Stagecoach Road
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Cover
Other books by Daniel Kamen
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Back cover
Stagecoach Road
The Bullies
Must Die
A Novel by
DANIEL KAMEN
CCB Publishing
British Columbia, Canada
Stagecoach Road: The Bullies Must Die
Copyright ©2013 by Daniel Kamen
ISBN-13 978-1-77143-046-3
First Edition
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Kamen, Daniel, 1956-
Stagecoach Road [electronic resource] : the bullies must die / written by Daniel Kamen.
Electronic monograph in PDF format.
ISBN 978-1-77143-046-3
Also available in print format.
Additional cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada
Photo for cover artwork provided by Daniel Kamen.
Disclaimer: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Extreme care has been taken by the author to ensure that all information presented in this book is accurate and up to date at the time of publishing. Neither the author nor the publisher can be held responsible for any errors or omissions. Additionally, neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the express written permission of the publisher.
Publisher:
CCB Publishing
British Columbia, Canada
www.ccbpublishing.com
I dedicate this book to the William A. Wirt High School class of 1974, especially to you, Eddy.
Other books by Daniel Kamen
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Canine Chiropractic Methods You Can Do
The Well Adjusted Horse:
Equine Chiropractic Methods You Can Do
The Well Adjusted Cat:
Feline Chiropractic Methods You Can Do
Preface
I never felt comfortable driving down Stagecoach Road, let alone walking there by myself at night, which I did only once. That was enough.
I was sixteen years old in 1972. I had just got my driver’s license and decided to drive to Stagecoach Road to find out, once and for all, if there was any truth to those ghost stories I heard from fellow Wirt High School classmates who swore the road was haunted. Some even said they saw figures at night of people who were dressed like they were from the 1800s.
I remember taking my mother’s big old beige 1962 Buick LeSabre, confident I would be OK since it had a full tank of gas, new tires, and just had a tune-up. We lived in a suburb of Gary, Indiana called Miller Beach, just four miles from Stagecoach Road, which is in Portage, Indiana. I figured if I got stuck for any reason, I could always walk back. Little did I know when I started out for Stagecoach Road how prophetic I was.
It was a cloudy and unseasonably cool evening on Saturday, July 1st, 1972 when I got in the LeSabre around 9:30 p.m. We had cool summer evenings before probably due to our close proximity to Lake Michigan which was over the sand dunes, two miles from our house. I tossed a thin spring jacket in the back seat before backing out of our driveway. I slowly drove down Tippecanoe Street then turned onto Potawatomi Trail then finally onto County Line Road, which was flanked by a vast swamp, complete with thick cattails and brown wild ducks. Stagecoach Road was another mile or so ahead over the South Shore train tracks that paralleled Route 12.
Stagecoach Road isn’t a main street. It is mostly a deserted country road. If you didn’t know it was coming up, you could easily miss the road sign that was partially hidden beneath a hanging oak branch. I knew where it was. I knew only too well. I had a terrifying experience there just two years prior to driving myself on that cool summer night.
When I was fourteen, I made the horrible decision of getting into a car with two guys who introduced themselves as Wirt High School seniors, whom I had never seen before, but befriended me one evening at the after school chess club. They offered me a ride home, “saving my mother a trip.” It was a dastardly cold, snowy, winter evening, about 5 degrees, and I was wearing a lightweight wool coat that wasn’t designed for the deep freeze.
The seniors seemed pleasant enough, and had more than a passing knowledge of chess. I didn’t phone my mother from the lunch room payphone as I usually did on chess night. Instead, I was delighted and grateful to accept the ride home, hoping to surprise my mother who no longer needed to drive through the heavy snow to pick me up.
Chess club was over by 6:15 p.m. The winter days were short, and it was already dark. The two seniors escorted me to the almost deserted school parking lot and into the back seat of their damaged white, 1959 Ford Galaxie with chipped paint and ripped upholstery. I thought nothing of it. Lots of teenagers bought beaters--the only cars they could afford. I forgot their names, but the taller of the two drove while his buddy, sitting on the passenger’s side, lit up a cigarette. He offered me one which I politely refused. Then it occurred to me: they never asked me where I lived. They started driving in the general vicinity of my neighborhood, but way out of the way. I could tell they wanted to drive faster, but it was very slippery and the snow drifts slowed them down. I interrupted their conversation to tell them where I lived. The driver weakly acknowledged but continued to drive out of the way. That’s when I really felt uneasy. I felt downright terrified when the driver’s buddy turned around and asked if I had any money. I told him I only had two quarters on me, enough to make a couple of phone calls. He didn’t like that answer and told me I was lying. That’s when they headed towards Stagecoach Road.
