A Leon Priest Tale
by J.F. Pringle
Chapter 1
Fast asleep on a quiet shift, a nightmare was just beginning to wrap me in its grip. Were it not for a sudden chill that woke me, I’m sure I would have kept sleeping. My eyes snapped open. Felt like someone was in the room with me…watching me. No one was. Still can’t account for the chill though. The fan was off, AC set at 78 the way I like, and it was the middle of summer—a particularly hot one, at that.
Even though I was tired, I was happy to be awake. I hated seeing it, hearing it—the hand extending from the flames, just out of my reach, and the screams of my old tailboard, Kevin. I sat up and set my feet down on the rug I always put out right before I’d hit the sack. The blue light of my clock illuminated the floor near my feet. It said 00E0—must have knocked it off the stand. I sighed as I gripped the knap of the rug with my toes before picking up the clock and setting it back in its place. Something was about to happen. Call it a gut feeling. I get those—strong ones—ever since the day that Kevin died.
Every time my unit, Engine 17, would get dispatched to a call after lights-out, the speaker right above my bed would pop loudly and startle the shit out of me. This time was different. I expected it. The lights came on and the intercom cracked. Still made my body tense up, though—like it always does.
“Call for Engine 17, Engine 17. 122 Nomad Rd. Lift assist. 98-year-old female slid off the toilet. Can’t get up. Weighs 92 pounds. No injuries. RP says he’s disabled. Work off of fire dispatch at 0301 hours,” said dispatch. Before the lights could turn back off, I pulled the string to a little lamp with a plastic green shade then keyed up my radio.
“Engine 17 responding,” I said with a sleepy voice. I rubbed my face, put on my shorts and shirt, then made my way out to the engine bay. My driver, Zeke, wiped the sleep from his eyes as he almost bumped into me.
“Sorry, Leo,” he said. I waved him off dismissively. Paul, the latest tailboard to pass through my command, was already in the cab of the engine company, buckled for the ride. He smiled proudly. I gave him a half grin as I raised my chin at him. Zeke and I dragged as we slipped our bunker gear boots on and pulled up our pants by the suspender straps over our nearly arthritic shoulders.
“Isn’t this Station 13’s call?” asked Zeke.
“Yep,” I said through a yawn. “Must be out.”
“Yeah,” said Zeke. “Seems like they’re always out.” He saw Paul already getting his orange medical gloves on. “Good rookie.” I nodded. “We’d be faster if this was a fire or rescue.” I nodded again. “Show him how quick these old vets can be when it’s serious.”
“Yep,” I said. “Know where it is?” Zeke smirked and murmured.
“Been doing this a long time, cap,” he said as he rounded the front of the engine company.
“Just checkin’.” Because I had no clue where it was. I’d never admit that though. I slammed my door shut out of necessity—wouldn’t close otherwise.
“Do I know where it is…,” said Zeke. “Pshhht…” He glared at me in his usual joking manner, started the engine, opened the bay door, and we were off.
Chapter 2
Fifteen minutes into driving the dark country roads, Zeke began mumbling under his breath, frustratedly. He could have been focused on not crashing, but I think he was just avoiding eye-contact. It’s not like we were responding to an emergency, so I let him stew in the awkward silence. Finally, he pulled out a large, laminated map and handed it to me.
“Mind finding it for me, cap?” he said in a whisper. “I could have sworn it was off York Boulevard.”
“No problem,” I said with a grin. “I’ve been reading maps a long time.” Zeke squirmed. I looked back at Paul. Like a good rookie, he kept his laughter in check. I winked and turned back to the map. I struggled seeing in the dim overhead cabin light, however, even with my readers.
“Captain Priest,” said Paul. “I got it right here.” He held up his phone and showed me a route he found on Google Maps. “Want me to hit ‘Go’?”
“Yeah, you’d better,” I said and put the big map away.
