Terror in the Shadows vol. 2: Terror in the Shadows Anthology

CAFEVILLE

Cafeville was evil.

The stories were plenty, and my father usually had a damn good time telling them to me. He'd relate one happening after the other, always just before bedtime, making sure I went to sleep with enough demons in my head to host a party. I remember my mother chastising him about it, and how he'd always raise his hands up in mock defeat, telling me that 'the old ball and chain has spoken, son,' just before sending me off to bed. Alone.

I think he secretly enjoyed it. It was the New England part of him, the gene that always made sure everyone knew just how messed up that part of the world was. Connecticut, he used to tell me, was the breeding ground for everything that was wrong with this country. All the things that scraped against the outside of your window on a stormy night, or knocked on the inside of your closet door when you knew there was nothing behind it.

And in the middle of it all was Cafeville. Or, at least, that's what my father believed.

The old man had a weird sense of humor. And as I grew older, his stories became a little more ludicrous every year. The girl who ran away because she had done the nasty with a demon. The vengeful spirit in an old Victorian whose husband had been cheating on her. The curse of the Crawford family, jumping from one generation to the other.

A thing of nightmares, Benji. Don't ever go back.

And I didn't. Since the day I was born and for the thirty years that followed, Cafeville had always been just a name to me. A town that was no different than any other coastal fishing town no one's ever heard of. And, to be frank, I was more than content with leaving it that way. After all, I had no connections to it. No family was waiting for the return of their prodigal son. For all I knew, my father had probably never even been there himself, and had made the whole thing up.

Whatever happens, Benji, you steer clear of that town. Y'hear me, boy?

"Loud and clear, old man."

I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose, taking in deep breaths as I fought to stay awake at the wheel. It was a long drive from Minnesota, and the weather wasn't helping. It was like winter was having a tantrum and decided to give one last hoorah before storming out and slamming the door behind it. In the falling rain, I could barely see a few yards ahead of me, and the constant swishing of the windshield wipers had slowly become an annoying drumming in the back of my head.

21 hours, 1400 miles.

"You're a royal pain in the ass, you know that?"

I looked down at the urn sitting majestically on the passenger seat of my Honda Civic, my father's initials etched into the copper coating with the perfect cursive only a funeral parlor could pull off.