Chapter 3: So That's the Scoop

Well, for a girl who didn’t get out much—at all, practically—there was only one way for Auburn to learn about this “club” everyone seemed to know about, and that was the local newspaper.  Blackwell was too small to have a TV station, and newspaper websites were often pricey or hard to navigate.  That left the Blackwell Journal-Tribune, a twice-a-week paper that was always ending up in the Reynolds’s bushes.  Whoever the paperboy was, he had a bad aim.

Auburn wasn’t a newspaper reader, and she generally ignored this one when it came.  Fortunately, the Reynolds’ were one of those families that stockpiled old newspapers.  It’s not that they collected them; it’s that they rarely threw any of them away.  Mr. Reynolds would leave the paper lying wherever he happened to be reading it—next to his seat in the kitchen, on the sofa in the den, in the hallway by the phone, on the tool table in the garage (though that one was usually too greasy to read).  This caused the Reynolds house to be very messy, but it gave Auburn quite an archive to draw from.

And draw from it she did.  The papers weren’t very thick, which made it easy to go through them.  It didn’t take long for her to find what she was looking for.  Nearly every edition carried an article about the Brotherhood Club, usually the front page one.  “BROTHERHOOD CLUB FIXING HOMES, CHARACTER,” one headline read.  “BROTHERHOOD CLUB CONCERNED WITH INSIDE AND OUTSIDE” read another, discussing the repainting of the Central National Bank & Trust downtown.  “NOT JUST THE BOYS—SISTERS THRIVING IN BROTHERHOOD CLUB,” “BROTHERHOOD CLUB’S GOT YOUR BAG,” “BROTHERHOOD CLUB AN INSPIRATION TO COMMUNITY”—headline after headline after headline.  All speaking quite positively of the club.

Auburn sifted through them, struggling to pick which one to read.  She finally settled on one from about two weeks prior: “BROTHERLY LOVE IN BLACKWELL—PHILADELPHIA BEGINNINGS SHAPED LIFE OF CLUB PRESIDENT.”

Blackwell, Oklahoma—Jack Richards knows the struggles children face.

Growing up in Northwood, the young Richards faced many of them himself.

“It was a rough life,” Richards said.  “My fellow schoolmates were doing drugs, running with gangs, going crazy at parties.  The wrong type of crowd was in vogue at my school.  It was far too easy to get involved.”

That’s why Richards, a local accountant, wants to make sure Blackwell’s youth have a safe option after school.

“A lot of people, when I tell them what I want to do, say, ‘Oh, you don’t need that here.  Blackwell’s not Philadelphia.’  It’s been my experience, however, that kids, no matter where they are, need support as they journey from youth to adulthood.  Having lived in both places, I would say that Blackwell has many of the same problems Philadelphia has.  School-age kids devoid of parental supervision find themselves with too much time on their hands and make bad choices.  In a big city, these problems are much tougher to fix, but that doesn’t make little towns exempt.”

In fact, the lack of awareness of small-town problems is what inspired Richards to come to Blackwell. [Continued on page 3]

Auburn turned the page and kept reading.

then used briefly as a warehouse for Toy Mart before the chain went out of business.  Janet Long, who worked for Toy Mart, says the place is still full of toys.

“The owners wanted to shut down the stores as fast as possible, so they left most of the undelivered inventory at the hotel.  I haven’t been there in five years, but I’d imagine they’re still there.”

Auburn checked the heading.  Oops, that was the wrong article.  This was a continuation of another story from the front page, about an abandoned hotel somewhere in the downtown area.  Auburn checked the page a little more carefully, this time coming up with the correct article.

