“For years our beautiful land was neglected by you fancy government folk, why are you all of a sudden interested in these parts?” said Sheriff Desmonde of Elizabeth, West Virginia.
Across from him sat two FBI agents, one of them Richard Clarke and the other, Josh Sullivan. Clarke thought to himself this really is a beautiful land. Despite only being there for five days, eight hours and thirty-seven minutes, he could already imagine the sprawling hills and valleys covered in dense forests and winding rivers that slithered and coiled like a serpent. He remained daydreaming for a minute or two until he was nudged by his partner. Special agent Josh Sullivan was a tall, slender figure; he was from Charleston, West Virginia. This meant he too was Appalachian, which is why the bureau chose him for this assignment. Despite being a West Virginian, Sullivan tried to hide it. He was often teased for it; “Special Agent Farm Boy” is what he was often called. Everyone around the bureau knew he covered up his Appalachian accent with a more urban one. Despite this, he was definitely the man for the job. The people in these parts are rarely kind to outsiders, especially not feds.
“Quit your ranting,” said Sullivan. “I understand how the government has neglected our state, I’m from Charleston.”
“Yea but you’re still a city boy, from the state capital area, how fancy, you still must think you’re better than us backwards folk,” Sheriff Desmonde sneered.
Clarke piped up attempting to descalate, “We’re here to investigate that murder in the cabin in the woods as well as an uptick in disappearances into the forest”
The two agents looked over at the sheriff, straightening his hat. “I don’t understand why the sudden urgency to investigate the disappearances. Folks have been disappearing into these woods since the Indian days” He paused to light a cigarette. “The murder on the other hand that’s something purely – evil”.
Sullivan swallowed. “Yes sir, we can’t tell you much bu-”
He was interrupted by Clarke: “Agency business”.
“Yes, I was getting to that but, I lost my train of thought,” Sullivan angrily said.
“Sorry,” replied Clarke. “I believe you were talking about the murders.”
“Oh yes” Sullivan continued, “This is the third time this year there’s been a brutal murder in remote Appalachia. Earlier this year there was one in Pocahontas County and just last month one in Hampshire.”
“I see,” said the old sheriff, his face illuminated by his cigarette. “You still have no right to come into my county and order me around”
“Sir, we’re not here to order you around or infringe on your daily routine, we have reason to believe that these murders are connected, correlated if you will. The local government has failed to catch this killer, or even come close to breaking the case, now it’s our turn to have a go, we’ve already investigated the other two murders but we’ve been too late, and we’ve found nothing, this murder is fresh. We believe the killer, or killers may still be nearby, we are narrowing in on him,” Agent Clarke responded.
His vision shifted down to the ashtray on the sheriff’s desk. There must have been at least twenty cigarettes there. The sheriff looked at the agent.
“Yes, yes I know I’m a compulsive chainsmoker don’t judge. If you’ve seen what I’ve seen you’d smoke twice as much. On that note the two men bid the sheriff farewell and they left the dingy Wirt County sheriff’s office and stepped into the parking lot.
The sunlight flashed the agents’ faces, partially blinding them.
“What a jerk,” sighed Sullivan.
“You were right about these deep country folk not trusting outsiders,” Clarke replied.
“Of course, I’m always right,” was Sullivan’s response.
The men approached their black Dodge Durango. The black exterior of the vehicle contrasted with the bright sun and appeared to shine. Clarke stopped in his tracks to admire the imagery.
“Rick, what the hell are you doing? We have to make our way up to the crime scene. It’s still a half hour drive through these country roads,” cried Sullivan.
Special Agent Richard Clarke just stared intently at the vehicle.
“Isn’t it strange that in the sunlight even the darkest things glow,” he said.
“You are one odd character,” uttered Sullivan.
The men were interrupted by a short, young man with short, clean-cut blonde hair.
“I’ve been asked to escort you to the crime scene and then to the morgue to view the bodies,” the man said.
“Excellent, I’m assuming we’ll meet with your forensic team as well?” replied Clarke.
