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Rated: 18+ · Chapter · Dark · #2139588
Ben must cope with his brother’s passing. Henderson sees a survivor of the bus attack.

Foxvalley, Colorado
May 28, 9:21 A.M.

The front door of Benjamin’s house flung open. For Ben the night seemed almost like it’d never end. His bother was gone and he didn’t get a blink of sleep from it. The driveway leading up to the house from the side still remained vacant. Alarm shot through his spine when he remembered his mother went to Canon City last night looking for her son, and even though he called her, she never returned throughout he night. Maybe she stayed the night, but that could help keep the terrifying image of the remaining half of his brother’s body lying in a puddle of blood on the foot of the hill from haunting him.

Barely a car drove by on the street ahead of the house, which to Ben seemed strange, most people in Foxvalley left for work anywhere between nine and ten o’clock. The sky shined a bright white in the cloudless sky. The weather channel of the news announced earlier that day that it was supposed to rain tonight, but the sky looked more cloudless than he could ever remember. It didn’t really surprise him much, just another strange thing about this small secretive town.

Ben found the time being back from finding half his brother’s tough. The sickening feeling rotting in his stomach made him feel ill. His mind boggled, wonder what to do to possibly get his mind off his brother. He finally concluded that a walk would help him to convince himself not to tie a rope around the ceiling fan and kick a chair out from under him. If his brother just would’ve died it might’ve been easier to handle, but he saw his dead body. Well, part of it anyway. His depression only seemed to worsen without his mother home to comfort him, hug him and say, “It’s going to be alright.” Ben headed down the sidewalk of the street ahead of his house, Hemfield rd.

The world seemed bright on this day, yet as always a lurking darkness still stalked all the town residence. A group of younger children, around maybe eight to nine years of age played tag in the front yard of the house next door. They played and slapped each other on the backs, only to speed off running and giggling. They continued naively, unaware of the spirits of darkness following close behind them, or the tired zombie eyes stalking them from an upstairs window of the house next door. Weeds and grass grew out of cracks in the sidewalk, bending over from their own burden. The sun casted its rays down onto the town streets, dispelling as much of the dark that it could, but Ben already all knew, not even the sun can expel all the evil of the universe. A vehicle flashed down beside the road, leaving behind a fit of dust. The brown, dying weeds planted into the sidewalk weaved in the wind as the car flashed by in a fit of golden yellow dust clouds.

The roar of a lawnmower arose over the sound of the birds singing their songs of innocence. An older man from across the street began pushing the mower around. He looked tired. Those bags hanging from below his eyes indicated he wasn't only tired from a lack of sleep but tired of his growing-old lifestyle. Ben continued down the street. The memory of his brother haunting his mind, all the way from times in the past of him as his brother throwing softballs to each other. Most days during his elementary years appeared much like that. Ben’s older Brother, Kevin, was only a year older than him. His last year alive he was quarterback of the Foxvalley football team. Kevin loved sports, and wanted his brother to also be just as much into sports just as much as him.

Unfortunate for Kevin, Ben never really did get all that much into sports. Ben couldn't count all the times his big brother asked him to come and see him at one of the school football competitions. “C’mon Ben, it’ll be great. You can watch us beat other schools, and then I’ll teach you some of my moves.” He’d say just about every few months when the football team would go to a competition. Ben couldn’t count how many times he turned down his brother’s offer. Now he regretted all those time he lied saying, “No, I have way too much homework tonight, maybe next week.” Ben had hoped giving that tennis ball to FBI agent Budsworth would help him forget about what happened to his brother quicker, but that isn't just something you forget. It didn’t even ease his pain, but at least it didn’t make it any worse.