“New York City, Philadelphia, Dallas, Houston—places like these have seen a strong resurgence in community service organizations designed to promote children’s well-being.  The smaller cities, however, have not seen as many organizations devoted to this end.  I’m one of those people who get a big kick out of doing something no one has ever done before, and I realized, by helping out a small town, I’d give myself that added zest needed to do a great job.  Before I came here, I lived in Washington, Indiana.  While there, I did the exact same thing I did here, and in the five years I spent in the town, I saw a tremendous transformation in the lives of young people, ages 10-18.  I try not to judge my own success, but the testimonials from parents, the smiles on the faces of formerly challenged youth, the happiness in the community—those were the signs which told me that I had done my part.  The hardest thing I ever did was leave Washington, and it was only with the assurance that another—a teen I had personally mentored through the program—could step in and continue my role.”

Now, Richards’s Brotherhood Club in Blackwell is well on its way to becoming a role model for other towns across the nation.

“I don’t want to say that everyone has an obligation to start one of these,” said Richards.  “In fact, I don’t even see it as an obligation.  It’s something I wanted to do for the community, a way I could give back.  Some might not have a desire to give back, and those people are entitled to make their own decisions.  But I’ve always found that when you give back, you’re the one who receives the most.”

Naomi Wells can be reached at (580)617-4241.  The Associated Press did not contribute to this report.

Auburn’s interest was gone after the first couple paragraphs, but she didn’t like to leave things unfinished, so she read the entire article anyway.  Perhaps it was because she’d never belonged to any, but she was always skeptical of clubs like this one.  Other towns she’d lived in had their own versions, but their influence seemed negligible to Auburn.  Juveniles still found themselves in detention centers—not most, of course, but more than would be expected if the organization was really keeping kids out of trouble.  Districts with crime problems saw no lessening in the intensity of criminal activity.  Places unsafe at night were still unsafe at night.

However, as Auburn continued reading, something began to bother her about the article.  She wasn’t sure what it was, so she forced herself to go back over it, scrutinizing each word for anything out of the ordinary.  Some part of her brain had detected it, but it wasn’t the part that could tell her what it was.  When a thorough review of the article proved fruitless, Auburn decided she had to read some more.

She was reading the one about the club painting the bank when she finally figured it out.  The article quoted Richards, the bank president, and a Mrs. Joanna Ashcroft, whose son was in the club.  Nowhere did it quote anyone who was actually in the club.  In fact, none of the articles had a single quote from someone in the organization, except for Richards.

The reason seemed all too painfully obvious to Auburn after her encounter with Brittany earlier that day.  Those kids don’t like the club, she thought to herself.  They don’t like Mr. Richards.  I wonder what the reason is.

Immediately, the dollar bill incident from earlier popped into her mind.  That wasn’t very nice, she thought, but it’s not the reason—or maybe it’s part of it!  The dollar bill incident was just a little thing, but perhaps, just perhaps, it was an insight into Richards’s character.  Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the nice guy he seemed on the surface.  Maybe, just maybe, he had some deep, dark secret.

If he did, though, it was a secret, and Auburn couldn’t figure it out right now.  She stuffed all the newspapers into a paper bag, not bothering to organize them.  Once finished, she was tempted to throw them out, but decided against it.  It would be just like Mom to take interest in them once they were gone.

She reached into her pocket and realized suddenly that she still had the change from earlier when she’d bought the soda.  Two quarters.  She trotted straight to her room, pulled out the coins, and plopped them into her bank, watching them fall on the stack of coins below.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tuesday, at 5:00

The first inkling of trouble for Arnold Goldsworthy, president of the Central National Bank & Trust, came just after the last employee left.  Goldsworthy often stayed late, going over the accounts.  Two years ago, an employee’s taste for jewelry had left the bank several hundred dollars short.  It hadn’t been the biggest tragedy of all time, but Goldsworthy was a perfectionist, and he’d worked since then to make sure no one messed with the funds.

What he wasn’t expecting after he locked the door was to turn around and find a masked midget staring at him.  The figure was dressed normally enough—plaid button-down shirt, jeans, sneakers—except for the ski mask pulled over his/her face.  The gun in the figure’s right hand confirmed that this was not just a social call.

