Good Help Is Hard To Find

Authors Note: Good Help was a short story written by Mr. Fisher the Piney Dark (Stephen F. Austin State University), a short story compendium-contest publication. Enrolled, Alumni, and local talents could submit their works and if chosen would be published. All rights are reserved to Mr. Fisher but this was the first publication. The required length was 4500, this version has been fixed for some errors and descriptions, so it is slightly longer. "Consider this version 2.0."

Good Help Is Hard To Find

By Joshua C. Fisher

The wailing of metal against metal, the squealing of worn brake pads grinding against rotors signaled the slowing of the 89 white Lincoln Town Car as the hulk pulled through the police cordon and into the parking lot of 1218 Clover Avenue. It was the second to last house on the right in a cull-d-sac of the middle-class East Texas suburb. Surrounded by pine trees and freshly mowed green grass, just at the right height, it was the epitome of domestic even in the late summer early fall heat.

Detective Charles Oats pulled the manual shifter into park, and the car jerked slightly forward to a complete stop.

A street cop practically jumped away in fear of being struck. The young man peered in and backed away as the door jerked open.

The door squealed and banged shut as he stepped out onto the curb. Dumping his keys into his right pocket, he pulled the half empty pack of cigarettes from the same pocket. He shifted the pack into his left shirt pocket for easy access. He paused a moment realizing the pack was slightly bent and so were the cigarettes. He clicked his tongue in aggravation as he pulled a bent one from the pack.

Digging into his left pocket he pulled out a lighter which took five attempts before it spouted flame. Sucking in deeply, he closed his eyes for a second and spewed out a large cloud that drifted off.

For that short moment he took in the sounds, the feel of he wind in the air. The grass had been mowed and wraked, but there was another smell, something sweet like candy but faint. With a few more good long puffs he dropped the unfinished cigarette on the lawn and put it out with his boot.

He pushed his sunglasses up onto the bridge of his nose and walked to the door of the two story white painted wood and brick house. In the living room the family was sitting and talking with an officer going over their statements.

He turned to the kitchen and to the direction of the garage. He pulled his sunglasses off, slipping them into his other shirt pocket. A uniformed officer opened the door for him and a flash almost blinded him as forensics had already begun to examine the scene.

He grit his teeth.

“Nice of you to finally decide to show up, Oats.” The so very familiar voice rattled through the garage. It was mind numbing voice, bland and yet chalk board eye twitching at the same time. The kind of voice that shriveled a man's nether regions as if hearing ones mother call for you when in the middle of intimates.

The owner of that voice, A dwarf like brunette in white lab coat and black slacks a few sizes too small, stood at the foot of a few steps. Her hair was cut short again, a third or fifth layer perhaps of foundation that looked almost to crack like the first coat of paint on a wall. Another attempt at improving her toad-like face. She’d pulled the camera away, and honestly he wish she’d have left it there. “Up late at the bar again?”

“Fuck you Liz.” He told his ex-wife as he turned, inspecting the room now that he was inside.

“Oh, must have gotten laid last night. How much that set you back?” Her voice reminded him of the squealing of his brakes. “I’ll leave you alone with all this." She wiggled a finger. "I’ve got all I need.” She walked passed him and stopped at the doorway. “Oh, and Cat wants you to call her.”

“She’s a big girl and she knows my number Liz. If she needs money, she’s barking up the wrong tree. You made sure of that.”

“Did I leave you enough to be so chipper? I should have asked for more.”

“Don’t let the door frames catch you on the way out.” He said as she shut the door. He heard a stomp and feet walking away. “Well, today must be my lucky day.”

She hadn’t tried to get in the last word.

He’d already taken in most of the room as they traded barbs, but now that there was peace and quiet he could do a better inventory. He noted mentally where things were placed or if they seemed somehow out of place. Anything that stuck out as odd that caught his eye

Things like the pentagram, stone bowl, and wine glass were instantly in his mind. The strange scent of raisins and gingerbread. That was what he'd smelled outside. He’d noticed something around the rim of the door too when he’d come in. Along the rim, melted onto the door and the frame, was a white and red glossy substance.

He broke off a piece and sniffed it, it smelled sweet, a very nostalgic scent. He licked it. It tasted like a candy cane. He pulled a small plastic bag out of a large black gym bag that had been left in the room for gathering evidence. He placed the piece in the bag and shoved it into his other pant pocket.