The man paused, “Oh, sir – I’m sorry we don’t have a forensic team.”
Clarke’s face changed from relaxed to concerned.
“YOU DON’T HAVE A FORENSIC TEAM!?” he boomed.
“No sir” the young officer replied in a quiet mouse-like voice compared to Clarke’s elephant-like one. “There’s less than five thousand people in the entire county. We only have five regular police officers on a good day, let alone an entire forensic team.”
Now Sullivan chimed into this bizarre conversation: “So what do you do if you need something examined in a lab, or god-forbid tested.”
“We usually send it off to Hampshire or Pocohantas county. They both have fantastic forensic teams,” said the officer.
“Yes, we know we’ve investigated murders there too,” said Sullivan
Clarke responded, “Have you sent them any samples from this crime scene yet?”
“Yes but they prioritize their own issues over ours, and we have not heard back from them yet,” said the officer.
Sullivan sighed and pulled out his cell phone.
“I’m going to have to make a call to Philadelphia.”
“Okay Josh,” responded Clarke, then he turned to the young officer, “Just tell them to forget it, and did you at least keep the crime scene as little changed as possible?”
“Yes sir,” the officer responded. “We just got some samples and removed the bodies.” He paused almost like he wanted to tell the agents something else, but refrained. “It was a ghastly sight,” he finally proclaimed. Then Clarke leaned in, asserting his dominance over the young officer by putting his arm on his shoulder. The oldest trick in the book, primitive interrogation 101, establish a sense of authority over the person you’re questioning, it makes them feel uneasy. When they’re uneasy, that’s when their mask slips.
“Tell me exactly what you saw in that cabin Officer…” Clarke paused to look at the young officer’s badge, “Murphy.”
“Well uh,” he began. “As I said before it was a ghastly sight, we uh got a call from one of the deceased’s cousins.” Sweat began forming at his brow. “Sheriff sent me just to do a like a wellness check, just a wellness check you know.”
Clarke nodded, but remained silent.
“Anyway,” Officer Murphy plopped a cigarette in his mouth. His jittery hand then reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. He lifted it up to his cigarette, visibly shaking violently. He dropped it before he could flick it on. His eyes were wider than a canyon.
“The horror,” he whispered, remembering the scene.
Agent Clarke bent down and picked the lighter up. The cigarette was dangling from Murphy’s mouth, hanging on by a thread. Clarke lit it for him.
“Continue,” he said.
“Thank you,” Murphy began again. “Right, so I knock on the door and, nothing. The curtains were covering the windows and I couldn’t see anything inside. There were still two cars parked in the driveway and it was 2:00 in the afternoon. I figured they must have been awake, maybe they were out hunting or fishing or something I don’t know. So I yell, ‘Police, wellness check’ and nothing, silence. After five minutes I got impatient. I yelled I was coming in and then I tried the door. It was unlocked so I went in. First I noticed the smell. I can’t even begin to try and describe it, in detail, it smelled like death or uh decay, you know?”
Murphy wrinkled his nose in disgust.
Clarke nodded.
“Then I saw them,” Murphy’s eyes grew in fear. He got real pale and Clarke thought Murphy might have another episode. Murphy paused, and then snapped out of it.
“Two bodies mutilated,” he said. “It looked as though they’d been ripped apart by an animal. One of them was holding a shotgun, and there was blood everywhere,” he shuddered. “In the corner there was the driver’s license of a third person, she is still missing. They must have been laying there for-”
“Three to five days,” interrupted Clarke. “Just like the other two murders in the area. I know, I read the case finals.
“Why do you need to interview me if you already read the case files?” whimpered Murphy.
“Because I was hoping you’d tell me something I don’t know,” responded Clarke.
“How would I know what is and isn’t in the highly classified case files? I’m just twenty-five, I’m hardly a cop, and I live in the middle of nowhere!” he argued.
“Well is there something that you didn’t include in the report, something that maybe didn’t feel relevant to include at the time,” Clarke calmly said. “Anything?”