Zeke was way off but we course-corrected with Paul’s help and found our way into the remotest, darkest neighborhood I’d ever been to this late at night. Not even the glow of the city was visible, oddly. Finally, we found the Italian villa style home at the end of a cul-de-sac which had no streetlamps. Not even the front porches we passed were lit. Our flashlights cut tracks into the darkness surrounding the house, and we made our way down a stone path through a garden to a double door.
“Fire department,” I said loudly after Paul rang the bell. He went ahead and knocked too. A light came on inside. Seconds later, a short, portulent man with dark circles around his eyes opened the door. He peeked his head around the edge of the door as he sinched an otherwise loose oriental robe tightly just below an inverted triangular tuft of salt and pepper chest hair.
“Come in, come in,” he said with a smoker’s voice. His mouth frowned but that was just the shape of it. Reminded me of a tarpon. The man in his late sixties had a cane with tennis balls on its four feet, which he used to motion for us to enter. “Welcome…” He watched with bulging eyes as we filed in. “Wow so many of you?”
“Figured I might need some help,” I said with a grin.
“Well, that’s fine. But she’s a tiny little thing and ya’ll look pretty buff. I’m sure just one of you could handle her.” The man squeezed Paul’s left bicep with his free hand. Paul cringed, involuntarily but as politely as possible, and pulled his arm away. “Seems like overkill, but whatever.”
“Lead the way,” I said. Zeke raised his eyebrows at Paul, teasing him behind the man’s back.
“She’s over here.” The man limped at a quick pace as he ushered us off the foyer, down a step into a lavishly decorated reception area with live elephant ear plants in their oversized planters, then back up another step into a narrow hallway. Clean, polished, red-orange Saltillo tile covered the floor. A short way down the hallway, the man stopped just past an open bathroom door, turned around, and pointed. “Right here, guys.”
“Did you get some help?” asked a woman with a shaky voice.
“Of course, I did, mother. Who else would I be speaking to?” said the man, dismissively. He hid his mouth from her as he whispered and rolled his eyes. “She’s a little senile.”
I nodded politely and we entered the bathroom. A small, elderly woman was on the floor with her legs straight out as she leaned against the toilet. I didn’t notice any blood or anything else indicating that she was hurt, but I had Paul check her out regardless. Paul squatted down next to her and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Hello ma’am, my name is Paul. Can you tell me what happened?”
“She likes to wander about throughout the night even though I keep telling her to stay still until I can help her. She’s so stubborn, I tell you,” said the man.
“Actually sir, we just want to assess her level of consciousness. See if she can tell us in her own words, if you don’t mind,” I said.
“Oh sorry, sorry. Please, go right ahead, but I’m telling you she’s…” He hid his mouth and whispered again. “…not all there.” Paul smiled and started again with the woman.
“What’s your name?”
“Evelyn…” said the woman. “Evelyn Greenwald.”
“Ms. Greenwald, can you tell me what happened?” asked Paul.
“It’s Mrs. Greenwald and I don’t know. I was talking to Carl and I guess I just slipped right off the toilet,” she said.
“You witnessed the fall, sir?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Where’s Carl?” asked Paul. “He can probably help us understand—”
“Carl’s my dad,” said the man. Again, he lifted his hand and hid his mouth. “He’s dead.” We all raised our chins, understandingly.
“You hurting anywhere?” asked Zeke. He used his hands to feel her spine from her neck down her back, then pressed her hips and arms. Nothing seemed to hurt.
“Just my knee,” she said. Paul felt her legs, leaving the knee for last, but she didn’t flinch or retract in pain.
“It’s chronic,” said the man.
“I’m just gonna check your vital signs, ok?” asked Paul. He began opening the royal blue trauma bag, but I could tell from her facial expression that she didn’t like that idea.
“Let’s hold off,” I said. “Evelyn, do you want to go to the hospital? I can get a medic unit over here if you like.” The offer was merely a courtesy. I knew she was fine—as fine as a 98-year-old woman was going to get anyway.
“I just want to go back to bed,” said Evelyn.
“I figured as much,” I said. “Let’s stand you up and we can use your walker over there to help you get to your room, ok?” She nodded. Paul and I helped her up, nice and easy. Zeke picked up the walker and noticed one of the wheels was damaged slightly.
