Saturday, July 16, 2:00 a.m.
Finished the Raven map and sent it to Sarah. We’re all dialed in. Also slammed some sugary cereal, so I should be able to stay awake for at least another hour.
Here’s the finalized map, the journey back again, following the trail of the Apostle:
The cool thing is that it ends on the same coast as Boston, where Sarah lives. She won’t even have to go that far out of her way in order to make all the stops. That’ll help with keeping her parents calm even if she is visiting haunted locations.
I’m going to print out my email to Sarah and put it here in my journal.
I wish I could stop yawning!
Come on, dude, you can do this. One more hour. STAY AWAKE.
There, got that all in here for posterity. If nothing else, it shows that I figured this part out.
I think I’ll take a break. Just sit here at my desk. Maybe play a video game.
Saturday, July 16, 6:10 a.m.
I told myself about a thousand times that I wouldn’t let this happen. I did push-ups. I drank highly caffeinated beverages. I pulled hairs out of my arm. But it happened anyway.
I fell asleep.
Not just a little, either. I conked out big-time. Three hours!
I am hopelessly lame.
There is one piece of good news. Or maybe it’s terrible news. Yeah, it’s terrible news. I checked my phone and Sarah never called me. I mean, it suggests that she doesn’t know I fell asleep, so there’s that. But it also means she’s gone missing. I’ll take Mad Sarah over Missing Sarah any day of the week.
Ring!!!
Saturday, July 16, 6:30 a.m.
Great news on so many fronts! That phone ring I shoved in there at the end of my last entry? It was Sarah. Apparently, Wyoming has some humongous cell phone dead zones. She couldn’t get a signal, which is why she didn’t call me from St. Mark’s Church. I feel slightly conflicted about not mentioning the whole falling-asleep thing, but she didn’t ask and I didn’t tell.
There’s more.
Sarah pulled in late, about 4:00 a.m., and parked on a side street. Then she got her camera out and started filming everything. The sun was about an hour from coming up, so the church parking lot was empty and no one was around. Somewhat surprisingly, she had no plan once she figured out all the doors were locked. All she had was a Phillips screwdriver and a prayer. She was compelled to share the prayer with me:
Please God, show me a way in. We just want to figure this out. And I’d like to get some sleep. I’m like the walking dead. Amen.
A quick walk around the entire building yielded no better results. She was still locked out, and very soon the sun would be up over Wyoming. By 4:30 a.m., she was back in her car, discouraged and bleary-eyed. She thought seriously about heading for the hotel and crashing. No cell signal, no way in. A total waste of a thousand miles on the road.
How depressing.
And then poof! Just like that, her prayer was answered. A car pulled into the church parking lot at 4:45 a.m. An old guy stepped out of the car. He meandered, whistling an early morning tune, then unlocked the front door and went inside. Sarah stayed put as two more cars pulled up. It was like a crack-of dawn convention at St. Mark’s, and Sarah’s spirits started to brighten.
“From the looks of it, this was some sort of early-bird-catches-the-worm Bible study,” Sarah told me. “So I figured once they were all inside, the door would still be unlocked and I could sneak up into the tower.”
She figured right. Really old people get up very early. It’s like a curse or something. A few minutes later, as the sun was starting to rise, she crept through the morning shadows and into the church. Then she turned her camera on. Even I could hear the echo of voices and laughter drifting down a hallway as she turned and started walking. I could practically see the Styrofoam coffee cups, the folding metal chairs, and three old-timers gathered in a circle. She checked a couple of doors, both locked, then came to a stairway leading up.
“I knew the Ghost Room was upstairs, near the bell, so I just started hoofing it as quietly and as fast as I could,” she explained, breathless with excitement. “The stairwell was dark, just a little light creeping in from the windows at the very top. About halfway up, there was a landing and an old door.”
The door wasn’t even shut all the way. It was open just a crack, and pushing it, the hinges creaked down the staircase. She stood stockstill, peering into the room, hoping no one had heard the sound. The opening was barely big enough for Sarah to fit through if she turned sideways, and once she was inside, the noises persisted. She found herself standing on creaking floorboards.
“Talk about a noisy church,” she concluded. “Had to be all three old guys were hard of hearing. Between the door and the floor, I was making quite a racket.”
She set the camera down, found the floorboard she was supposed to pull up, and went to work. She said this was the loudest thing so far. Nothing like prying up a piece of flooring to wake the dead, but she worked quickly and no one seemed to take any notice of what she was doing.
Then Sarah heard shuffling footsteps coming up the narrow stairway.
What happened next she wouldn’t say, but she got what she’d come for: under the floorboard, reaching her hand inside, a reel of film. The Apostle was about to speak to us once more.
But the Apostle wasn’t the only one with a message for us.
No, it was far worse then that.
The ghost of Old Joe Bush had come up the stairs.
He’d paused outside the door, pushed it in a tad, then stopped.
Silence.
Followed by what?
Saturday, July 16, 7:20 a.m.
Sarah hung up after that. She wanted to show me everything that had happened and thought she’d need about an hour to put together the footage. She had the ancient 8mm projector with her, which she’d brought up to her room, so converting the Apostle message to video would be quick. She’d do like she had before, projecting the old footage onto a white sheet while she videotaped it.