“Well now that you mention it,” said Murphy still trembling. “I felt like I was being watched the entire time, I kept looking over my shoulder but I didn’t see anything, then as backup arrived I heard movement in the bushes and I saw a uh shadowy figure scurry away. I figured it was just my imagination, nerves and all”.
Clarke got what he was looking for, some new intel.
Just then the men were interrupted by Sullivan holding up the phone: “He wants to speak to you.”
August Smith was a forensic analyst for the FBI for thirteen years, and he was born and raised in Philadelphia. His family came from the deep south and faced major discrimination. He much preferred living in the city and hated the country, so when he got the call that they needed him in the middle of nowhere to help solve a case, he was not in the best mood.
“Clarke, you there?”
“Yes, Auggie.”
“Man, I didn’t want to say this to Sullivan, you know, I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I’m not going anywhere near that racist dump they call West Virginia, especially not where you are, literally in the middle of nowhere. Where they eat their young,” Smith frantically cried.
“Auggie, what are you on about? The people here are very nice, blue collar folk, and don’t forget they seceded from the South in the Civil War,” said Clarke.
“Just because they did something right doesn’t mean they’re not still wrong. Look Rick, I hear that the KKK is still active there!” he yelled.
“Look Auggie don’t be a biggot, these are good honest people here. It’s 2025 not 1825, relax, I’ll see you in a bit, have a safe flight.”
“Clarke I swear to god, I am not going to that shi-”
The agent hung up the phone. He returned to Sullivan and Murphy.
“We are losing daylight fast. I want to make sure it’s still bright when we get to the cabin, let’s go!” he said.
The agents got in their Durango and officer Murphy got into his Ford Explorer up ahead to lead the way to the cabin.
“What the hell did you say to that boy?” Sullivan asked as he started up the car. “He looked white as a sheet, shaking and trembling like he had just seen a ghost. Is he even okay to drive?”
“I just asked him a few questions about the case,” responded Clarke.
“Did you get anything new?” asked Sullivan.
Clarke beamed, “I sure did.”
“What did you get?” Sullivan questioned.
“The guy claimed he was being watched by something, and he saw a shadowy figure in the bushes,” Clarke said.
“Did he pursue?” asked Sullivan.
“Nope, he said it was gone a second later and he thought his mind was playing tricks on him,” responded Clarke.
“Damn,” said Sullivan. “Do you think it could have been the killer?”
“Perhaps,” Clarke responded.
Forty minutes later the men arrived at the cabin. It was covered in yellow tape, not that anyone would visit it anyway, they were so deep in the woods. By time they got there the weather had become foggy; the sky was overcast and it looked like a horror movie. Sullivan parked the black Durango behind Murphy’s white Explorer. As the men got out a murder of crows flew by, cawing.
“A bad omen,” Clarke said.
“Stop it with that heebie jeebie fortune teller crap,” Sullivan said.
They went to the door where Murphy was already waiting, his face already pale.
“There is no way in hell that I am going in there again,” he said, sweating like a pig. “We didn’t touch much, especially when we heard that you feds were coming into town. There’s still lots of blood everywhere and it stinks. I know there’s no service but you can still get in touch with the outside world as there’s a router in there, the password is on a post-it note on the fridge.”
“Thank you, Officer Murphy,” said Clarke.
Sullivan opened the door and went in first.
“Good luck,” said Murphy, “you’re going to need it.”
Then like a bullet Sullivan flew right back out of the cabin and ran straight by the two men; he collapsed on the ground near a bush and began violently vomiting.
“DO, NOT, GO, IN, THERE!” he muttered when he was finished.
“What the hell man?” said Clarke.
“The smell,” Sullivan stuttered.
Murphy helped him back to his feet, “I warned you” he said. “It’s awful”.
“I’m going into the car to get masks, that will help a little bit,” said Clarke. “Josh, you just recover.”
