Orphans of Wonderland

Pray it's only paranoia.

Twenty years ago, journalist Joel Walker wrote a book about a ritual killing. It exploded into a bestseller and became part of the mass Satanic hysteria of the 1980s. However, his story and the evil he investigated were real and left him the victim of a nervous breakdown.

For the last two decades, his has been a quiet existence far from his former home in Massachusetts. But when one of his childhood friends is brutally murdered and rumored to have been involved in bizarre medical experiments, Joel is lured back to find out what really happened.

Joel must delve deep into the darkness once more, investigating all the way back to his own childhood, and the secrets he and his old friends buried there years ago. But where do paranoia and madness end and real evil begin? With the Orphans of Wonderland.

Orphans of Wonderland

Greg F. Gifune

Dedication

For that orphaned part of me I'm still looking for.

Chapter One

There was something wrong.

Lonnie Scott knew this to be true. He could no longer deny it. In fact, it was the last thing on his mind just before everything went dark.

Night had fallen earlier, but there was something different about this darkness, something unnatural, malevolent and wise. Something familiar. And the deeper he looked into it, something profound began to emerge: a basic instinct to survive, and the primal fear that accompanied it.

A feeling of light-headedness from somewhere behind his eyes slowly bled out across his skull, and Lonnie feared he might pass out. He closed his eyes, trading one kind of darkness for another. A moment later, he opened his eyes.

The sensation had passed.

Unnoticed, the night around him moved, swirling like liquid.

Lonnie adjusted his position in the recliner, searched around beneath the blanket covering his legs for the television remote, and finally found it tucked beneath the back of his calf. Pulling it free, he aimed the remote at the TV in the corner, which was displaying nothing but snow, and switched it off.

The apartment fell into darkness. As his eyes adjusted, the moonlight, though sparse, was sufficient enough to help him focus somewhat, and his surroundings gradually became clearer. Had he fallen asleep? What the hell time was it?

Bringing it close to his face, Lonnie checked his watch. It was a little after three in the morning. Last thing he remembered was having a few drinks, then watching a documentary on TV. Something on one of the nature channels about the migration of monarch butterflies, but he couldn't recall much else. A disposable lighter, an empty glass and a bottle of whiskey with a third left in it sat on the coffee table, alongside a plastic ashtray and a cheap cigar smoked down to a stub.

Yes, he—he'd been dreaming. Just now, he was sure of it. Traces of it still lingered just beyond his reach. The car…the big black car…that's what he'd dreamed of, that goddamn monstrosity from all those years before, slithering down the street like a living thing, a demon serpent come to devour him and the others. Those awful memories—blurred and vague and unimaginably horrifying—now consigned to his nightmares, had never left him, and he knew they never would. It wasn't possible.

His tongue swirled around inside his mouth, tasted the harsh remnants of smoke and booze. Stifling a yawn, he rubbed his eyes and looked to the barred windows of his first-floor apartment. Heavy snow blew against them, spattering on the glass. Just beyond, on the sidewalk, thick flakes fell across a pool of pale light carved onto an otherwise black canvas of night. It wasn't moonlight guiding him after all, but a beam cast from the streetlight closest to the windows.

The city was quiet—unusually so—and everything was still. It should've seemed peaceful, but didn't. In fact, Lonnie felt anything but. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong. And he knew all too well what that could mean.

A peculiar sound echoed through the small apartment, startling him. He adjusted his position, reached for the lever on the recliner with his free hand, and pulled the footrest down. Now in a sitting position, he listened a moment.

There it was again.

A drip. The faucet in the adjacent bathroom was dripping, that was all. Lonnie drew a deep breath, let it out slowly and shook his head. Damn thing dripped all the time, not like he'd never heard it before. Why was it spooking him so? There was only one answer, and it whispered to him from the blackest corners of his mind.

No
.

Lonnie put the remote aside, then rubbed his eyes. He'd nodded off a while ago and had been asleep for hours. Maybe he'd been dreaming again, having the nightmares that came to him so often. But he'd escaped sleep; why was he still so jumpy?

The feeling of dread tightened, wrapping around him like a funereal shroud.

With a muffled grunt, he struggled to his feet. His whole body hurt. This kind of weather made his joints and muscles ache even more than usual, and since he'd turned fifty, it had gotten worse. Every insignificant or nagging injury he'd ever sustained was exaggerated in winter, every ache and pain underscored.

Shadows drifted through the tiny apartment.