“I think I know why you fell,” he said, as he pointed out the wheel.
“I backed over it,” said the man.
“Luckily, she wasn’t using it, huh?” said Paul.
“Oh, so lucky,” said the man flatly. My crew and I eyeballed each other. “Mom you’re going to have to walk. These guys can’t wheel you over the step, remember?”
“But I’m just so shaky lately, Reggie,” said Evelyn.
“It’s because of how so very young you are, mother,” said Reggie as he rolled his eyes again.
“Uhm, actually we can use the walker to wheel her as close as possible. It’s no problem. You want to lead us to her room?” I asked. I didn’t like his intonation, but I figured some people just have that dark kind of humor. Regardless, I was ready to get out of there. Reggie annoyed me.
“Right this way,” he said.
Down short hallways and through a series of rooms, some of which were adjacent to each other, we ended up somewhere in the back of the house. The steps Reggie was worried about weren’t a problem at all. It got darker the further we went save the light coming from a TV a few rooms down. We followed its glow through a small crafting room, with an old Singer sewing machine off to the left, and into a much larger, mustier room. Besides the TV (the kind of old, big screen that takes six men to carry), a large sectional was surrounded by whole stuffed animals and mounted heads. All the glass eyes reflected a rerun of the Andy Griffith show as they stared at us strangers—intruders, even.
“This is where she sleeps?” asked Zeke. As he looked all around uneasily, he pointed to the small part of the couch that had loose, old bedding and a pillow. Zeke retracted his hand suddenly when, blending unnoticeably into the makeshift bed, an ancient terrier with one “good” eye started barking at him. It sounded more like someone trying to clear a hair from their throat. “Yikes.”
“I’ve given up telling her to sleep in her bed,” said Reggie. “My mother, not the beast. Ignore him. He has an affinity for barking at strangers. Vicious ain’t he?”
“Quite a collection you have here,” I said.
“I don’t think I could sleep in this room, Mrs. Greenwald,” said Paul. “Too creepy… You’re braver than me—that’s for sure.” Evelyn straightened up and looked right at him as she spoke sharply.
“It’s my favorite room in the entire house,” she said. “Besides I love to be around my husband, Carl.”
“Dad used to love hunting,” said Reggie. “He passed away a few years back. Sometimes, she remembers. Sometimes she doesn’t. I guess this room reminds her of him.”
“He killed all these?” asked Zeke. Reggie nodded.
“I think it’s awesome,” I said. “Especially that big ol’ grizzly.” I pointed to the massive thing right next to the TV. It was set standing on its hindlegs, fangs bared, and its arms holding up its claw-laden paws. “Wish I could find something like that for the locker room.” Reggie cocked his head curiously. “I moonlight as a coach for CCHS—football. Our mascot is a grizzly bear. The boys would sure get a kick out of it.”
“That one is my favorite, too,” said Evelyn. She began to weep, and Reggie tried consoling her. They both stopped—we all looked, actually—when a loud thud came from the direction of the grizzly bear and TV.
“Need to get a technician out here for that thing. It’s been popping and making weird sounds,” said Reggie. “Anyway, let’s get you to bed mother.” He sat Evelyn on the couch and laid her down before pulling the heavy comforter over her body right up to her neck. Reggie kissed her forehead and then began walking us out. Before we could leave the room, he whispered loudly. “I think she might have dementia.”
“Hey, that weird pop might be something dangerous,” I said as we approached the front door. “Definitely get that checked. I would hate for a fire to break out. Those old TVs are kind of volatile when they malfunction.”
“Yes, yes, we will have it looked at,” said Reggie. “Thanks so much for the help. I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to go back and make sure she’s good.”
“No problem,” I said. “But I would love to come back sometime with the crew and take a tour of the whole house, if you don’t mind.” I gave him my card. “With all these rooms and hallways, it would be pretty easy for us to get lost in a smoke-filled environment—God forbid. You can never be too prepared. Trust me.”
“Absolutely, I’ll call you,” said Reggie then quickly ushered us out of the front door. “Good night.”