Five minutes later the two agents were ready to try again. They had their masks and gloves on and entered the cabin. Murphy watched from a distance. As soon as Clarke walked in, a pungent smell struck his nose. It was stronger than anything else he’s ever smelled before. It smelled like decay. He looked over at Sullivan who already looked like he wanted to throw up again.
“Let’s get in and out,” he choked.
Clarke found the light switch and flicked it on. Even with the lights on the cabin was still dimly illuminated. The cabin was small: two bedrooms in the back, one bathroom, and a kitchen/living room area where you first walk in. The appliances were cheap and the various deer mounts were tacky. The action went down in the center of the kitchen and there seemed to be a lake of dried blood.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” said Clarke.
“I think so,” said Sullivan, “there is way too much blood here to be from only two or three people.
“Exactly,” said Clarke.
“Take a few samples for Auggie, different parts of the uh, lake. Let’s see just how many people’s blood this is,” said Sullivan. “I’m going to take a few pictures then leave.”
Clarke just gave a thumbs up.
As the men exited the cabin they saw Murphy looking grim.
“I can feel it; we’re being watched again,” he said.
“It’s just your imagination, remember,” Clarke replied, although he too felt uneasy.
“I gotta take a leak,” said Sullivan.
“The cabin has a bathroom,” said Murphy.
“I’d rather self-immolate than go back in there. I’ll pee in the woods like a man,” was Sullivan’s sarcastic response.
“Hurry up Josh, I have a bad feeling about this,” said Clarke, who finally understood what Officer Murphy meant. He did feel as though he was being watched.
Agent Sullivan nodded and retreated into the dark woodland, above him the orange sky was only getting dimmer.
“Cigarette?” offered Murphy who already put another in his mouth. Simultaneously, another murder of crows flew overhead cawing, almost taunting the men.
“I’m okay,” said Clarke, his eyes darting around, as the sky began retreating into pink. “How long has it been since he left?”
“The sky sure is pretty at this hour, huh?” said Murphy in a daze.
Clarke was sweating profusely .He shook Murphy violently and relentlessly, “WHAT, ARE, YOU, DOING, WAKE UP!!”
Murphy’s cigarette fell out of his mouth illuminating a carving on a little rock. Only Clarke saw this and swiftly snatched the stone. Next to him Murphy checked his watch.
“He’s been gone for ten minutes. I told him he shouldn’t have gone in there, you couldn’t pay me to go in there,” he calmly replied.
“SULLIVAN!” called Clarke.
“He’s not coming back,” said Murphy.
Clarke was pissed now; he grabbed Murphy by the collar.
“YOU KNOW MORE THAN YOU LET ON, WHAT THE HELL IS THIS!?” he said, shoving the rock in the young officer’s face.
“Let me see what’s on it,” gasped Murphy.
He grabbed his phone and put on the flashlight, illuminating the carving there appeared to be trees surrounding a rectangle. It was inscribed with a saying in a strange language.
“It looks to be a Native American carving,” Murphy observed.
“Is there any way to translate this? See what it’s saying, this is evidence” stressed Clarke.
“There is an Indian shaman that I know of nearby. He lives isolated in the woods, maybe a twenty minute drive from here, but there is no way I’m going even further into these woods, not tonight. They’re cursed,” pleaded Murphy.
“We might not have a lot of time, take me to him right now, and call a search team to look for my friend, Special Agent Josh Sullivan,” commanded Clarke.
“I better get a raise for this,” Murphy groaned.
The men got into their cars and set off deep into the woods. Murphy in front, and Sullivan behind, they eventually got to a dirt road that appeared to wind up a hill into the abyss. At this point Clarke began to really question Officer Murphy. Is he trustworthy? Is he in on this conspiracy? He seemed to almost know what was going to happen to Sullivan, would he try to kill me? These thoughts raced through Clarke’s mind as men approached a huge gate surrounded by an enormous wall. Clarke watched from behind as Murphy pressed a button and was let in the gate. After a brief hesitation Clarke followed him. After they drove through a minute or two of forest they encountered a marvelous mansion. Murphy parked in the middle of a long and illustrious driveway between a Mercedes-Benz and a beat up pickup truck. The Duality of Man thought Clarke.
