December 17, 2020
The sheriff's interrogation room consisted of nothing more than a foldable table, several chairs. and a singular, half-drunk, water bottle. As far as interrogation rooms went, it was pitiful, as opposed to the rooms that Andrews was accustomed to. The room even had windows.
At least they have bars on them.
Sheriff Sharpe entered as Andrews inspected the room.
"Probably not as fancy as the ones you city boys have become customary to but she gets the job done, nevertheless," Sharpe said as he spit into a small trash can in the room.
"I don't suppose you 'rural boys' need anything more, considering most of your crimes consist of drunk driving and goat fucking," Andrews laughed. "Besides, you guys have to worry about scary monsters and ghosts. I imagine that garlic powder would be more useful in this room."
The sheriff glared at Andrews, obviously unamused. "You were there detective. You saw that little girl. You heard us being chased by something in dem tunnels."
"Yes, well... spending long amounts of time in dark, narrow tunnels tends to confuse the mind. I don't know what was going on in those tunnels but I can assure you, it was nothing paranormal."
Detective Andrews pulled out a photo and put it down on the table. It was a picture of Edward Porter. His eyes were frantic and his hair was messy. It was already a challenge in itself to get the crazed man to stand still for a mugshot. Getting him to say a word that wasn't a mutter was the hard part. Andrews pointed down at the photo and looked back to the sheriff.
"That was what was in those tunnels tonight. No ghosts, No faceless men, and no boogeymen." Andrews looked to the picture of Edward once more. "Just a crazed lunatic who was trying to escape from his crimes."
"What makes you so sure that he killed those people?" The sheriff asked.
Andrews chuckled. He obviously wasn't on the sheriff's good side anymore. "Look at the man, Sharpe. Look at his eyes and tell me that this isn't someone who just either had a bad heroin trip or killed four people, carved off their face, and strung them to a wall in a mansion in the middle of the forest."
The sheriff spit once more into the trash can. "I suppose my job ain't to guess, detective. It's the facts that concern me."
Perhaps Andrews was acting a bit biased. Maybe it was from the long nights he had been pulling off with nothing but coffee and booze to keep him awake. Maybe it was the fight he had had with his wife before leaving Washington and all he wanted to do was talk to her. Or maybe... maybe it was something in the way Edward Porter looked. Andrews looked at the photo once more. There was something sinister behind that man's eyes. The detective didn't want to call him evil but, for some reason, Andrews couldn't shake that he was right. He may have looked like some druggy you pick up on a hotel lawn from his photo but Andrews knew better. This man was a killer.
"Very well," Andrews said. "Bring him in."
The sheriff nodded his head and promptly exited the room, leaving Andrews to his own thoughts. A cold chill filled the room and frosted the windows. He looked out the window, watching large snowflakes slowly glide to the ground. The buildings that surrounded the sheriff's office all had their lights turned off, aside from the occasional Christmas lights. Andrews walked up closer to the window, seeing his reflection staring back at him.
The years had not been kind to him and, after this case, Andrews wondered if it would not be a better idea to resign from his job as a detective. Divorce was a looming thought in Andrew's mind. If he didn't do something, he would lose her. His wife was the only thing keeping him from putting a gun to his mouth. He couldn't lose her.
A single tear rushed down his cheek. Andrews brushed it away and looked back to his reflection in the glass. His reflection still looked back to him. Only, this time, his reflection didn't have a face.
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Edward rocked back and forth on the cold metal bench. It was so cold, so very cold. He just wanted to go home. But that was the problem, Edward didn't know where home was anymore. In fact, Edward didn't even know if he had a home. Maybe this jail cell was his home. He pressed his fingers to his forehead and pushed hard, trying to remember. A manor. He remembered a manor. The Matthew's Manor.
A smile formed on Edward's face. Yes, the Matthew's Manor. How could he forget? That was his home, always was his home. As quickly as the smile appeared, Edward winced in pain. His brain was hurting. He was having such a hard time remembering.
A redneck looking man approached Edward's cell with a small key ring. "Detective wants to speak to ya, buddy," The man said. Edward looked at him, noticing a badge. This was one of the deputies.
Kill him, Edward.
Edward pressed harder to his forehead. "Shut up, shut up, shut up," He muttered.
"What's that?" The deputy asked.
"Nothing," Edward replied.
The lock unlatched and the deputy stepped in. "Alright. On your feet now."
Edward did as he was told and was escorted by the deputy to the other side of the building, where a small room with a small hanging lamp awaited Edward. Inside, an older man with a white campaign hat sat on the side of the table closest to the door. In the corner, closer to the windows, was a man in a black vest with a red tie. Edward recognized his face, but wasn't quite sure from where.
"Please sit," The older man said with a soft smile.