I tried to compose myself and thought I would bide my time until they stopped at a light. My plan was to quickly get out of the car and make a run for it. They sensed my plan and ran two red lights before turning onto Stagecoach Road. They drove about two blocks down, just before the last house and asked me again if I had any money. I again told them I didn’t, except for the two quarters. The driver stopped the car in the middle of the road, turned a
round and grabbed my shirt near my throat and said he’d drive me home if I paid him twenty dollars. At that moment I had nothing to lose but try to get out of the car. I grabbed the handle with my right hand, pushed the back door open with my shoulder, and monkey rolled outside to the snow below, leaving my books in the car. The guy in the front passenger seat got out of the car and grabbed the back of my neck but slipped in the snow. That gave me enough time to right myself and run a short distance towards the first house I saw. I didn’t look back, but I felt I was being chased. The house was ahead, about thirty-five feet in front of me. The snow was deep and I barely slogged another two feet before seeing a thick broken branch poking out of the snow. I picked it up and threw it as hard as I could at the house, breaking a first floor bedroom window. The owner of the house immediately opened the door. I started yelling my head off for him to call the police. That’s when the two seniors got back in their car, turned around and drove towards County Line Road.
I got lucky. The owner of the house let me use his phone to call my mother, who had already called the police, thinking I was missing. I don’t know what I would have done if those two guys stopped the car five miles down Stagecoach Road, in the middle of nowhere. I might have frozen to death or maybe they would have beaten me. After my mother picked me up she called the police again to report these guys, but they were long gone. I never saw them after that incident. I don’t know who they were, but it was clear they didn’t go to Wirt. I vowed never to visit Stagecoach Road during winter ever again. When I finally got my driver’s license, and in control of my destiny, I decided to get brave that summer evening in 1972 and see what Stagecoach Road was all about during the night.
I still had thoughts of turning back when I reached Stagecoach Road at about 9:45 p.m. But I didn’t, and I turned onto that eerie road. I was relieved to see the lights on in the houses as I slowly drove passed the last one and into the dark of the night. I switched on my brights which brilliantly highlighted the gravely pavement below. I knew there were no streetlights along the way, just heavy woods on both sides. Everything looked fine. Normal. When I was about three miles passed the last house my car started making a strange noise--like a clogged fuel line, and then some sort of pinging sound. I kept driving, thinking it was just gravel. Then my headlights suddenly shut off and the engine abruptly went silent, no longer responding to my foot pressure on the gas. I coasted off to the side the best I could, not being able to see a foot in front of me. When I got out of the car I reached down to feel the pavement, making sure I was off the road. There was absolutely no light source of any kind--like I was blind, not even moonlight thanks to the overcast sky. My battery completely died after ten minutes of futile attempts to start the car. There wasn’t even enough reserve to work the blinkers. I had no idea what I was going to do. I got back in the car and made one more vain attempt to start the engine. When I knew that was hopeless, I thought I’d find a flashlight in the glove compartment or under the seat, or maybe in the trunk. There wasn’t one. I didn’t even have any matches or a lighter which I normally carried with me since I started smoking Tiparillos. After closing the trunk, I opened the back door and reached in the back seat for my jacket, locked the door and started walking back towards County Line Road.
Not being able to see, I stumbled every other step, not knowing for sure I was on the road. The night was still. Every animal noise from the woods was magnified fivefold. Some of the animals sounded like small critters such as squirrels and rabbits. Others sounded bigger like coyotes and deer. I heard an occasional distant owl. Surprisingly, I wasn’t really scared. I was concerned because I couldn’t see my way. I never believed in ghosts, the supernatural, UFO’s, ESP, psychokinesis, or anything else that defied the laws of physics. I knew the animals I heard were mostly harmless to people. My mind was just on walking forward and staying on the road, figuring it would take me only half an hour or so to see a house.
I struggled to walk for fifteen more minutes when I heard a car coming from behind. It sounded like it was a block or two away. I turned around and saw faint headlights in the distance that got bigger and clearer for about five seconds. Then suddenly they were gone--like someone purposely shut them off. I heard the motor stop, then dimmer lights reappeared. I ducked into the woods, but was still in earshot of the car and heard at least three men talking and laughing as they got out of the car. I knew there was no way they could have seen me. I also knew they must have seen my car on the side of the road. I wasn’t worried about that. I wanted to continue walking towards County Line Road, but was afraid they would hear me. I stood in one spot in the woods, cold and feeling very vulnerable. Just then the people got back in their car and started the motor. The car was again coming my way. I was only about ten feet into the woods and got a blurry look at the driver as the car drove past. But what got my attention was the passenger in the back seat who was looking out his window in my direction, like he was scanning for something. I stood completely still when the car suddenly stopped again, about a hundred feet up. I heard the people get out then saw two flashlights shining in my direction like they were specifically looking for me.