Chapter 3
A few months went by, and I never heard from Reggie. In fact, I had totally forgotten about the odd duo. Until one day, as fate would have it, Engine 13 was on another call, and we got dispatched back to the modest mansion for a welfare check.
“Why are we here again?” asked Zeke.
“Assist PD,” I said. “They need us to breach a door.”
“Place looks bigger in daylight,” said Zeke. “Creepier too.”
“Grab the Halligan and the sledge, Paul,” I said. He did and we walked to the front door where a police sergeant and a detective greeted us.
“Detective Tony Vidal,” said a young Hispanic man. We all shook hands. “Thanks for coming out fellas.”
“No problem,” I said. “We’ve been here before for the old lady. What’s going on?”
“Well, an hour ago the old lady’s son was found hanging from a water pipe at the family business,” said Vidal.
“Shit,” I said. “That’s horrible.”
“Greenwald Taxidermy?” asked Paul.
“That’s the one,” said Vidal.
“I knew their name sounded familiar,” said Paul. “I pass by the place on my way to work.” Zeke and I looked at each other, then at him.
“You mean, you didn’t get that connection when we walked into that ridiculous trophy room a few months ago?” asked Zeke. Paul shrugged his shoulders.
“Can’t teach some things in the fire academy, I guess,” said Zeke.
“Same goes for some of our greener guys,” said the detective with a chuckle. “Anyway, the employee that found him—”
“…that means I passed by his hanging corpse today and didn’t even know it,” said Paul. His face became pale as he mouth-breathed audibly.
“You gonna be ok, kid?” asked Vidal.
“Sorry, he’ll be fine,” I said. Zeke nudged him and Paul snapped out of it. “Go ahead, detective.” Vidal chuckled.
“The employee also found a note that mentioned Mrs. Greenwald. That’s why we’re here. We could have busted it in ourselves, but we know ya’ll fire guys have a way of finessing a door breach. And if the old lady is in there having breakfast, we don’t want to leave a big mess over a note from a dead guy.”
“We have a saying—‘try before you pry’,” I said. “Without trying to insult you, I’m assuming you already rang the doorbell and knocked?”
“I’m pretty insulted,” said Vidal with a half-cocked grin.
“Why’d they send a suit for a welfare check?” asked Zeke.
“I volunteered,” said Vidal. “Call it a hunch.”
“I completely understand,” I said. “Paul…” Paul enthusiastically approached the door, tried the knob which was locked, and used the ads end of the Halligan to apply mild pressure near the striker plate. Training him had paid off—the door popped effortlessly. Still, I kept my pride at bay—something I practiced since losing Kevin. Detective Vidal stretched his mouth into a frown as he raised his eyebrows and nodded his head. His sergeant’s eyes got big too. I waved them in. “After you, ladies.”
“Why thank you,” said Vidal. He stood at the doorway and yelled. “Mrs. Greenwald? Police department…we’re here just doing a welfare check, ma’am. Hello?” I did the same.
“Fire department…anyone home?” I turned to Zeke. “What was it? Evelyn?” He nodded. “Evelyn if you can hear us call out.”
No one answered back. The house was dark since the windows were all covered with foil—something we didn’t notice the last time we were here. None of the lights were on, either. I tried a switch. Nothing. Then, I tried a nearby lamp. Still nothing.
“Power’s off,” I said. “Or the breaker could have popped for this part of the house.” I pulled out my small flashlight, as did the detective and sergeant. We eventually made our way into the corridors that led to the trophy room where Evelyn slept. The many objects in the different rooms cast eerie shadows onto the walls which were all painted different pastels. But the shadows from the trophy room were the worst.
“Looks like we go that tour I wanted,” I said. Zeke scoffed.
“I wish we hadn’t. Place is, I dunno…just seems off somehow.”
“Yep,” I said.
“Ms. Evelyn, you in here?” said Paul. His voice cracked. Zeke bumped into him, accidentally startling him.
“Ha! Rookie,” said Zeke. The sergeant snickered. But his face completely changed to horrified.