Edward felt the deputy tug on him to sit in the chair. The room was oddly warm. It didn't feel like heat that would come from a room heater or a fireplace. It felt like the kind of warmth you would feel from being wrapped under a blanket for several minutes. Your body heat would make it nice and cozy under the blankets.
"Sorry if it's a bit chilly in here," The older man said.
The older man's comment surprised Edward. Could he not feel the heat that radiated in the room? Maybe it was colder where the older man was sitting.
"It's fine," Edward replied.
The older man smiled at him and slid a folder, filled with series of papers and photographs, towards the middle of the table, not quite revealing their contents to Edward.
"Well, Mr. Porter, before we begin, I thought you might like to know that your son and daughter are in good health and are just fine. They're a bit shaken up but that's to be expected, given the situation."
Son? Daughter? Edward didn't know he had a son and daughter.
"That's great," Edward said quietly.
Edward looked over to the man standing in the corner, feeling his gaze pierce through him.
"Regrettably, Mrs. Porter is not doing so well after everything that has happened. She's currently in therapy and has not been responding well to the treatment," The old man continued.
Mrs. Porter? Who's Mrs. Porter?
"I... I'm sorry to hear that," Edward said.
"Yes, I suppose you would be sorry to hear something like that," The man said. He paused and looked at Edward before spitting into a trash can next to him. "Mr. Porter, is everything alright, son?"
"Yes. I suppose I'm just a bit tired is all."
The old man huffed and looked down to the papers. "Let us just jump straight into it then, shall we? And if you help us, we might just get you some ribs for dinner."
Edward wouldn't mind some ribs. His stomach felt like an empty pit. But it wasn't food he craved, no. He wanted a drink. Not water but a beer. Or maybe some whiskey. He couldn't decide. Decisions, decisions.
"That sounds good to me..." He looked down at the old man's badge. "Sheriff..."
"Sharpe," The old man struck him a curious glance. "Edward, if I may call you that; do you remember who I am?"
Edward looked to the man in the corner of the room and then back to the sheriff. "Of course, you're the sheriff. How could I not remember you?"
"Yes, I am indeed the sheriff. Can you recall the last time we met?"
There was no time they met. Edward was sure of it. At least, he was certain, right? Did he just forget that he met this man? What else was he not remembering? He had a wife, a son, and a daughter? Was this a dream? Why couldn't he remember?
"I guess my mind is a bit fuzzy, Sheriff," Edward replied.
"We met at your home at Waterworth Drive, back when you were having disturbances at your home."
"Ahh, yes. Of course I remember that," Edward said, unable to remember any of that. The manor was his home and he didn't remember any disturbances there.
The sheriff looked at Edward, unconvinced. "Right... Well then, let's get to it."
The sheriff opened the folder in the middle of the table, showing Edward a picture of four bodies with their faces disfigured. Or rather, cut off.
"What the hell?" Edward said, revolted by the images.
"Edward, the detective and I are working on a case to uncover who these four victims are. Given that we found you in the tunnels tonight, we want to know if you are able to help us identify any of the individuals."
Edward looked over the photos, not recognizing any of the persons. He had to be in a dream.
"I'm sorry. I... I don't know," Edward said.
The man from the corner walked to the table, revealing himself to Edward. "He's a fucking liar, Sheriff. He's lying right through his teeth."
"Now, Detective, I think Edward here needs to take another look."
A feeling of anxiety hit Edward. He truly didn't know who any of them were. At least, not with their faces carved off. Although, the female body did look somewhat familiar.
Wake up, Edward. Wake up.
"I... I'm sorry. I really don't know," Edward said once more.
The detective pulled his chair to the table and stared into Edward's eyes. "Several witnesses, your sister in laws and own son, have reported this woman to be Rebecca Dawes. Each one of them reported you, Gabriel Matthews, and Jordan Porter to have been in close vicinity to her when she was killed. Do you remember that?"
Edward shook his head, feeling a bead of sweat run down his back.
The detective pointed to the next photo. "This one is Aaron Fletcher. We found your wife at his house, the day of his disappearance. She couldn't remember anything though, only spouting nonsense and screaming profanity. How about him? Do you remember him?"
Once more, Edward shook his head.
Next was the third photo. "This one is Robert Mason, a coworker of yours. In case your forgetting, you two work at the Hallington Sawmill." He paused, watching Edward become red hot. "We found his phone in the grass, right beside your vehicle crashed on the highway. But he was gone. I don't suppose you have any recollection of that one, do you?"
Edward didn't respond.
Finally, the detective pointed to the last photo. "And this one is Jordan Porter, your own brother. His wife, your sister-in-law, Dana Porter, said that she believed you and Jordan ran out the back door of the mansion together, along with Gabriel Matthews. I don't suppose you can remember your brother either?"
