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throughthedirt · 6 years

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Season 1: Chapter Nine

Previous Chapter — First Chapter

Miles

It didn't matter that I was just shy of turning 44 years old. The University of Oregon campus was nearly 300 acres of property housing nearly 23,000 students from around the world. Sure, the majority were teens and young adults, but there was no shortage of older individuals seeking education. More so, I didn't have to be a student. I could be a teacher, a maintenance worker, the IT guy, even a fuckin' janitor. For all anyone knew, I belonged here. And the way I walked through those grand, window-framed doors - people knew. I had a purpose. Showing no signs of hesitation, fear, or confusion, I waltzed my way throughout the campus. For nearly an hour, I roamed the campus freely and without even batting an eyelash to any other person. I was mostly ignored by those who did notice me. But for most, it was like I didn't even exist - just like the rest of them. I was just another body in a mass of humans. But I was here for a reason, and that was to fulfill a job and keep a promise; an agreement that got me freedom in 6. Kyle Turner. Kyle fucking Turner. "Fuckin' football prick raped my niece and got off scot-free," as Correctional Lieutenant Dave Ward would say. The very first words of his that changed the course of my history at Oregon State Pen. And I had read the reports, the articles, the media frenzy - all in prison. I knew what he had done, and he was guilty. But a fully-paid scholarship and a hell of a lot of "hush-money" got him nothing. Not even a smack on the wrist. He walked. Went free. And Ward's niece? Well, things didn't go so great for her. Fearing him, she refused her admittance into UofO, afraid she would see him again. So the fucker had to die. And now it was finally time.

Approaching the glass doors of the Performance Center, I made a fatal mistake. Reaching my hand out to pull on the handle, the door stayed shut. It creaked as I tried to open it - but it was locked. "Uh, hello?" A large football player called to me in his confusion, his mouth agape and his eyes squinted as he made his approach. He was as heavy as he was tall; his long, afro-style hair alone adding inches to his height. "This building is for authorized personnel only..." He said to me, pulling a plastic card from behind him and slipping it through the swipe-pad beside the door. The pad flashed green and the door clicked. Unlocked. This place was advanced, way more security than I could have ever imagined. University of Oregon had changed in the last 6 years. Turning to him, I gave a toothy grin and begin to chuckle. "Boy do I feel old, huh." He looked at me, cautiously as he stood before the door. But I didn't let him disappear into the building before I extracted needed information. "I'm actually lookin' for someone - maybe you can help me..." I iterated, "One of your football mates, Kyle Turner." The player gave me a saucy eye glare. "What about him?" Pausing, I conjured the biggest load of shit I could muster up in 0.2 seconds. "My niece, you know-" I started to chuckle, so much so that it interrupted my speech. "Ah man, this is embarrasing on her part, but she's... she's a HUGE fan of his. And I mean HUGE. She has posters of him all over her room, you know?" "Uh-huh..." Little interest from him. Only suspicion. But I didn't let him get another word in. "I mean she's just nuts for college football. Strange for a girl, no? I guess the world is changin' and I'm far behind. Heh, heh, heh." I chuckled again, trying to fluster the boy with too much information for him to process. "But ANYWAYS -" I continued, "Her birthday's comin' up and I was hopin' to get maybe a... you know... surprise appearance from him?" There was a look of confusion on the poor boy's face. "WITH COMPENSATION, of course." Another smile. "Uhhhhhhhmm, righttttt." He replied. "Let me..." He struggled to respond. Possibly the weirdest request he'd ever received, surely. "Let me go see if he's