He pulled on a pair of latex gloves he’d retrieved from the bag as well and crouched with his elbows on his knees as he stared at the room. There was a thick overwhelming scent of cinnamon and something else. The whole atmosphere seemed so familiar it frustrated him, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Like an itch under the surface that never truly felt scratched.

The glass held no wine or any kind of liquid; the small stone bowl next to it did have a paste substance in it, but it was most likely blood mixed with whatever was in the smaller bags in the corner of the room, near the laptop that was still plugged into the wall.

Ashes clumped up in a pile near the thick effervescent black candle. Though it had been snuffed out, you could still smell it as you got close. Charles skirted the drawn pentagram and occult symbols all scribed on the floor. He let out a grunt as he crouched down and ran a finger over the laptop touch pad. The screen lit up and his eyes narrowed at what he saw.

“Shit.” He went for his pocket but stopped. No smoking.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. The whole scene was a mix of some kind of occult (or specifically satanic) ritualization of some kind, but of what? This instance it had been a scented black candle, last time it was just a regular black candle. One individual previously had used a very dark purple scented candle as they were slightly colorblind. So, the candle wasn’t specific even though the instructions said otherwise.

Leaning against the garage door, he pulled out his cell. An old friend of his in the Forensics department could get him copies of all the stuff his ex took quicker than it would take him filling out paperwork or waiting for her to gather it all up for him.

Fifteen missing persons in the past three years, and in that time reports of at least three hundred and four instance of the use of a website to spread these seemingly innocuous satanic rituals. All the others were ones that had somehow failed, each subject having done this in a secluded area, where it was eventually found by parents or neighbors. A rise in 911 calls from worried citizens, concerned about a growing trend, plagued the Call Center. It’d lit up the social network, then the papers. If someone wanted to be ‘found’ by some kind of otherworldly being or the recently departed, and believed in that crap, they could dive off a bridge somewhere. He had no sympathy for people who let fantasy take over their thinking and way of living.

Those who’d attempted this ‘ritual’ and had been asked about it had mocked it as just some kind of joke. Presumably because they did not receive whatever it was they wanted. The 15 missing youths were a different matter. Those that had tried to summon ‘Satan’, had all said the website had just appeared on their computers. Several people said they saw the URL address written in red ink on a bathroom stall or printed on a piece of paper they’d picked up.

He popped his neck as he thought about each case. Teenagers ranging in age from thirteen and seventeen, having had some kind of emotional tragedy or social upset. Parents and guardians noticed a drastic change in their personalities. Most were broken hearted, someone dumped them or moved away. Other cases were linked to physical or emotional bullying. In this instance, a fifteen year old boy named Carl had broken up with his girlfriend recently. The parents had reported that it was his first relationship, and the girl was now dating some other student at their school, who had also been a friend of their son’s. Three weeks ago, the boy started dressing shabbily, as if his appearance didn’t matter, and he also began receiving boxes in the mail, internet orders.

Animal bits and the alchemy kit. The chalk, where in some cases it glowed in the dark, and the parchment. Some purchases were local, most were online. This last caught most attention, because there were many assaults on farm animals in the countryside. One kid killed a goat, tore out its teeth, removed it’s skin, tanned it, and used it as the parchment. That boy hadn’t been right in the head; he broke into a farm and removed the head of a goat. From the autopsy reports, the goat was alive when it was beheaded. That jewel of a future citizen was now in a psychiatric ward in Rusk, twitching away in a padded room, transfer pending. When Satan hadn’t showed up, he had a melt down and started setting fire to his own house. His mother went into the hospital for severe burns on half her body. She’d recovered over time, but she and her ex-husband at the time signed consent forms to have the boy committed.

To date, Charles had found no connection between the previous 14 cases. 8 males and 7 females were now officially missing. Had they summoned the devil it stole them away? No, that was absurd. If it was a question of being precise each of the 15 current missing persons cases were different. One used a wooden grinding apparatus, one used appliances. Another hadn’t burned a candle but used a black LED flashlight, propping it so it shined upward. The quill used was of various qualities and most of those feathers were not even crow but some other birds feathers dyed black and sold online as costume jewelry. Hell, two had been plastic.

