The Calling (22 page)

A series of disappearances followed in the space of three months. First a young boy of five years; second a girl, almost sixteen. Then twins, a boy and a girl, both three years old. Something had to be done. The town was scared. Some who could afford to even moved away into Elmira. There was talk of forming a posse and going up into the woods where the giant lived. But the constable talked them down, assuring them that the hermit was in no way responsible. Whether he knew the truth or not I cannot say. What he and his men found when they first went up to the house nobody knows. But from what my father wrote, the constable believed the giant was innocent. And in a way, perhaps he was.
 

For my father and his three friends, it was initially only talk. Then the day came when one of my father’s friend’s sisters went missing. After this they knew something needed to be done. They were young, and angry that this was happening, and wanted to make things right. They knew the giant needed to be stopped and made themselves believe they were the only ones who could do it.
 

Early the next morning Benjamin Myers—my father, your great-grandfather—went with Clive Bidwell, Paul Alcott, and Daniel Weiss up to the stone house in the woods. They were prepared, each carrying a rifle and knife of their own. “We were all scared,” my father wrote, “but none of us intended to show it; thankfully, none of us did.”
 

When they arrived to the house the giant was gone. The house itself was small, its interior consisting of a wooden table and chair, a fireplace and a long bed against one wall. Nothing to suggest the giant had kidnapped children. As they stood looking like young men in a militia, the four of them realized they were being foolish. Clearly they had overreacted. They decided they should return to town before the giant returned home. But then, before they left, one of them noticed the sundress peeking beneath the bed.
 

 
My father wrote: “Clive began weeping before us all. We did nothing more than watch. It was clearly his sister’s dress, which caused us to wonder how we would feel if it had been one of our sisters or brothers instead.” While the Bidwell boy cried and the three of them stood in silence, the giant returned home. “I cannot recall which surprised us more,” my father wrote, “the fact that he had come home or that he truly was a giant.” The enormous size of the man did not stop Clive Bidwell, however; without hesitation he charged the giant with his knife. The giant, perhaps confused by the strangers in his home, was not prepared for the attack. Clive stabbed him repeatedly in the gut.
 

The rest, Christopher, I cannot tell without creating a fiction of my own. Up until that point my father’s narrative was precise, but after that it became jumbled into what I can only speculate was caused by his emotions overtaking him. What I can gather is that despite being stabbed, the giant managed to throw Clive Bidwell back and attempted to advance. But someone else—my father did not say who; perhaps he was too guilty to name himself—took aim and fired, striking the giant in the throat. When he fell to the ground all four of the boys attacked at once. They were impetuous. Using whatever weapons they had on their persons, they butchered the giant like a pack of dogs.
 

How long it took before they went back into town I do not know. But when they did return, they returned heroes. The constable was not happy with the way the four had handled themselves, but everyone was so relieved the horror was over that in the end it did not matter. The stone house was open for anyone to see. It reeked of death and blood and was full of flies because my father and his three friends had strung up the giant’s body from the ceiling. The constable wanted to take it down, but this was quickly met with disapproval, as everyone wanted a chance to see the monster.
 

The body did not hang there for long, however. The day before it was to be taken down all four of the boys returned to the stone house. They wanted to admire what they had accomplished together, how they had stopped the evil that had plagued their town. Except when they arrived the giant’s body was not alone.
 

From my father’s journal: “There is no denying that it was a man. He wore a long dark robe and had medium-length auburn hair. His back was to us when we arrived, but as he stood in the doorway he turned around to face us. He appeared to be middle aged and was quite striking, yet his face was cold and his eyes were blacker than even the night itself.
 

“Dan inquired of the man who he was, as none of us recognized him. He gave us only a cold stare, without a word of response. He made us all uneasy. I suggested we leave and come back later, when the man finally did speak. Very slowly, and in a voice that did not sound quite natural, he said, ‘This was my only follower and you have killed him. Not only will each of you pay for what you have done, but your blood as well, for as long as it exists.’ ”
 

And then, Christopher, my father writes that both the man and the strung-up giant disappeared. One second they were both there, the next my father blinked and they were gone. The four of them had no idea what to think, though they all admitted to being scared. They promised themselves to never speak of what happened and went back into town, to their families, to their friends, and to their lives. When the constable came and asked what happened to the body, they each denied knowing, because in truth they had no clue.
 

Thirty years passed. My father and his friends still lived in Bridgton, as none of them ever found any reason to leave. They had watched the town grow just as they had watched themselves grow, and had decided to call the place home. It was peaceful where they were, and they took pleasure in the lives they had made. They all had wives, children, a happy and content life. Their past was something that only haunted them in their sleep. The idea of that strange experience back in the stone house—which is still standing, mind you, no one ever found the courage to tear it down—was far from their minds.
 

I was sixteen at the time, my sister Katherine twelve. We lived in a house near the highway that is now called Route 13. Sometimes in the winter you could go out in the backyard and see the center of Bridgton through the trees. Everything was fine, almost perfect. Except then a young interim reverend named Devin Beckett went insane. There were rumors that it had something to do with a young girl who he was involved with, but no one really knew for certain and it was probably nothing more than mere gossip anyway. But one night he went to the houses of four families, murdered the parents and took the youngest children. He left the firstborns—who all happened to be males—alive in bed. On each of their bedroom doors he left a cross, painted in the blood of their parents. He took the youngest back to the stone house where the giant once lived before four brave boys killed him. It was there Devin Beckett kept the children, completely bound, as he went to the next house to kill the parents and kidnap the youngest. It was terrible, something that haunts me even now. How could anyone possibly sleep through such a thing?
 

