The Find
George Heflin walked up the staircase of the nineteenth century building that once housed a shirt factory and had since been renovated into office space. He and Ted Lilley, his partner, liked their work area—amounting to one-fourth of the total square footage of the second floor—believing the exposed brick walls exhibited more character than bland sheetrock. Its architecture was not the only feature of the pair's office that was out of the ordinary. From the anatomy class skeleton painted for a Day of the Dead celebration that hung from the ceiling to the framed enlargements of photographs of a former insane asylum that graced the walls, the décor could best be described as bizarre.
"This place fits us," Ted always told visitors who looked askance at the macabre collection of items on display.
It was not as though the two men were lawyers, accountants or insurance agents. When they met in college, they learned they shared a common interest in all things weird and unusual. For four years, the students—one majoring in computer science, the other in business administration—spent their spare time combing the surrounding counties for locales associated with murders, hauntings and UFO activity. They photographed odd cemetery headstones, abandoned buildings, colorful characters and uniquely decorated properties.
In March of their senior year, they compiled written accounts and photographs of their travels and published their first book: All Things Strange. In the ten years following college graduation, their first book sold well and volumes two through five were released. Although the royalties on these books were nowhere near as high as those paid to James Patterson, Dan Brown or John Grisham, they were enough that George and Ted could devote their full time to writing. The fact that both men were married to women with successful careers—George to a real estate agent and Ted to the owner of a beauty salon—meant that they had the financial wherewithal to travel across the country in search of new material for their books.
After bidding a pleasant good morning to Courtney Myerson, master of all administrative tasks and the only full-time employee on the writers' payroll, George helped himself to a cup of coffee from the office Keurig coffeemaker. His Star Trek mug in hand, he took a seat next to Ted's desk. His partner had his laptop open and was reading through the morning's email.
"Anything interesting?" George asked.
The writers normally received, on average, two dozen emails a day from readers relating their own experiences in the world of the bizarre and offering suggestions for stories to appear in future volumes of Heflin and Lilley's books.
"There are a few leads we might want to look into. In one letter a girl claims to have seen the ghost of a suicidal student in an abandoned college dorm. And here's another one about an intersection on Route 1A where if you leave your car in neutral it will roll uphill."
"I've heard of things like that happening before. We might want to go there and try it out ourselves."
"This one is my favorite," Ted announced, sending the document to the printer.
"What's this?" George asked, his interest piqued by the photograph included in the email.
"An old rag doll and what appears to be an antique dagger both found in a crevice behind a waterfall in the Berkshire Mountains. A group of teenagers who were cooling off in the river beneath the falls discovered them. I can't make out the details in this photograph, but it appears as though the knife is engraved with symbols or writing. It just might be associated with some pagan ritual, maybe even an animal sacrifice."
"I'm more interested in the doll myself. She looks creepy—definitely not your run-of-the-mill Raggedy Ann. Let's try to contact the kids who found these things."
"I already sent a reply to the email asking where we can get in touch with them. We'll have to wait and see if they get back to us."
"Meanwhile," George said, after swallowing the last of his coffee. "Let's head over to Route 1A and check out the antigravity hill."
"Don't forget to wash out your coffee cup first," Courtney reminded him as he was about to leave the dirty mug on his desk. "Last week you left it beside the Keurig, and it had mold growing in it."
"Too bad it didn't resemble Christ or the Virgin Mary," her employer laughed as he squirted Palmolive dish detergent into the mug. "What a story that would have made for our next book."
* * *
"Arriving at destination on left," the navigator announced.
After a three-hour drive, George pulled his Honda into the driveway of a 1980s raised ranch. He and Ted got out of the vehicle, walked up the flagstone path and rang the doorbell. It was answered by sixteen-year-old Scotty Pilcher.
"Wow! It's really you!" the teen gushed. "I've read every one of your books. Come on in. Hey, would you mind if I took a selfie with you guys? My friends are never going to believe you were actually here in my house."
Although the writers smilingly obliged, they were eager to see what he had found behind the waterfall.
"So, Scotty, were you the one who actually found the items?" George asked.
"Yeah. There were six of us swimming in the river. Two were girls. I had to pee, and I didn't want to do it in front of them, so I went behind the waterfalls. The knife and doll were wrapped in some kind of animal hide and shoved in the crevice between two boulders, about four feet above the ground. They were really jammed in there good, too. I had to call my friend Alonzo to help me get them out. Even with two of us pulling ...."
"You have them here at your house, I assume?" Ted asked.
