Psycho Club

By Dana Beth Stenholtz

A short article seen in the Kohler Lake Daily on 30 May 1993:

Below is the text version of a pamphlet written by the late Brent Mason, who was a twice-published author and youth pastor at Church of the Open Door in Kohler Lake, Colorado. Mason, 28, was found murdered in his home on the 25th of May, as was his wife, Gloria (Fitzgerald) Mason. Family and friends of the Masons believe that their deaths are the direct result of his having written this pamphlet. Police investigators say no proof exists and have closed the case due to lack of evidence.

Did the Psycho Club murder Brent Mason? Judge for yourself:

BEWARE! THE PSYCHO CLUB IS A REAL AND LOCAL DANGER!

First of all, I would like the citizens of Kohler Lake to understand that I am not writing this pamphlet to scare you. I am writing this pamphlet to inform you. It is my sincere hope and prayer that you will read these words, take them to heart, and become better-informed citizens of this fine city.

For the past twelve years, a man by the name of Nathan Shipchandler has lived in our city. He came as a young man, 15 years old, new to the community. I, too, was 15. I met Nathan my sophomore year in high school. I befriended him. Little did I know that he already had a wrap sheet a mile long, and that he had no intentions of reforming, despite his many stays in juvenile detention centers and rehabilitation centers in surrounding towns and in nearby Denver. Nathan formed a club that year, and I joined it. I had no idea how seriously he took this club, until it was almost too late. The name of Nathan Shipchandlers club?

The Psycho Club.

It sounds almost silly, doesnt it? Like something a couple of bored teenage kids would create to make themselves sound more tough than they really were, more tough than they felt. It sounds like the kind of club loners might want to join. Outcasts. Kids who werent accepted anywhere else could probably find a safe haven in a club called the Psycho Club. And some did. Including myself.

Nathan, my best friend (who will remain unnamed), and myself were the original three members. We thought we were the greatest, the coolest, the baddest guys around. The problem is, Nathans true character began to show. It wasnt long until he revealed the darker side of his personality. He said one night, over beer and cigarettes, that we should make a rule for initiation. Fine, I thought. Most clubs have a hazing of some sort. Everyone knew that. But Nathans rule was not the normal kind of rule, not in my mind.

In order to be a member of the Psycho Club, you had to kill someone. A human being, in cold blood. And Nathan chose the victim. He was, after all, the leader. And this was his idea.

I balked at it. I watched, sickened, as Nathan and the other few members began making plans. I went to Nathan, and I told him I wanted out. At first, he refused. No one leaves the Club, he said. I promised to never share with anyone the new initiation rule. I swore by my life. Reluctantly, he let me go.

Twelve years of guilt, heavily weighing on my shoulders, has led me to write this pamphlet. I dont know where Nathan Shipchandler is. I dont know for certain that hes still in Kohler Lake, but my instincts tell me that he is. After last weeks bomb threat at the local nursing home, I am convinced that the Psycho Club is thriving in this town. But I cant prove it. I cant show you where the members of the Club are. I havent seen or heard from Nathan Shipchandler in over nine years. I never want to see him again, but I can no longer ignore the fact that he exists, and exists nearby.

Please, I beg you, watch yourselves. Take bomb threats seriously. Lock your doors at night. Remind your children to not talk with strangers. Keep your eyes open. And, most of all, pray for the safety of your family, yourself, this city. Because the Psycho Club

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 10, 2003
• ISBN: 9781465322821

Dana Beth Stenholtz

Dana Beth Stenholtz, born in Portland, Oregon, grew up in Central Minnesota. Her interest in reading, writing, and the arts began at an early age, and she continues to have an insatiable desire for knowledge. Dana is a graduate of Crown College, in St. Bonifacius, Minnesota, where she earned her Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature and Christian Studies. Psycho Club is her first published work.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Look at this! I’m performing major surgery, and you’re not even watching!

Nathan glanced up from the book he was reading and studied the specimen on the table in front of Shay. Ever so carefully she dipped her spoon into the glass of water, leaning in close. The next moment, she sat back in her chair and held the spoon up to her eyes. Got it, she whispered melodramatically. See? She held the spoon toward Nathan.

What is it?

I had a lemon seed in my water. I hate lemon seeds.

Oh. Nathan returned to his book.

Oh, Shay echoed mockingly. What’s so interesting in that book of yours?

"It’s not what’s in the book that’s interesting; it’s what’s not in the book that’s so uninteresting."

Shay stared at him for a long pause, then pursed her lips and focused her attention back on the glass of water in front of her. It was of little importance now that the dreaded lemon seed had been removed. You’re a vulpine scalawag, Nathan, do you realize that? she muttered pointedly.

My, such big words from one so young, he retorted, not even bothering to look up from his book.

You have a lot of nerve calling me young, she hissed. You can’t be all that much older than I am.

Nathan peered over the wire rims of his glasses. Calm down. Three years makes a world of difference, dear, especially in regards to the game you’re asking me to let you play.

It’s not a game; I know that much.

"You’re right, it’s not. But someone of your mentality might like to assume it is a game and that the rules are simple and if you lose, you simply start over or wait until a new hand is dealt. That’s not how it works."