Scared out of my mind, I had no choice but to walk deeper into the woods and get away from them, frantically and noisily jostling into every tree and branch along the way. My arms were extended, touching every branch, like a blind man feeling his way around an unfamiliar house. I stopped long enough to look behind and saw the flashlights were now even from where I originally stood. I kept going, thinking the woods were at least two or three miles deep until I came out of them. Suddenly, the flashlights were gone. I was a good hundred yards away from the road. I stood completely still, listening for any signs of the people. At that moment I heard the car starting again and saw hazy red lights reflecting against the brush. The beam from the red lights was fanning out wider in the distant trees. The road was too far to make out any detail, but I saw the car slowly creeping backwards, then passed the spot where I was standing a few minutes earlier. I stood in the woods waiting for something else to happen--some other sign of life on the road. It seemed like hours, but it was only ten minutes or so when I heard a lot of noise coming down Stagecoach Road, and getting louder as if a lot of cars were on the road heading in the direction of County Line Road. A few seconds later I saw a car whizz by--must have been doing 60 mph or more. Two seconds later I saw distinctive blue and red strobes going crazy in the trees then four police cars speeding by, chasing the first car. But I didn’t hear any sirens. I had no idea what was going on, but I felt a lot safer. I waited where I was for another five minutes before I decided to return to Stagecoach Road and continue my walk to the houses. I thought I only had a mile to go. As it turned out, I was two miles away, but it seemed like fifty. I think it would have been faster walking with a sprained ankle than not being able to see.
After that miserable hour, I finally saw light up ahead. And not just the light from a house, but police car lights, flashing while the squad cars were parked. I was now able to see my feet and jogged the rest of the way to the first house. A small group of onlookers congregated on the lawn in front of all the action. I walked up to the first person I met, a middle-aged man wearing a Bears cap, and asked him what was going on. He said he didn’t know for sure, but said it could have had something to do with a high school student who was murdered a couple of days before over a car deal gone bad. The man said there were two other police cars earlier, then left after arresting the three men in the car, which was parked there and empty. I chatted with the man for a minute then told him about my car. He let me use his phone to call home, but instead I called a good friend of mine, Jay Silver, to pick me up, momentarily forgetting my folks would be frantic wondering where I was all this time. Actually, I was afraid to call them. I wanted to show my folks I could handle the situation myself. But Jay didn’t mind. He recently got his license like me, and was thrilled I called him. He wanted to see all the excitement himself. And it was a good thing the middle-a
ged man was listening to my conversation. He wised me up and told me I should also call my folks, which I did.
Jay arrived about twenty minutes later, just as the scene was dispersing. I told him what had happened with my car and what I just went through. Jay was more interested in finding out why all the cops were there. Everyone found out a few days later that in fact a high school student was shot to death the previous Thursday. One of the guys in the car I saw shot the student. The dead student sold that car for two thousand dollars, but was given a bad check. When he confronted his customer and told him about the bad check, the customer got angry and shot him with a rifle, but kept the car. According to the papers, the murderer drove to Stagecoach Road after the shooting and threw the rifle into the woods, then went back to look for the rifle on that Saturday night.
The LeSabre was towed to our house on Sunday. My folks were more than a little miffed why it broke down so quickly after getting tuned. The mechanic made a house call, looked under the hood and matter-of-factly said the fan belt broke and offered to fix it for free. That was nice of him.
So there you have it. Is Stagecoach Road really haunted? Is it bad luck? I don’t know for sure. But what I do know is that I can’t shake the uneasy feeling I got when I recently went there to take a picture of the road sign for this novel. I have no plans to go back.
Daniel Kamen
January 4th, 2013
Chapter One
A strange fetid pall mingled with the metallic scent of blood the night of June 14th, 1973. It wafted around Benny. The heat from the idling Mustang and the humid summer night intensified the smell and pain of his injuries. Had he the energy to gag, he would have. But the act of breathing took energy, and he didn’t have any left to gag. His mind catalogued his injuries--the cracked skull that seeped warm blood onto the leather seats, his broken legs, and three missing teeth--and rage crept upon him. Rage at the bullies who’d beaten him, at his girlfriend for dumping him on their last night of high school, and at his own stupidity for venturing out to Stagecoach Road alone.