Bone White

BONE WHITE

Tim McWhorter

Contents

Author’s Note

Part I

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Part II

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Part III

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Untitled

Epilogue

About the Author

Also by Tim McWhorter

Keep Reading…

Sneak Peak

Copyright © 2020 by Tim McWhorter

Bone White

ISBN: 978-1-7357289-0-2 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-7357289-1-9 (ebook)

Published by Manta Press

Pickerington, OH 43147

Cover Design by Tim McWhorter

Author Photo by Julie A. McWhorter

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage system, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events portrayed are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Author’s Note

We’ve all heard the phrase - Alcohol, because no great story ever started with someone eating a salad. And while I believe that to be generally true, I’m sorry to say that alcohol had absolutely nothing to do with the story of Bone White. Or, more specifically, the story behind the story. It does, however, begin with water. A lot of it. From below and above.

I didn’t sit down to write Bone White until 2012, but the novel’s foundation was laid twenty-three years earlier in the spring of 1989 when a couple of seventeen-year-olds went fishing on a narrow, wooded lake in central Ohio. It was my buddy’s fishing boat, an aluminum 12-footer with wooden boards for seats and a cement-filled coffee can for an anchor. At the time, Rick’s boat had only two sources of power: a small, foot-operated trolling motor; and a pair of oars. Hoover Reservoir had a 10-hp limit at the time, so we had no use for anything bigger or more powerful; nor had needing more power ever been an issue.

Until one day…

It was mid-afternoon when we first set out on the water. By the time the weather started to change, we were creeping up on early evening. If memory serves, it was a Sunday, and we had school the next day, so we probably should have been heading in, anyway. But you know how it goes—just one more cast, just one more bite.

We were fishing about forty to fifty yards off the western shore of a long skinny lake that runs north and south. The parking lot where Rick’s truck sat was well within sight. We must have both been facing east, because I remember turning around at one point and the sky behind us being a roiling and angry grey. You see, the weather can change on a dime in Ohio. Especially in the spring. Afternoon storms pop up without much warning. Even less so when you’re a couple of headstrong kids who paid little attention to things like the news and weather forecasts in an age before cell phones. Much less weather apps. I remember the temperature starting to plummet, even as I drew Rick’s attention to the approaching storm. The wind picked up. Whitecaps started rising all over the lake. By the time we stowed our gear and picked up the oars, it was already too late.

Fifty yards soon grew to a hundred, then two hundred. We rowed against the wind until our shoulders screamed. We were outmatched, outgunned, and fighting a losing battle. Wind gusts became the boat’s captain, taking it wherever they wanted. Turned out, the eastern shore opposite from where we had launched the boat is where the wind wanted to take us. At some point during the journey, the slate-colored sky had started unleashing its cold and stinging payload.

With the rain pounding us, and growing frustration at the helm, we changed gears. We stopped fighting the wind. Instead, we used it to our advantage. It was amazing how fast we reached the far shore. We were able to get off the water and onto solid ground. Unfortunately, our ordeal wasn’t over.

Remember, this was back in the 80s. Cell phones were something only The Jetson family had. After pulling the boat up onto land far enough that it wouldn’t float away, we had no other option than to set out through the woods on foot. We were wet, cold, and far away from anything familiar. I can’t speak for Rick, but I remember feeling more than a little uneasy about the whole situation. Luckily, we stumbled upon a trail, not much more than trampled down grass used by fishermen for lake access, but we knew it had to lead us somewhere.

Thankfully, we didn’t have to travel far. Not only did we find someone home at the first house we came to, but they were gracious enough to give us a ride over to Rick’s truck.

So, you see? While our adventure started out a little hairy, we came out of it unscathed, faring much better than Luke and Garrett. I guess that’s what makes for great fiction.

On a side note, there are a handful of locations in this book that actually exist. To reveal them here would spoil aspects of the story for those who have yet to read the book. So, I won’t. But, if you’d like to hear more, or find out where some of these locations are located, feel free to hit me up. I’d be more than happy to share with you the creepy places that gave Bone White its authenticity. And who knows? If this whole writing gig doesn’t pan out, maybe I can give moonlit tours of the locations dressed up like one of the characters from the book.

- T.M.

Part I

Whoever is righteous has regard for the life of his beast, but the mercy of the wicked is cruel.

- Proverbs 12:10

Prologue

10 Years Ago

S heriff, you’re gonna want to see this.

Deputy Whitaker struggled to keep his voice calm as he spoke into the two-way radio attached to his shoulder. The cellar. It was like nothing he had ever seen. His stomach churned as he stood beside his cruiser, one foot up on the door jamb, trying to catch his breath. He’d already lost his breakfast in the parking lot. The lingering taste of vomit ensured he would be skipping lunch.

It’s a real mess, Sir.

Perspiration coated his face and neck. He may as well be kicked back in the Y’s sauna. He wiped his forehead with the red paisley handkerchief his girls had bought him three Christmases ago. Crazy. It wasn’t even hot out. He’d been watching the news when he’d gotten the call to meet with the pastor of the New Congregational Church out on Leads Road. The meteorologist had promised today would be their first taste of Autumn-like temperatures. And for once, she’d been right. It couldn’t have been more than sixty degrees out. Yet even his underwear felt soggy.

