Before We Fade Away Read online

  After a crackling reception, the deputy responded, “I’m at the Dobson place on Drake Road.”

  “You’d best git out to the Cunningham House. I’m not sure what’s agoin’ on, but somethin’ jist ain’t right.”

  “Okay, I should be thar in about thirdy. I’m finishin’ up here now. Somethin’ got inta Mrs. Dobson’s chicken coop, and thar are dead chickens layin’ everwhere.”

  “You’d best git here sooner. Forget about the chickens.”

  After hanging up his radio, Sheriff Bailey exited his cruiser while keeping his eyes on the house. He cautiously walked to the porch, climbed the stairs, and knocked on the front door.

  No answer.

  Then he shouted, “Hello! Bill? Mary? Anabody home?”

  Still no answer.

  He knocked again and yelled even louder, “Bill? Mary? Are ye here?”

  Still no sound came from inside the house.

  He tried the doorknob. The door was unlocked. Drawing his weapon and pointing it ahead, he pushed the door with his gun and walked onto the black and white tile foyer.

  “Hello. Bill? Mary? Anabody home?”

  The sheriff stood in the entranceway of the big house, repeating Bill and Mary’s names and hearing only the echo of his own voice as it reverberated in the empty hallway.

  “Bill? Mary? Are ya in here?”

  ****

  The sheriff was still inside the Cunningham House when Chief Deputy Fitzsimmons parked his cruiser near the porch. Just as the deputy was exiting his vehicle, the sheriff came bursting out the front door, tripping down the stairs, and dashing past the deputy into the thick bushes on the side of the house. He must have stayed hunched over vomiting for a full five minutes before catching his breath. “Ed, somethin’ horrible has happened! They all dead! All nine of them—all dead! Thar’s blood everwhere!”

  Chapter Three

  Plan of Action

  Dani

  On both Saturday and Sunday nights, the nightmares grew more intense. I was exhausted Monday morning when I got to my nine o’clock communication class. Like a zombie, I walked through the halls with mud colored circles under my eyes, watering and burning from lack of sleep. The strands of my normally shiny and styled, dark hair lay limp on top of my head. I looked and felt like hell.

  After my class, I met with my counselor, Mr. Beatty.

  “So what can I do for you, Danielle? You look like shit. Have you been pulling too many all-nighters?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve been pulling all-nighters, but not by choice. I’m having horrific nightmares every night. Do you happen to know anybody who could tell me why and how to stop them?”

  The teasing smile left Mr. Beatty’s face. “When did these start?”

  “A little over two weeks ago. I’m physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. Before you ask, nothing has happened to cause them. Nothing traumatic. Nothing tragic. Nothing at all.”

  “Hmm.” He puckered his lips and tapped his finger on his desk. “Did you ever have anything like them previously?”

  “No, never. The last time I had a nightmare I can remember was when I was eight years old, and little, green men came through my bedroom window to eat me. That was one, single nightmare. It never repeated itself. These keep going on and on, getting worse every night.”

  Mr. Beatty leaned back in his chair. “I know someone who might be able to help you. She’s a psychiatrist in Orlando. Her name is Dr. Grace DeMarco. She’s dealt with issues like yours before. Let me give her a call.” Mr. Beatty called Dr. DeMarco and made an appointment for three that afternoon.

  I went to the coffee shop for some caffeine to keep me awake. I had my communications book with me to study. My stomach was doing flip-flops from the caffeine, so I bought a turkey sandwich, hoping it would help the nausea and keep me awake. As hard as I tried to keep my eyes open, they kept drifting shut. Finally, I gave up and moved to a back table. Laying my arms on the table and resting my head on my arms, I dozed off until a nightmare caused me to bolt upright, sending my textbook crashing to the floor and half the coffeehouse staring at me. Embarrassed, I picked up my book and scurried out of the shop.

  ****

  At Dr. DeMarco’s office, I filled out the new patient paperwork and then opened my communications book, pretending to read. Letting my eyes gently close, I dozed for about ten minutes until my name was called. I was led to a small room where an attractive woman stood behind a polished wooden desk against a huge window looking out at several tall buildings. Dressed in a gray suit with a silk, magenta blouse, she wore her auburn, shoulder-length hair in a very flattering style.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Reynolds. I’m Dr. Grace DeMarco. Please have a seat. Mr. Beatty briefed me about your problem. However, I’d like to hear your version.”

