As a kid, he was fascinated with two things: stories about ghosts and the Marine Corps. While he grew out of the ‘ghost’ phase of childhood, he fulfilled his dream of becoming ‘One of the Few,’ graduating from boot camp in late 2002.

Two years later, the Lance Corporal stood his ground with his ‘battle buddies’ in the Iraqi town of Al-Fallujah. The Corps earned this victory every step of the bloody way.

He found himself being shipped home shortly after the final push. He’s again indulging himself in the ‘ghost’ world, enjoying his afterlife with others also buried at Arlington.

Not only did he murder them using an ax, then chop them to pieces, scattering their body parts, he beat and raped them. And while the cops investigated Lulubelle’s disappearance as a possible victim to the man now dubbed, ‘The Axe Man,’ no evidence was ever found.

Slowly, Toby amassed more and more information. He used message boards, visited the dark-web, those hidden places few knew about, and searched open public records.

His work always turned up the same names, K.T. DeWitt, an employee of W.S. Hepperton Processed Meats Plant of Ames, Iowa. He was never really considered a suspect since his wife had made a couple of calls to family during the time he was working.

The other name that kept popping up on Toby’s radar was a guy named King. It appeared that he’d never been spoken too about her disappearance, not by the cops, not a single reporter, no one.

Eventually, all of Toby’s suspicions fell on King, first name Steve, Steven or Stephen. After a week, he’d become convinced that King was the murderer, the Axe Man, as he appeared connected to other strange activities through out the US, but mostly along the eastern sea-board.

To smoke this murderer out, Toby opened threads on ‘Chan 4′ and ‘Chan 9,’ of the dark-net. Within minutes he had a most singular answer: “This is a Stephen King short-story, dumb ass! S.K.”

Toby typed in the name ‘Stephen King,’ on Wikipedia: “Stephen Edwin King (born September 21, 1947) is an American author of horror, supernatural fiction, suspense, and fantasy novels.”

Toby reached over and turned the power to his computer off, utterly embarrassed, and mumbling, “Fucking Stephen King,” though he’d never heard of the author until that moment.  He switched off his desk lamp and pushed away from the black screen.

Within two years, Tobermory Blodgett would be studying to be his pipe-fitter father’s apprentice.

Throughout his twelve short and unexciting 12 -years of life, Toby Blodgett, slang for Tobermory, had always wanted to be a murder cop, a homicide investigator, and at the very least, an armchair detective. And happily for him, his father, a pipe-fitter, had little understanding of the computer, the world of Internet, its world-wide-web and the ability to search out most any information on any subject at any time, day or night.

It was an article that intrigued him and Toby took off researching, searching, and learning all he could about the disappearance and possible death of Cynthia ‘Lulubelle’ Simms-DeWitt in 1997, nearly 11-years before Toby was born.

According to a report, her Subaru was found parked nose-down in a ditch along side a desolate Nevada ranch road, near the town of Caliente. Her driver’s side door was open, the rear view mirror ripped from the post on the windshield and on the floor, the front seat covered in blood.

Authorities quickly discovered that the blood wasn’t human. It was that of a dog.

Lulubelle was known to have a Jack Russell Terrier named ‘Frank,’ with her. However, there was no sign of the woman.

Toby would later learn from another article that the dog, presumed to be Frank, was found lying dead and ‘crow-picked two rises away.’ The entire idea of the dog’s death left his stomach turned and sick.

But Toby knew he had to swallow-down the bile and press on if he intended to solve the case.

In 1997, law enforcement believed a man had been prowling the back roads of Nevada for at least three-years, murdering women. Four of the women were transients and the fifth, a rancher’s wife.

Go ahead, say ‘new normal’ again.

Way too much of this,
A bit too much of that,
Not enough in between
Left my waters muddled.
And not a drop was had.
So what the hell gives!
Shit that is head-trapped,
Bouncing from ear-to-ear,
Top to bottom inside-out.
Maybe those bad memories.
Perhaps not enough sleep.
Must write it all down.