“In the vault, please.”  The voice was very squeaky, obviously not the figure’s normal tone.

“Now, just a minute!” Goldsworthy held up his hands.  “I’m not going to argue with a gun, but we have a time-safe.  It can only be opened at six o’clock in the morning.”

“I happen to know you never close it,” the pint-sized burglar retorted.  The statement was not delivered crossly, nor lightly, but somberly.

Unfortunately, it was true, and Goldsworthy knew when he’d met his match.  “Follow me,” he said, leading the way to the door to the back room.  He punched in a code and swung it open.

To his surprise, the lights (which had been turned off at closing) were back on, and there were two other pint-sized burglars in the room, about the same height as the first.  They stood silently to the left of the door, staring across at the open vault door.

“Don’t try anything,” the first spoke.  “The rest of us will have you covered while…”

The burglar failed to finish the sentence, not so much because the rest was understood, but more out of a reluctance to continue.  If Goldsworthy hadn’t been so scared, he might have noticed this, but the man was too frightened to pay any attention.

Slowly, he walked across the room to the vault, in order to open the door.  Like many banks, this vault had two doors—the heavy outer one and a light inner one that looks more like a door to a prison cell.  Blackwell’s bank was in the habit of leaving the outer one open so they could access the vault during the day, and the employees were always a little tardy about closing it.  This was why, even though the heavy door was open, the thieves still needed Goldsworthy to open the other door.

Pulling out his key, Goldsworthy hoped that someone would walk in and distract the criminals.  He knew this was wishful thinking.  The bank was closed, and no one ever came back after closing hours.  No one friendly, that is.  Except—Mrs. Mullins!  She had a habit of leaving her umbrella behind and returning to pound on the door—

But that was on rainy days.  Even if today had been rainy, which it wasn’t, what could Mrs. Mullins do against three armed robbers?  The other two individuals had guns too—Goldsworthy had spotted this right as he entered the room.  He now wondered, as he turned the key in the lock, what would come next.  The burglars probably wouldn’t want to risk taking a murder rap, but didn’t criminals often clobber their victims over the head, to keep them from trying to escape?

Goldsworthy swung open the door and braced himself for a blow.

“Back against the wall,” barked the first burglar, still the only one to speak.  Motioning to the other two, the first kept the president covered as the other two wandered into the vault with sacks.

A faint smile sought its way onto Goldsworthy’s mouth, but he suppressed it.  Bank vaults don’t just have money lying around all over the place.  They’ve got safe deposit boxes, drawers, and other compartments, all locked.  If these criminals expected to just waltz in and stuff their bags, they had a big disappointment coming…

The jingle of keys echoed out of the vault.  Then, there was the sound of a drawer being opened, and something was dumped into a sack.  Another sound of keys, and another, and another, and…Goldsworthy didn’t have to bother to hide the smile anymore.  It wasn’t there at all.

In the most torturous minutes of his life, he listened as the thieves went through a good chunk of the safe, emptying anything they opened into their sacks.  When they finally wandered back out, both sacks were bulging.

The first one motioned to the other two to head out the door, which he then started backing towards.  “Don’t try to follow us,” he told Goldsworthy.  “We know what your car looks like, and we won’t hesitate to shoot.”

Goldsworthy wasn’t planning on it.  He could see that these individuals meant business.  Instead, he remained rooted in place until the door swung shut.

Now, the dilemma.  Should I try to see their car, Goldsworthy wondered, or should I wait here?  The minute spent deciding was worse in some ways than the minutes spent watching the thieves plunder the vault.  Finally, Goldsworthy decided to be bold.  He ran for the door and slid it open, just in time to hear the back door closing.

Quickly, he ran towards the back of the bank.  As he was almost at the door, he heard a car speed away from the curb.  He slipped open the door, eager to get a look…

But all he saw were three cars, calmly following a twenty-five mile per hour speed limit, driving down the road close together.  A white Chevy Silverado, a blue Toyota Camry, and a silver Ford Focus.  Only one was the bank robbers’ car, and Goldsworthy had no idea which it was.  Before he could decide which one to remember, the cars were too far off to see.