It came to a shock to Ben when Kevin came home from practice on Friday and didn't ask if Ben wanted to go to Canon City with his team to watch the game. He must've finally got the message. In fact his brother had been very unusually quiet for the last three days. Maybe I shoulda gone with him, Ben thought to himself. Sure thing, I might’ve of died, but at least I would of spent time with my brother. I would have also seen his killer. Ben continued down the sidewalk of Hemfield rd. The road soon converged with Haylin st. It was named after the twins who disappeared from the Haylin road down this street in 1909. Their parents became worried sick about them. Specifically their mother thought they were dead, but their father had hopeful wishes that they were still alive. Even when the two siblings were found only a few days later, covered in bruises and scratches and deceased, their father couldn't stand the thought they were dead. About a year later the Foxvalley police found him with a noose around his neck. The rope hung from a railing post on the top of the staircase.

No one really knows what happened to their mother, Marry Haylin. Most people believed she left her depressed husband and moved to Denver, others believe she killed him. There’s still no real idea of what happened to her. Ben turned down Haylin st. No actual houses where along Haylin street. Mostly because the street was really only used to connect Hemfield to Sandhill Dr. Until 1921 the Haylin’s house stood the only house along the street. A stretch of power line towered over the right side of the street next to a house facing Hemfeild rd. In the back yard to the light blue two story house stood a small shed. The double doors of the shed waved wide open. They occasionally swayed in the dull wind. A tall African American man with a black buzz cut stepped out in front of the shed, he opened the doors of the shed. He carried a long two-by-four wooden plank. His dark brown-eyed gaze drifted towards Ben as he wondered down the street beside the man’s house. “Heya Ben,” the man called. He shone a smile filled with teeth of a clean, pure white color. The man waved his hand at him. Ben waved back.

“Hey Jay,” he greeted back. The man placed the plank of wood down beside a circular saw he had placed out of a wide table behind his house. A wire plugged from the saw into an electricity outlet on the back of the house. He glanced back at Ben.

“So, how is your day today?’ He asked. Jay Copper was a great guy. He usually worked outside just about every weekend to greet Ben when he'd be walking by. Ben was never quite sure if he had any job, or if carpentry was his job, but Ben knew one thing for certain, carpentry forever continued to be one of his hobbies. It definitely wasn’t his first time hiking through the street of his small home town. He normally walks this block just about every weekend, but this time it felt different. Normally he does it just for the sheer enjoyment to be out alone once a day, walking the down. This time it wasn't for that, this time he hoped it’d get his mind from of the fact that his brother would never be returned get home; and even if he was, he wouldn't be returning back home whole. Now, walking down this street he could see the bright colors he normally seen, only the darkness and death of the world.

Ben stepped up into the light green grass of Jay’s mowed lawn. Jay strapped a pair of crystal clear goggles over the top of his forehead. He turned back to Ben stepped up behind him. “Not all that much good,” Ben frowned. He bet Jay also wondered were the bus from the football trip had disappeared to. Jay’s son, Colin Copper, was a football player, and good friends with Kevin. Now they were both gone. Killed by a beast of the darkness that haunts their nightmares.

“Oh, so do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Asked Jay. His face shone of worry, yet wonder. Did he really have to break the news about the bus on the side of the road. What if Jay doesn't believe him? What would he do? How would he respond? Ben only backed away without say much.

“Nothing, I don't really feel like talking about it. Thanks for asking though,” Ben said. He started back towards the street he had just stepped off of. Before he could go far Jay grabbed onto his shoulder.

“Hey, do you know when that bus is supposed to be back from that football game?” He asked. Ben’s eyes grew large in panic. What was he supposed to say? That the bus laid flattened to the side of State Road 9? A bloody half of a body lying to the side of it, belonging to his now deceased brother. Ben shivered. What was he supposed to do? No one was there to whisper is his ear what to say like his brother used to do all the time.