“When you said we were going to see an Indian shaman living in the middle of the woods, this is not what I was expecting,” said Clarke looking up at the enormous white mansion with the red brick roof. In the yard there were many children playing carefree, unaware of the perilous situation going on.
“Yea his brother owns half of the casinos in the state. This is just one of many of their family compounds,” said Murphy.
Then the men were interrupted by a man with a brown jacket, long gray hair, and turquoise earrings, over his shoulder was a quail.
“John Smith,” he said and extended his hand to Officer Murphy and Agent Clarke. “Can I help you gentlemen?”
“Special Agent Richard Clarke,” said Clarke shaking the hand of the shaman. “My partner has gone missing in the woods and this stone was left behind,” said Clarke, giving the shaman the stone.
“I see,” said John, he read the stone and his face from a beaming smile to a more serious demeanor.
Clarke handed John the stone. Murphy was still silent.
“The stone says, ‘The forest of the north well,’” said John grimly.
“What does that mean?” Clarke inquired.
Murphy broke his silence, “It’s a place of local folklore. I’ve heard bad things about it; it’s a place where campfire stories originate from.”
“Exactly,” said John, “It’s an old site of where my people lived, crucial to agriculture, there’s a famous story around it. Apparently the white man wanted that land back in the 1700s.” He paused to clear his throat then continued, “Now, we had already given so much up to him that we refused to give him anymore. The Europeans did not like that, and late one night they snuck into our encampment and massacred us all. When they took over that strip of land bad things kept happening, babies dying, crops dying. Eventually one night a whole family of four was ripped apart, piece by piece by an unknown entity. The Europeans left, and we never returned. That land is cursed.”
All three men stayed silent for some time after John finished the story. Even the kids playing seemed to stop as they overheard the story.
Then John spoke up, “But that is just an old wives tale,” he said. “Still, odd things happen there to this day, people who go there go missing or are found ripped apart by a wild animal,” he paused, “or an entity” he said.
The men were still silent.
“Nah just kidding,” he joked, “you should have seen your faces.”
“Thank you for this information,” said Clarke.
“You are very welcome,” said John. “Please stay for dinner. I’m about to butcher this delicious quail.”
“I have to get to that place, Mr. Smith. I believe that’s where my friend is, and the missing girl. I could use your help as a guide to get there sir.”
John suddenly became serious again, “Like I said there are still weird things that happen there. My people avoid it at all costs and so should you. There is no way in hell I’ll step foot in there.”
“Please sir,” said Clarke, visibly annoyed. “The bureau will recognize you as a hero, we’ll give you a large sum of money, and I’ll recommend you for an award.”
Then the shaman laughed, “You think I want an award from the government that brutally massacred my people for hundreds of years! What a sick joke!” he chuckled. “And look around Agent, does it look like I need more money?”
Murphy looked at Clarke.
Clarke was still cool and collected. “How about this John,” he said, “forget the medals and the money. By helping me, you’ll do a good deed and potentially save another man’s life– that is worth more than a trillion dollars or even the medal of honor.”
John listened and thought for a moment. “I told you there’s no way I’m going in there, you can’t even get there by car” he stressed, “but you know what, I’ll give you a compass, a map, and the coordinates to the forest of the north well.”
Clarke was visibly relieved. “Thank you very much sir. I’ll return them as soon as I’m done.”
“Keep them,” sneered John. “It’s not like you’ll come back anyway.”
When they got back to their cars Murphy looked at Clarke in despair. “You mean we’re going in there!” he groaned.
“I’m going in there,” said Clarke. “I need you to do something for me,” he said, stoically.
“What?” asked Murphy.
“Take my Durango back to the sheriff’s station. By the time you return, there should be a man waiting for you. He is Special Agent August Smith of the FBI. He is a forensic analyst. There are samples in the back of this Durango that are crucial to this case. Agent Smith needs to inspect and test them,” explained Clarke.