here. I'll be right back." "Sure thing, but ah-!" I held my hand up, a signal for him to stop as he reached for the handle. "Allow me," Taking the door by the giant O shape in its handle, I pulled the steel frame open to allow for the jock to head in. In respect to him, I closed it behind him, locking me out of the building once more. I stood there waiting. Waiting patiently. With my hands stuffed in my pockets, I casually swayed my body and whistled a chirpy hymn. To my surprise, it took only minutes for the door to open again. And out came Kyle fuckin' Turner in the flesh. And he wasn't a teenager anymore. No... He was a man, now. "Uh, hi-?" Kyle would greet me, without so much as a formal introduction. Fuckin' millennials. It took me a moment to sink in his appearance. Tall, 6'1, still shorter than me. A big guy, no doubt. But size didn't matter when it came to murder. Only intent, motive, and calculation. "Yes! Kyle Turner." Pulling my hand from my coat pocket, I extended it to him. "My name is Angelo Rossi. It's great to meet you!" Turner took my hand, shaking it as firmly as I was squeezing. But as he had taken my hand in his, I had also raised my other free hand to firmly grip his bicep. A sort of gesture of greeting, but it secretly to scope his muscular size. "Yeah, thanks." The fucker would respond. Yeah, thanks? Really? Really. Releasing his hand, I returned my superior 6 foot 3 stance to it's upright position and gave a fake, cheery smile. "My niece, she's a crazy fan." Pulling for my wallet, I slipped out a photograph of a teenage girl. "Her name is Nakoma. She's... half native half Italian, like me. Heh." Kyle took the photo in his hand, his eyebrows raising at the beautiful young lady he saw in the picture. Perfect, interest. "A looker, I know. Causes me more problems, ya know?" I chuckled, taking the photo back. "So listen, I came here hopin' I could hire you. For a job, of sorts." Kyle crossed his arms before him and looked at me curiously. "Oh yeah?" "Yeah, man. I'm organizing Nakoma's 16th birthday and I really want to make it special. She has posters of ya' all around her room and I thought, pffftttt, what better to surprise her with her favorite football player? Every teenage girl's dream, right?" I laughed again, thinking the idea is silly, but might actually work. "Nothin' major. There's be about 30 of her girlfriends there hangin' around the pool-" Realizing it was January, I instantly corrected myself. "Indoor pool, at her father's place. Big place, you know?" Kyle's head was nodding - Still interested. "Figured you can drop by for an hour or so, or even less if you're in a crunch. Sign some autographs, take some pictures. Grab a bite to eat, whatever you want. There'll be plenty of food, cuz, well, Italians, am I right?" Laughing again, Kyle's interest seemed to only be piquing the more bizarre and outlandish the story got. "Sounds fun." He smiled, bringing his fingers to his lips as he pondered the thought of 30 hot teenage girls in their bikinis. "But uh-" He started to sway. "I don't know-" "I'll pay you $5,0000. Cash." I confessed. His eyes widened. "$2,500 for showing up. $1,500 for autographs and another $1,000 if you take some selfies. You know' - the girls thing. Selfies, heh." I paused, my eyes growing darker as they remained hidden behind Aviator shades. "What do ya' say? We got a deal?" Swiftly changing tunes, "You know what, don't sweat the decision now. There's a lot of politics in sports, I'm old. I know it." I waved my hand in typical Italian fashion. "You gotta' business card or somethin'?" "Uh, nah but I can give you my number-" Perfect. A rich white kid, hot-shot jock, AND a moron. This was too easy. Handing him the photo, he retrieved a pen from his pocket and jotted down his digits. "Wow, thanks man. I appreciate you considering this." I waved the photograph of "Nakoma" and slipped it back into my wallet. "I'll give you a call something this week. Talk it over with your coach or manager or whoever you kids report to, heh." I put my hand out for him to shake again, "And nice meeting you again."