Ben let out a sigh in efforts to calm himself down. He didn't want Jay knowing how tense he was of the whole situation. “I’m not sure. The game may have trailed on so they might have stayed the night in Canon City,” Ben lied. He didn't like to lie, but he couldn’t put the whole in a panic. What if the truth spreads that a whole bus full of students where killed on their way home. He sped off, speed walking back down Haylin St. Jay watch him speed off towards the one-way street beside his house. A expression of both wonder and alarm on his face. Jay knew Ben was hiding something from him. He found it almost all too easy to tell.

An old blue, rusted Chevy truck roared along the street behind Ben. He stepped off to the side, and watched the truck roll by. A cloud of yellow dust trailed behind it, filling up Benjamin’s sinuses. A gust of wind shifted through the valley. The leaves of the trees shook violently, warning of the impending thunderstorm. Leaves drifted from the trees, landing on vehicles and the windowsills of surrounding houses. The sound of all the leaves flying through the wind together made the sound of a peaceful waterfall, plummeting off a cliff into a sea filled ditch below.

Ben continued down Haylin street. The dust, from the truck that just drove by, flooded the street. It stung his eyes as he continued along the peaceful right side of the street. A road sign standing in front of him unveiled itself through the fog of dust. The sign pointed along a road that converged with Haylin street. It read, “Sandhill dr.” Down Sandhill Drive stood the Library, shinning against the rising sun. An old pickup truck rested outside. The sign beneath the one that read, “Sandhill Dr.” the direction of Haylin st. On it in white letters against a green plate it read, “Haylin St.”

A dog slammed into the long wire fence that stretched across a house on the edge of the junction. It snarled and growled, flashing sharp blood-tainted teeth from its snout. The dog was an Border Collie, but looked of a stranger color. It's fur seemed pasted together by what appeared to be either sweat or blood. It looked as if the poor thing may have been attacked. The screen door of the house inside the fence sprang open. “George, shut the Hell up,” An older man shouted from the front deck. His lips curled over his toothless mouth. When the dog wouldn't stop its barking, the man reached back into the front room of his house, and pulled out a thick roll of newspaper and a sturdy metal cane.

He made a slow crawl off the front porch towards the aggressive dog. “Mr. Patterson, wait!” Ben called. The man looked up at him, and fixed his thin edged glasses over his cool blue eyes.

“Ah Ben, how's it going? Sorry about the dog, there's just been something strange about him lately,” Mr. Patterson announced. The man’s name was Dale, Dale Patterson. He and his wife have lived in Foxvalley since 1957, back then they both were very young. They escaped their homes when they were younger. The two lived in families that practically hated each other. There used to be a lot of rumors that’d go around that the families they came from were the Hatfields and McCoys of Eastern America. It was never really proven, but it was debunked when the Pattersons answered the age old questions twenty years after it started. They were originally from Kansas City. The men of the families where big competitors who couldn't stand each other’s pigheadedness.

They moved only a year before the disappearances of 1958, in 1957. Which most questions of the disappearances in the year of 58’ had still gone unanswered. The towns people even knew more of the disappearances of 09’ and 32’. The only thing anyone really knows about the disappearances of 58’ was what the Pattersons told them. The FBI caught and through the killer and threw him in jail. Supposedly, they executed him five years later. Everyone in town believed them until now, when the disappearances started again. Now Dale was in his 80s, but still in perfect health. He actually looked more like he should’ve been in his sixties. When people would ask him his secret for living for so long he tells them, “I never smoked, now I'm as old as the trees. My father, well he liked to make his mouth look like the funnel of a smoke factory, he died of lung damage at the age of 52.”

At some pointed they gotten themselves a Border Collie and named it George. Sadly, though, last year his wife had died of breast cancer, but she made it a spanking 81 years of age before she died. Now, a year later, Dale Patterson remained a mostly quiet man who used dentures and occasionally took his dog out for walks. Ben always found the dog to be sweet, especially to visitors. He’d mostly jump on them, and lick their faces, as a dog normally does. This had been the first time he seemed to had gone after Ben. He watched as Dale stepped up the Border Collie and raised the newspaper over his head. “Wait, are you sure he’s okay?” Ben asked. Dale halted the newspaper, mid-air. His gaze shifted back to Benjamin standing on the opposite side of the fence.