  I told her about the nightmares, told her I didn’t know why I was having them, no stressful events in my life, no sexual abuse, and no other traumatic events, nothing that might cause them. I talked for a solid twenty minutes without interruption. When I stopped, I took a deep breath and waited for her response.

  She folded her delicate hands on her desk. “If you agree, I’d like to hypnotize you. Something in your psyche has alarmed you and won’t release itself. We need to find out exactly what it is and why it has suddenly become an issue. Recurring nightmares oftentimes can be explained once we determine what your mind is harboring. It could be something you’ve buried in your mind, and we simply need it to resurface. Perhaps it’s an experience you had as a child too horrific or embarrassing to remember, and the nightmares are trying to push it into the present. These nightmares can also become dangerous and lead to accidents because of insufficient sleep. Some doctors say nightmares can cause epilepsy. You probably have already experienced the lack of focus, motivation, and concentration. I can’t guarantee hypnosis will be the answer, but it’s the first step we should take.”

  Dr. DeMarco moved forward and rested her elbows on her desk. “What do you think, Danielle?”

  I’d never been hypnotized before. One time in my psychology class, we had a guest professor who hypnotized volunteers. They’d do foolish things when they were under hypnosis. The professor told one student he’d wake up and be Justin Bieber. The entire class laughed when he awakened and sang Bieber’s Boyfriend. He sounded more like a beaver than Justin Bieber. I felt sorry for him, making an ass of himself. I surely didn’t want that happening to me.

  My situation was different. I wouldn’t be hypnotized for entertainment, and I’d have no audience to ridicule me. So I agreed and scheduled an appointment for nine the next morning.

  When I arrived home, Dad was still at work. I removed pasta sauce and meatballs from the freezer. I put them on the burner to defrost and water on the stove to boil the pasta. Turning on the television and sitting on the couch, I thought I’d watch something mindless until the water boiled and the sauce warmed. I must’ve drifted off to sleep because I was again in the heavily overgrown area of an orange grove with the old man approaching me, crying tears of blood. He grabbed my arm and pulled me behind him. “Come, Danielle. Follow me.”

  As I stumbled through the weeds and fallen tree branches, he kept supporting me. This time he led me to a magnificently tailored yard with a cobblestone path leading to a gorgeous, white house with gables and turrets. When he turned to look at me, he appeared so sad I no longer was afraid. Instead of him pulling me, I walked beside him to the mansion. I let him open the ornate, heavy door, and I followed him inside. Then the terror began.

  As soon as the door closed, I heard piercing wails from every corner of the house. The walls, the floors, the ceilings were splattered with blood. The smell was so obnoxious I covered my mouth and nose with my arm. The man led me into a room filled with bludgeoned bodies in unnatural positions. As the bodies reached for me, I felt someone shaking me. “Dani! Dani. Wake up.”

  Dad was shouting at me. “You left the food on the stove and fell asleep. The water has almost evaporated, and the sauce is boiling over.”

  I jumped up, sweat dripping down my brow, not completely awake, and glared at Dad.

  He scowled at me. “You can’t let this happen. You could’ve burned down the house.”

  Now aware of my surroundings, I apologized, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have sat down. I should’ve known I’d doze off.”

  Dad’s voice became more sympathetic. “Well, I took the water and sauce off the burners. It’s no emergency anymore, but this has got to stop.”

  “It will. It will. I saw a psychiatrist today. She wants to hypnotize me to find out why I’m having the nightmares. I have an appointment tomorrow morning. She said it could be dangerous if I don’t get answers. I guess this was a perfect example.”

  After discussing my quandary, Dad agreed to accompany me to see Dr. DeMarco.

  Frankie got home from his friend Dylan’s, and we ate dinner. I cleared the table and started the dishwasher. After a long, hot shower, I went directly to bed, hoping to sleep. As suspected, I was in the dilapidated house again trying to escape bloody, mutilated children coming toward me. Walking backward and unaware I was at the top of a staircase, I lost my footing and fell, toppling down the stairs. I felt the sensation of plummeting in space, but before I hit the bottom of the stairs, I woke up sweating and screaming. Gripped with fear, I looked around the room, unaware of where I was. Both Dad and Frankie rushed into the room. Dad embraced me, holding me against his strong body while I sobbed. Poor Frankie. He stood at the bottom of the bed, not knowing what to do or say.

