The Purging of Bridges Valley

Chapter 1

A sweltering summer evening had the insects roused in swarms on the Morse farm. The humid, muggy air that followed a brief rainstorm earlier in the day was relentlessly persistent as well. The lack of a breeze and the record high temperatures made it absolutely miserable to be outside.

An old tractor baked in the low sun, its wheels caked with mud, yet the hulking beast hadn't been put to work in quite some time. A large, wilting barn loomed over it, the doors propped open to reveal hollow insides packed with old car parts and various bric-a-brac that dated back generations. What had once been used to house livestock now seemed to be a decaying museum of times past.

At the eastern end of the 150-acre farm, past the barren, dusty field that hadn't been tended in years, the fence that had been put up fifty years ago was slowly reclaimed by the forest. Large trees reached out with their branches and enveloped the fence, swallowing it. Half of the fence had fallen away, had simply disappeared. Some time long ago you could find deer tracks, as they used to frequently cross into the field. But that too was becoming a memory. A deer hadn't been spotted on the Morse farm in at least a decade. In fact, most animals seemed to have vanished. The doves had been gone for quite some time and the rabbits had all been mauled by wild dogs years ago.

Southward the long driveway wound about 300 yards and took a sharp left down a hill, disappearing out of the line of sight where it eventually connected to the highway.

To the north was the old house, two stories of memories that used to be home to a large family, back in its heyday. Now, it lodged a single man.

Joseph Morse sat at the edge of a six foot deep pit that he'd spent the last four hours digging. Sweat rolled down his lower back and pooled between his buttocks, mixing with the dirt and mud that had collected there. A swarm of gnats continuously buzzed around his ears but he did not mind them. The mosquitoes landed on his arms and fed freely as he sat, unmoving and unblinking, staring deep into the pit. The opening of earth was obscene looking. To Joseph it was an orifice— a mouth or an asshole or an eye, a grotesque, unblinking eye. The eye stared at him in anticipation.

He peered down into the portal and for a moment panicked that it had opened already—the bottom shifted and moved, a ceaseless and wriggling carpet of darkness. His heart quickened as he hurried to scramble away. His foot slipped in the muck and momentarily lost balance, causing him to slowly slide down, the lower half of his body now resting inside the wall of the pit. Upon closer inspection, the hole was simply teeming with earthworms, disturbed by the digging and brought out by the rains. It was cool and wet down in the hole, but a foul smell emanated from it. He hefted himself up and out of the pit, now suddenly very aware that the mosquitoes devouring him had dispersed. Even the low buzzing of the gnats had subsided.

Had he imagined, just now as he dragged himself up, that something was pulling him in? Had he just felt a slight tug on his ankle?

Not yet, he was sure. Not until the ritual was complete would this pit become anything but.

Dusting himself despite being completely covered in filth, Joseph now turned his attention to the wheelbarrow. He'd avoided looking at it all day, but now it was time.

Inside the wheelbarrow were the remains of Walter Orourke. They were nearly unidentifiable in their present state, but only eleven hours prior his neighbor had been very much recognizable, albeit arranged differently. Eleven hours ago, Mr. Orourke came by to help Joseph repair his lawnmower. Now, his arms, legs, hands, feet and head were dismembered and unformed. The lawnmower was still broken.

It all began when Joseph found the book. No, perhaps it started a little before the book. It started because of Emily.

His wife of twenty-six years had passed just two years before, on the very same day, around this time. It happened so quickly. At the beginning of the year she'd been full of life and vitality-- still beautiful after bearing and raising four children to adulthood. But suddenly she was stricken with some sort of disease. Her limbs would swell up and become fiery-hot. Huge patches of red skin would flare over her limbs, her elbows consumed with blisters. Seemingly out of nowhere she became stricken with this affliction over which doctors only scratched their heads. No one could determine the cause.

She perished quickly after that. He skin flaked off as if she were burning from the inside out, as if her organs were glowing coals. Her liver was the first to fail, followed by her kidneys. It was a matter of hours before all of her organs shut down. She died in bed in incredible agony.

He'd secluded himself after Emily passed. The year after her death Joseph became sullen and withdrawn. He stopped driving into town every week, cut all ties with his neighbors, and left his farm neglected. His property looked abandoned as weeds quickly overtook generations of dedication and labor.

Walter Orourke hadn't wanted to visit Joseph. When his wife Marilyn told him that she'd met the strange man in town for the first time in two years, a chill ran up his spine. Something wasn't right with Joseph, there had always been something just a little off. When they were kids he was always looking at people with heavy-lidded eyes circled by shadow, talked slowly and mostly kept to himself. Despite this, the Morse family as a whole was always a beloved part of the community. After April and Stanley died and left their son the property, however, the whole Morse farm seemed to permeate an air of unease about it, as if at any moment something bad could happen.

Walter had no idea that when his wife met Joseph Morse at the town market that things had indeed soured on the farm. And so Marilyn had talked her husband into going over to the Morse property and helping the poor man who'd lost his wife. It was the neighborly thing to do, she'd said. More importantly, it was the Christian thing to do. Orourke begrudgingly left his home at seven in the morning, kissing his wife for the last time, and headed to the site of his sacrifice.

Now Joseph stared into the pit and felt as empty as the hole. He shielded his eyes with a palm and looked up at the horizon toward the setting sun. The heat of the day was slowly dissipating but it was still so goddamned hot. He wiped at his brow absently as he watched the sun stretch shadows over the darkness of the pit. Just an hour or so more and he could proceed with the ritual. Joseph subconsciously clasped the amulet around his neck and ran a thumb over the raised symbols on its bronze face. It was ice cold despite the heatwave.

Soon, Emily, he thought. You'll be home soon.