“Why?” He asked.

“That's not normally him to do something like that,” Ben answered. Dale looked back down at his dog, who had his head laid down on the ground, gazing up at his master in remorse. The newspaper in his hand lowered. Dale glanced back at Ben, down at the dog, back to Ben again.

“So what do you expect me to do?” He asked.

“I know a thing or two about dogs, so if you don't mind I'd like to come in and see if he’s okay. If that okay with you?” Ben asked, stepping up in front of the fence gate. Ben’s father knew a little bit about pets from his father. A veterinarian living in San Francisco.

“Yeah okay, but if he nips at you just tell me. I’ll spank him one,” Dale said. Ben nodded and opened the front gate. George lifted his head towards the gate as he stalked Benjamin step into the front yard. Ben closed the gate behind him and began to take a few slow steps towards the rabid dog. The rumble rolled out from the dog’s neck. “George stop,” Dale ordered, pulling his newspaper up in his hand. Ben took a few steps closer and crouched down in front of the Border Collie. He held out his hand to let the dog sniff it. The dog black wet nose breathed in Benjamin’s sent. The tenseness of it’s muscles seemed to release. The dog’s eyes lightened up. All vicious and hatred in its eyes died away. The George Ben once knew, now, seemed to be back. Dale lifted his free hand up over his head and scratched the gray hair he had left, stretching around the back of his head. “That's strange.” Dale said.

Ben glanced back up at him, but only for a quick moment. Dale was right, Ben never seen anything like it. At one moment the dog acted feral and rabid, the next it seemed to invite him as its new friend. Ben ruffled his hand through the dogs red painted fur. It was wet and sticky. The fur seemed pasted flat by the red fluid coating it. Ben lift his hand off from the dogs fur. He looked down at his hand. The red residue stuck, like a sticky paste, to his fingers. It looked almost like blood. Ben reached back at the dog’s fur and began pulling the fur out of the way. The fur tightened together well, probably from the blood that coated it. Ben finally found a bald spot of George’s fur. Deep slashes stretched across the the bald spot. Blood rolled out over the fur, but there was no way all of this blood bleed from the scratches and slashes in the poor animal’s bald spot. “What’s going on with him?” Asked Dale from behind.

“He got hurt by something, but it looks like he probably put up a pretty good fight.” Ben explained, “If all of this blood on him came from him he wouldn't be alive. I’ll do my best to figure out what it was that attacked him. You should take him to the veterinarian on the outskirts of town.” Dale nodded and headed back up the stairs to the deck. He stumbled into his house to call the Vet. Ben stayed, petting the bloodied dog laying on the grass in front of him. It occasionally licked his hand. When he looked down on the grass around him he noticed the drop of blood in the grass. Ben stood up from the injured dog and took a closer look at the bloody mowed grass. Another droplet laid further up ahead in the grass. Ahead of that one was another droplet of blood in the grass. Ben eyes widened, he found a trail, and it led outside the wired fence gate.

Dale stepped out onto his porch into the morning sunlight. An old corded phone rested in his hand. The phone’s curly cord extended from behind the front door of the house. ‘Yeah, I think he got attacked by some wild animal,” Ben overheard. After hearing the sound of the phone being placed back on it’s holder, Dale emerged form his house a few seconds later. He rushed to his bloody dog. A bowl of clean clear water splashed around in his hands. He set it down in front of the dog, and sat down in a Chair on the outdoor patio. Ben took a few steps up towards him. The trial of blood urged him to follow it and find out what attacked George.

“I’ve gotta go now,” Ben explained to the desperate elder. Dale stared over the dog, his eyes were clouded in sorrow. He looked up at Ben with his remorseful eyes.