Was someone dropping the URLs somehow for certain kids to find? If so, what was the criteria? Another thing, why the candy cane like sealant on the doors? That was puzzling, and it was not present at every scene. Only the fifteen cases where the person went missing did the scene have strange qualities that caused Charles’s palms to itch.

From his crouched position, he noticed something under one of the counters, along the left side of the garage. It was a work bench that had been elongated so that the garage could serve as a place to park the car and do whatever extra honey do’s the husband could do in his spare time. Under the bottom edge of the cabinet, there was something light brown and round, several small round pebbles of some kind, as if someone had spilled a handful of children’s chocolate cereal. They were more charcoal and gray colored and most oblong than round. He pulled a pencil from his pocket and moved some of them around. He found about six of them and shifted them all into a bag, then stuffed that into his pocket. It was then that he noticed a sharp pointed scuff mark on the chalk of the strange markings at the top corner of the pentagram. It looked like two points, like the tip on a pair of scissors and scratched the chalk away. He ran a finger gently over the stop and felt an indentation as if something had hit the concrete ground hard enough to leave a mark. He noticed some black material, like dirt of some kind in the indent and scraped some up with his pocket knife and bagged it as well. Might not be enough to get any identifying info from, but it was a shot.

He stood and felt his back pop, letting out a grunt. Back in the kitchen, as he shut the door behind him, he saw the mother pouring herself a glass of water from a jug from the fridge. A picture of the boy with a basketball caught her eye as she shut the door, and she started to lose it.

A nearby officer rushed in and helped her, catching the glass and jug before she dropped both, setting them on the counter.

“My boy, my sweet boy.” She cried into his shoulder. “Where is my boy?” She asked. It felt like she wasn’t pleading with him, but with a higher power.

“Ma’am I want to find your boy. We’re doing the best we can.” He said trying to reassure her and get her off his shoulder before he started feeling the wet... never mind. He pulled the bag of chocolate dots and dirt out of his pocket and gave it to the officer. “Have forensics check this out okay?” The man nodded as Oats turned back to the grieving mother. “Ma’am, could I see Carl’s room?”

She sniffed and looked up at him. “Who are you?” She asked rubbing her eyes.

“Charles Oats, I’m a detective on this case.”

“Oh.” She sniffed and grabbed the cup of cold water from where he’d placed it, took a gulp, and cleared her throat. “Let me show you.”

She led him passed the uniformed officers and down a hallway passing the family room; the husband looked up for a moment and asked the officer near him who the man was with his wife. He didn’t move, but hugged onto his other children.

The door to the boy’s room was unmarked save for ‘Do Dot Nisturb’ printed on a piece of paper and taped to the door.

“What’s this?” He pointed to the obvious ‘do not disturb’ sign.

“Oh, Carl is dyslexic. He posted that so that every time he came into his room he’d be reminded of his methods of coping. We bought him the laptop, so he could have some of his material read aloud to him instead of reading.” She must have been talking about the laptop in the garage.

“I’ll take it from here.” He said offering some compassion. “Go on, I won’t disturb anything, promise.”

“Oh, of course. Thank you.” She said as she shuffled back down the hallway, cold cup in hand. The sound of her sipping it vanished behind him as he entered the room and shut it behind him.

The inside of the room was an average teen’s room: sports figures and a few tastefully chosen models on the wall. The room was rather clean though, and he hoped that the mother hadn’t cleaned the room before the police showed up.

Among the boxes, one had a ripped up dream catcher next to it. In a smaller box, a string of beads, bones, and rounded stones were all laying in a pile in the corner. There was a receipt from the online sales company. This was similar to the other cases, in that it didn’t take much to get the materials needed for the ritual.

Most of the kids had either paid with their own debit cards or their parents’ cards, “Who knew summoning the Devil could be a button press away?” He dropped the box on the desk and looked down into the waste basket. Inside were crumpled up papers and a cracked picture frame.

Flipping it over, he unhooked the back panel and removed the slightly torn photo. Carl was sitting on a park bench next to a blonde haired girl, their heads leaned against one another while Carl held the camera backwards taking their picture. The girl was cute, probably went to the same school as him. This has to be the breakup girl, the catalyst for Carl’s sojourn into the occult.