— — —

I found myself roaming the halls of University of Oregon on my attempt to exit the campus. My curious mind sent me further and further into the campus maze - a prestigious multitude of buildings and intricate floor plans; each with its own purpose, meaning, and unique design. Deep in UofO, I stumbled upon the Department of Fine Arts. The halls were brimming from floor-to-ceiling with murals and artwork. Slowing my pace, I stopped to appreciate the work. I had always had an affinity to for paintings. My eye had always found itself drawn to the color red. Red. My dark irises wandered the walls, finally pulling towards a large, 5 foot canvas. It soared above me - dazzling in its ocean of red. The painting was of a woman, presumably dripping in blood. A sort of, Queen of the Damned. Intrigued, my eyes shifted to the small plaque stuck to the wall by the corner of the artwork. Nicola Strom. My stomach sunk as my heart skipped a beat. "Crucifixion." The words rolled off of my lips. My head retracted slowly as my eyes closed. "Mmmm."

— — —

January 20th, 2018 - Five days after release. Eugene, Oregon had been unusually warm for January. For the most part, it was sunny and rainy on-and-off, with an average high temperature of 45 degrees F. Too warm for snow. At least, not enough sub-zero temperatures to keep it for more than a couple days, anyways. Luckily for this lovely Saturday evening, the rain had stopped early morning and the skies were greeted by a brightening sun. Kyle parked his Trail-Rated Jeep cruiser in front of the colonial-century home, red-bricked mansion. He ducked his head, looking over the place with his pale eyes as he took in the sheer size of the place. Although Eugene was home to old money - big money - it was also commonly inhabited by the middle class. Whoever owned this place... wasn't a white-collar, middle class citizen. Exiting his truck, he approached the front door, which was lavishly decorated with a Sweet-Sixteen balloon bundle. A clear indication he was at the right house. As he rang the doorbell, it only took a few seconds before he was greeted by a familiar face. "Mr. Turner." I said, standing tall with my hand cemented firmly on the back of the door. It was the first time he was seeing my hazel-speckled brown eyes. It was also the last. "Cute." I blurted, subliminally mocking his uniformed self as my eyes gazed over his full-football get-up. Shredded sleeves to show his pectoral muscles. How sleazy. Helmet and all. How sweet. "Come join the fun." I smirked, guiding him through the front door. "But maybe take off the helmet." Chuckling, Turner cracked a smile as he took a step into the house - which was, unsuspectingly, filled with the sound of laughing girls. "Too much, huh?" Kyle joked, unclasping the helmet and slipping his head free. His back was to me as I closed the door. "I thought mayb-" The moment he turned to face me, my hand - hidden behind the door the entire time - swung straight for his head. A thin medical syringe pierced into the side of his neck - administered by my right hand - Gloved. Protected. Injecting the cocktail of muscle relaxants, Kyle quickly deteriorated in a matter of seconds. His initial reaction to grab for my hand, but by the time he could react - it was already too late. He was losing almost all of his muscle ability. One. Two. Three. He hit the ground, unable to move, unable to moan, unable to call for help. With his body curled in the middle of the hallway, his eyes remained open - panicked. Looking down at his 6'1, 200 pound physique - which had been reduced to nothing in just seconds - I shook my head. Pathetic. His eyes followed my every move. He was conscious. Awake. Aware. I stepped over him and walked past him like he didn't even exist. Stepping into my living room, I smiled at the sound of giggling teenage girls filled the open-concept space. Walking over to the stereo system, I grabbed the remote and clicked - Off. Silence. Girls? What girls. There were no girls. Returning to his paralyzed figure, I crouched down to brood over him. I tilted my head to the side and grabbed his face between my gloved thumb and fingers. Squeezing his limp cheeks between them as I leaned his head to look at me. "Oh, Kyle." I made clicking noises with the back of my tongue. "Remember her?" Pulling a photograph from my back pocket - Sarah Ward. "Yeahhhhh." I flicked the photo in his face, nearly submitting to my urge to spit on him. "You're gonna die tonight." There was a dark, unforgiving grimace that crept my cheeks. "And it's gonna fuckin' hurt." Two, single-drop tears fell from the corners of his eyes. Hours had passed. Daylight turned to dark as night loomed over the city. Darkness was here. And it didn't come from the sky, nor the sun. Using Kyle's keys, I exited the mansion on the quiet, quaint street. E 22nd Avenue - a large strip of homes graciously spread apart; separated by the comfort of many, decades-old trees. I pulled the vehicle into the long driveway, reversing it rear-forward all the way to the side of the house. Two garage doors welcomed the Jeep, closing behind the front of it. It remained utterly hidden, safe within the confines of the home's garage. It would remain there until 3:45 in the morning, and a storm was brewing. The sound of the garage door sliding gurgled as it swayed open. Keeping the lights of the Jeep off, I placed it into drive and pulled it out of my driveway. The garage door closed behind me automatically, dismissing any evidence it had ever harbored a crime scene. My heart remained regular - beating as it would driving any other vehicle, on any other day, under any other circumstances. Humming, I drove the few blocks between the mansion and the University Campus. The Jeep came to the vehicle entrance of the Oregon Autzen Football Stadium. Like everything within the Performance Center, it required a swipe card to be unlocked and accessed. Holding out Kyle Tuner's card, I flicked it between the pad and waited. Flashing green, the gates to the field slid open. Although forbidden to bring any vehicles directly on to the terrain, it was 3:50 in the morning, on a Saturday. Too late for any players to be hangin' around during off-season, and too early for any maintenance workers or cleaners to begin their services. It was pitch-black, and between the sticky snow and the blowing winds - visibility was poor. Reversing the trail-rated wrangler, I slowly backed it up on to the field, parking the trunk of the vehicle directly in front of the brightly-yellow painted goal-post. Exiting the vehicle, I was dressed from head-to-toe in Kyle's football uniform, with the addition of a black long-sleeved T-shirt underneath. No tattoos were visible. Virtually nothing about me was recognizable. For all intensive purposes, I could very well be Kyle Turner. Unlatching the trunk, it swooshed open. There lay the true Kyle Turner. The flesh and blood. And there was a lot of blood. Taking the thick, twisted rope in my hand, I ran it from the back of the truck to the goalpost. Tossing it over the post's T-center, I caught it back in my hand and ran it back to the truck. The end of the rope was supported by a curled grappling hook. Kneeling behind the trunk, I fastened the hook to the hitch on the Jeep and found my way back to the driver's seat. Pushing the gears into drive, I slowly began to inch the vehicle forward until the rope strained - pulling viciously with the weight. Metal to the floor, I forced the truck into overdrive, suddenly gunning it forward and sending the object in the trunk to veer out of the vehicle. Decelerating the tracks, I watched in my review mirror as the item - two strong planks of crossed wood - reeled up against the T in the yellow goalpost. As it mounted to perfect height, I slammed the Jeep in park, and swiftly - excitedly- hopped out of the truck. It started slow at first, my heavy, rumbling laughter. But it evolved, soon developing into a magnified, thrill-infused maniacal cackle. Victory.