Shuffling along in his slippers, Lonnie made his way to the windows and looked out at the street. No one out there, no cars moving, everything draped in white, already a good four or five inches on the ground. The weather reports had called for more than ten inches by the time the storm was finished with them, and at the rate the flakes were falling, it looked like those predictions were dead-on.

His stomach gurgled. He blamed the Chinese delivery he'd eaten earlier, but he knew better. As if to illustrate the point, something across the street, at the very edge of the light's reach, separated from the darkness.

A form…a human form. Or was it? He squinted, hoping for a better look.

A dark figure, perhaps someone dressed entirely in black, stood across the street, staring at Lonnie's building. While it wasn't unheard of to see people walking about at all hours—this was a city after all—it was unusual this late, and especially in this kind of inhospitable weather.

Lonnie was waiting, watching to see what the figure might do, when a second form stepped from the darkness and took up position next to the first. Then there came another, and another still, until four silhouettes stood in a row in what he now realized was the middle of the street. Snow fell all around them, but they seemed unconcerned. Like dark statues, they watched the building, unmoving in the storm.

The feeling of trepidation increased. Lonnie ran a hand along the stubble on his cheeks and chin and continued peering out into the night. Why were these phantoms paying such obvious attention to his building in particular? Lonnie had lived in his apartment about a year, but kept mostly to himself and knew only one of his fellow tenants well. Still, he knew enough to realize that no one of any importance lived there. The apartments above him, four units in all, housed three elderly retired couples and one middle-aged woman, a widowed postal worker.

But the others weren't here for any of them. They were here for him.

Lonnie crouched down and opened a small set of doors in a storage unit below the windows. Rummaging around quickly in the dark, he retrieved a small case that held his 9mm handgun. He placed it carefully on the coffee table, opened it and pulled the gun free. As he slid the safety off, he glanced at the cordless phone, but there was no point in concerning himself with that. A call to 911 couldn't help him.

No one could.

His eyes darted around the dark apartment until they came to rest on the door. He went to it quickly and made sure it was locked. When he realized it was, he fell against it, his head spinning and heart pounding.

Looking back at the windows, he realized they were quickly becoming so badly caked with snow and ice that within minutes he'd no longer be able to see the street beyond, so he hurried back over to them for another look.

The dark figures were moving along the street just beyond the windows. He crouched lower, so as not to be seen, as they walked in single file, slowly passing beneath the streetlight. If they'd seen him, they gave no indication. But God help him, he'd seen them. And they didn't look right. They didn't look right at all. They looked impossibly, horribly wrong. Wearing what appeared to be strange and intricate headpieces of some kind, all four were otherwise nude.

And covered from head to toe in blood.

Something scratched at the door, slowly scraping its way across it.

Lonnie spun around, his terror so great his body shook with a level of violence he couldn't control. He raised the gun, hands shaking.

Something was seeping beneath the door.

Blood…a river of it forming a growing crimson puddle on the floor.

“Please…”

And then, suddenly as it began, it stopped.

Lonnie blinked rapidly, trying to keep everything in focus.

The blood he'd seen on the floor was gone.

Quietly, he crept closer to the door. Leaning in, he pressed his ear against it and listened.

Silence.

Still trembling, Lonnie looked back at the windows, but they'd become covered with snow and ice and offered nothing more. Locked inside his dark little cocoon, he had no choice but to ride out the storm, wait out the night and pray for morning.

He wanted so desperately for this to be a bad dream. But it wasn't.

It wasn't a dream at all. It was an omen.

The beginning of the end…

Chapter Two

Standing in the bathroom, Joel Walker sighed and stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He looked pale, needed some sun. His closely cropped beard was dark but he'd need to dye it again soon, as flecks of gray had begun to pepper it. His brown hair, a bit long, was disheveled and needed a trim.
Tired
, he thought.
I look tired
.
Or is it just old?

It was the second day of a two-week vacation, but because he and his wife Taylor hadn't been able to coordinate their vacation times, he had no particular plans for the time off. Of course there were always things to do around the house. He'd been promising Taylor for months he'd straighten out the garage. And with the recent dump of snow there was plenty of shoveling to do. Then again, it was a damp and dreary day, might rain later; maybe he'd curl up on the couch and have a movie marathon instead. Maybe even sneak in a nap or two.

Two hours later he found himself cleaning off their vehicles and shoveling the front walk. It hadn't rained yet but the cloudy sky was still threatening it. Joel convinced himself that once he had the walk cleared, he'd jump in the shower, then settle onto the couch for the day for some serious relaxation.

