said Watts, putting the neat stack of papers to one side. He got up and joined Cartwright at the window.

  ‘Indeed, old chap.’

  Behind, an officer stormed into the office. ‘It’s happened again,’ he said, out of breath.

  ‘What has?’ Watts asked.

  ‘The Devil’s Dirt Road, sir.’

  ‘The Devil’s what?’ Cartwright replied.

  Watts turned to him. ‘Surely you know about the Devil’s Dirt Road?’

  ‘I’m not familiar with the term.’

  ‘Not a term, but a name of a dirt road in Ravenglass. Care to explain, officer?’ asked Watts. He returned to his desk and opted to sit on its edge rather than in the chair again.

  The officer stood opposite them and looked at the cold coffee beside him. He shook his head. ‘A waste of good coffee,’ he said, pushing the cup further away from himself. ‘The Devil’s Dirt Road is an old, abandoned track just outside of Ravenglass. It has been blocked off from all other roads, but still, people manage to get themselves on it. Every so often, someone is lured to the road; despite all the warning signs and information forbidding people to use it, they still do. It’s like they’re drawn to it and have no way of stopping themselves. Either that, or they’re plain stupid and have no regard for their own safety.’

  Cartwright smirked. ‘You’re having me on, aren’t you?’

  ‘Far from it,’ Watts remarked.

  ‘We don’t know what’s down there. No one has ever come back to tell the tale.’ The officer passed Watts an incident report. ‘Rachael Miller; nineteen years old, from London. She was visiting her aunt in Ravenglass. Left her aunt’s home at some time around midnight; without a word, stole her late uncle’s horse, and rode it to the Devil’s Dirt Road. Her uncle’s horse was found wandering nearby… Rachael has yet to be found.’

  ‘What is it to do with us?’

&nb
sp; ‘The local law enforcement has requested help from us, personally.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ said Watts, with a smile plastered on his face. ‘I’ve always had an interest in the Devil’s Dirt Road.’

  ‘I wish I shared your enthusiasm, old chap. What’s the possibility of finding her?’ Cartwright asked.

  ‘Very slim,’ replied the officer. ‘As I say, no one comes out to tell the tale.’

  Cartwright sighed. ‘Do we have anything on this thing that’s taking the victims? When it chooses them, what they share in common? How often does this actually happen? Damn it, we need something to work with.’

  ‘All we have is myths, old wives’ tales with no actual evidence that links the victims,’ Watts stated. ‘Locals have referred to calling it the Devil, thus calling the road the Devil’s Dirt Road.’

  ‘Why wasn’t I told about this?’

  Watts shrugged. ‘It’s not something we personally deal with, until now, and it’s only happened the once in my lifetime.’

  The officer dropped the report on the desk and walked out, leaving Cartwright and Watts to deal with the investigation. They remained in silence for a moment, gazing at the report.

  ‘Just great,’ remarked Cartwright.

  ‘What is?’

  He walked over to the desk. ‘This, and the fact that we have to travel to Ravenglass.’

  ‘Well, I find it rather exciting.’

  ‘That’s because outside of this place you have no life. You go home to that big old house of yours, grab a bottle of brandy and sit in silence with your cat.’

  ‘That may be so, but this case is awfully exciting, nonetheless. Just think, this is part of the old tales, and we get to investigate the latest incident.’

  Cartwright shook his head. ‘And I thought I had no life.’

  Watts took the report from him and flicked through the little information they had on the girl as well as the more in-depth information that they had on the dirt road, whether it was believable or not. ‘Probably best to get a horse and coach prepared, head to Ravenglass and speak to her aunt, then try to find Rachael.’

  ‘Good idea. Could you grab the bottle out of my drawer? It might come in handy.’

  Watts passed the brandy to Cartwright. ‘Save some for me; I think it’s going to be a long night.’

  ---

  Thursday, October 31st, 7:53 P.M

  It breathes heavily; slowly at first, but then faster and faster. Its long claws wrap up, tense, almost ready to feed. How it longs to eat again. Dormant for so long, but now ready. Its sharp teeth itch for the bite of flesh, the feeling of blood dripping down its chin. In the dark, its victim awaits, trapped and silent, but alive; just. Soon she’ll be dead, and merely another statistic added to its growing list of victims. With a sharp squeal, it moves gingerly through the dark. The time has almost come. It will feast.

  ---

  Thursday, October 31st, 8:01 P.M.

  Cartwright sat in the carriage, waiting for Watts. Cold, he clutched the brandy, gently shaking the bottle. He opened it and took a long sip, finding that it helped warm him up. He sat in silence, the only sound coming from the rain hitting the roof of the coach. Watts walked out of the station, ran up to the coach, and climbed in.

  ‘What took you so long?’

  He put two lanterns on the coach floor. ‘Had to find these. It’s going to be awfully dark.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Good idea.’

  The horse begun to move, drawing the coach along.

  ---

  Thursday, October 31st, 8:11 P.M.