“Ah shit!” he said. “Over here!” We rushed to his position by the couch. His face said enough for me to know. Evelyn was there, as still as can be, and a pillow covered her face.
“Shit,” said Zeke as he crossed himself.
“We have to check,” I said looking at Paul. His countenance dropped and he sighed. Our flashlights were trained on Evelyn’s covered head as he slowly reached for the pillow. Suddenly, out of the dark, a hand grabbed Paul right before he touched it. Everyone jumped a little—Paul jumped a lot—except Tony.
“Sorry,” said Detective Vidal, as he pulled Paul’s hand back. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Allow me.” Paul gladly stepped back. Vidal pulled the pillow off of Evelyn’s head. Her dilated gray eyes were stuck open, and her expression was like someone who died frightened and screaming. Paul looked away with a soft grunt.
“Damn,” said the sergeant. “Looks like the classic murder-suicide, huh?” I agreed, but something about the detective’s expression led me to believe that this wouldn’t be the last time I’d hear about the Greenwald’s.
Chapter 4
A year later, a crate came into the station addressed to me. Must have been the biggest thing I’d ever received in the mail—still is. The guys helped me get started taking the screws out while I looked over the letter that came with it. Our battalion chief came by as all this was happening. Side-note: I hated the guy—still do.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Not sure,” I said as I peered at the letter through my brand-new bifocals.
“Who’s it from?” asked Zeke as he took out a screw.
“Remember the Greenwald’s?” I asked.
“How could I forget,” he said. “Letter from the grave, huh?”
“Worse…their lawyer,” I said. “Estate attorney, anyhow.”
“Last screw on this side,” said Paul.
“Same,” said Zeke. They simultaneously removed their final screws and all four of the eight-and-a-half-foot high box frames fell at once. Some Styrofoam popcorn whooshed in little spirals while the rest spilled out. It was the grizzly bear. A piece of paper settled next to the chief’s foot.
“Oh shit!” said Zeke. “It’s the bear you had your eye on in the trophy room, isn’t it? Looks even scarier than I remember.”
“Badass,” said Paul.
“There’s a note,” said the chief. I rolled my eyes as he presumptuously picked it up and read it out loud before I could tell him to hand it over. “’You were the only other person in this world besides me that ever even spoke of it. Besides, my husband always liked sports. Take care of him.’ Signed—‘Evelyn’.”
“Him?” asked Paul. “How can you tell if a bear is ‘him’?”
“Why don’t you cup it and find out, rookie?” asked Zeke. I’d normally laugh at that. But something hit me in my gut. Couldn’t put my finger on it. Just a feeling.
That night was quiet, and we all got to bed pretty early. At some point in the wee hours, I got up to piss and noticed the faintest of rattling coming from the bay. When I went to check it out, I didn’t find anything that would make that noise. The doors were all shut and locked. The vents were closed. The engine company was off. The only thing out of place was a loose side of the crate that we rebuilt in order to move the bear to its new home—the locker room at the school. I couldn’t remember who worked on that side of it—then again, I’m not one to point fingers over the little shit. So, I snugged up the screw, went back to bed, and slept soundly the rest of the shift.
Chapter 5
Later on in the year, I had stayed late after a game to clean up. Usually, I make the kids clean the locker room, but we had just won a huge victory over our rivals, the Pirates. So, we had a little celebration and I let them go. My coaching staff had helped for the most part and all that was left was mopping myself out. I was alone and was just about to turn off the lights and lock up when I heard scratching and rattling.
“Hello?” I said. Figured someone was lingering behind. No one answered, though. “Damn it.” I hated to do it, but I walked onto my freshly mopped floor to the back of the locker room to investigate. Last thing I wanted was to lock in one of the boys and leave. That would make for a bad night for him and probably a shitcanning for me.
I tip-toed carefully to the back where it was dark, squeaking along the way, and switched on the lights—no one. But I heard the scratching noise again. So, I followed it…all the way to the grizzly bear Mrs. Greenwald willed to me. It was coming from inside of it.