— — — January 21st, 2018 - The Discovery. The lights to the stadium flickered on - lighting the dark early-morning. The sun would not rise for another hour. And for a group of football jocks mucking their way to football practice, it would be a morning they would never forget. Wailing. Loud, incessant, uncontrollable wailing. The sound of screaming echoed throughout the stadium; hair-raising in its velocity, and intensity. The scene brought a grown, 21-year old man to his knees. Vomit projected from his chapped lips as he puked vehemently on the immaculate, freshly-snowed grass - staining it flaxen. It brought a wave of nausea to the entire team. Some cried, some collapsed, some gagged, heaved, hurled. But most... most stood in shock. Hailed before them was the body of Christ - a crucifixion of their most valued team member. There lay the body of Kyle Turner, naked and colorless, with only the stain of bleeding red that covered his postmortem flesh. His genitals were mutilated. His penis split in three different directions. He had been completely castrated; his balls were absent entirely from his groin. An indescribable amount of blood has been loss at its expense, leaving a blood-pour of red human serous to cascade down his legs. Cause of death? Blood loss. Slow, agonizing, harrowing blood loss. The cross hung from the center of the goalpost, the snow beneath his purple-faded feet red with blood. His hands were staked on either side; his ankles crossed and tied. His neck - the same color as his bruised toes - was mounted by barbed wire. His head bore the same fate - crowned like that of Christ with blood trickling from his scalp. RAPIST - Carved with a knife in to his forehead. SINNER - The words dripped from his abdomen in crusting blood, beginning to harden... but still moist. Fresh. — — — "Shocking news this morning on KVAL-13." Smitha George - Live News Reporter, would announce on national television. "A tragedy has occurred at University of Oregon. Senior Football Quarterback Kyle Turner, Star of the Oregon Ducks, was found brutally murdered at the campus stadium." She would go on, standing unshaken in the parking lot of the Performance Center. "Police have ruled the case a homicide after teammates found Tuner's mutilated body crucified on the goal-post of the end field." Spilling too much information for her own good - reporters classically interfered with investigations; often jeopardizing their efforts. "His hands and feet were reportedly pinned to a wooden cross, and his head wrapped in barb wire. Teammates report that the words "Rapist" and "Sinner" were carved on his body..." "... And that his eyes and lips were painted red, with blood." "Turner's vehicle, a Black 2017 Jeep Wrangler - was found abandoned at the scene. Police are looking for any information that may aid their efforts in solving this terrible case." She paused, staring into the camera as her words fed into the lives of millions of Oregon residents. "I'm Smitha George, reporting LIVE for KVAL-13 News." The clip ended.

#miles jones chapter #miles jones perspective #miles jones #dawn crow #through the dirt #jeffrey dean morgan faceclaim #jdm #murder #tw: violence #tw: rape mention

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cctinsleybaxter · 7 years

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Funtastic Fun

Growing up in a very large city, you would think that I wouldn’t have much access to the cursed locations so prevalent in small towns. But my life, eh, finds a way.

Between the ages of eight and ten years old, my father and brother and I (and once a small birthday party of children) would visit such a cursed place a few times a year. I do not remember my first visit and I do not remember the last. My brother and I rarely discuss it, as discussing it feels more like talking about an episode of The Twilight Zone or a shared fever dream than a childhood memory. This was the world of Funtastic Fun.

Funtastic Fun was in one of the seedier parts of town, just outside of the main city on the far south of a street called Broadway (which you couldn’t and shouldn’t really go down or get to without a car or taxi.) It had been open in some incarnation or another since the 1980s and was a chronically failing indoor children’s amusement park and arcade. My dad liked it because it was like Chuck E. Cheese’s without the high cost; we liked it because it was never crowded.

The place was a Bosch painting of a carnival, set onto moldy carpet rather than asphalt. In one corner lived the food court and arcade, which my brother and I never visited, but everywhere else there were the rides. Set behind low vaguely threatening gates, they were the reason we came here.