Letting out a sigh, he took the pictures as evidence. “Not worth it kid.”

Just then a uniformed cop came in. It was Officer Lopez.

“Oats, you gotta see this.” Lopez inclined his head towards the living room.

Following Lopez, he entered back into the living room area and found one of the officers half way up the chimney.

“Patton kept hearing a strange ringing sound from the somewhere, and he tracked it to the chimney. We think it’s the boy’s cell phone.”

“Got it!” Patton said, as he pushed himself out from the chimney, soot covered his face and hands. In his left hand though was a reddish maroon cell phone.

“That’s Carl’s phone.” His father acknowledged.

Another officer came with a bag, and they sealed and tagged it.

As the day drew to a close the questions kept circling around in his head. The bright orange and red of the setting sun reflected from the rear view mirror onto his glasses as he pulled up to his lake house. The one thing he’d won in the divorce proceedings; his ex hated the lake, but hadn’t made it easy to keep. At least it was paid off.

The extra files clattered atop the table. Pulling two beers from the fridge, he circled back around the kitchen to the table again. Holster draped on the back of the chair, his shoes slipped off and under the table. The hole in his left sock allowed his big toe to protrude and touch the cold tile floor. He opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the veranda. His own private beach; that’s the way he liked to think of it anyway. Sitting down at the table, he watched the sky darken and tiny lights of other houses turn off and on along the far lake shore, reflecting on the water it reminded him of a fallen Christmas tree.

He’d been mulling something over in his head all day; the last case seemed to spark a match in his head. There was something that linked these cases together that was just eluding him. His cell began to vibrate in his pocket noisily.

“Yeah.” He grumbled as he stood up, leaving the two empty bottles on the table.

“Oats, this is Carver. Got something interesting to show you. I’m sending you the files I found on the boy’s phone and those bags you sent. You’re not gonna believe... yes?” Carver suddenly sounded like he wasn’t talking to him anymore. “Hold on Oats, some jackass can’t read the signs.” The sound of the phone being set down and the sounds of someone talking. He couldn’t make out what was said. Then, the phone picked up again and, hung up.

“Carver? Bob? Hello?”

He tried calling Bob back, but no one answered.

Scratching his head, Charles went back inside, sat at the table, and opened up his laptop. While it booted up, he grabbed the new file and went into the living room. He flopped on the couch and spread out the case files and his written notes. His handwriting sucked, but he tried to go over his notes to see if he missed anything. He stared at the page, and he could feel the two beers kicking in slightly. It was about that time something caught his eye in his notes. He’d written dog instead of god when taking a note about the occult rituals he’d looked into.

Something clicked, like the ringer’s bell clanging in his head.

Dog... God... Carl had been dyslexic.

Running into the kitchen, he grabbed the first file he could find. Pamela Ross, 15. She’d had to take extra classes for poor writing skills. Flipping through the documents, he found what he was looking for.

Acute Dyslexia.

He grabbed another, and then another. He grabbed his cell phone and sat in front of the laptop. He tried to call Bob again; no answer. Bob Carver was the local medical examiner, as there were no bodies, there wasn’t much for a medical examiner to do, Carver was an old friend of Oats, and also was his ex-wife’s boss.

Had Carver found out the Dyslexia link?

The email had two attachments. One was a page informing him that the chocolate dots and dirt were in fact deer pellets and loam. The second page confirmed Charles’s suspicions.

He gritted his teeth. “They all had it.” Only one of the 15 had low grades in reading and writing in his grade school years. This was a solid link. Someone was targeting Dyslexic kids?

Suddenly, Charles heard the large panel windows shudder. The lights in the room dimmed, flickered, and went out. His laptop beeped and went on battery power. The beep had caught his attention, and he noticed he’d only opened one of the files. The second email was in dark bold, unopened. He clicked on it out of some kind of attempt at normalcy or just reflex. He hadn’t quite taken in what had just happened.

The last file was an image of several bits of charred paper, almost ash. These were images pulled from the left over ash of the parchments that held the contract for the soul to Satan in the ritual. The subject on the email read: Check this out.

Opening the file, Charles couldn’t take his eyes away, the wind outside banged against the glass.