And she was going to send me a copy of her adventure at St. Mark’s Church.
I know my dad will expect me out the door by 7:45 a.m. It’s Saturday, our busiest day of the week.
Come on, Sarah, send me something. I’ve only got twenty or so minutes. After that I’ll be locked in the shop all day, where it might be too busy to sneak a look online.
The thought of not seeing what she found is killing me. I don’t think I can go all day without knowing.
Man, she must be tired. Maybe she fell asleep.
Saturday, July 16, 7:35 a.m.
My dad just called me downstairs, but I finally got an email from Sarah. I yelled down the stairs, told my dad I’d be right down, and read her note.
sarahfincher.com
Password:
osiris
Saturday, July 16, 7:45 a.m.
Osiris: god of death and the underworld. Very nice.
If you ask me, whatever found Sarah in St. Mark’s Church is just as scary as ever. And she’s right about the Apostle — that guy is so out there. Watching him never gets old.
But there was something else, something I have to contact her about. Sarah didn’t just find a reel of old film under the floorboards in the Ghost Room. She found a glass vial of liquid, too. And do you know what was scrawled on the label? Two words.
The Clause.
And below those two words, four more:
When there is one.
Dad just yelled up again. Better not let him come up here.
Saturday, July 16, 3:00 p.m.
My dad let me off early after I begged for some time on the river. I don’t really want to go fishing, but it’s a good cover for what I need to do.
First a few notes, then I’m getting on my mountain bike and heading downstream.
I need to get a message to Fitz, and the only way that’s going to happen is at the big tree in the clearing.
Okay, so a few notes before
I go.
1) I don’t agree with Sarah about the ghost of Old Joe Bush. Something seemed wrong this time, for sure, like Henry or possessed Henry or whoever was having some trouble breathing. But that doesn’t make him any less dangerous. And seeing him reach down at her like that really bothered me. Still, I wasn’t there, so I don’t know what it felt like. Sarah seems to think we shouldn’t do anything but keep going. Either her nerves have turned to steel or she’s lost her marbles, because that dude is every bit as hair-raising as he ever was, if you ask me. It is strange, though, how he never seems to come after us. He seems to be watching us, maybe even trying to help. Odd. I’ll admit there is a big part of me that feels bad about not telling my dad we’re seeing his old buddy Henry out in the world acting like he’s completely lost it. And there’s the fact that, technically, he’s a fugitive. When I think about things like that, I wonder how in the world we ever got in so deep. It’s like we’ve fallen under a spell and we can’t wake up until we reach the end.
2) I have to call Sarah and leave her a message. She’ll be sleeping for another hour or two, but she needs to send me that vial of liquid. She’s out west, so if she can just get it in the overnight mail before she leaves, it should arrive on Monday. I have a feeling I know what it’s for, but I can’t say for sure. Either way, that vial of liquid needs to make its way to Skeleton Creek pronto.
3) The Apostle video provided us with the first of three letters we’re searching for. No words on the cards this time around, just single letters. The first is an A. So now the Raven Puzzle looks like this:
4) It’s a little unnerving seeing that secret book in the Apostle’s hand. The fact that the very same book is now in my backpack makes me feel like I’ve got a bull’s-eye on my back with the shape of a Raven’s head. He knows I have it. I can feel it. It’s only a matter of time before he comes looking for it.
Phone call to Sarah made, told her to overnight the vial today — check.
Note to Fitz written — check.
Patch kit packed — check (there are a billion ways to get a flat tire on the river trail).
Ready to roll.
Here’s hoping I make it back before dark without any unexpected encounters with the Raven.
Saturday, July 16, 8:16 p.m.
My sense of direction is wacked when I get on the river. Let’s be honest: I have no sense of direction. Ever. You’d think I’d know the wilderness like the back of my hand, but it’s always been a weakness of mine. I think you’re either born with a sense of direction or you’re not. For me, north, east, south, and west are like a foreign language. If someone walked up to me right now and said, “Point north,” I’d say, “You mean left, right, or toward the moon? Give me a clue here.” I’m that bad. In fact, when I get old, like fifty, they’ll seriously need to take away my car keys. I’ll be just the kind of geezer that will drive out into the country and end up on a dirt road in Nevada by sunrise.
Anyway, the point of all that is to say, WOW, it took me practically forever to find that stupid tree again. I abandoned my bike and waded across the river, which is running about three feet deep at its highest right now. The entire time I kept repeating to myself, Why did you bring the ghost book with you? Don’t slip and fall in the water, you idiot! Which way is south?
From the time I crossed the river, to the moment I found the clearing with the monster tree, at least two hours passed. Then I got so nervous about crossing the open space alone. I stood in the trees for another twenty minutes trying to get my nerve up. I had a strong feeling the Raven, hooded and carrying that outrageous ax, was going to come running down the ravine and chase me through the woods.
