The Renfield Syndrome by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 47

Getting back into his car, he again studied the map and noticed that the next stop on route I-90 was Erie. “Well,” he said. “I guess we’re going to Pennsylvania.”

With warm summer air drifting off the lake, there was always the looming threat of storms, and checking the map again, Caspian noticed the Allegheny National Forest. This seemed like a better idea than waiting for a coastal storm to set in. The trees would provide adequate cover from anything the wrath of nature could throw at him, and he would be well hidden from the public eye as well. But seeing how far the drive was, he decided to double back into New York towards Chautauqua Lake. It was fairly large and not too far from Lake Erie. There was still the chance of being hit by lake weather, but he believed he would have ample cover from the surrounding woods. The problem with living near a lake was that lakes tended to attract a great deal of people. For thousands of years, people have always congregated near water as a means of survival. Now people did it out of recreation without stopping to wonder why they did it in the first place.

As he drove down Route 394, Caspian saw how many towns surrounded the lake. This made him feel uneasy, and pulling over, he studied the map again. “There,” he said. “Chautauqua Family Campgrounds.”

It didn’t seem like there was much there—a scattering of campsites and a road leading to a small lake. It was perfect, but as he wasn’t sure how long he would be there, he needed to stop someplace for food and water. A few miles before the entrance was a small store. Given the number of campers in the general area, it seemed to be in the perfect location, and pulling over, Caspian parked the car and went in. It was, by no means, comparable to a grocery store, but it offered the basics—bottled water, bread, canned food, and boxed food lined the shelves. Upon entering, he pushed the door open, causing its rusty hinges to scream with age. As he walked the ancient floorboards, he nodded to the clerk, who, with a suspicious glance, nodded back. Passing, the clerk noticed him watching a black and white TV tuned in to a local news station. As far from Johnstown as he was news of the gruesome murders he had committed still managed to reach people. But without details or a description of the killer, it seemed rather pointless to continue broadcasting murders that might never be solved. As long as Caspian wasn’t recognized, he would continue to travel across the country. This was something he had wanted to do for quite some time, yet it was the reason for leaving home that prompted him to travel. He was also running from the possibility of being recognized.

Having made his purchases, Caspian left the small store and, returning to his car, continued on to the campground. Upon entering, he briefly stopped to ask if there were any campsites that might be a bit away from the beaten path. The man was heavyset, with his face covered by an overgrown beard. “Oh, sure,” he said. “Looking for some privacy?”

Of course he was, but he felt the need to concoct a reason for such privacy. “Yeah,” Caspian replied. “I’m a writer, and I’m trying to figure out what my next novel is going to be about. I have some ideas, but I guess I just need some space.”

“Oh, a writer, huh?” the man inquired. “What do you write?”

As easily as the answer came to him, Caspian wanted to make the conversation as short as possible. “Horror,” he answered.

His answer was brief but had the necessary effect, as the man promptly stepped back with an odd expression, as if horror writers are people to be afraid of or hold in suspicion. Although it was a well-crafted lie, Caspian knew that most people do not understand the human psyche that horror comes from deep within the darkest regions of the mind. Those who are both gifted with a pen and in control of their personal demons are often known for crafting stories that make their readers sleep with the lights on. But Caspian was no such artist and, in fact, had barely passed English in high school. Having stepped away from Caspian, the rotund, rough-bearded man pointed to a dirt road that faded into the woods.

“You can go back there if you want,” he said. “No one goes back there, and you’ll have all the quiet you want.” The man smiled in a way that made Caspian believe that his friendly expression was insincere at best. He decided he would not be there very long and that the only thing he really wanted was to become invisible to those who proved to be too curious. When to make his presence known was always on his terms, except when the beast within him demanded to be fed. But there had to be a balance between the monster’s violent hunger and Caspian’s intellect telling him when the time was right and how to remain unseen.