“Thank you…” He replied with a long silence. “I was about to hit him, without even knowing everything he’d been through. Ben, I want you to help me find out what did this to him. Please, he's all I even have left to remind me of my wife, what my life used to be like.” Ben nodded in acknowledgement. Dale grasped his hand with a warm and tough grasp, strange for most older people, who usually have cold, clammy hands. “Thank you,” he repeated. A tear rolled from his eye, under the rim of his glasses, down his cheek. Ben turned back towards the gate leading out of the fence enclosed area. The wire fence sprang open, and Ben stepped out, latching it shut behind him.

Dale still watched from the patio of the house as Ben crossed the street. He followed the blood trail left behind by the mysterious creature (that attacked George). It led across the street. The dark red stains led across the asphalt of the road. Ben followed it onto the other side. Then the blood trail entered back into a lawn of tall, unkept grass off to the side of the road. Ben stepped down into the long grass of an abandoned house. The house was known to many people as the Richardson home. The last people to stay in there was back in the year of 58’. No one really knew anything about the Richardsons. Most people believed they moved away after the disappearance of 58’. The grass around the house stretched up, high out of the ground, it looked as if the lawn hadn't been mowed for a hundred years. The blood droplets led up to a short stair case, which led up to a balcony only four steps above. Two thick wood columns held the roof up over above it. The building looked like no one had been out to work on it in forever.

A lot of rumors circled the town neighborhood about the old Richardson’s house. Some your usual small town rumors of old, creepy houses. It was haunted by the father who murdered his wife and kids, and now he’s still has that same hunger to kill. Yeah, the story everyone has already heard once or twice in their life. Other stories says the house is cursed, because it was built on the site of an old Indian burial ground, which was actually entirely possible (The old Indian burial part). Foxvalley rested in a valley where an old Native American tribe used to be located at. The Hikaki was the tribe that used to be out there. Most people believe they were actually descendant of the Cherokee people, split from the rest of their tribe during the trail of tears. No one really knows for sure, though.

Many shattered windows lined up along the rotting out walls of the house. Probably from years of baseballs being smashed inside. No one ever went into the house to get them back, so who knows, if Ben opens the door he may get flooded by an uncountable amount of baseballs. Ben slowly stared up the rotting stairs. “Hey Karmin,” A voice called from behind. Behind him stood Harley Cannon, the troublemaker of the Foxvalley High School. They say that there’s a bad apple in every town, well Harley was that bad apple. Most of the others in school associated him with being an idiot, and they weren’t far off. That and his constant bitching. “What are you doing you dweeb. I hope your not really planning on going into the Richardson’s house. You know, I hear that place is a piece of work. You know never mind it’s probably the best place for you. A piece of work living in a piece of work, sounds fitting doesn't it,” Harley sneered behind him. He sat there in the front seat of a red, open-roofed Sedan. A wicked smile showed across his face.

“Get out of here, asshole,” Ben retorted. The wicked smile on Harley’s face when from a wicked smile to a strait face of seriousness. A brown eye brow, just under his think round brown hair, lifted. He removed a pair of sunglasses from his dark brown eyes.

“What did you call me, dweeb?” He asked in a deep intimidating voice. Well, he never really had a deep intimidating voice, just a “trying too hard” voice. A blank stare pointed strait at Benjamin.

“You heard me, I called you an asshole, what do want me to do next, spell it out for you?” Ben asked. Harley’s face filled with rage. The driver’s side door of his glossy red painted sedan opened. He stepped out in a pair of blue jeans, held up by a black leather belt. He had this heavy black sweater he seriously thought he actually looked tough in it, but all the black leather coat really do is show everyone how pale white his skin was, and how much paler it became when he tried to fight.