My brother? I... I don't have a brother.
Edward felt the anxiety grip him even harder. He didn't know any of them. Although, Rebecca sounded familiar.
"I'm sorry, detective. I truly don't know. I..." He pressed his hands to his temple. "I truly can't remember them."
The detective huffed and dramatically pushed the chair away and disappeared into the dim lighting. "Have your deputies bring him back to his cell. Apparently, Mr. Porter isn't in the mood to talk."
The sheriff nodded his head and placed a hand on Edward's shoulder. "Go and rest son. I anticipate you just need some time to think."
The redneck deputy once again took Edward and escorted him away. He looked back, seeing the disgust in the detective's eyes. What had he done? Why couldn't he remember?
He was escorted back to his cell where he laid on the wooden bench. Maybe that's what he needed - some time to think.
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Birke entered the room, tilting his head to Andrews.
"Well?" Birke asked.
Andrews scoffed and looked back to the snow falling gently from the sky. "He can't remember a goddamn thing." Andrews said. "Or at least, he's really good at pretending he can't remember."
The sheriff pushed his fingers into his lips and threw the rest of the tobacco into the garbage. "This isn't the first time something like this has happened in these parts, detective. Plenty of folks have had some kind of memory loss after dealing with the supernatural elements."
Andrews chuckled. "Supernatural elements? Sheriff, this man is a killer and, whether or not he confesses to it, I know that he's a killer."
The sheriff slowly rose to his feet and leaned against the table. "Mr. Porter wasn't the sweetest or kindest man by any stretch when I first met him. However, I have a very hard time believing that he suddenly decided to kill four people, one of them being his brother, all is quick succession. Sure, I ain't saying it's impossible. Folks have done terrible things like this before but I just don't see this man doing such a thing. At least, that is, doing it on his own accord."
"Whether you choose to believe that he killed them or monsters and ghosts convinced him to kill them, it doesn't matter. Edward Porter is a killer and I'll prove it," Andrews replied.
"Well, Detective Andrews, I look forward to seeing your investigation completed. However, I must tell you something. In these parts, we still believe in innocent until proven guilty. I will not keep this man hostage in that cell if you are unable to prove that he is, indeed, guilty. Whatever this man is, I don't pretend to know. What I do know is that he needs help. He's suffering from some kind of mental illness and is having severe memory loss and needs to be treated as soon as possible."
"Very well, Sheriff. I will prove it to you," Andrews said.
Andrews turned his glance to Birke who was leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed. "How should we proceed on finding Gabriel Matthews?" He asked.
The sheriff sat back down on the chair and kicked his feet up onto the table. Andrews felt he could use some of that right now. The night had been long and full of mystery. He just couldn't stop thinking about that girl in the tunnels. Who was she? Why was she in the tunnels?
"For now, we need to all rest," Andrews said, feeling his eyes become heavy.
"Tomorrow morning, we can have another search party sent out. Scour more of the woods." Sharpe said.
"Our best bet is to find where Mr. Porter most likely murdered him at," Andrews quipped.
The sheriff glared at him before turning his gaze back to the window. "Well, I'm with you Andrews. I think it's time we all go off to bed."
Andrews lightly nodded his head and, before he could begin walking, he heard an agonizing scream come from the main room. The three men exchanged shaken looks and quickly ran out of the room to where the two deputies stood in front of Edward's cell. Inside, Edward was violently shaking and screaming.
Perhaps the sheriff was right. Perhaps there was some sort of supernatural elements at play. Perhaps Edward Porter was possessed.
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It was agonizing. All at once, thousands of thoughts and memories flooded into his mind. But they were all distorted. He had a dog, he remembered. But what his dog's name? Slayer? Wait no, that was the cat's name. Although, that didn't sound right either.
He squirmed around on the ground of his cell block, desperately trying to manage the memories that were toppling over one another. He hit himself and pressed as hard as he could against the side of his head.
Please stop. PLEASE STOP!
And, almost like magic, it stopped. Edward could feel the pain dissipating and the memories returning to their rightful compartments. He could remember... A woman. It was a beautiful lady in a silky white dress, standing at the entrance to the manor. She extended her arm out to Edward, waiting for him to join her.
A bliss overcame Edward. In this moment, he felt happy. He looked up from the ground with a smile on his face.
"Edward?" A voice said. "Edward, are you alright?"
It sounded like the sheriff's voice. Edward looked up to where he anticipated the sheriff to be standing. Instead, he was greeted by five faceless men in the sheriff, deputies, and detectives' clothes. They twisted their disgusting heads and looked down at Edward. He collapsed to the ground and felt a memory come back to him.
The memory that he would forget.
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