Ten minutes later, Whitaker was sitting in his cruiser, feet firmly on the ground, elbows on knees, and head in hands, when he heard the sound of tires crunching on gravel. He took a deep breath and pulled himself to his feet. He focused on looking alert and altogether with it as Sheriff Stettler’s cruiser made its way into the church’s parking lot. Another cruiser, nearly identical to the sheriff’s, but showing more dirt and mileage, followed close behind.

Whitaker felt anything but alert and with it.

After a wary glance toward the church, he walked over to where the sheriff’s car had come to a stop. He’d already filled his boss in on his discovery over the radio. He’d have to do it again in person. The sheriff was a stickler for corroboration, even when it came from the same person. The more times you told him a story, the more likely he was to believe and trust in it. And the less likely he was to drown the evidence in a quagmire of his own reservation.

Sheriff, Whitaker said, greeting his boss with a nod.

So, Dick. The sheriff put on his hat, nestling it down into the molded indention in his thick greying hair. A real mess, you say?

The cellar, sir. Whitaker gauged the man’s reaction to what he’d already told him. Fucking disgusting. Real sick.

Well, let’s hear it.

For the last couple weeks, Whitaker started, repeating exactly what he’d told the sheriff over the radio ten minutes earlier, the parishioners have been complaining about a foul odor in the church. After doing some investigating on his own, the pastor narrowed the source down to the cellar. Coincidentally, the same cellar that’s kept locked by the church’s custodian. Apparently, no one goes down there but him. Insists upon it.

Custodian’s name?

Barnes, sir, Whitaker said. Corwin James Barnes.

And did you run a preliminary on Mr. Barnes?

Yes, sir. Came up clean.

So, the sheriff started, before taking a moment to spit on the ground, all-around upstanding citizen, huh, Dick?

Not quite, Sir. Not according to what I found after busting the lock on the cellar door.

Deputy Munroe joined them beside Stettler’s car. After a round of curt nods, the three officers started the fifty-foot trek across the parking lot toward the church, the soles of their patent leather shoes grating over the gravel.

Pastor’s name is Martin Underwood, Whitaker continued. Claims Barnes got extremely agitated yesterday when he confronted him after all the church members had gone. Said it would have probably gotten physical had the pastor not walked away. Said Barnes was extremely agitated.

This pastor, Munroe chimed in from behind, he literally turned the other cheek?

This tickled the sheriff’s funny bone.

Guess so, Whitaker said, his brow taking on wrinkles. He wasn’t in the mood for jokes, and had to remind himself that the only reason Munroe and the sheriff were able to make light of the situation was because they hadn’t yet made the acquaintance of what awaited them in the cellar.

He didn’t know what his rights were, Whitaker continued. Regarding breaking into the cellar. So, he called us.

And, what did we tell the good pastor? Stettler asked.

"My unofficial answer was, ‘it’s your church, isn’t it?’ So, I retrieved my bolt cutters from the trunk, and we went in. That’s where we found it. Or, I should say, where we found them." Whitaker’s stomach once again turned sour at the thought. Luckily, there was nothing left to come up. This made it easier to fight off the urge to vomit a second time.

And where’s this pastor now? the sheriff asked.

Inside. Praying.

When the three lawmen were halfway to the church’s entrance, the double front doors suddenly crashed open. An older, white haired gentleman in slacks and a tie and holding a white handkerchief over his mouth burst forth.

Officer! Officer!

The pastor rushed down the steps, taking them two at a time. He found the narrow strip of manicured grass beside the concrete walkways and collapsed to his knees.

The three officers rushed to the hysterical man. Younger and in all-around better shape, Whitaker arrived a second before the other two. He knelt beside the pastor, put a calming hand on the gentleman’s shoulder, felt it quiver.

What is it?

My God! the pastor cried. The palms of his hands rubbed his eyes as if to erase an unsavory image from his mind before it imprinted itself forever. "There are six of them!"

One

Present Day

Just before my line stretched tight, I noticed a piece of cloth floating in the pool of shimmering sunlight. It reflected on the water like gold foil, drifting about fifteen feet off the bow of the boat. It surfed the lake’s gentle waves without any clear destination.

Floating aimlessly.

Lost.

Kind of how my father would describe me.

I cranked the handle on my fishing reel a couple more times and watched the end of my pole arc farther downward with each turn. I’d landed something. What, I had no idea. Pulling up on the rod revealed nothing. The arc only bent sharper. Like a plucked guitar string, the green-tinted line vibrated, cutting short jagged slices through the water’s surface. It didn’t matter whether I cranked or pulled; the line remained firm, unrelenting. Whatever was on the other end, it certainly wasn’t a fish. There was no further taking of the line. No fighting back and forth. Only solid, unchanging rigidness. Whatever it was, it wasn’t budging.

Think I’m snagged on something.

Garrett garbled something through pursed lips, his own fishing line held between them as he tied on a new hook. Alright, he said, pulling the line from his mouth. Gimme a sec.