The old man ignored the comments: “As they made me ready, a riot broke out, fire, destruction, killing. It was prisoners attacking and ending the camp, giving death to the guards and others that had power.”

“What is ‘riot?’ a girl-child asked from the row closest to the old man’s knee.

“It is violence made by many people towards someone or something,” Grandser answered, “In this case, it was the camp and the people that make the camp work. I made it it out of the execution chamber and as I was running to get out of the camp, I saw the man with the bird head and I tore it from his shoulders as a trophy and kept it.”

“It is the same bird head on your totem?”

“You ripped the bird head off its body?”

“Did you get blood on you?”

“Yes, yes and no,” the old man answered looking towards where the questions came.

“How come you did not die from the Grand Pan, Grandser?”

“I do not know, child. I do not know.”

After a short pause, Grandser said, “I am tired now, you should go back to your parents.”

Junior took up the challenge, directing the children from the house and telling them to go to their home as it was getting dark and wild dogs would be setting upon the village soon. This caused the children to hurry, though it had a couple of years since a child had been snatched by any pack in the area.

As Grandser laid back on his pallet, he looked up at the head that everyone knew as that of a bird, which it did look like, and smiled knowingly whispered, “I need to tell Junior the full truth of it, before I am dead.”

The 87-year-old man, and quite possibly, in his opinion, the oldest man on Earth, fell into a fitful sleep, with the last thing seen that night being the ‘Plague Doctors’ mask, where it lived on his totem.

Things will never be the same
Pulled apart and misshapen
This is how Evil wanted it
Destroyed but controlled
It feels like a certain death
Unaccompanied and alone
Could God know where I am?

The tides of ocean water
Pulling back, spitting forth
No souls to be saved
Not a body dragged out
Those waves are flames
Burning everything to ash
Does God know where I am?

And while in deaths throe
I am dying slow and uneven
And I am dead and unburied
Skin peeling like tree bark
My bones become the dust
Wind scatters me piecemeal
Will God know where I am?

“No, I am not lying,” Grandser said, feeling a bit hurt by the accusation, as he countered, “Can you see the wind?”

“Yes.”

I am not talking about seeing the clouds move by, that is jus’ the affect the wind has on the cloud.”

“Can you see the wind?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Dust devils, leaves moving…”

“That’s not the wind – that is dust and leaves that you see – not wind, you idiot,” a little girl spoke.

“She is correct,” Grandser interrupted before a fist-fight could start, “We see what the wind does, but we can not see the wind.”

Junior spoke up, “You must listen and stop interrupting Grandser while he is talking.”

“It is okay, Junior. Question are good things to answer.”

“Yes, Grandser,” Junior responded, “Continue about the head.”

“A man in a large mask came in and was going to have me killed, saying I was weak, because I had let a man take my food and then I was dangerous because I killed him for taking it.”

“That is crazy, Grandser!”

“Your story makes no sense, Grandser!”

“You talk funny, like many endless circles, Grandser.”

It took them another month to get beyond what had been Fallon and the naval air station that had been so vibrant years before. Here the land also reclaimed what man had so carefully cultivated.

Farm land, long fallow, no longer held food fit for a man to pick off the vine and eat. Not even the apple tree, once so plentiful, bore fruit that was sweet.

He pick and ate anyway.

One morning, he found himself riding down a steep grade, the old US 95, off to his left, fractured or missing in all places, when he smelled smoke. Refusing to get excited and expecting a grass fire, he rode the big bay towards the odor.

Much to his surprise, as they rounded a large set of rocks, he came into a clearing that held a small campfire and three people. They stood near the blaze and stared at the figure on the horse, and the man astride the animal sat staring back.

He held his hands up as a gesture of peace, something he’d recalled reading about once in a book about knights and chivalry. He felt hot tears well up and slip down his sun baked cheeks as the male of the trio raised his hands likewise.

They were survivors from Yerington, where a total of nineteen people, including a new baby girl, resided. They took him in and he has been with them ever since.

The real trick to intelligence is knowing when to play stupid.