"Sure do. I've got them right upstairs in my bedroom. Wait here a minute. I'll go get them."
When Scotty unwrapped the leathery animal hide, Ted's eyes immediately went to the dagger while his partner homed in on the rag doll.
"You found it just like this?" George asked.
"Yup. I didn't change a thing. Weird, isn't it?"
"Definitely strange. I never saw a doll with a gag over its mouth. The hands have been tied behind its back. Legs tied together. And I suppose the piece of fabric wrapped around her head was meant as a blindfold."
"Unusual way to treat a doll," Ted agreed.
"If you ask me," Scotty opined, "whoever did that was one kinky dude."
"I don't suppose you'd let us borrow these for a few days?" George asked hopefully. "I know a man who is somewhat of an expert on primitive art. He might be able to shed some light on your find."
"You can go ahead and keep them. I don't want them. But ...," the teenager said hesitantly, his face blushing a deep red. "Can you put my name in your book as the finder?"
"We'll do better than that," George replied. "Once we've got more information on the knife and doll, we'll come back and take some pictures of you and the items down by the waterfall. You can show our readers exactly where you found them."
* * *
Back in their converted shirt factory office, the team of Heflin and Lilley more closely examined the items Scotty Pilcher found behind the waterfall. The two men, who had gone through McDonald's drive-thru on their way back from the Berkshires, were munching on the remains of their supersized fries as they worked.
"This looks like writing on the blade," Ted observed.
"Can you make out what it says?" his partner asked.
"Nah. Not only is it worn down, but it's in a foreign language, too."
"Well, Wes ought to be here soon. Maybe he can decipher it."
Less than ten minutes later, Wesley Durdin, the writers' former college drinking buddy—now an antique dealer and armchair archeologist—arrived.
"Thanks for coming over tonight," Ted said. "We really appreciate it."
"No problem," Wes replied. "I'm actually glad to do it. It's my wife's turn to host her book club, so the house is full of women."
"What do you make of these?" George asked, pointing out the items on his desk.
Wes picked up the dagger first.
"It's in excellent condition for something it's age."
"How old is it?"
"I can't tell you exactly, not without doing some research. However, I'd estimate it's from the sixteenth or seventeenth century. Most likely brought over from Europe by one of the early settlers."
"What about the writing on the blade?" Ted inquired.
"My guess is that it's Latin. That would go along with the religious images engraved on the handle and the overall crucifix shape of the dagger itself."
"You think this might have belonged to a church?"
"A church or some religious order, most likely a Catholic one. You know, you might want to talk to a priest about it."
"And the doll," George said, drawing Wes's attention to the other item. "Can you tell us anything about that?"
"Early American primitive. Seventeenth century, possibly as late as the eighteenth."
"Was it customary back then to bind them like that?"
"Not that I'm aware of. Maybe the owner was motivated by some Puritan religious belief or superstition. I'll look into it, but first I'll see what I can find out about the dagger. Mind if I borrow it for a few days?"
"Be our guest," George replied. "Want to take the doll with you, too?"
"No," Wes answered with a look of distaste on his face. "I'd prefer to leave that here. To be honest, it makes my flesh crawl."
* * *
Two days later George was at his desk writing about his and Ted's visit to the former Camp Nordland in New Jersey, which from 1937 to 1941was a pro-Nazi German American Bund camp. He was describing a joint rally held in August of 1940 with members of both the Nazi party and the Ku Klux Klan in attendance when Courtney interrupted him.
"Yes?" he asked, looking up from his computer keyboard.
He could tell from the downcast look on his employee's face that the news was not good.
"I just got a phone call from your friend's wife, Mrs. Durdin. Her husband died last night."
"What?"
"But we just saw him the evening before last," Ted declared from across the room.
"She didn't go into specifics, but she hinted he had some kind of an accident at home. I assume you'll want to send flowers to the funeral home?"
"Yes," George answered. "And could you find out about the viewing? Ted and I will both want to attend."
"Certainly. Oh, and another thing. Mrs. Durdin mentioned something about a knife that you leant to her husband?"
"The dagger," Ted told her. "That was the reason why Wes came to our office. What about it?"
"She'd rather not have it in her house with three small children around. Her brother is going to drop it off here sometime this afternoon."
Wes's brother-in-law arrived with the dagger shortly after two o'clock.
"You really didn't have to do this," George said after he and his partner offered their condolences. "We could have picked it up."
"It was no bother. I live just a couple blocks away."
