My wife went missing for three days.
I filed a missing persons report with the Leatherwood Police Department. On the fourth day, I got a call from Sherriff Stewart.
“Jason… I..”
“What is it Sherriff? “
“She’s dead. I’m sorry, so sorry.”
I broke down, my body shaking, my sadness uncontrollable.
“Do I need to identify the body.”
“No..No. We don’t need to do that. Just, you know, do you need anything? I mean if you do need anything, let me know.”
By her own wishes, my wife was cremated. I put the urn in our bedroom on top of my dresser. I wasn’t too keen on having a shrine for her. It didn’t feel right to be so ostentatious. A spot in the bedroom was just fine.
The Sherriff told me that she had written a suicide note. She had explained that she was dealing with a deep depression that she couldn’t escape. Darkness had enveloped her life. There was nothing in there about me. The Sheriff made it seem like an icy matter-of-fact account of how and why she wanted to end her life. She drove to Nashville, got a hotel, and shot herself in the head.
“Can I have the note?”
“No, Jason. It’s evidence.”
A month passed. It was November. Snow had blanketed everything on the farm. There was a full moon in the sky and the snow radiated a pale blue, invoking in me a melancholy mysticism. I could feel my wife’s presence. We owned the land across the street. There was an old broken-down barn with dark stained wood. It was leaning on one side, almost ready to fall. I hadn’t any plans for it. I liked the way it looked with the surrounding trees and the open field. It was a perfect setting. I put a picnic table and a grill over near the barn. We spent a lot of time in that spot. It was our sacred ground.
I was lost in memory, the sort of memory you have when someone you love dies and you don’t want to face your new reality, the reality of loneliness. I wanted to be dead. I wished for it. I even thought that maybe I would drive up to Nashville myself and end it the way she did. And then I noticed a figure walk out from behind the barn. It stopped and stood still. I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes. The snowy moon must have rattled my hysterical mind, creating a specter of imagination. It moved again, but only two more steps forward. I froze. I was trying to understand what I was seeing and how to react. I reasoned that my grief had taken over my faculties, that what I was seeing was impossible. It looked like my wife, for when that shadow walked, and even though it was only a few steps, the gait was unmistakably my wife’s. She had a slight limp from an accident she had as a child. It had been a terrible ordeal and a long recovery. She had severely damaged her lower leg. He father had lived but her mother had died.
The figure eventually walked through a dilapidated wall and disappeared into the barn. I ran upstairs to get my flashlight out of the bedroom closet. I was about to run out of the room but then stopped. Fear had gotten a hold of me. If that was my wife, then who was in the urn. If my wife was in the urn, then who was in my barn. I turned off the lamp on my nightstand and stood there in the dark ruminating about what to do. I was looking through the window staring at the barn. I had almost convinced myself that I hadn’t seen anything, but then I saw her come back out of the barn, turn, and stare back up at the house. I teared up. It was definitely her. Did the Sheriff lie to me, and if so, why? She walked back into the barn.
I made up my mind. I had to do it. I had to go and see for myself. I was angry at myself. What a coward. That’s your wife and she needs help.
I ran downstairs and out the door. My pace never slowed. I forced myself to get there as quick as possible so I wouldn’t have time to change my mind. I crossed the street, almost slipping on the ice, got to the grass and heard the crunch of snow beneath my boot. I decided to slow down at that point, so as not to make any startling noises. I slowly approached the open side wall and shined my flashlight inside.
Standing there in the middle of the barn was my wife. She was wearing a pink blouse and a white skirt. Her skin was pale and dry. She was barefooted with dirt all over her feet. I could see runes tattooed all over her body. Her blouse was unbuttoned, and her breasts were exposed. The middle of her chest was cut open and I could see her still beating heart.
“Michelle. Oh Michelle.”
She just stood there. No response, but she did look straight at me, and in a subtle way acknowledged that she recognized me. It was an ever so slight a smile that only a husband would recognize. That melted me. I felt guilty because before that I had a brief thought to go and grab the pick axe that was laying against the stable and plunge it in her head, ending her misery. I decided that I could fix this. She was hurt but not dead.