“What’s going to happen to the Explorer?” Murphy protested. “I need it back. It’s not mine, it’s part of the sheriff’s department. If I lose it, Sheriff Desmonde will be livid!”
“Murphy, I need to take this Explorer as deep into the woods as I can. I am a federal agent and now that my partner is missing the sole lead investigator of this case. I take authority over the Sheriff, now let’s swap keys,” he said, his hand outstretched.
Murphy sighed. He reluctantly gave up the keys to the Explorer, in return he received the keys to the Durango. “I don’t get paid enough for this” he muttered.
Murphy got into the car, adjusted the seat and the radio, then prepared to take off.
“WAIT!” yelled Clarke.
Murphy’s head flew up, he began shaking and his hand reached for his gun, thinking the worst.
“Officer Murphy, you never gave me your first name!’ yelled Clarke.
“Oh,” said Murphy, visibly calmer yet still mildly shaking “It’s Carlito.”
“Carlito Murphy,” said Clarke thinking, “You don’t look like a Carlito, are you Hispanic?”
“No sir, not everything is what it seems,” replied Carlito Murphy.
“Then why the hell did your parents name a guy as white as you, Carlito?” laughed Clarke, genuinely curious.
“My parents are big fans of Al Pacino sir,” Carlito began. “They went to see Carlito’s Way when my mother was pregnant with me. They both liked the name Carlito and decided to name me after the character.”
“That’s crazy. How come you never gave me your name?” Clarke questioned.
“You never asked,” responded Carlito.
They were silent for a bit, then Clarke checked his watch. 9:02 PM it read.
“Okay well goodbye Carlito, get those samples to Agent Smith. It is imperative that you do,” he said.
As Clarke watched Murphy speed away, John Smith appeared behind him, suddenly and stealthily.
“Last night you appeared to me in my dream. You asked me for directions to hell. I gave them to you. Dreams are powerful messengers of fate. Now here you are, asking directions to a bad place. Tell me Agent Clarke, do you believe in the power of dreams?” he asked.
“I do,” said Clarke.
“Then let me guide you to hell Agent,” the Shaman responded. He grabbed the map and pulled a marker out of his pocket.
“Head east on this road,” he said “for about ten miles, then head north on this dirt one for about four, then you’re going to have to walk on foot through the dense forest for about five miles north by north-west, then you should come across hell on earth, the forest of the north well. Do you understand Agent?”
The Shaman’s words echoed through Clarke’s head as he trudged on through the forest. He checked his watch, 12:03 AM. He checked his GPS. He had walked for about three and a half miles through the woodland, tripping over roots and dodging snakes. His flashlight batteries were getting low. Clarke anticipated this and had extra batteries in his pocket. The closer he got to his destination, the more he felt like he was being watched. He began hearing this rustling sound all around him. It started out quietly and then got louder; it sounded as if hundreds of serpents were waltzing around him. He shone his flashlight around but saw nothing.
“I think I’m going mad,” he whispered.
Then he heard a series of clicks and grunts paired with the rustling of the trees then he lost it.
“SULLIVAN!!” he shouted. “WHERE ARE YOU!?” he began sprinting through the forest. The rustling seemed to sprint after him, the animal noises were replaced with erratic shrieks. Clarke picked up the pace and reached for his gun. In the commotion, he dropped his flashlight. His gun was stuck in its holster and he had to hide behind a tree to get it out.
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE!?” he screamed– his gun on a swivel, aiming simultaneously everywhere and nowhere.
The rustling had caught up to him. He heard more clicks and then silence.
“I feel like I’m in a bad dream,” he laughed.
Then a figure appeared from the shadows in front of him. The moonlight revealed the creature’s pale, white skin and long, matted, black hair. It was on all fours. As the creature approached, Clarke raised his gun.
“Identify yourself!” he yelled.
“We have no identity,” the creature responded.
“What do you mean, we?” Clarke replied.
Before the creature responded, something snuck up from behind and hit Clarke on the head, hard. He stumbled back and blacked out.