"We were both stunned by Wes's death," Ted told him. "What happened?"
"It was a tragic accident. He picked up a number of antiques at an estate sale over the weekend including an old Forties table radio. When he plugged it in to see if it worked, there must have been a short in the wiring. He was electrocuted."
Tears came to the young man's eyes, and George averted his gaze so as not to cause him embarrassment. His eyes fell on the dagger. For a brief moment the tip of the blade appeared to be glowing as though trying to draw his attention to the rag doll sitting on the shelf beside the photocopier.
* * *
It was only after Wes Durdin was laid to rest in Cedar Grove Cemetery that the two writers turned their attention back to the mysterious items Scotty Pilcher found behind a Berkshire Mountains waterfall.
"Since we have no way of knowing what, if anything, Wes found out, we might want to take the items to another antique dealer," Ted suggested.
George vetoed the idea.
"When Wes first saw the dagger, he commented on its religious imagery. The he suggested we talk to a priest about the writing. I think we ought to stop by Saint Timothy's and see what Father McCardle can make of the dagger."
It being a weekday morning, the church was empty, so the two writers went to the rectory. Father McCardle, a man well into his eighties, answered the door.
"I hope we're not bothering you, Father," George apologized.
"No. I was just going over my sermon for Sunday's service. I always reread what I write several times since I don't trust my grammar skills. Won't you come in?"
Ted explained the reason for the visit as his partner unwrapped the dagger for the priest to see.
"I'm sorry I can't tell you much about it. I don't know how old it is or what it was used for. But I can read the Latin writing on the blade. It's a paraphrase of Psalms chapter ninety-one, verse eleven: 'For he will command his angels to guard you in all your ways.'"
"And the image carved on the handle?" George asked.
"That's got to be Saint Michael the Archangel. You can tell by the sword he is carrying."
Ted, a professed agnostic who knew little about the pantheon of Catholic saints, asked, "Michael? Isn't he the one in Milton's Paradise Lost who kicks Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden?"
Father McCardle chuckled at the writer's question.
"I've never heard it put quite that way before, but yes, he is. Saint Michael led God's armies against Satan. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"This dagger was found wrapped in a piece of animal hide and hidden in a crevice behind a waterfall. A rag doll was found with it. It was gagged and blindfolded, and its arms and legs were bound. I don't suppose you would know anything about such a practice?"
"Good heavens, no! I know less about rag dolls than I do about antique knives and grammar."
Later that night, after watching a movie on Netflix with his wife, George went upstairs to prepare for bed. When he came out of the shower, he heard the television in the bedroom tuned into the local news. As a realtor, his wife was interested in the results of a local election, one which could ultimately affect the property taxes in the surrounding communities. George, who was more interested in sports and the weather than in small-town politics, paid no attention to the newscast.
"Did you hear that?" his wife called through the bathroom door as he was about to shave his face.
"Hear what?"
"There was an accident at Saint Timothy's. The priest, Father McCardle, is dead."
The bathroom door was suddenly thrown open, and George stood in the doorway. His face, half covered in shaving cream, registered his surprise.
"What happened to him?"
"He had gone up to the steeple, and on his way back down, he apparently slipped on the staircase and fell and broke his neck. He was eighty-six years old, poor man."
"I just saw him at the church this morning."
"What were you doing at a Catholic church? I've never known you to be a particularly religious person. Besides, everyone in your family is Methodist."
"Ted and I went there to question him about that dagger the kid in the Berkshires found."
"That's really weird! Both Father McCardle and Wes Durdin dying right after you talked to them."
"Don't let the police get wind of that fact," he said, only half-jokingly. "They might think I had something to do with their deaths."
* * *
After Father McCardle's passing, the two writers both wanted to wrap up their investigation into Scotty Pilcher's puzzling find.
"Let's just photograph the kid holding the dagger and the doll in front of the waterfall. Then we'll give him both items back, and have done with it," George proposed.
"That's fine with me," Ted concurred. "I don't want that ugly doll sitting around here much longer. Besides, I'm more interested in the email we received yesterday about a possible UFO seen over the Quabbin Reservoir than I am in that old knife."
After five unsuccessful attempts to reach Scotty by telephone, George sent the teenager an email. By the following morning, he had yet to respond.
"It's a beautiful day out," Ted observed. "Why don't we just drive up there and stop by his house?"
"It's three hours away," George objected. "What if he's on vacation?"
"Then I'll photograph you in front of the waterfall, holding the items. If you don't feel like driving, I'll take my car."