  “Dad, what can I do? Every time I close my eyes, the nightmares start.”

  He held me close. “We’ll find an answer. If this hypnosis thing doesn’t work, we’ll try something else. We’ll
ask that psychiatrist for sleeping pills. I still have some pills from when I dislocated my elbow. Let me give you one for tonight.”

  When Dad went to get the pill, Frankie timidly came closer. “Are you okay?”

  I didn’t want to burden the poor kid with my issues. “Yeah, I just need sleep. I’ve been having some bad dreams. Remember when you dreamt those monster trucks on your bookshelf came to life and attacked you? My dreams are similar, only they keep coming back. It’s like seeing a scary movie over and over again, but each time seems like the first time, and you’re just as frightened. Dad’s pill will help.”

  Unsure if I was telling him the truth, he continued to stare.

  I fell asleep not long after taking the pill. It worked to some degree. I had flashbacks instead of outright nightmares. I’d wake up, realize where I was, then fall back to sleep.

  Chapter Four

  The Cleanup

  November 1, 1971

  After Sheriff Bailey exited the Cunningham House, he gained his composure and rushed to his cruiser to call his office. “Trudy, call Wade Perkins right now. Tell Wade to git out to the Cunningham place on the double. And git in touch with Phil Drummond. Tell him to bring the camera and the crime kit. Everone of those Cunninghams have been killed!”

  Sheriff Bailey exited his cruiser. He leaned his back against the vehicle, slouching with both hands covering his face while sobbing quietly.

  Nervously, Fitzsimmons approached him. “Sheriff, should I go in thar?”

  The sheriff removed his hands from his face. “No! We got to wait for the coroner and Phil. I don’t want nobody stepping in thar ’til we git some pitures.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Deputy Scott Adams’ cruiser came speeding down the Cunningham drive, screeching to a halt next to the other police cars. He jammed the vehicle into park, jumped out, and sprinted over to the sheriff, leaving the driver door wide open. “Sheriff, what happened? Trudy told me I’d better get here right away.”

  The sheriff was still breathing heavily. “Scott, thar’s been a massacre in that house. The coroner and Phil are on the way. I don’t want nobody steppin’ in thar ’til the crew is here.”

  Adams stared at the sheriff. “What do you mean?”

  A tear flowed down the sheriff’s cheek. “Every one of them was killed. Oh, my Gawd!”

  Adams hastily took off his deputy cap and flung it to the ground. “No! No!” He paced in circles while he shook his head.

  Nawinah was a small town where everyone knew one another. Deputy Adams and Bill Cunningham had been buddies since both were on the Nawinah Tigers high school football team. They still went to the football games as spectators to cheer on the current team.

  Dr. Wade Perkins, the county coroner, and two assistants arrived twenty-five minutes later, preceded by Deputies Phil Drummond and Glen Myers.

  The sheriff addressed the new arrivals. “In all my years of public service, I ne’er seen anythin’ as gruesome as the scenes in that house. What kind a human could do such a turrible thang? The entire family was slaughtered! Children, babies, all killed.”

  Dr. Perkins, Chief Deputy Fitzsimmons, and Sheriff Bailey put on paper shoe coverings and rubber gloves. With the sheriff leading the way, the trio entered the house. The place had an eerie silence about it, and the stench of death saturated the stagnant atmosphere. The sheriff pushed open the partially closed French doors into the living room.

  On the wine-colored sofa draped across its tightly stretched fabric arm was the body of Mary Cunningham. She lay with her long, strawberry blonde hair cascading loosely over the edge of the sofa. Unnaturally, she stared at the ceiling with her lifeless blue eyes and gaping mouth. Her dress was hiked to her bosom, exposing her pink, lace panties and swollen, pregnant belly. From wounds gouged into her slim body, streaks of dried blood covered her gingham dress, her ample chest, and the mangled flesh of her stomach. Murky bloodstains darkened the already deep red sofa.

  The coroner stared in disbelief. “What kind of a monster would do this?”