Slamming the door, Goldsworthy rushed for the phone and dialed the police.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

News of the robbery reached the Reynolds’s the next day, as Mrs. Reynolds was listening to the radio and having breakfast.  It was a Wichita music station, but they always had news on the half hour, and the news covered a wide area.  Blackwell was close enough to Kansas to be included on the news report, so there it was.

“Authorities are investigating after three midgets held up the Central National Bank & Trust in downtown Blackwell yesterday afternoon.  Arnold Goldsworthy, the president, was just finishing up for the day when a midget-sized gunman forced him to open the vault, where two other midget-sized robbers emptied the safe.  Chief of Police Wilbur Morris says the police are baffled as to how the subjects entered the building.

“‘The cameras at the bank don’t show the robbers ever entering the building.  Our first look at them came when their leader flicked on the lights in the vault room and went to get the president.’

“Anyone with knowledge about the crime is encouraged to call the police.  The incident occurred just after five o’clock yesterday afternoon.  I’m Paula Shanlon.”

“Now, back to Dave and Brenda’s Hits of the Late—”

Crash!

Mrs. Reynolds looked up in surprise, only to see that the noise had come from a mug that had fallen from her daughter’s hand.  “Five o’clock!” said Auburn.  “Did he say five o’clock?”

“Uh, I think so,” said Mrs. Reynolds, looking worried.  “Are you about to have another—”

“Dad wasn’t home from work yet!” said Auburn.  “He didn’t get back until 7:30!  What if the police think he—”

“Auburn!  Didn’t you hear the report?  The bank robbers were all really short.  Your dad’s six-foot three!  They’re not going to suspect him!”

“They’re short?” said Auburn.  “Oh.  Ohhhhhh!”  She laughed, a little stiffly.  “I guess there’s nothing to worry about, then, is there?”

Mrs. Reynolds smiled in relief at her daughter.  “Don’t worry,” she said.  “You’ve got to work on your emotions.”

“I’ll try,” said Auburn, smiling at her mom.  “Have a good time at the insurance agency.”

“Hah!” Mrs. Reynolds laughed.  “After Nelson’s tirade yesterday?  I’ll do my best, but you’re asking a lot—”

“You try to have a good time, Mom,” said Auburn, “and I’ll try not to worry.”  She gave her mother a hug and a kiss before heading down the hall to her room.  Once there, she closed the door and breathed a deep sigh of relief.

You see, Auburn hadn’t been the least bit worried about her dad.  She was really good at cover-ups, when she needed them.  That five o’clock time hadn’t set her off because her dad had been away.  It had set her off because she knew someone who’d had something going on at five that day.  Someone who’d seemed extremely worried about something.

Someone who Auburn was going to visit that afternoon.

Chapter 2: A Mysterious Warning

Her name was Auburn Reynolds.  She lived in a small, white house with green shutters on N. 8^th Street, just off Highway 11.  Approaching the age of 12, she was the only child of Ron and Janna Reynolds, who’d moved to Blackwell three months before.  Ron worked at the industrial park; Janna was an insurance agent.  Their daughter bore a remarkable resemblance to both.  She shared her mother’s long, flowing, auburn hair (hence the name); but she had her dad’s face—gray, innocent circles for eyes peering out above a small nose and a short mouth.

Outside of her parents, no one in town knew who she was.  In fact, most Blackwell residents didn’t even know she existed.  This was because Auburn almost never left the house.  In fact, she’d only gone three places ever since she’d moved in.  Most of the time, she sat staring out the front window of 942 N. 8^th Street.  If she wasn’t at the window, she was somewhere else in the house, doing something else.  She was a heavy reader and a master at shuffling cards—better even than George Dailey, who’d had seventy-three years of playing poker with his buddies to perfect his skill.  She also liked listening to old time radio shows, but she would only listen to three series—The Lone Ranger, Challenge of the Yukon, and The Green Hornet.  Whether this was because they had all been created by the same writer (Franz Striker), whether there was something about the characters that appealed to her, or whether there was something about the stories that she liked—perhaps it was even a combination of those reasons—these were the shows she’d listen to.  On them, she was an expert; on others, not so (unless they happened to come on just after her favorite three, in which case she could tell you the times).