There was no need for the navigator since Ted remembered the way to the Pilcher home. As he turned onto the family's street, he and George were surprised to see the charred ruin of the 1980s raised ranch.
"I guess this explains why we couldn't get in touch with Scotty," Ted theorized. "His cell phone and computer are probably both lumps of melted plastic now."
As the two men stood in the driveway looking at the burned house, the Pilchers' neighbor walked past.
"Such a shame," the middle-aged woman declared. "Are you with the insurance company?"
"No," George replied. "We're here about a personal matter. I hope no one was hurt in the fire."
"You don't know? The parents were both working, but the son was killed."
"Scotty?"
The neighbor nodded her head, and wiped the tears from her eyes with a tissue she dug out of her pants pocket.
"When did it happen?" George asked, feeling a sense of foreboding in the pit of his stomach.
"Last week. Tuesday—no, Wednesday afternoon."
It was the day after Scotty had handed over the doll and dagger to the two writers.
"So sad. You just never know," the woman sobbed and began to walk away.
"Wait! Please," George cried. "Do you know where the waterfall is?"
"You mean the one by the old swimming hole?"
"That must be the one. Scotty told us about it when we last saw him."
"It's on Jefferson Road, which is about five blocks from here. Turn right and follow the road to the end."
They were barely a mile from the wreckage of the Pilcher house when a bolt of lightning ripped across the sky, followed by a sudden downpour.
"It wasn't supposed to rain today!" Ted exclaimed. "Hell, there wasn't a cloud in the sky a few minutes ago. We'd better head back now. Even with the wipers on high, I can barely see where I'm going. We'll have to come back and photograph the waterfall some other time."
George did not offer an opinion one way or the other. In fact, for the next half an hour he remained stonily silent.
"Are you okay?" his partner finally asked.
"I'm thinking."
"What about?"
"Wes Durdin and Father McCardle, and now Scotty Pilcher. No, that's not correct. Scotty was the first to die."
"Strange coincidence, isn't it?"
"Maybe it's not a coincidence at all."
"What are you talking about? All the deaths were the result of freak accidents. None of them were related."
"The dagger tied all three of the so-called accident victims together."
"Which, as I said, is a strange coincidence."
"What if the dagger—or more likely—the doll is cursed?"
"You're beginning to sound like one of our readers," Ted laughed. "Next you'll be seeing ghosts and little green men from Mars. Stop letting your imagination run away from you."
"How can you be so sure I'm not on to something here?"
"Number one, I don't believe in curses. Number two, even if the doll was cursed, you and I are the ones in possession of it. And we're both still alive."
"You make a compelling argument," George conceded. "Still, once we finally get the photograph of these items by the waterfall for our book, I'm getting rid of them."
They were halfway home when the rain finally began to let up.
"I don't know about you, but I'm getting hungry," Ted announced.
"What's around here?"
"The sign said there's a Cracker Barrel at the next exit."
"I could go for some of their spicy grilled catfish."
Ted put his turn signal on and pulled over to the right lane, not seeing the pickup truck in the blind spot of his side view mirror. The resulting collision sent his Ford Bronco off the road and down an embankment. Not wearing his seatbelt, he was ejected from the vehicle through the driver's side window as the car flipped over. He was killed instantly whereas George, kept securely in his seat by the shoulder harness and the passenger airbag, suffered only a broken leg and mild concussion.
* * *
A month after the fatal traffic accident had taken Ted Lilley's life George sat at his desk going through royalty statements and tax forms. With his partner and best friend gone, he lost all interest in writing. His only regret in closing the former shirt factory office was his having to let Courtney Myerson go.
For the last time, he put his Star Trek mug under the spout of the Keurig coffeemaker. While he waited for the Nantucket Blend to fill his cup, he watched the queen of all administrative tasks empty the four-drawer metal file cabinet, packing manila folders into archive storage boxes.
"You should just throw all those letters in the dumpster," her soon-to-be ex-employer suggested.
"You say that now, but someday you might want to write another book."
"Thank you—for everything."
Courtney's smile was his only answer.
"If you need a reference, just let me know. I'll give you a glowing recommendation," he promised.
"Thanks, but I've decided to take a secretarial job at my uncle's law firm. The pay is good, but it won't be nearly as much fun as working for you and ...."
Her voice dropped off, and she turned her head to hide her tears.
"I'm going to give you two months' severance pay."
"You don't have to," she objected.
"I want to. It's the least I can do for all that you've done for us."