My father and his three friends: Clive Bidwell, Paul Alcott, and Daniel Weiss. They were the fathers of the families who were slaughtered that night. Their youngest children taken to the house where Beckett kept them until the police arrived. The house was burned and they all died, every single one of them. By then the only survivors of the terror were the four firstborn sons, who during all this time were at home, either still asleep or awakened by county deputies. I was one of the sons who was awakened.
 

I wish I could describe to you everything that took place days after the Massacre as the old locals probably still call it, but I neither have the time nor the energy. In fact, it took more out of me telling you this than I planned, as I have had to step away and come back to it four times already. But I hope you understand the reason I did so, why I felt the need to let you know, especially if something awful has happened to your parents.
 

Since the Massacre, I and the three other survivors went our separate ways. Our fathers had been friends, though we as boys only knew each other fairly well. The only survivor I was close to was Gerald Alcott. He was two years younger and went to live with some nearby neighbors since he had no other family left of his own.
 

I went away and joined the army. I spent a few years in the service before returning to Bridgton. Time had changed the town and the people who lived there (there was a new diner on Mizner Road, and Bud Keller opened a fishing store), but some things were still the same. Gerald still lived in town. The house where I once lived was still standing, though now it was taken over by a new family. They were not local, instead a couple from New England, and I sometimes wonder if they even knew what happened inside its walls years before. The few belongings I had taken from the house were still with the young woman I had been courting before I left. And it was this woman whom I had returned to Bridgton for, and who had waited for me all this time. That woman, Christopher, was Lily Thorsen, your grandmother.
 

We married soon after and continued living in town. Despite its terrible history, this was where I had grown up and, like my own father, I had come to call it home. Your grandmother got pregnant and we had your father. Four years later we had your uncle. My past seemed to no longer matter, as I began a family of my own. Gerald kept in touch, but the other two boys, James Bidwell and Richard Weiss, moved on. I heard rumors that James moved out to Oklahoma, where he got a respectable job and made a family. Then supposedly he went crazy and killed his family before killing himself. I did not believe it until I saw the article with my own eyes. A note he left claimed he saw his father.
 

It was difficult to believe. I had known the man when he was young and he seemed peaceful enough, quite sane. It made no sense to me, until a month later when I started going through the boxes left over from before I went into the army. It was in one of those boxes that I found my father’s journals, and it was in one of those journals that I began to understand just what happened to my parents and sister, and the rest of the families, and why.
 

What I can tell you and what you have probably already inferred is that it began with my father and his three friends killing the giant. Though it was agreed upon that the missing children had been sacrificed, none could say to whom, except maybe the Devil himself. And I believe that is who the man was the day my father and his three friends returned to see the dead giant, though the man claiming that the giant was his only follower does not make sense. At least it did not then. But it would help explain how he and the giant’s body disappeared, and make a connection between the four murdered families. And it would explain why almost sixty years after my birth, my dead father came to visit me one early evening when I had finished mowing the lawn.
 

We were living in the house you visited once before during Christmas. If I remember correctly you were five, maybe six years old. One minute I was putting the John Deere away, the next I turned around to find my father standing directly behind me. He appeared just as I remembered him, wearing the same pajamas he had had on the night he was murdered. Only something was different about him. His eyes were completely black and immediately I remembered what my father had written in his journal. I stayed completely still; I did not even blink. I had no idea what to say or do. It was as if time had ceased all motion at that moment. Everything became silent and went still and the only people left in the world were my father and myself. When he spoke, his voice was not his own.
 

“Hello, Stephen. How have you been, my son?” I did not answer him. I knew this was not my father and was instead the Devil, who had promised revenge long ago. He said, “You must love your son and his wife very much. And your grandchild. What is his name?” I refused to answer. “It doesn’t matter, really. In the end, they will all suffer.” Finally I did find the courage to speak; I asked him if he was the Devil. His already grim face seemed to grow even grimmer, and he said, “I am not. My name is Samael.” When I asked him what he wanted he said, “What I want makes no difference and does not concern you. What concerns you, however, is the choice I am willing to offer. Something will happen to your son and his family, something that will kill them all. But I am willing to offer you a choice.” Hesitantly, I asked what the choice was. “Simply to spare the living from the dead. You can choose your son and his wife’s lives and sacrifice your grandchild’s. Or you can choose your grandchild’s life to live instead.” I took a deep breath and asked Samael if this was the same choice he gave James Bidwell. He actually looked both surprised and pleased. He told me, “That is none of your concern. Your only concern now is the choice I have given you.” I asked what would happen if I made no choice and was told that then all three lives—your father, your mother, and you—would perish painfully.
 

Since I have been in this place I have done much reading, much more than I would ever have thought possible. I have read the great classics—Homer, Virgil, Chaucer, Milton, Shakespeare, Dickens—and I have dipped into reading works by many great philosophers, such as Aristotle, Voltaire, Descartes, and Kant. There is one work in particular written by an English philosopher named Charles Westis who dealt much with life and death and the idea of the human will. He said, “In every man’s life there comes a time when churchyards yawn and his fate becomes dependent upon a single choice.” If that were true, I would have thought marrying Lily Thorsen would decide my fate. But that evening with Samael posing as my dead father, I knew that this choice right then was it, when churchyards yawned so to speak.