October 31, 1971
Bedlam Falls, MI
The boy’s hand felt awkward and small holding the heavy wooden handle of the oversized kitchen knife; yet his delicate fingers carried a strength and dexterity far beyond his young age. The blade easily pierced the exposed flesh, deftly carving meaty chucks that collected in moist piles at his feet. The pungent odor of his handiwork filled the otherwise tidy kitchen.
He went about his work seemingly without thought, the faintest trace of a sly smile curving his thin lips. The last warming rays of late afternoon sun filtered through the window over the sink, stretching long shadows across the soiled countertop. Eventually, the blade ceased its mindless dance and the boy relaxed his boney fist from the stained wooden handle — letting the knife fall into the discolored sink.
He paused to reflect upon his creation – softly tracing his fingers across the carved flesh, probing the gouges and holes which he had so deftly whittled away.
Walking from the kitchen, his hands and arms sticky and soiled, Lionel Collins made his way through the vacant house and up the stairs to his bedroom. There, he would prepare for his evening, the soothing voice inside his head providing ample instruction, and strength, to complete the tasks ahead.
Small towns are notoriously quirky, and Bedlam Falls’ quirkiness started from the moment of its founding. As Oliver Bryant Bedlam stepped from his horse-drawn carriage to survey the tree-swept fields of the as-yet unsettled acreage he had just purchased, his booted foot slid from the carriage step. His fall to the ground, although relatively short in distance, ended with a fractured skull courtesy of a rock hidden within the grassy plain. Bedlam died from his injuries two days later, and as word of the accident spread beneath headlines and over telegraph proclaiming “Bedlam Falls”, the small northern Michigan town’s name was sealed.
More than a century later, Oliver Bedlam’s grave, marked precisely at the spot where he had fallen from his carriage, remained one of the most visited sites in all of Bedlam County. Of course, the majority of visitors were of the drunken teenage variety; Falls’ Rest Cemetery had become the chosen location for late night teenage debauchery.
Deputy Frank Griggs was recently enough removed from his teenage years to still understand the lure of the secluded gardens of earth and stone. It was for this reason alone that he “patrolled” the area. Nothing was ever amiss in the cemetery, but the kids did keep him fully stocked with beer and on more than one occasion he was able to catch a brief glimpse of a nipple or two. Yeah, between the beer and the breasts, a slow drive through the cemetery was better than anything playing at the drive-in.
Tonight, however, the stone garden was eerily quiet. Griggs’ had expected to hear Rod Stewart’s Maggie May wafting from car stereos, but instead was greeted with an ominous stillness; the feeling of a calm before a great storm. The shadows played tricks with the young deputy’s nervous eyes as he drove slowly through the winding dirt road toward the massive iron gates that marked the only entrance/exit from the cemetery.
A pained wail broke the silence, echoing through the night and sending a chill through Griggs’ thick body. “Ho-ly shit,” the shaken deputy exclaimed to the empty cruiser. “What the fuck was that?”
The cruiser eased to a stop as Griggs scanned the moonlit graveyard. Nothing seemed out of place, at least not from the relative safety of the car. Frank had little time to consider his options as a second cry erupted from the darkness; this one, definitely animal in nature.
“Fucking dogs,” Frank groaned in relief. Earl Stubbs had served as cemetery caretaker for more than 30 years. It was the half-wit’s job to keep the riff-raff out, maintain the grounds, and basically keep the dead tucked safely into their beds. The job didn’t pay much, but it came with one nice perk; free rent in the small house on the northern edge of the cemetery. Earl kept to himself and did a fair job of maintaining the landscaping, but it seemed every stray dog in town somehow made it into his care. Griggs could only imagine what trouble the beasts were getting into with all of the noise.
Griggs exited the cruiser clutching his flashlight and exhaling a plume of vapor into the chilly air. The pale beam sliced through the darkness, revealing a maze of tombstones amidst a tangle of brush. “Here poochy, poochy, poochy.”
Griggs’ calls were met with more silence. He stepped carefully between the stone monuments and markers, allowing the beam from his flashlight to trace over the inscribed names and dates of the deceased. This area of the cemetery, tucked away in the southeast corner, was relatively new, with plots used only within the last half dozen or so years. The oldest plots, dating back to the late 1800′s when Oliver Bedlam slipped from his carriage, rested neatly in the center of the vast field.
After several minutes Frank neared the edge of the cemetery’s grounds. Here, as the open field gave way to the thick Michigan woods, the young deputy finally found the source of the recent commotion. The sight made his stomach clench with knots of fear.
Sweeping the light across the lone tombstone before him, Griggs could barely discern the etched name beneath the years of weather and what appeared to be fresh blood.
Rylan Walters
1920 – 1960
Loving Husband & Father
Griggs’ had met the former sheriff on a single occasion – and once was more than enough for him to take measure of the man; a thick-headed blow hard and not nearly the law man that the current Sheriff Buck Tanner was. Even still, Frank admitted to himself, the bastard’s grave didn’t deserve this kind of treatment.
Strewn about the area were bits of what the deputy could only assume had recently been a dog – perhaps multiple dogs. His suspicion was quickly confirmed as he moved his light from the carnage on the ground to the blood-soaked wooden handle of a shovel sticking up from the freshly turned earth near the headstone. Placed atop the handle, eyes bulging from their sockets, rested the head of a German Sherperd. Frank’s knees buckled as his stomach emptied onto the soiled ground before him.
Shaken, the deputy’s mind raced with a myriad of thoughts. Turning from his grisly discovery, Deputy Frank Griggs made his way back through the garden of stone to his cruiser. There, in the safety of the car, he contemplated his next move. Surely, he would call it in to the station. The Sheriff would know what to do. But Frank wanted to be the one to notify next of kin. He had shared several classes with her during high school, and although they ran in different circles, he thought the news may best be received from someone she knew.
“Maddie,” Frank said anxiously into the radio, “Get the Sheriff out to Falls’ Rest.” It took only moments to relay the gory details to dispatch. “Let him know that I want to notify next of kin,” he paused before continuing. “And Maddie, one more thing, can you get me an address on Joanna Walters…I mean Reed; Ken Reed’s wife? I’ll drive by once the sheriff arrives.”
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