Of course, there’s no fun in reading about someone’s usual routine, so our story begins with what had been a very rare occurrence in Blackwell.  The front door to 942 N. 8^th Street swung open; and, for only the third time since moving to Blackwell, Auburn stepped outside.

It was around two o’clock in the afternoon: a hot, June afternoon.  The sun hung high in the sky, beaming 92 degrees of torturous Fahrenheit down on the little town.  This did nothing to bother the birds, who went on chirping as merrily as they always did, while somewhere in the distance, a truck horn blared.  It had all the makings of a normal summer afternoon.

Auburn wasn’t apparently going anywhere; she stepped over the weedy yard towards the mailbox on the street.  Her destination was not the mailbox, though, for she stopped about halfway to the box and stared down 8^th Street, towards Highway 11.  She seemed as if she was trying to remember something.

A squeaky sound caught her attention, and she glanced the other direction.  A boy, somewhere around her own age, was riding down the street on his bike.  It was a blue bike, with shiny silver handlebars and an empty basket atop these.  The boy seemed in no hurry; in fact, he even slowed down and stopped right in front of Auburn’s house.  Leaning to his left to hold his balance, he said:

“Meeting tonight at 6:00.”

He said it very matter-of-factly, with no trace of excitement in his voice and almost a hint of dread.  His eyes remained staring straight ahead, failing to meet Auburn’s as she replied:

“I beg your pardon?”

Now the eyes turned to look at her, with a blank expression as the boy began, “Meeting tonight at 6—say, you’re not in the club.  Are you?”

“Club?  What club?”

Auburn wondered why the boy’s eyes widened in what could only be described as fear.  “Never mind!” he said.  “Just forget about it!”  And with that, he went pedaling off down the street—at a significantly faster rate than he’d arrived.

Curiously, Auburn watched him go until he reached the highway and was lost from sight.  Then, she turned and went back inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her next outing, if you will (for Auburn, any breath of fresh air was an outing) came two days later, when she left the house for only the fourth time since moving to Blackwell.  This time, she didn’t go empty-handed.  She bore a map which she had just printed, leading from her house to the Conoco on Highway 11.  It was only a half-mile away, but Auburn had been out of the house so little, she wanted to be certain of the place’s whereabouts.

The big, red, oval sign with CONOCO running across it in white letters left no doubt as to Auburn’s target.  Its building, rather small, looked at least thirty years old, in part because its exterior had never been renovated.  “Conoco Supercenter” was the name of the convenience store; there was no garage.

A bell tinkled as Auburn slipped inside, but it did nothing to rouse the cashier, a slender girl only about five years older than Auburn.  Her shoulder-length, dark brown hair didn’t get in the way of her slightly freckled face, but Auburn could barely see it because the clerk kept her head down.  She did nothing to acknowledge Auburn’s presence.

Oh, well.  Auburn wasn’t here for the service; she was here for the cold drinks, which were apparently at the back of the store.  Glancing over the rows of beverages, she settled on a Big Blue—a Texas brand.  As she closed the refrigerator door, she saw in the reflection that the store was completely empty, save herself and the cashier.

Maneuvering her way around the island counter, Auburn greeted the clerk and plopped her Big Blue down on the counter.  The cashier picked it up without making eye contact, but as she scanned it, she spoke:

“Don’t forget about tonight.”

“Huh?”

“The meeting.  6:00.”

“What meeting?!”

The girl glanced up in surprise, now looking intently at Auburn.  “Aren’t you in the club?”