“Yeah, you can use your blood when I’m finished with you,” He growled, flicking out a pocket knife. The sharp edge gleamed blinding white in the sun. Ben prepared himself, ready for whatever foolish thing Harley would attempt next. Uncalled for, Harley hurled at him. Ben only just barely escaped his wrath as the knife stabbed, and buried itself in the wall of the old house. He stood there trying to pulled it out. Ben stepped up behind him, and could hear his grunting as he continued to try to tug the knife out from the wall. Before Harley could do anything about it Ben shoved into him.

They both smashed through the front door onto the dusty living room of the Richardson’s house. Harley made a loud grunt as he picked himself up off the ground. “Oh, your going to pay for that you little shit,” He grumbled, wobbling back out onto the porch. He grabbed ahold of the knife, and jerked it out. He stumbling back, but caught his footing almost instantly.

Harley’s hostile gaze shifted back over Ben. He began heading for him, but was unaware of the baseball laying on the floor directly in front of him. “You just had to go on and say that did ya?” He asked. Ben started to crawl away until his back came into contact with a white sheet covered recliner standing behind him. Then Harley placed his foot down on the baseball. “I’m gonna make sure you always regret the, woah…” he slipped face first, smacking his face into the hard wood below. The knife stumbled out of his hand onto the floor.

Ben reached up and stole it from the floor before Harley could retrieve it. He expected Harley to try and attack him again, but his wide eyes were too busy staring at something else. They were filled with bewilderment and fear. Ben’s gaze shifted to whatever Harley seemed to be staring at. On the bloody planked floor in front of them laid a distorted bloody body. It’s guts and intestines exposed, hanging out of a cavity in their stomach.

Harley flailed across the floor, trying to stand up from his position. His eyes bugged from his head at the dead body in front of him. Ben’s gaze only continued to star, horridly, that the sight in from of them. He didn’t know which was worse, finding half of his dead brother, or finding this mauled human being. Harley back up out of the house and vomited on the side of the porch. He stumbled downstairs, opening the door to his car.

Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed sheriff Henderson’s phone number and brought the device up to his ear. “Hello sheriff, I think I found something you need to see,” he said.

~~~ Sheriff Abraham Henderson ~~~
Foxvalley, Colorado
May 28, 8:56 A.M.

The tires of Henderson’s patrol car crackled and popped as it pulled up into the gravel driveway of the house that he had been called from. The driver’s side door swung open. He stood up out of the seat, his boot slamming onto the gravel of the driveway below. The house sat up on the side of the Eastern Mountain, surrounded by tall pine trees that weaved in the wind. On the other side of the street, leading up to the house, rested a view of the town below. Henderson found it much like the view of Foxvalley from Hackshaw’s cabin, but on the opposite side of town. Sunlight streamed down into the town below through the last remaining clouds from the storm last night. To Henderson the almost constant rain on the last few weeks seemed strange. Through they’ve had rainy weeks, it normally wasn’t no where near as much as they’ve received lately.

The two story house stood, buried behind the tall oak and conifer trees that populated the clearing. A mountain bald occupied the top ridge of the mountain behind it. The May wind chill stabbed Henderson’s skin. A very few white puffs of clouds rolled across the waking sky. Henderson cautiously stepped up to the house’s dark spruce wooded front door. in the center of the door sat a window, allowing the sunlight in. The outer walls glowed a color of pure white, with a black shingled roof that towered from high above.

Henderson pressed a doorbell button beside the front door. He the sound of footsteps approaching, and a door slamming from inside. The golden door knob jingled as something grasped ahold of it from outside. The door slowly creaked open revealing a brown irised eye. “Sheriff?” A low raspy voice asked.

“Mr. Holt, you called about some boy from the bus being at your house?” Henderson asked. Mr. Holt shook his head rapidly. Henderson tried peaking into the house behind him, but Holt stood directly in his view, staring back at him suspiciously. “Can you let me in?”

“Oh yeah, sorry sheriff.” Holt apologized and opened the door the rest of the way for him. Henderson stepped inside, unaware of the revolver hidden under the belt of Holt’s pants. Holt closed the door immediately after with a slam. He locked the deadbolt and doorknob and a few more locks he installed on his own. Henderson took a few slow steps down the hall. “So, where is he?” Henderson asked, turning to face Holt. His heart skipped a beat when his eyes rest on the barrel of Holt’s revolver pointed between his brows. “Woah Holt, I told you. It's me, the sheriff. Now put down the gun,” Henderson held his hands up, and stared down at the pistol directly in front of him.

“I don't think so sheriff. How do I know it’s really you. The Russians are after us, you know that. Yes, all the UFO and alien crap they talk about all the time, really Russians. Our government actually pays them to abduct Americans to work on their damn experiments,” Holt grumbled. Henderson always associated him as being crazy, and this wasn’t the first time Holt pointed a gun to his head. Ever since returning from the Cold War he’s thought the Russian and American Governments were in a joint effort to kill him for some reason. Not even him himself really knew why they would be. Henderson just believed he was a poor old nutcase who was “let go” from the nuthouse when he had gotten emitted fourteen years ago. Henderson didn't even believe he was “let go”, most likely he more of escaped the insane asylum to live out in a secluded place. Either that or they just got sick of hearing of all his dumb conspiracies.

“Okay, what do you want me to do Chris?” Henderson asked, rolling his eyes up in his head, but continued to remain as polite as he could.

“Take off that coat,” He answered pointing his revolver at the “Canon City Police” patch on the left side chest part. Henderson glanced down at the patch, then back at him. Holt didn't trust the government at all. He always seemed to have this “Trust no one” type of deal going on since he returned from Russia. Even his wife left him, because he accused her of being a Russian spy.

“You know if I take off that one there’ll just be another one just under that one. How about I just put tape over it?’ Henderson asked. Holt regained a constant glare. Holding his revolver out in front of him. Henderson knew why he didn't like the patch. He thought the government kept a wire under it, so they could use it to find him. Holt finally nodded, “Okay, put down any weapons that you have,” He ordered. Henderson reached into the pocket and pulled out his pistol. “Slowly!” Holt shouted, holding his finger tightly around the trigger.

“Okay, I’m lowing it to the ground now, okay?” Henderson asked, Holt made another rapid nod with his head. Henderson slowly lowered the pistol and placed it on the floor. Then he darted, ramming into Holt. The revolver fired, the bullet smacked into the wall behind him. Henderson knocked the firearm out of Holt’s hand, and slammed him up against the wall. “It's going to be alright,” Henderson reassured him, “Just show me the kid,” he ordered. Holt nodded frantically, as Henderson released him from his position. He picked up Holt's revolver and his pistol off from the gloss wooden floor. Holt started down the hallway towards the staircase at the end. He stopped at the foot of the steps waiting for Henderson, who stepped up behind him only a few moments later. They made their ways up the stairs onto the second floor one step at a time until they stepped up into a long, narrow hallway. It stretch down to the far end of the hall where a window showed a view of the town below. Holt stepped up to a door on the left at the far side.