  Blood covered most of Rachael’s face. She was weak; her eyes struggled to stay open. She could almost feel the cold hands of the Grim Reaper. She wished so much that she was dead now. How much more suffering could someone take? A born fighter, she had tried so hard to break free from her restraints, to no avail.

  It was dark in the room where she was; only a faint outline of the thing that had her trapped moved in… wherever the hell she was. A fire burnt to itself, elsewhere, but she could see very little of the light.

  A warm tear ran down her cheek and fell to the ground below. What a fool she had been! She was stronger than the urge that had brought her here, yet the lack of strength would lead to her untimely demise. Soon, it would all be over.

  ---

  Thursday, October 31st, 9.38 P.M.

  The rain had stopped. Cartwright had his face pressed against the cold window, looking out at the dark street. ‘Such a quaint townhouse Rachael’s aunt has.’

  ‘Apparently, Ravenglass is a popular location for those with money to burn.’

  ‘Have you got anything on her aunt?’

  ‘Her name is Dorothy. She is a widow. Her late husband Jacob was the chairman of a shipping company in Southampton. According to records, they moved to Ravenglass when he became ill with tuberculosis. ’

  ‘Tragic.’

  ‘Tragic for him, but as for Dorothy, she got a tidy amount of money,’ replied Watts.

  ‘Some people care not for money, but care more for love, and those that offer the security that love brings.’

  ‘That is true. I wonder if that statement goes for Dorothy.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter either way; our sole purpose is trying to find her niece before it’s too late.’

  They got out of the coach, headed up a short footpath, and knocked on the front door. The wind began to pick up and the rain started again just as the front door opened to them.

  ‘Hello, can I help you?’

  ‘Good evening, Missus. I’m Detective Cartwright and this is Detective Watts. We’re here to talk about the disappearance of your niece.’

  Dorothy was elegant. Curly brown hair, a beauty spot two inches below her left eye and fine jewellery wrapped around her neck. She was wearing thick makeup, but had no one to show and nowhere to go. ‘Oh, please come in.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Cartwright said, allowing Watts to cross the threshold first. The home was warm. A single candle burned above the fireplace, which was raging, full of fresh wood. The smell of the blazing hearth filled the house.

  ‘Could I tempt you with a warm drink? It’s terribly cold out there,’ she asked.

  ‘Tea would be lovely,’ Watts replied.

  ‘Same,’ said Cartwright eagerly, anticipating a warming cup of tea.

  ‘Surely. Please, take a seat in the lounge and I’ll fetch those drinks.’

  They sat down opposite the fireplace. A small carriage clock ticked away peacefully; next to it, a mahogany mantle clock stood still, its hands stopped at midnight. Cartwright reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his pocket watch. It was actually just nigh to ten.

  The candle flame swayed side to side under the pressure of a draft coming from the closed window. In one corner of the room a plant stood tall; next to it slept a dog, snoring lightly.

  ‘Rather cosy home you have here, Missus…?’ said Cartwright.

  ‘Mrs Sawyer. But please, call me Dorothy.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Was,’ she replied. ‘My husband fell very ill and died a few years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear,’ replied Cartwright.

  ‘It was the hand he was dealt. Sugar?’

  ‘No thank you,’ Cartwright responded.

  ‘Two, please,’ Watts piped up, shifting in his chair.

  Cartwright shot him a disapproving look. ‘Two?’

  ‘I need energy, or something to get me through the next day or so.’

  ‘Is the brandy not sufficient enough?’

  Watts laughed. ‘Hardly.’

  In the kitchen, Dorothy stirred the drinks, and within a minute of doing so brought them into the lounge.

  ‘You have a lovely home,’ Cartwright complimented once again.

  ‘Thank you. My late husband and I worked hard on it.’

  ‘I can tell,’ Cartwright said, looking at Watts, who was remaining silent but taking in the needless small talk.

  ‘I’m not sure how you handl
e your investigations, Detective, and I’m sorry to push you along, but please, do tell me… what are the chances of finding my niece alive?’

  Cartwright sighed. ‘I’m sure you’re aware of the Devil’s Dirt Road?’

  Dorothy nodded. ‘I have heard tales of such a road.’

  ‘As you may be aware, there have been no recorded cases of someone being lured to the Devil’s Dirt Road and returning alive.’

  Dorothy shook her head. ‘She’s a good girl, my niece. She’s never harmed anyone.’

  ‘I can sympathise with you, Dorothy, but sometimes fate is out of our control. We can only hope there is someone out there willing to help us when we can’t help ourselves. We will do whatever it takes to get your niece back alive, but we simply cannot make false promises.’

  ‘I understand, Detective.’

  ‘Can you tell us what her state of mind was like earlier today?’

  Dorothy sighed. ‘She seemed disturbed; not fully aware of her surroundings.’

  ‘Did you try to confront her about her behaviour?’

  ‘No, I thought it was because she had travelled a great distance to visit me.’

  Watts started writing notes as Cartwright pressed on with more questions. ‘Where did she come from? I mean, where does she live now?’

  ‘She travelled from York. Her family used to live near London, but moved about three years ago.’

  ‘Are you the only family member that has remained in the south of the country?’