“No, I’m not!” retorted Auburn.  “This is the second time this week someone’s told me about a meeting.  What is this club, and what’s the meeting for?”

“Never mind,” said the clerk.  “Forget I mentioned it.”

“Why?” asked Auburn.

“Just forget it!” said the girl.  She didn’t say it rudely, but solemnly, and there was something unsettling about her tone.  She finished scanning Auburn’s drink and glanced at the screen.  “That’ll be—”

Outside, a car door slammed.  Auburn saw the girl’s eyes glance towards the door, then widen in fright.

“What is it?” Auburn asked.

The girl looked back at her.  “Quick!” she suddenly exclaimed.  “Get behind the counter!  Hurry!”

Auburn wasn’t expecting the command, but she knew better than to ask questions.  The clerk pulled open the door to a mostly-empty cabinet underneath and motioned towards it.  “Get in there before he sees you!”

“Who?” Auburn asked.

“Just get in there!” the girl said, her eyes pleading with Auburn to follow orders.

Auburn still wasn’t sure what this was all about, but it was more excitement than she’d had in a while, so she shoved her way under the counter.  Sandwiched among cleaning supplies, a cooler, and a toolkit, she listened to what was going on.

The man must have parked at a pump, for at least twenty seconds passed before the door to the convenience store opened.  Auburn heard the sensor beep, and then she heard his voice.

“Brittany!” he shouted—a confident, friendly yell that boomed around the building.  “I didn’t know you were working today.”

“Hello, Mr. Richards,” Brittany said, in as dreary a tone as she could muster.

“How’s my favorite cashier?” the man said, walking over to the counter.  “I’d like this candied apple, if you don’t mind.”

There was a small crack in the back of the cabinet; through it, Auburn managed to catch a glimpse of the man’s legs.  Thin legs, like a runner’s, clad in gray trousers.  The man also wore brown dress shoes; wherever he was coming from, it wasn’t a manual-labor type job.

From above, Auburn could hear Brittany typing on the cash register.  Whatever she was typing, she made an error, for Auburn heard her jam the backspace key several times before starting over.  She was clearly flustered.

“Can’t wait to see you at the meeting tonight,” the man was saying.  “Oh, by the way, I think I’ve got another service project for you next Tuesday…at 5:00.”

The register went silent.

“Why the long face?” the man asked, concern in his voice.  “It’s the same type of thing you did last time.  You’ll do great at it.”

Brittany made no reply, but the cash register started buzzing again, slowly and reluctantly.  “That’ll be $2.17,” she said, no emotion in her voice.

“Here you are; keep the change,” the man said.  “See you tonight!”  Whistling, he walked away from the counter.  Auburn watched the legs move across the store until they reached the door.  The bell tinkled as the man left the building.

Then, almost simultaneously, the cabinet door jerked open.  “Quick!  Get out!” Brittany said, as adamant as she’d been when she’d wanted Auburn to get in.  As Auburn wriggled her way out, Brittany pointed towards the door.

“See that man in the parking lot?” Brittany said.  “Take a good look at him!”

Auburn stood up to try to see, but the man was getting in his car.  It was pointing away from the store, and Auburn was unable to get a look at his face.  She nodded, though, as if she had.

“Avoid him at all costs,” said Brittany.  “Cross the street, leave the room, stay in your car—whatever it takes, don’t let him see you!  And if he tries to talk your parents into signing you up for the club, don’t let them!  You must never—ever—let him sign you up!”

“Why?” asked Auburn.

Brittany looked at her desperately.  “I can’t tell you why,” she said, “but just trust me!  You do not want to get mixed up with that man.  He will ruin your life!  Don’t ask me any more about it; just take my word for it, and stay away from him.  He’s dangerous!”

Auburn could tell she wasn’t going to get any more information from the clerk, so she nodded.  “Okay,” she said.

“Here’s your soda,” said Brittany, handing Auburn the bottle with a hand that was still trembling.  “Have a nice day.”