The image had 5 red circles over twenty flattened scraps of left over blackened parchment, each marked to the side of the image with case numbers. Each was a partial or whole part of one word still visible to the naked eye.

The one word that was circled 5 times amongst the scattered visible black letters over still composed ash remnants of parchment was, Santa.

Satan? Santa?

A loud banging sound sent his world whirling around him. Startled, he’d kicked his feet up and toppled backwards. Struggling to right himself as he’d fallen, the chair had spun slightly banging his head on the tile floor. The pain flared and caused him to wince as he pulled himself to his feet.

“Hello?” He shouted at the door.

Stumbling to the door, a strange light glowed from beyond the smoked glass inserts. The lights changed from red, to green, and to white. He gripped the doorknob, it was cold to the touch. He twisted it, and pulled the door open.

As the door open, a cold chill caressed his cheeks. His breath created thick, billowing vapor that formed a cloud which drifted over the small 3′ tall Christmas tree sitting on his front steps. It had not been their before.

Under the tree was one decorated box in silver and gold wrapped paper with an envelope attached.

Crouching, he pulled the envelope off and opened it.

The letters were crisp and the paper smelled of gingerbread. The ink was a dark red, and it was in a style of cursive he only remembered from his childhood.

Dear Charles Gabrielle Oats,

It is good to see you’ve grown into a diligent and honest man.

It has been my experience that good boys and girls grow up to be

good members of their society, good parents, even with the

stumbles that life gives them on the way. Good parents with

children in college, even if the parents are no longer together, are still

good parents and can promote good traits in their children through positive

reinforcement. Doodlebug is a good girl.

Doodlebug? That was his daughters other nickname.

He felt sweat drops cool on his head as he read on.

Naughty children need a different kind of motivator to

become good members of society. Sometimes, even the greatest

motivation can still lead to ruin. Bobby was a naughty boy;

he didn’t wish to play nice and take a simple request from an old, dear friend.

I’m sure though that you will grant this request of mine, Chucky.

You’ve always been a very studious boy.

Chucky? He could hear his heart beating in his ear drums.

So, to my request. To ease your mind, the missing children are all well

and in good care. They are now my good little helpers. Now that you know this,

I will ask that you close your investigation on these disappearances,

destroy all the data that led you to your current conclusions,

and move on with your life.

Your Friend,

Nick

P.S. The present below is a motivator for you,

easily disposable if you don’t wish to keep it,

and I don’t believe you will want to.

Glad you got to keep the house by the way.

Charles set the letter down and picked up the box, something rattled inside, and the part looked as if it slid up and off. The lights reflected off the silver and gold lid; a bright red cloth bow had been adhered to the top. Setting the lid to the side, inside the box revealed a reddish cloth covering something rather round. It felt warm to the touch.

“FUCK!”

Bob’s dead eyes stared up at him; a candy-cane stuck out his dead mouth.

Looking up frantically, he saw something down at the end of his walkway. Two dark figures stood in the darkness. The street light behind them flickered on momentarily, revealing the silhouette of a large figure, and a second figure was nude, the light reflecting off his skin. A curly mop of hair atop his head, the same style as Carl.

When the lights flashed again, the figures were gone. Bells could be heard down the road, and Charles leaped over the tree, reaching for his gun, but realized it was still hanging in his holster on the chair in the kitchen. At the end of the walkway the dirt of the blacktop road was warm against his feet, except for one spot that was bitter cold.

The lights in his house twinkled on again andd glowed warm and the smell of pine filled his nostrils. He pulled out his phone, walked back to the door and found the small Christmas tree was gone. The lifeless head of Bob sitting in the box on his front steps, was all that was left. He put the phone back into his pocket and stared down at the face of his friend.

The last few words on the paper repeated in his head as he slumped to the ground and laid on his back staring up at the stars.

Charles begin to laugh. Not a laugh of joy, or of some kind of youth renewal. Not that idea that something mythical was real as the ground under him and as far off as the stars above, but something dark and scary and just plain fucking crazy. That’s the kind of laugh it was, a crazy laugh, a frantic laugh, a laugh that filled your ears and drowned out reality, in hopes that when it stopped everything would return to that warm center of the everything you called ‘is’.

The parchment shifted into the light revealing the last line on the page.

P.S.S. Happy Holidays