  On the floral-patterned carpeted floor beside the sofa, lay the still body of Bill Cunningham in his blue Gunderson uniform. His face had been bludgeoned beyond recognition with brain matter and bone fragments scattered as far as six feet away from the body. Deep gashes nearly severed his head from his neck, revealing his sliced windpipe and cauterizing blood vessels. A pool of settling blood had not yet been completely absorbed into the surrounding carpet.

  Chief Deputy Fitzsimmons put his hand over his mouth. “Oh, my Gawd! This is the work of a devil!”

  Sheriff Bailey, seeing this horror previously, didn’t look directly at the bodies but stood silently as the other two men gazed in disbelief.

  The sheriff exited the room with the others following. “The grandma’s bedroom is toward the back of the house.”

  As he pushed open Ida Mae’s bedroom door, her body lay naked on the blood-soaked bed with her left arm and leg dangling over the side. Her yellow, soiled nightdress lay crumpled on the floor. The corpse was brutally eviscerated from the neck to the graying pubic area.

  Dr. Perkins crossed his arms over his chest. “What did they do to this poor woman?”

  Sheriff Bailey refused to look at the body but stared out the window.

  Fitzsimmons kept shaking his head. “Awful, awful.”

  Next Sheriff Bailey led the trio to the kitchen. The upper part of Betsy Ann’s youthful body lay limp, and her ashen face was smashed on the table’s hard surface. An overturned, turquoise tea mug rested next to her with a partially wrapped candy bar soaking in the puddle of tea. Betsy Ann’s blonde hair was crimson with the dried blood surrounding the gaping wound in the back of her head.

  Across from Betsy Ann was the body of Cletus. His buttocks were still on the chair, but his long arms outstretched and reached for the kitchen floor. His hands had multiple cuts and slices on the palms, and his face was riddled with angry bruises and abrasions. Beside his battered left hand lay a broken soda pop bottle with its contents spewed on the floor, the brown liquid mixing with the coagulating blood.

  Dr. Perkins walked over to the bodies, bending to get a closer look. Fitzsimmons took a couple of steps backward. Sheriff Bailey stared out the kitchen window.

  Fitzsimmons took the initiative and left the room. “I’ve seen enough.”

  The trio ascended the winding staircase in the main hall. At the top, the sheriff signaled to the right. “We’ll go to these rooms. Thar ain’t no carnage down the left hallway.”

  They skipped Betsy Ann’s bedroom, the first on the right, and entered Daisy’s room. Daisy, an avid reader, sat upright in her favorite chair with a book on the life of Martha Washington open on her lap. Her mouth was stuffed with wadded pages from the book while other pages were strewn on the blue carpet. Dried vomit, spittle, and blood had seeped into her clothing, the book, and the chair fabric. A bullet hole with crusted blood contiguous to the wound was in the middle of her forehead.

  Dr. Perkins stared at Daisy. “Why do this to an innocent child?”

  The next room was Lily’s bedroom. Sheriff Bailey remained in the hallway while the other two entered the room. Lily’s delicate body lay prone across her miniature table, her tiny, china tea set broken and spread on the floor. Her mutilated dolls were pushed off the shelves with their body parts scattered about the room. The head of one doll was forcibly stuffed into Lily’s mouth, tearing her flesh at the corners. A bullet hole was in the middle of her forehead.

  When Dr. Perkins and Fitzsimmons exited the room, the sheriff was still staring at the window down the end of the hall. Dr. Perkins touched the sheriff on the shoulder. “Which room next, Al?”

  Startled from the touch, the sheriff hastily pointed to the room across the hall. “That’s Travis’s room.”

  Travis’s slumped corpse was constrained against the wall with his desk supporting him. His arms and neck were affixed with heavy, black tape. His body was sandwiched between the posters of Baltimore Orioles’ pitchers Mike Cuellar and Jim Palmer. Bullet holes were in the foreheads of Travis, Cuellar, and Palmer.

  The sheriff left the room. “I can’t take no more. I’m goin’ outside afore I pass out. Little Silas is in the next room.”

  Soaked in urine and covered in fecal matter, Silas’ naked body lay on his race car bed. The fetid odor was so unbearable Dr. Perkins and Fitzsimmons covered their noses and mouths to keep from gagging.