Auburn barely noticed the good-bye; she was staring at the counter, where Mr. Richards’s money still lay.  George Washington stared back at her.  A one-dollar bill for a two-dollar purchase.

            So much for keep the change.

Chapter 1: A Town of Evil

Far to the north of Oklahoma City, past Guthrie, past Perry, and at an even higher latitude than Ponca City—but still not in Kansas—there was a town.  A town of mystery and deceit.  A town of gloom and desperation.  A town containing a horror great enough to drive even the sanest person mad.  A despicable, deplorable, ghastly horror so incredible that not even the most veteran police officer in Oklahoma would have supposed it to be possible.  It could be found here, right off I-35 in a town best known as a gas stop for empty Kansas tanks.

The town was called Blackwell—a fitting name, if there ever was one.  Both parts of it stood for something.  Black stood for darkness, evil, deceit, terror, and all manner of ghastliness.  Well stood for cesspool, as all those aforementioned qualities ran together here in this little community.  Blackwell, Oklahoma: population, 7,092.  Blackwell, Oklahoma: America’s Hometown.  Blackwell, Oklahoma—metropolis of terror.

Oh, you never would’ve known it, if, by some chance, you’d strayed any farther than the Braum’s, the gas stations, and the hotels right off the Interstate.  You wouldn’t have suspected it, motoring down Highway 11, watching some fields flick past the window and wondering when you’d ever hit the town.  You wouldn’t have guessed it had you seen the Dollar General, the Conoco, the Pizza Hut, the grocery store, and the other businesses off the town’s busiest street.  Even if, for some unknown reason, you’d started exploring, chances are you still wouldn’t have noticed it.  Some towns are awful for their populations at large.  You know.  The ones whose jails are always full, the ones whose police officers are viewed as enemies by a majority of the community, the ones whose neighborhoods aren’t walkable.  Their problems don’t all stem from one source; they stem from many different ones, all working together to make the district a worse place to live.  That’s the easy type of evil to spot.

What’s hard to detect is the type that’s caused by one person.  London had a particularly famous example back in the 1890s—Jack the Ripper, that mysterious villain that roamed the city, committing brutally horrible murders.  Those crimes, so shocking in their nature, stood out from the rest as clearly the work of the same individual.  Yet Jack only committed six murders.  That barely dented the population of England’s largest city, and tourists weren’t turning up dead bodies at their door every night.  If you were just passing through London, you might not notice, but if you lived there, you’d feel it.  The abject terror of walking through the streets, wondering if that man in the coat walking past you bears a knife, ready to follow you into some dark alley and end it all—

But London’s not that great an example.  It was a huge town, full of crooks, bandits, and villains.  How else did Scotland Yard establish its reputation?  Blackwell, on the other hand, was a little town of decent, hard-working folks just seeking to earn a living.  It never had crime trouble—at least, not until lately.  Even now that it did, most of the crimes weren’t that severe.  No one had gotten killed, or even assaulted.  It was more a series of burglaries, robberies, and arson that had the police scratching their heads, trying to explain the cause.

Ah, the cause.  That was the source of the horror for the town.  Most people were unaware of it; their lack of fear did nothing to erase the threat.  They saw it every day but didn’t realize what it was, and so they welcomed it into the community, unaware of the trouble they were asking for.  A few were aware of it, but these were powerless to do anything about it.  They were like the passengers on the Titanic, knowing the boat was about to sink and unable to get off.  But even if they’d been able to tell the rest of the town what was going on, their story wouldn’t have been believed.  Far from being vilified, the cause was made a hero, leading to an ever-worsening cycle of chaos and destruction.  All who met him fell under his spell in one of two ways.  Either they saw him for the man he pretended to be, and applauded him, or they saw him for the man who really was, and were controlled by him.  Everyone in town fell into one of these two categories.

      Except for one resident.  And that’s who this story is about.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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