Taylor appeared on the front steps in a heavy bathrobe, a cordless phone in one hand, the other pressed strategically over the mouthpiece. She mouthed the word
work
, and gave a questioning stare.

Joel stabbed the shovel into the snow, pulled his gloves off and joined her near the steps. “Billy?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “Sounds strange.”

“Doesn't he always?”

“More so. Sounds concerned.”

He nodded and motioned for the phone.

Taylor handed it over. “I have to get dressed, running late.”

“Okay,” he said, pressing the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Joel, it's Billy,” his boss said with his usual lisp, a speech impediment he'd struggled with since childhood.

Although technically, as editor in chief, Billy Gill was Joel's boss, over the years they had also become good friends. “Hey. What's up?”

“Sorry to bother you on vacation, but figured I'd better give you a heads-up. Couple minutes ago there was a woman in here asking for you. When I told her you were on vacation, she said she needed to get in touch with you, said it was urgent. She wanted your home address but I told her we couldn't give out information like that, offered to take a message instead. She said her name was Katelyn Burrows and she needed to speak with you ASAP.”

“About what?”

“Wouldn't say, just that it was personal business.”

It wasn't unusual for people to stop by the paper and request to speak to one of the reporters on staff, but he was relatively sure the name meant nothing to him. “What was the name again?”

“Katelyn Burrows.”

“Never heard of her.”

“Well, she knows you, and she didn't strike me as the patient type, if you get my drift. It's easy enough to find your home address on the Web. Wouldn't surprise me if she comes looking for you. Just wanted you to know.”

A light wind rustled the trees, blowing some snow back onto the walk. Joel turned and looked out at the street. No walkers, no approaching cars. “Thanks, appreciate it,” he said softly. “She didn't say anything else? Nothing at all?”

“She didn't look like the sales type, but I asked if she was selling something anyway. When she said no, I asked if it was newspaper business. She said it was personal.”

“Huh. How old was she?”

“I'd guess early twenties. None of my business if it's personal, but—for my own peace of mind here—is there anything going on I need to know about?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“You in some kind of trouble?”

“I don't see why I would be.”

“Any money problems? Miss a couple car payments or something?”

“There's nothing like that happening.”

“You got a honey on the side?”

“Three, actually.”

“Maybe she's a long-lost daughter you didn't know about.” He chuckled.

“Don't even joke.”

“Come to think of it, she
did
kind of look like you.”

“I can only hope not, for her sake.”

“Anyway, just wanted to let you know. I got to go, got a paper to run.”

“If you hear from her again, give her my cell.”

“Will do. We still on for dinner tonight?”

“Definitely.”

“All right, tell Taylor I'll bring the wine. See you then.”

“Will do. Later.” Joel disconnected the call and thought a moment, rifling through his mental Rolodex. Nothing. Still, he couldn't help but be concerned. One never knew, especially in his business. But he hadn't worked for a paper of any importance or standing in decades, much less written anything of real significance. Theirs was a quaint and quiet little town of about eight thousand people in central Maine. Now and then he encountered someone upset by one of his articles on local politics, but they tended to be from the same crowd, and over the years he'd come to know most of them, if not by name then by sight. He could think of no one fitting the description given, and the very idea that Billy would take the time to call him with this indicated he believed there was something unusual about it. He rarely did things like that, and although Billy was single, hopelessly lonely and had ample amounts of time in his personal life, professionally he acted like he ran
The Washington Post
rather than a small-town rag in the middle of who-gives-a-shit.

Another gusting breeze sent snow snaking across the pavement in front of his house. A twinge of fear scurried through him, a whisper from a long-dead past, perhaps, reminding him that no matter how deeply he buried them, some things would never completely leave him.

Back in the house, he climbed the stairs to the bedroom, then ventured into the master bath to find Taylor putting the finishing touches on her makeup. Her reflection in the large mirror over the double sinks glanced at him as she carefully applied the last of her eyeliner. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah,” he said absently. “Some woman was at the paper looking for me.”

“And?”

“That's it.” He folded his arms and leaned against the counter next to her. “Not sure what it's about.”

“Well, be careful. You never know today. If she comes by here—”

“I doubt she will,” he said. “And if she does, I'll handle it. I'm sure it's nothing.”

Taylor finished up, straightened her business suit and stepped into a pair of heels she'd left just inside the bathroom door. Her dark hair was short and styled in a purposely mussed pixie cut, and as she slid her eyeglasses on, her big brown eyes grew larger still behind the lenses. “Well?”