“Come on Michelle. Let’s go in the house.” She tilted her head and started to step toward me. I put my arm around her. She felt stiff and cold, like she had been locked in a freezer. We made our way across the street and into the house. I couldn’t stand to look at her chest any longer. The skin had been peeled back at four corners and sewn to her skin. The sternum, along with some ribs had been removed. The remaining ribs fortified with metal and welded together. I buttoned up her shirt. The thought of that pickaxe crept back into my head.
I got her upstairs. It was an arduous climb. She could barely bend her knees and each step seemed to exhaust her. I laid her on her side of the bed. Her nightstand was stacked high with books. Michelle never just read one book at a time. She would always read three at a time- one fiction, one history, and one true crime. I put a cover over her and went downstairs to grab a beer and think.
I drank more beers than I probably should have but a part of me did not want to go back upstairs. The beer was to knock down my anxiety and give me courage. I went back upstairs. Michelle hadn’t moved. She was lying on her back and staring at the ceiling. I could hear her labored breathing. She looked horrible. That damn pickaxe. I keep seeing it. It keeps jumping in my head. I didn’t even know if I should turn out the light. I decided I would go turn on the lamp on the nightstand and then come back and turn off the main light. I wasn’t going to sleep in the bed. I grabbed a cover from the closet and got as comfortable as I could in the chair. I stared at a Michelle for a good while, trying to figure out if she was really her anymore. After a while the beer took effect and I fell asleep, despite my fear.
I dreamed of a woman dying on the side of the road, wheezing for air.
“I can’t breathe. Here.” She handed me a pickaxe and then just laid there wheezing and gasping. I kept hearing her gasp. It took over my dream. Every other aspect of the dream faded, but her breathing grew louder. I finally realized that it was Michelle and I had somehow incorporated her breathing into my dream. I opened my eyes to see what was happening.
Michelle was floating in the air directly in front of my chair. She was about three feet from the ground, her head turned up to the ceiling, feet close together, and arms spread out as if she was being crucified. Her blouse was open again. She stopped wheezing and started growling. She looked down from the ceiling and directly at me. Her eyes were all white with no pupils.
“I love you honey. Let’s go to the barn.” She started laughing.
I jumped out of the chair and grabbed the doorknob. She raked my back with her fingernails trying to grab my shirt. I felt the sting of exposed cut skin. I elbowed her in the face. She lost her grip. I ran out the door, jumped down the stairs, maybe touching one or two and out the front door. I stumbled to the street and saw that Sherriff Stewart’s squad car was coming up the road.
He stopped the car. The headlights flashed off.
“Jason, everything alright. What are you doing?”
“Sherriff, I don’t know what’s going on.”
The Sherriff drew his gun and shot me in the leg. I fell to the ground in agony. He walked over and shoved his hand in my face and pushed my head hard into the snow. My ears and face burned with the extreme cold of the packed snow. He shot me in my other leg, then turned me over and handcuffed me.
“It’s nothing personal Jason. She belongs to the Temple now.”
“What in the hell are you talking about!! Stop! Don’t take me in there.”
He had started dragging me by my feet towards the house. I could see on his hand Michelle’s wedding band. My legs ached with excruciating pain, but I did everything I could to kick at him. He got furious and turned me over. He grabbed the cuff chain, pulling my arms as far as he could towards my head and started dragging me that way. It felt as if my triceps and tendons were tearing away from the bones. I screamed in agony.
“She has to have her first kill to finish the ritual and who better than you. I dropped her off at the barn. I was hoping she would finish you off there, but we don’t always get our way. These demons are a little unpredictable.”
He got me to the porch and pulled out his gun.
“Here sit up.” He helped me to sit up and pointed the gun at me. “Now, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to put you in that house and Michelle is going to kill you. See, you need murdered blood to complete the possession.”
“You have her ring,” I mumbled to myself.
“Ah yes. I shouldn’t tell you all this but hell, why not. You’re about to be dead. You see we must have something personal to control her. She is basically a slave to the Temple. She is possessed by a lower-level demon I guess you could say. It’s really just an animistic spirit. Strong but dumb as shit. Not really cerebral, if you know what I mean, but coupled with a human body it will do anything we ask. It is strong and loyal if controlled by the personal mind of a deceased human and of course, that human spirt is attached to this ring, or personal token. It’s like vodka and orange juice. A murderous spirit watered down by a lovely soul. “
“You killed my wife. You lied to me.”