When I finally did get to the tree, I found the place where the Raven had been chopping. It was a nice big divot, and to my surprise, there was already a note in there. I was beyond freaked out standing in the open, like I was in the middle of the school cafeteria wearing nothing but my underwear. So instead of reading the note like a normal person, I grabbed it, stuffed my letter to Fitz into the tree, and ran like a maniac. I don’t think I screamed while I ran, but I sort of blacked out during the whole running-away thing, so I might have. I didn’t stop until I got to the river, where I realized how overheated and thirsty I was. An hour of running through the woods will do that to a guy. That, and I had about a thousand scratches and bruises from head to toe from bushes and low-hanging branches. Those things sting when you cross a river.
Now I’m sitting here writing all this down because, seriously, I’m exhausted. I need a break or I’ll never make it out alive.
When I got to the other side of the river, I felt better, like I was out of the Raven’s domain and he couldn’t touch me anymore. Still, there’s really no reason for me to feel comforted because the river is between me and the giant tree. But for some reason I do feel calmer now that the task is done.
Four hours. That’s how long it took me to get a note to Fitz, and I’m still not out of the woods yet. On a good day, when I’m not totally winded, it takes me an hour and a half to ride back up the trail from here to Skeleton Creek. But sitting here by my bike, I can tell it’s going to take me a lot longer. The sun is already off the water and I’m — what? An hour from sunset?
Not a good situation.
I should be up and moving, but I just finished a harrowing four-hour journey and my muscles are cramping up. Just a little more rest.
Here’s what Fitz wrote to me:
Sort of a sad note. I feel bad for Fitz.
My note to him (I made a copy before I left it in the tree):
8:26 p.m. No more Mr. Lazy. I gotta get the heck out of these woods and fast.
Time to ride.
Saturday, July 16, 9:05 p.m.
Sun is just about down and I’m so tired I can barely move my legs. A good hour to go. I used a bungee cord to attach my flashlight to the handlebars so I can see the trail. I have this awful feeling I’m being followed, and whatever is following me is just waiting for darkness to settle in. It’s loud on my bike — the sound of the wheels on dirt and rocks — so I keep stopping, listening for something behind me.
One thing I didn’t write down before that I should now. It’s what got me on my bike, peddling like the wind.
Across the river, standing on the shore.
The Raven was watching me.
I’m one flat tire from not making it out of the woods alive.
Saturday, July 16, 11:25 p.m.
Is it really 11:25 p.m.? How did that happen? How did I lose an entire afternoon and night delivering a note?
About a half hour after my last entry, I bumped into my dad coming down the trail. Scared me so bad I nearly rode right into a tree. He was relieved to find me, to say the least. All I can say is I’m glad I brought my fly box and a pack rod with me, or I’d have had zero alibi for why I was out on the trail so late. As it was, I covered pretty good.
“Your mother is worried sick,” he started in. “And the mayor is about to send for the National Guard. What were you thinking?”
I went on and on about how amazing the fishing was — beyond any day I’d ever fished in my life, how I’d completely lost track of time. How sorry I was.
I felt about as small as an ant. I hated lying to him like that, but even more, I knew it was a lie I would get away with. I was using his weakness against him.
“That good, huh?” he said, a twinkle in his eye. He was already halfway to forgiving me, staring into the dark in the direction of the water.
Then I did the unthinkable. I held my arms out as if I were showing the size of the biggest one I’d caught, about two feet long.
“No way,” he said.
I just nodded, smiled weakly, and started walking my bike next to him.
“What’d you catch him on? How long did it take to reel him in? Rainbow or brown trout?”
We talked about the mythical whale fish all the way back home as I kept feeling worse and worse. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t keep telling whopp
ers, and there I was telling a fish story the size of Texas.
My dad smoothed things over with my mom, but she was so happy to see me it didn’t take much. And the mayor, who had staked out our front porch, was so relieved he hugged me.
Yuck.
A shower, some Band-Aids, and a plate of potato salad have given me a second wind I didn’t expect. All night long, I’ve been thinking of Sarah and how she must be trying to contact me.
Back in cell range, I’d found a string of three text messages. She’d also tried calling twice, but hadn’t left a message.
4:06 p.m.
You didn’t pick up, so you must still be working. I’m on the road. Looks like 1:00 a.m. At Spooksville if I’m lucky.
8:57 p.m.
Passing through Kansas. Flat. Bored. Where are you?
10:29 p.m.
Ahead of schedule, should be there a little after midnight. Hopefully, I’ll have a signal! Not that you’ll be there to pick up.
As far as Sarah’s parents knew, she was still snoozing in Cheyenne, Wyoming, and wouldn’t leave for the next stop on her haunted tour until morning. It was all getting a little hard to follow from Skeleton Creek, but I understood the basics.
Sarah was staying where her parents had told her to stay, but doing it twelve hours in advance of when she was supposed to do it. It was this switch in time that allowed her to visit the haunted locations at night, when no one was around. She was scheduled to arrive at a Super 8 in Joplin, Missouri, in about fifteen hours, but she’d be there way early. It was a perfect halfway point, a chance for her to take a nice long rest before continuing on to Savannah, where her parents, against their better judgment, had agreed to pay for a room at the 17 Hundred 90.