Now crying himself, he drank his coffee in silence. After washing out his mug—Courtney had trained him well—he placed it in the box of personal belongings. As he tackled the painful task of cleaning out Ted's desk, Courtney finished the file cabinet and moved on to the shelf above the photocopier.
"What do you want me to do with this?" she asked.
George turned and saw her holding the rag doll in her hand.
"Put that down!" he cried.
"Sorry," she apologized, taken back by his reaction. "I wasn't going to damage it."
"It's not that," he quickly reassured her. "It's not safe ...."
Seeing the look of confusion on her face, he explained his theory about the cursed doll.
"You think this was responsible for four deaths?"
"I know you think it's all my imagination. After all, this is the twenty-first century. Nobody believes in curses and spells."
"There are some people who do. My neighbor, for one. She's a practicing Wiccan and has spent years studying the occult. If you really believe this doll is cursed, you should take it to her. She can either remove the original curse or cast a protection spell to keep you from harm."
At first, George thought Courtney was only humoring him, but then he realized she was serious.
"Your neighbor, you say? What's her name?"
* * *
Moira Killeen, Courtney Myerson's Wiccan neighbor, was a thirty-four-year-old flight attendant, originally from New York.
"Have you ever seen anything like that?" George asked as she turned the rag doll around, closely examining it from all sides.
"Not exactly. You say it was bound and gagged when it was found?"
"And blindfolded."
"I believe you're right in your assumption of a curse."
"So it's some kind of a voodoo doll?"
"No. A voodoo doll is used by a witch to bring harm to someone. In this instance, it appears as though the doll is supposed to represent the witch herself. The gag, blindfold, bindings and the Saint Michael's dagger are all meant to neutralize her power. Even the crevice where it was hidden was chosen for a reason."
"Which was?"
"It's an old superstition that witches and ghosts can't cross running water. A waterfall is in constant motion."
"And when Scotty removed her from the crevice, and I untied her ...."
"You unknowingly released the sorcerer upon an unsuspecting world. That is, if curses are real and the woman this doll represents was an actual witch."
"Three men and a sixteen-year-old boy are dead. I'd say yes to both assumptions."
"And you, Courtney and I are all in danger."
"I'm sorry," George apologized. "I didn't mean to put your life at risk."
"I can make amulets for us that ought to keep us safe."
"And the doll?"
"The most prudent course of action is to put it back where it was found."
The next day George got behind the wheel of his Honda and drove three hours to the Berkshire Mountains. After passing the former Pilcher home—still a pile of burned lumber awaiting the insurance inspector's determination—he continued on for five blocks and then turned right onto Jefferson Road.
As he neared the end of the street, a flash of lightning rent the sky and a heavy rain began to fall.
Just like the last time, he thought, remembering the day of Ted's accident.
This time, however, he was determined not to let the weather stop him.
He pulled his vehicle as close to the water as possible. Then, grabbing his crutches and the animal hide-wrapped objects from his back seat, he slowly made his way to the waterfall. George was barely a yard away from the crevice when his good leg slipped on a wet rock. Despite the crutches, he lost his balance. As he started to fall, the chain from which Moira Killeen's amulet hung caught on a low-hanging tree branch and broke. The amulet, doll and dagger all fell into the river as he went down.
No longer protected by the Wiccan's magic, George struck his head on the rocks. Knocked unconscious, he sunk below the surface of the water and drowned.
* * *
Mikayla Baumann, a seven-year-old girl from Boston, was on a camping trip with her family in the Berkshire Mountains. As she and her mother were walking along the river picking wildflowers, she saw something lying on the bank.
"Look, Mommy!" she cried. "Someone lost a doll."
"It looks like it washed up out of the river."
"Can I keep it?" the little girl asked eagerly.
"I don't suppose we'll find the owner, but don't play with it now. It's filthy. We'll have to take it home and wash it first."
Mikayla's mother gingerly picked the muddy doll up by its foot, holding it at arm's length, careful not to get dirt on her clean shorts and T-shirt.
Meanwhile, up river, lying underwater beneath the base of the waterfall, the blade of the antique dagger engraved with an image of Saint Michael the Archangel glowed. There was, however, no one to see it and take heed of its warning.
This story was inspired by true events. Four daggers (one with Saint Michael on it) were found in the water at the base of the Great Falls in Paterson, NJ. A cloth doll wrapped in plastic was also found there. It had a ribbon across its mouth, its hands were tied behind its back and its legs were bound.
Despite the angel wings, this cat doll is all devil!