“No, the Temple killed your wife. I’m just covering it up and helping to finish the ritual. Enough chit-chat. Let’s get to it. Really, Jason, I liked you. It wasn’t my decision. I would have chosen a different couple.”
He put the gun to my head and commanded me not to resist. He helped me stand up. We walked through the door, and he shoved me to the couch.
“Michelle, honey, come on down. Daddy’s home.”
She had been standing at the top of the stairs. She came down the stairs but much more agile than when I had taken her up the stairs. As she came down the stairs she looked toward me with a murderous smile, her eyes still white as snow. She was growling and laughing, enjoying the prospect of ripping me head off.
“Michelle, it’s me Jason, you’re husband. I love you.”
I hadn’t noticed before but one of the cuffs were loose. In the mayhem he hadn’t pushed the strand all the way into the lock. I started to pull my hand through and felt it come free. I kept my hand behind my back. Michelle was coming down the stairs. The Sherriff was mesmerized by my wife’s entrance, and more irritating, I think he was somewhat aroused by her. I rushed forward, grabbed his hand with the gun and forced it to his face. I didn’t try to take his gun but pulled the trigger while it was still in his hand. I didn’t get to aim the gun exactly where I wanted but the bullet ripped through the side of his neck. Blood shot out of his neck and into my face. He struggled and my hand slipped back in front of the barrel of the gun. He pulled the trigger out of desperation and shot through the palm of my hand. He tried to yell to Michelle, but his voice was muted by the blood brimming in his mouth. I tugged at the gun with my other hand, and it fell to the ground. Sherriff Stewart fell back against the living room wall clutching at his throat.
Michelle jumped on my back. She clawed at my eyes. The room fell out of focus with a tint of red filling my eye. With my one good eye I could see the gun on the ground. She now bit into by shoulder and at the same time started to slap me in the face with her open hand. She seemed to be getting stronger the more she wrestled with me. A thought occurred to me that it was the blood, the blood was making her stronger. I tried to elbow her again, but she dodged it. She wasn’t falling for that again. I fell to my knees and crawled on all fours to the gun. I grabbed the gun and shot behind me. She fell back off of me and to the floor. I turned around to see that I had grazed her shoulder. She got up and I shot again. This time in her chest, right through the heart. It kept beating, with blood pumping out onto the floor. I rushed over to the Sherriff and started to get her wedding ring off his finger. She came back towards me, growling and hissing. I struggled to get the ring. The Sherriff grabbed my arm but finally the ring came free, and it was mine.
Michelle stopped her advance. She stood up and looked forward. I noticed her appearance was getting worse. Her teeth were sharp. There was blood all over her body, from her chin to her legs. It was my blood. I was feeling weak. I probably looked just as bad. I had no strength to do any more fighting. I had been bitten, slapped, and shot three times. I knew how I could end this. First, the Sherriff. I wasn’t sure how she would transform, but I was pissed.
“Michelle, kill that lousy son of a bitch. Finish off Sherriff Stewart.”
Michelle obeyed without hesitation. She ran to him and started to bite and claw, ripping flesh with her teeth and with both hands dug her nails deep into his cheeks. Then she pulled his cheeks away from his face. His eyes were wide with fear, but he couldn’t audibly express it. From where I was sitting, I could see his teeth through the hole in his cheek. Then she ended it with a quick snap of his head.
I put Michelle’s ring on my finger.
“Go to the barn.”
Michelle walked out to the barn and went inside. I watched her from the front door. I went into the kitchen and got a beer. I sat there at the kitchen table for a long time. On the refrigerator was a picture of me and Michelle. We were in the Smokey Mountains at Clingman’s Dome. It was a great trip. I proposed to her there in the mountains. Who was that in the barn? Was that Michelle? How was I supposed to proceed. I sat there for an hour. I made up my mind.
I walked out to the barn. It was morning by now- no need for a flashlight. The sun was rising. She was obedient. She stood patiently waiting on my next command. I walked over and grabbed the pickaxe.
“Lay down.” She laid down.
“I love you.” I looked at her ring on my hand. I hesitated. Maybe it could still work. I thought about the picture on the refrigerator. I raised the axe over my head and plunged it into her heart. I kept at it until her heart stopped beating. I didn’t stare at anything other than that beating lump of muscle. Finally, it stopped. Her pupils appeared and she gave me that ever so slight smile that only a husband could see, closed her eyes and died.