“Damned rats,” I whispered. We did have a rodent problem at the school, after all. I put my ear to the soft fur of the stuffed animal’s belly right underneath its chest. I heard scratching again and I was certain it was coming from inside.
Thud…
“That’s a big rat,” I said as I pulled my head away startled. I stopped tiptoeing.
Thud, thud, thud…
Whatever was in there started to visibly shake the damned thing. It stopped when I took a step backwards. The noise and rattling had subsided for at least a minute by the time I had decided that the janitorial staff would have to handle this problem. But as I turned around to walk away, loud bangs started from the grizzly again, scaring the shit out of me. I fell backwards onto my ass. It was so violent that the thing began to rock. The stuffed grizzly teetered back and forth as the banging got louder and louder. Then it fell right down in my direction. But I rolled out of the way, just in the nick of time.
“What the fuck?” I yelled. The bear’s gaping maw landed inches from my face. It was a struggle, but I managed to pick up the enormous, damaged décor on my own. A pan-sized furry piece had broken off and remained on the floor. “Shit…” I looked up and saw a hole in the middle of its chest near the belly, right where I had set my ear to listen. Some stringy strands of cloth were coming out, so I tried removing them in order to replace the broken piece.
I pulled gently at first, standing back as I anticipated an explosion of rats. None came, so I gave it one good tug expecting the stuffing material to tear from whatever part of the bear’s insides it was attached to. Instead, I pulled a dark gray object, loosely wrapped in gauze partially out of the hole. At first I thought it was part of the stuffing. But in the flickering fluorescent light was an emaciated human face. The dried up, taught skin caused its thin-lipped mouth to gape widely. And its empty eye sockets sunk into eerie darkness underneath a singular, perfectly round hole in the middle of its forehead.
Chapter 6
“Thanks for coming by,” I said. Detective Tony Vidal and I shook hands, and he sat down in my office on the well-used recliner in the corner near the filing cabinet.
“No problem, captain,” he said. “You look tired. Must be a busy side of town.”
“We’re actually pretty slow around here. No, I’ve just been having a tough time sleeping since…. Well, you know. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“I can sympathize. I’ve seen plenty of things that tend to keep me up late. Sometimes, I just stay awake entire nights.” He paused and had a thousand-yard stare. “Anyway…”
“So did you figure out who the mummy was?”
“The mummy was actually the daddy—Carl Greenwald—Evelyn’s husband,” said Tony with a smirk. I chuffed politely. “Apparently, there were no records of Mr. Greenwald’s death…which makes sense. He was shot in the head, taxidermized, and stuffed into the bear.”
“Geezus…” I said. “Murdered him, huh?”
“Some entries in Mrs. Greenwald’s diary, which was mainly full of daily activities and gossip, lead me to believe that the wound was self-inflicted. And that she knew all about his body’s whereabouts. What’s even more fucked up is that she actually put her son up to it.” I sat back in my, shook my head, and ran my hand through my thinning hair.
“Made her son taxidermize his own father…” I said. “What kind of crazy do you have to be to suggest such a thing and then…and then actually do it?” Tony laughed.
“Some people just have a hard time letting go, I guess,” he said. His face turned serious. “One thing has me puzzled though.” He stared off into that nothingness from earlier as he rolled the fingers in his right hand.
“What’s that?” I asked as I leaned in and put my elbows on my desk.
“The suicide note that the son left,” he said. “It said, ‘I didn’t kill mother’.”
“Uh huh…?” I didn’t know what he was puzzled about. To me, it was the obvious rantings of a crazy person. He snapped out of his semi-trance and looked dead into my eyes.
“If not him, then who?”
I shouldn’t have asked—the very question he posed obliterated my first thoughts and replaced it with something else—something I wish I could forget. And even though I had an answer for the man, I didn’t say what I thought. I just kept it to myself. To this very day, the image that flashed into my mind haunts me—the image of the grizzly, mummified face of an old man falling into the light of my locker room, his mouth agape as if silently screaming as he stared at me with his dark, angry eye sockets.