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The Bounce House

Set in the furthest corner of the park, the bounce house was flanked by two giant inflatable clown heads on pikes rather than a simple doorway, and, like everything in Funtastic Fun, was coated in grime. It was overinflated, enormous, and completely unsupervised- the only rule was that you had to take your shoes off (and leave the rest of your clothes on.)

The Ball Pit

The one place that never tempted me as a kid. I was against ball pits on principle to begin with, they’re basically holes with visible germ spheres, but the Funntastic Fun ball pit was less about ‘gross, some kid probably peed in here’ and more about ‘I think a child was murdered in here in 1994 and they never bothered to fish the body out.’ It was weirdly shallow but you could still never find the bottom. The one time I was in there I grabbed at something coming out that was either rotting food or black mold.

Miscellaneous Artifacts

The middle of the ‘park’ was a kind of no-man’s land where toddlers would usually chose to have tantrums. There was a slide, and one of those oversized barrels made for running/crawling in that was somehow both tacky and slippery (watching kids play in it was like watching feral hamsters.) The most terrifying was an enormous teddy bear that was probably infested with things still unknown to science. You could climb up into its lap and take a picture, but it was sort of like reliving the awful experience of a Mall Santa except now with an elder god. The bear smelled like a mummy.

The Ferris Wheel

The ferris wheel was probably the only thing luring kids and their parents into this place, as you could see it peeking through the one spot of plexiglass in the institution-like building (it was unpainted concrete but hastily decorated with brightly striped banners and window paint; the kid’s version of a neon sign for a strip club.) The cars of the ferris wheel were shaped like hot air balloons, and they would travel in a lazy arc for a little over five minutes. The whole thing was surprisingly fit to safety codes, probably because it was so popular, but that didn’t exempt the inside of the cars from being coated in gum and the carved initials of the odd teenager that had wandered into the hellscape. The most striking thing was the poorly painted mural of forests and clouds behind it, making it feel like a trap that was trying to lull kids into a false sense of wonder.

The Whip

The park had all sorts of more normal rides- teacups, a miniature train, and a carousel being the most popular- but an absolute favorite was the park’s resident safety hazard. The Whip is actually a fairly common fair and park ride (albeit usually with a less threatening name that isn’t hastily scrawled on a hand-drawn sign), it’s a short track with carts on it that ‘whips’ you around in a circle. This thing was exactly that, but ‘built for kids’ with much smaller carts painted like ladybugs and race cars... plus the fact that the track and carts were perpetually rusted. This made it so that the ride would run fairly slowly to begin with but with everything shaking at incredible speed, until you were taking the corners of the circle hard enough for a neck injury.

The Wall

Without a doubt my favorite place in this G-rated Carnival of Souls; for all the wrong reasons. If the rest of the park was a bit creepy, the wall of shadows was downright horrifying. It was kind of hidden in the back of the whole thing near some funhouse mirrors. It was very quiet, very musty, and very dark, which was a nice relief for my sensory disorder but also felt like being inside of a stranger’s closet. An entire wall of this alcove was coated in a plastic substance the color of the ‘minty’ walls of a hospital or the sick of Regan in The Exorcist. You would stand against it for a few seconds and then step back and see your shadow stuck to it. My brother and I invested far too much of our time with it, begging to visit the wall ‘for one last go’ before each visit was over. I remember my dad didn’t much care for it, and I didn’t have the words or the emotional range to tell him that I didn’t like it either, so much as I was fascinated by it.

That moment you would unstick yourself from the wall to look at your shadow is something that is probably the strongest tactile memory of my childhood. It was cold like any plastic, but would warm up the longer you stood there, and when you peeled yourself away it was sticky like flypaper. Like all the grime of that place was trying to take you with it. Looking at your shadow was even worse, not euphoric but disquieting. It was you, but, not. I once read an article in a local magazine that mentioned that the wall looked like pictures of the aftereffects of the A-bomb, and given that thinking about the whole experience as an adult the author that comes to mind is Ray Bradbury (and That One Scene in There Will Come Soft Rains) I can’t help but to agree.

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Although a related location opened the next town over that used some of the old equipment, the original Funtastic Fun shut down in 2011. I remember driving by it in high school and seeing the shell of the building, and my brother and I both exclaiming in alarm. My dad snorted at us, ‘guys, Funtastic Fun was gross. You were the ones that told me that when we stopped going.’

‘Yeah, we know.’ We both murmured, but neither of us blinked until it rounded the corner.

#more about my childhood #long post #it's almost impossible to find pictures of this place?#i found 2 or 3 others but they're all of the sister location with the (slightly) updated equipment

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