SHUDDERVILLE SIX Read Online Free PDF Page B

divided in half by a feed passage lined with 30 empty stanchions. On either side were the manure gutters, and perpendicular to those were the mangers where the cows used to feed. Only there were no cows. Not anymore. The metal stalls had gone to rust. The milking machines stood abandoned.
    Benjamin brushed the cobwebs out of his face. Straight up was a 40-foot ceiling with enormous crossbeams. Tacked to one of the walls was a faded vintage illustration of a cow divided into parts: short loin, sirloin, rump, flank, brisket. The warped floor creaked and bounced under his slightest step. The tension was palpable.
    He stood very still in the center of the barn and turned 360-degrees, checking every corner, every angle. It was dark in here, with dusty sunbeams leaking through cracks in the ceiling and probing the murky depths of the barn.
    Benjamin couldn’t keep his teeth from chattering. He had to admit he was scared. He picked up a pitchfork to use as a weapon and moved slowly past the stanchions toward a heap of dusty boards and wormy planks. He looked directly up into a gaping hole in the hayloft. He could smell fermented grains and matted hay. He tried to prepare himself psychologically.
    “Bella? Are you in here?”
    Nothing but silence inside his head.
    He followed his instincts through the shadows, past ancient rusty equipment and fermenting bales of hay. He turned the corner and discovered the body. He stood frozen to the spot. There was so much blood.
    A gray-haired, middle-aged man lay spread-eagled on the floor, a long blade-like shard of glass sticking out of his chest. His lips were blue, and his blood-filled eyes were open. You could see his receding gums and his long yellow teeth. He wore tracksuit bottoms and an orange sweatshirt, but his feet were shoeless and sockless. His toes were chalk-white. Knotted around his ankles was a length of old rope about 35-40 feet long. The other end of the rope was secured to the harvester.
    Benjamin took out his phone and dialed 911—there was a special line for the deaf where you could leave emergency text-messages. He went outside and waited for the police to arrive.
    Dense woods surrounded the fields, and the sunlight played over the snow. He couldn’t get the image out of his head. The dead man had a jutting chin. Even in death, there was a disturbing insolence about him.
    Mercy Falls, Pennsylvania
    Cassie shivered—more out of fear than anything else—and took the jagged mountainside up a narrow, untamed path. The clouds were low in the sky. The steep trail cut clumsily into the rock, and her legs burned on the rugged ascent. She could feel the icy spray from the cascading water on her face. Three and a half weeks ago? Could that be right? Oh God, she would never get over him.
    At 100 feet, she crossed a sturdy footbridge that spanned a dangerous gap in the rocks and overlooked a spectacular view. Crystal water tumbled down a series of jagged natural steps, hitting boulders and ledges in splats and splutters, creating musical noise. She remembered Ryan’s touch, his kiss, his voice. She missed him with a hurtful ache.
    Halfway up the mountainside, the path grew rough and rocky. She continued hiking in thoughtful silence, stepping carefully over gnarled roots that wriggled across the snowy paths. Near the top, she took a detour up some wooden steps toward another scenic overlook, where there was a sheer drop of 150 feet beyond the rickety guardrail. A frothy torrent of water plunged down the rock wall, creating a lacy cascade. She stood on the precipice, holding onto the wooden rail and looking down at the churning rock pool below. This was the place. The exact spot. She would never forget it.
    “Hello,” someone said behind her.
    Cassie spun around. Coming down the trail was an older gentleman with deep-set eyes, a beautifully sculpted face and thick silver hair.
    “Careful,” he said. “That guardrail’s a little rickety.”
    Cassie gasped, “Ryan?”
    He