We floated listlessly, thirty feet off a rocky shore, hovering over a well-known drop-off in the lakebed. The air was warm, but not sticky. The early light of the day still had some mist left to chase from the water’s surface. We were one of only a handful of boats we’d seen so far on the lake. It was a lazy Saturday morning, and according to the fish finder, there was supposedly nothing below us but a small school of stubbornly unhungry fish.

Then what the hell was I hooked on?

While waiting for Garret to finish rigging his line, I gave mine another tug. Then two. I scrambled to my feet for better leverage. Lodging my knee against the side, I steadied myself against the aluminum boat’s roll and sway. It would only get worse the more I fought the line. As any experienced fisherman knows, when you get a snag, there’s a fine line between pulling just enough to free it, and pulling so hard it breaks the line. I tried to stay somewhere in the middle.

Garrett appeared, wooden oar in hand. He looked prepared for battle. When I voiced that opinion, he struck a warrior’s pose as if for a camera or a group of girls, neither of which was anywhere in sight. Then, laughing it off like he knew he looked like an idiot, he plunged the paddle end of the oar into the water.

With only a few inches of the oar’s handle still showing, Garrett started jabbing at whatever he could make contact with. The oar weaved back and forth through the water. It bumped against my line from time to time. What it didn’t do was create any slack.

After several minutes of poking and prodding, I remained as snagged as when I’d first brought it to Garrett’s attention. I glanced over to see if the piece of cloth was still there. It was. It looked like a definite article of clothing now. Maybe a shirt. A small blue one. A child’s or perhaps a young woman’s.

A funny feeling twisted in my stomach.

What the hell did you get ahold of? Garrett continued to bump my line with the oar.

I shrugged, figuring the question was rhetorical.

Better not be, you know, he continued, a dead body or anything.

I didn’t laugh at the joke.

Neither did Garrett.

He’d floated it in a weak attempt at humor, but the comment hung in the early morning air like a horrid stench. We knew the implications. Knew them all too well. On the ride to the lake the night before, I counted road kill passing through the truck’s headlights while I was awake. But, during the moments here and there when I dozed, I dreamed about girls. Not just any girls, but Megan Bradshaw and Hannah Rogers. They were the two seniors missing from our high school, disappeared without a trace.

Simply gone.

I think I can feel the bottom, Garrett said, elbow-deep, ass in the air. Then his forehead screwed up like an apple that’s fallen from a tree and left in the sun to rot. Maybe some brush or something down there.

Missing teenagers were something new where we were from. Something our small town of 1,600 had never dealt with before. No one could tell us exactly what to do, or how to act. Suspicion became the norm. We started seeing phantoms where there were only shadows. Pieces of trash along the roadside became dumped bodies just waiting to be discovered. Anything out of the ordinary brought the missing girls to mind, trying to determine if there was a connection.

Which was reason numero uno why I hadn’t just cut my line. And my losses along with it. A four-dollar lure wasn’t worth the amount of time and effort we were spending trying to free me from this snag. But, like everything else that was no longer routine, I think we both wanted to know what had ahold of my line. We wanted to know what was hidden down below the water’s surface. It was a stretch for sure, thinking that maybe I had snagged onto a dead body. Chances were really good that it was anything but. However, like I said, suspicion had become the norm, and so we plodded on.

Garrett got to his feet and put all his weight onto the handle of the oar. He plunged the wide end deep into the lake’s muddy bottom. Buried it until he couldn’t reach any further without falling out of the boat. Working the oar back and forth, Garrett churned the hidden lakebed. Bubbles in various shades of brown began rising to the surface, tiny volcanic eruptions from the deep.

My hands were starting to cramp from keeping the line tight. I took a moment to flex one hand. I held the rod firm with the other. Despite still not knowing what the murky water was hiding, I found myself growing tired of wanting to find out. I was nearing my screw it, just cut the damn thing point.

Maybe you should jump in, feel around, I taunted.

Maybe you should kiss my ass, Garrett said. The look he gave me said it was the stupidest suggestion I had ever made. He must have been concerned about what he might bump into down there, because honestly, I was pretty sure I’d said things that were far stupider.

I looked again at the piece of cloth riding the ripples given off by the listing boat. It was closer now and a shirt for sure. Dark blue. And it gave me the chills. Despite my best efforts to ignore the discarded garment, my imagination picked up a line of questioning and refused to put it down. What was a shirt doing floating in the middle of the lake anyway? A rag, maybe. A handkerchief, I could see. Hell, even a jacket would have made more sense. But, a shirt? Most people would notice they’d lost a shirt. Unless of course, it had been stripped—

A guttural sucking sound.

The fishing rod jolted in my hand. I felt the release as much as I heard it. The pressure on the rod eased. The tip rose further into the air. My heart pounded. Whatever had been holding my line hostage, the mystery was about to be solved.

The arc of the rod grew less severe. Less of an arc, and more of a slight bend. Like a used car salesman on the verge of a sale, I pounced on the opportunity. I started reeling in the line with a gusto usually reserved for landing a big one.

Shit! Garrett sat back and took a breather. Finally.

The