Joel gave her a thumbs-up. He vaguely remembered something about a meeting with new clients she had scheduled in Portland later that day. As the vice president of a small advertising agency in Bangor, Taylor was often charged with handling and ushering in new clients. “You look great. Smart, sexy, professional.”

“Thank you.” She leaned in, gave him a quick peck on the lips.

“Smell good too.”

“Crazy day but I'll be home in time for dinner.”

“Yeah, don't forget, we invited Billy over tonight. He's bringing the wine.”

“Super. He always makes such
interesting
choices when it comes to wine.”

“He does his best, honey. This is Billy we're talking about. Anyway, think I'll bake a chicken with stuffing and potatoes, maybe green beans or a salad, cool?”

“Sure, sounds good.”

As Joel followed her into the bedroom, Taylor scooped her briefcase off a small desk on the far wall, then whirled around to face him. She cocked her head, as if she'd heard something in the distance, but her eyes never left him. “Are you sure you're all right?”

“I'm good.”

“I just—”

“Taylor, I'm good. I promise.”

“If this business with this woman is anything important, call me, okay?”

“Of course. You worry about your meeting. I'm going to finish up shoveling. I plan to spend the rest of the day watching movies and baking chickens.”

She nodded but didn't seem convinced. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

“See you tonight.”

With a wink, she descended the stairs and was gone. A moment later the front door opened, then closed, and the house fell silent. Outside, the breeze had become a wind. The house shifted, settled. Joel went to the window and looked down at the driveway. Taylor pulled out, turned at the end of the street and drove from sight.

Joel returned to the bathroom and stared at the medicine cabinet a while. Eventually he opened it and rummaged around inside until he'd found the old pill holder he'd once depended on. Segregated into days of the week, each little box still held two pills. He hadn't needed them on a regular basis for years, but he did take one now and then, and in some ways, just knowing they were there if he absolutely needed them often prevented him from taking them. But now that he had the container in his hands and could see the little pills through the thin blue plastic, he remembered why he'd needed them in the first place, and his heart began to race. That awful feeling of losing control surged through him. He returned the container to the cabinet, forcing it way into the back where he'd found it, then swung shut the door and headed out to finish his shoveling.

He'd been at it less than ten minutes when a small car pulled up in front of the house. A woman in a coat and a white knit hat with a pom-pom on top stepped out and slowly approached him.

Well
, Joel thought,
that didn't take long
. He dropped his shovel and moved down the walkway to meet her halfway. It wasn't until he'd gotten closer that he realized just how young the woman looked. Billy had said early twenties, and he was likely right, but she had a baby face that could've belonged to a high school kid.

She crossed onto the stone walk leading to the front door. “Mr. Walker?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” She smiled pleasantly, but it looked as if it took great effort for her to do so. “I'm Katelyn Burrows.”

“What can I do for you, Miss Burrows?”

“I went by the newspaper,” she explained. “I'd hoped to find you there.”

“Yes. I got a call that you'd stopped by looking for me.”

“Your boss said you were on vacation, but wasn't very helpful beyond that.”

“He was trying to protect my privacy. He assumed, I'm guessing correctly, that you were able to find my address online anyway.”

“Amazing what you can do with a phone these days.”

“It certainly is. I'm sorry, but do we know each other?”

Her full cheeks were rose-red, her complexion flawless as a child's and her hazel eyes slightly watery in the chilly air. A short woman, she was just over five feet and a bit chubby. Sprigs of dirty-blonde hair coiled out from beneath the knit hat on her head and looked like they needed a good brushing. “Not exactly, no.”

“Then again, what is it I can do for you?”

“I was hoping we could speak privately.”

“Far as I can tell, we're alone.” Joel motioned to the street and the yard in a slow, sweeping motion. “Knock yourself out.”

“If you're not comfortable inviting me in, maybe we could go somewhere and sit, have a cup of coffee or something. It's awfully cold out and I'd like to—”

“Look, Miss Burrows, I don't mean to be rude, but I don't know who you are or what you want. Why don't you start there and we'll see where it leads?”

She blushed on top of her already red cheeks. “It's
Mrs
., actually.”

“All right then.
Mrs.
Burrows.”

She held up her left hand so he could see her wedding band and diamond, the way newlyweds often did. “My maiden name's Scott. You're an old friend of my father's. Lonnie Scott.”

“Lonnie? You—you're Lonnie's daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I—hello—I'm sorry, I—I wasn't expecting this. I haven't seen Lonnie in years. How is he?”

Brow knit, she swallowed hard and cleared her throat. “He's dead.”