Amid the Recesses: A Short Story Collection of Fear by J. A. Crook Page B

ritualistic
bunch during a late night poker game.
    Ms. Newstead claimed that
the entire general store appeared as though it had been run through
by a herd of wild bulls. From top to bottom the store had been
ripped apart during the late night, as was the man that managed it.
Amid the disarray of smashed canned goods, scattered cereals, and
leaking liquor bottles, was Mr. Ferrell’s blood spread from ceiling
to floor, from door to counter and back again. I recall the exact
statement, “an explosion of gore,” being a tactlessly appropriate
description for the scene.
    The violent depiction could
have been most easily explained by the possibility of an attack by
a pack of wild beasts, many of which are common in this part of the
country, and with a large degree of those animals being nocturnal
by nature, this time of the year, when light dared not to embrace
us, it mostly made sense that on their now timeless wild hunt,
Ferrell and his store could have fallen victim. Secondly, not all
of Mr. Ferrell’s body was found at the
scene. A severed arm, however, was, and if he did somehow manage to
survive, it was unlikely he’d remain alive for long. Also, if there
were in fact animals behind the debacle, hungry and ravenous, why
was any bit of him left at all? The scene was
unsettling.
    There were other theories,
yet. The native Inuit of Barrow were known for their violent
cultural characteristics. In my study, I have heard tales from
those with diplomatic ties to the natives, like George Ferrell,
that claim that the Inuit were thought to carry out the practice of
senicide, or the killing of their elderly or unproductive peoples.
Also, it was said that in their culture, for purposes of purifying
their souls prior to passage to the afterlife, violent and terrible
suicides were carried out. Needless to say, death was not as
entirely taboo as it was to some of us, and given Mr. Ferrell’s
explicit link to the natives, it wasn’t hard to believe that a
trade deal may have gone awry and an angry native took to thoroughly “purifying Mr.
Ferrell for passage.” I know now that I will tread lightly in these
dark hours until the source of this tragedy becomes
clearer.
     
    Day 2 - November 23,
1941
     
    While the local authorities
were busy with the investigation of Mr. Ferrell’s death, we
received more questions than answers. Last night, an hour past
midnight, Lyle Carver, the local butcher, claimed that Ms.
Newstead’s door was reportedly broken into and hanging from its
hinges. I went to see the claim with my own eyes and stood outside
of the door this evening to try and understand the breadth of what
it was we were dealing with. The scene offered little
explanation.
    To say that the door was
broken into was a bit of an understatement. It would be better to
say that the door was broken through and left in splintered wooden planks around the
threshold. Inside of the door and beyond the highlighted tape
indicating the perimeter of the crime scene was Ms. Newstead and
her inner circle of three local women, dressed in red, not by
design, each slain. It was in this moment that consolation was
replaced by threat and the police, without podium or grandeur,
explained the scene to those of Barrow in all the graphic detail
required to convey such a threat.
    Officer Yarborough, the
younger of the two authorities, spoke in a shaky, uncertain voice.
He said, and I remember it vividly as I quote, “Tonight it has
become apparent that last night’s attack at the General Store and
the death of Mr. Ferrell wasn’t a terrible accident, but instead a
scene of a terrible murder.” The ‘oohs’ and covered mouths of
dismay sprung about with the revelation, but there was confusion as
to why they spoke of last evening's scene and not of the scene at
hand. It was apparent that they were connected in some way. He
continued, “Tonight we have discovered four women, Ms. Jenna
Newstead, Gina Gregory, Lilah Horton and her sister, Vivian
Horton—“