“He’s in here,” he opened the door and stepped inside. Henderson froze in shock at the sight sitting on a small twin sized bed. A teenage African American boy sat on the edge of the bed. Rips and scratches slashed through his jersey. A stream of blood rolled down his forehead. His eyes bulged, filled with terror. Bruises surrounded his arms from whatever attacked him last night. He clamped his hands together in an embrace with himself. Under his dark blue eyes appeared wet, leaking streams of tears down his cheeks. His arms were covered in deep slashes, it looked as if he’d been attacked by some type of animal out in the woods, or maybe he ran through a collection of thorn bushes. A slight discoloration filled his face, painting his skin a pale sick color. Henderson stepped up beside him on the bed.

The boy’s blank stare seemed to pass through the walls, staring into a terror-including nightmare. His mouth jittered. Whatever he saw out there on that state road scarred him for life. Henderson could see it in his eyes. He saw it, and it came for him. Ripped through the forest, approaching from close behind. He could still see it in his nightmares. That thing stalked him, looking for the perfect moment to barge through the door to finish him off.

It took a moment for Henderson to place him, he looked familiar, but he just couldn’t place it right.. If not for the bruises and paleness of his skin Henderson would swear it looked like Jay Cooper’s son, Colin Cooper. “Are you Colin Copper, son of Jay Cooper?” Henderson asked. It actually did make sense that Colin would be alive somewhere out here. He was a football player after all, so he could've been on the bus, returning back home that night. Henderson knew how close he and Kevin Karmin was. Either he was in shock from what attacked him, or he witness the death of his friend. Which means he might have very well seen what did it to him. Colin’s gaze slowly rolled over to be eye-to-eye with Henderson.

“Sheriff…” he rasped. Henderson kneeled down beside him, and grasped a hold his hand. He glanced back at Holt, stranding behind them in the doorway.

“Call the ambulance,” Henderson ordered. Holt nodded and disappeared around the corner of the doorway down the skinny hallway. Henderson gazed back over at Colin, holding his hand tight in his grasp. “Colin, what can you tell me about what happened?” Colin’s gaze drifted up at a ceiling fan hanging down over the bed.

“The bus driver…” Colin began, “He stopped along the route back to pick up some woman off to the side of the road. We knew something wasn't right about her. She was out there on State Road 9 all by herself. Her car stood off to the side of the road, flashing it’s hazards. The bus Driver got out to talk to the lady, then we saw it. A leg, of a human, it flew out of the woods and landed on her car. The car alarm when off. The woman rushed in a closed the door behind her, shutting the bus driver outside. Then… then…” He almost fell out of the bed in terror as Holt stepped back into the doorway of the room. He stared at the man with his big bug eyes, terrified for his life.

Holt only stood, leaning against the doorway, a confused look aboard his face. “Did I miss something?” He asked, frantically glancing between the both of them. Henderson rolled his eyes at the ignorance, he glared back at Colin.

“Colin, listen to me it’s going to be okay. There’s an ambulance coming to pick you up and take you to the clinic. Once you're there they'll see what they can do. Alright?” Henderson explained, trying to calm him down. Even thought he knew it wasn't really helping all of that much. “You're going to be okay, alright? If anything comes in to get you Chris and I will be here to take care of it. We both have guns, trust me holt showed me that one real up-close.”

“You can’t take that thing down with no gun. It'll kill you before you even take it out of your holster,” Colin rasped. Henderson wanted answers, but if all of his questions were going too be answered like this what was the point of it.

“What is it Colin?” Henderson's asked. “What was this thing that attacked the bus? What attacked you?” Colin's gaze drifted over Henderson, his pupils dilated and filled with fear.

“Vix…” he answered. Vix? Who the hell was Vix? Henderson never heard of that name before, unless it had to do with cold medicine (and even then, it was spelled completely different). He looked back up at Holt standing behind him.

“Do you know anyone from the name of Vix?” Henderson's asked. Holt, without another word said, only shook his head. The flip phone in Henderson’s back pocket vibrated, he reached back and pulled it out. It was Benjamin. He brought it up to his ear. “Hello Ben, what is it?” He asked.

“Sheriff Henderson… I’m afraid I have some really back news.” There was a touch of panic to his voice. “Do you know the old Richardson’s home?” Ben asked.

“Of corse I know it. We’ve been called out there several times to get softballs. Why?”

“Sheriff, you might want to see this,” Henderson’s eyes grew in confusion. Ben seemed slightly trouble, what in the world could he be talking about? Many legends surrounded that old abandoned house, legends that weren’t true, of course. Ghost and demons weren’t real, never have been and never will. Henderson’s eyes grew in astonishment and terror as soon as he comprehended when Ben said next, “I see a dead person. He looks as if he was attacked by some animal...”
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