Journal Entry 1
Now. I must get this all down now. In one sitting, without taking my eyes off the paper. Not to sleep, not to eat, not even to take a piss. I’ve written these pages several times now; having to start over every time because if I took a moment, or paused for any reason, things changed. New horrors appeared. This story’s different. I know when you read this you’ll think I’m crazy, but this is the only possible solution I can think of. If I can get it written in full, just once, maybe I can lock Hell into one vision.
There is a hell - several in fact; I’ve seen them. If I can’t tell my story, if I can’t get it out in one go, you’ll see it too. All because of a myth. A fucking bedtime story to tell tweeny boppers, around a campfire with their s’mores and stolen beer, waiting for that thrill from a bygone era. Only, the myth isn’t just a story, it didn’t want the campfire, or the titillating fear, and it especially didn’t want to die.
So, I’ll have to kill it, and make sure it stays dead.
I must tell the story as it happened. Just in case this works, and if you believe me, then you’ll do what I ask at the end. Especially if it’s too late for me. Just keep in mind ghosts are everywhere, your brand of hell is on tap, and possession is nine-tenths of the law, and you’ll do fine.
It started out simple enough; I blew into town on a Wednesday for a short visit with my cousin, Rick. He wasn’t looking too well; his eyes were red, and rubbed raw. He kept flinching at the smallest sound, and chugged Pepto Bismol like he owned the company. Even so, he had a gig over the weekend - a special deal with the construction company he works for. They only wanted volunteers, for good money, and no talking about the job. He knew I was always looking for a way to make some cash, so he talked to his boss and got me invited along for a sweet jackpot of five hundred dollars for a couple hours of work. We would be helping seal up an old mausoleum that was falling apart, somewhere out past Nowheresville, Washington.
Well, not quite past Nowheresville. It just felt like it to me since I preferred life in Seattle. It was actually located in a small graveyard named Paradise Valley Cemetery, in Kings County, not too far from a little town called Maltby.
It sounded simple enough; prep a house of the dead located underground, seal the doors, and fill in the steps leading to it with cement. Once done, I’d go and enjoy my cash. Only drawback was my cousin warning about some crazy locals, and I shouldn’t listen to their rantings about ghosts. Sounded like kooks to me, so no issue there.
Then he laughed, and warned me about the thirteen steps… the Thirteen Steps to Hell. He’s been out there, and on them, he said, and so far, nothing! Then he got this faraway look in his eyes, and tried to sound spooky, but he sounded more like that Saturday night vampire hosting the monster movie on local T.V. every week. “Don’t turn around. Don’t look at shadows. Don’t be like me, but believe. I won’t be there to protect you from Hell itself, I’ll be there waiting for you,” his voice a sharp, hissing whisper.
Asshole. Moron! Of course, he wouldn’t be there. Of course, he didn’t believe. I bet you he does now! Now he screams instead of laughing… screams until the shrinks dose him again. Now with his eyes missing, and his face looking like fresh, ground hamburger. I know he believes now.
Sarajh
“Sarajh! Hey Sarajh! Get your ass in here! I want to go over the new assignment I gave you!” A voice bellowed from the doorway of the office I sat near. “Come on, how long can you sit at your desk, drinking that Seattle’s Best Hazelnut stuff you insist on, and poking that journal with a proverbial stick? It doesn’t bite… but I do!”
For a guy who owned several tabloids, and even a couple of reputable newspapers, he seriously needed to hire someone to do more than give the room a passing wave on the way out the door. I strolled into Justin’s dump of an office. Books and papers were scattered everywhere, old trophies from his college days as a quarterback hung on the wall, dusty reminders of his forgotten dreams of pro ball. The trashcan was full, and the smell from last night’s late-night chow mein from Mama Leiu’s competed with a chalky peppermint smell, wafting up from the antacid wrappers.
Okay! This was a good bit farther down the trashy path than he normally went. Obviously, it had been a rough night; if the worse than normal mess hadn’t been a glaring clue, his pasty skin, and the bags under his eyes were. Over the last week or so, he’d had mostly bad nights, and he looked awful.
“Who wrote this crap?” He demanded, gesturing to the article on his desk with dramatic flair. “It reads like it’s written by a freak from the 60s with a penchant for melodrama!” He shoved it away with a curled lip.
I knew where he was headed with this line of questioning, and stood my ground with a steady gaze. “Do I really have to do investigative reporting on a book you found at an estate sale? I think I’d get better readership for Investigation Sentinel with a story of Bigfoot, or aliens flying over the Cascades again, than this exaggerated piece of prose.” I countered with derision.
Justin pointed at me. “Do it. Just do it!” He ordered. “I notice you have an unhealthy attachment to your paycheck. I can break you of the habit, and all it would take is for you not to turn in your assignment.” He paused, and narrowed his eyes. “I want answers. Soon. My wife’s ‘second cousin, once removed’ crap only goes so far. The important fact is, you’re not my second cousin.”
“That’s obvious,” I agreed. “If I was that true blue and family too, I would be working at one of your more reputable papers, doing real journalism.”
Justin looked at me with hard eyes. “Just do it like I say. There’s something about this, whenever it was written. I feel it. I know it, like I know I am going to down some more antacids after this conversation.” He took a breath, and shook his head. “I can’t sleep from thinking about that place since I read the journal. I don’t know what it is, but this feels like a case of ‘there’s a there, there’.”
His eyes got a faraway look for a moment before they cleared, and he focused on me again. “I’ll even give you a starting point; the cemetery exists.”
My eyebrows went up in surprise, and he nodded. “Yeah, but locals call it Maltby Cemetery, not Paradise Valley, although that’s its official name. Most of the graves there are old… real old.” He sat back in his chair, the springs in it squeaking. “The place is creepy as all get out, and people don’t want to talk much, other than to say it’s private property now.”
“I don’t see how I factor into this,” I said. “I’m not a local, I don’t blend.”
He smirked. “You can get those people to talk. You can sniff out a story on the other side of wacko like nobody’s business; you and that spoiled dog of yours.”
Now I was beginning to understand.
“People see that big goofball mutt with his scarf and hat, and whatever else you dress him up in, and they open up like nobody’s business. You’d think they’re talking to their shrink at four hundred an hour,” he practically cackled. “Besides, you’ve got to take him,” he informed me. “He has common sense when there’s trouble, which you lack. Also, if you don’t take him, Cygnet will just keep him while you’re gone.”
I took umbrage at what he said about my dog. He wasn’t spoiled; I was just making up for what someone had done to him. He’d had a hard life before I found him, while hiking to some old ruins I’d heard about in the mountains. I had just seen the old buildings up the trail, when I heard a whimper, and looked down and saw the puppy. He’d been beaten, and was starving, dragging himself down the path. He needed help, and I took him to a vet, then brought him home. No one knew what breed he was, just that he was big. Justin was right though; people did seem to open up more when Wolfgang was about.
Insults to my dog aside, I chose to take pity on Justin. Since I did have a pesky addiction to a paycheck, I said I would finish reading the book and start the research before going out to the location. However, he wasn’t so pitiful that I didn’t demand travel expenses up front on my way out the door. We were in Bremerton, and ferry rides cost money. So did food and, hopefully for me, a nice hotel room.