"What do you mean someone of my mentality?"

"What I mean, Ms. Vivian, is that I know you want to have fun. You’re getting involved for kicks, so to speak. You seem to think that our . . . group . . . is only out for some sort of adrenaline-rush sideshow bonanza. That’s not what we are. If you don’t realize that, you’re going to have to fold—and you won’t be dealt another hand. There’s only one game. I’m the dealer, and you are one of my cards. If you don’t do what I want you to do, or if you don’t perform to your maximum capabilities, then I could lose the game. I don’t like to lose, understand?"

Right, she whispered, then took a drink of her water.

Great. Nathan smiled and put his nose back in the book.

Shay sighed loudly and looked around the nearly empty restaurant. It was after four in the morning, and she had met Nathan Shipchandler here at midnight. So far, she had learned nothing about his club, the one she so desperately wanted to join.

How did you hear about it?

Shay looked at him, surprised to see he had set his book aside and was staring intently at her. His long fingers encircled the black coffee mug in front of him, and the steam rose from it, following the air current caused by the ceiling fan whirring silently above their heads. The only sound was the clanking of dishes from the nearby kitchen—and her pulse beating in her ears.

I . . . she began, suddenly tongue-tied. I heard about the Club through a friend.

Don’t be so vague. Give me a name.

Will this person get in trouble?

No. Nathan gulped the scalding black coffee, finally leaning back in his chair. His bright blue eyes had been too near for her comfort. She began to breathe again.

Emily Curtis mentioned it to me once. Actually, I forced her to tell me about it, because I saw some of your literature on her desk. I was curious.

There is that about you. Is that bad?

To be curious? No, of course not. All of humanity is curious—if we hadn’t been, we’d still be living in caves.

Shay laughed, and then stopped when Nathan didn’t join her. Are you ever not serious?

This is business, and I’m very serious when it comes to business.

Do you have any intention of letting me in? Shay asked boldly. Because if you don’t, I’ll just leave right now. I don’t like getting the runaround, and I don’t have to put up with any more of your snide remarks. I don’t like being ignored, and I don’t like being mocked—two things you’ve done quite a bit of tonight.

His shoulder lifted slightly in what Shay supposed was his attempt at a shrug. I was testing you, observing you, to see how patient and self-controlled you could be. How’d I do?

You’re still talking to me, aren’t you? Yes. Is he always this way? Then you did fine.

So, are you going to let me into the Club? Let me put it simply, Shay. He removed his glasses and leaned across the table. His face was close enough to hers that she could feel his breath. He smiled widely, revealing a perfect set of teeth. His eyes bore into hers. If I don’t let you in, I have to kill you, he whispered. I don’t feel like killing someone so full of brilliant remarks and derisive humor—at least not tonight.

Shay raised her eyebrows, wishing he would back away. His close proximity made her feel anything but brilliant and derisive. So, I’m in? she whispered.

Nathan smirked and sat back in his chair, replacing his glasses

at the same time. You’re in, he said quietly. "You’re definitely

"

in.

Good. Shay gulped her water. Now what? Now we get started. Are you tired? Not particularly.

Good.

She stood and followed him out of the restaurant, nearly running to keep up with his long strides. My car is over here, she called.

Leave it.

She rolled her eyes and climbed into the passenger seat of his car, staring straight ahead. Her heart was beating in her ears again, and she really hoped he couldn’t hear it. Where are we going?

The Room.

She snorted. "What’s The Room?"

It’s where we conduct business. He shifted into reverse and peeled out of the parking space. Shay, he said, shifting into first gear and lurching forward. Not until they stopped at the red light at the corner did he continue. Don’t ask me any more questions right now, okay?

Okay. She turned and looked out her window. The earliest hint of morning could be seen in the east, over the lake, and she watched the lavender bleed into the dark sky, pushing the stars into outer space for the next few hours. The streets were empty on this early Sunday morning. She and Nathan sped along in his car, the tires whirring smoothly beneath the black steel.

Only when they stopped did she realize she should have been paying attention, so she would know how to get here for future meetings. Again, she followed Nathan across a parking lot. The iron gate, leading to an unkempt courtyard, was rusty and not locked. They quickly climbed three flights of rickety stairs, and then stopped. Nathan pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the steel door in front of them. I’ll get you a copy of one of these, he said, holding up the key. He turned and let her enter the room first.

Actually, it was a hallway. He pushed her gently down the skinny, dark hall ahead of him. It stunk from years of fried foods and cats. She tripped over a loose piece of dark green carpet, and it ripped even further, and a huge black cockroach scurried up the cracked white wall to her left. She backed away from it as she walked. She hadn’t expected such a well-dressed, smooth-talking, pompous guy to run his business out of a—well, out of a dump. She pushed her disappointment to the back of her mind, images of lush, modern high rise apartments and meetings over mahogany tables and cocktails evaporating into the musty, damp air. She had assumed Nathan Shipchandler was better than this . . . .

Go left.

She jumped at the sound of his voice, but did as he said. Last door on the right. She stopped, and he squeezed around her and pushed the doorbell. She could hear a faint buzzing from inside the apartment, then the sound of shuffling feet.

Yeah? a voice from the other side of the door came.

Nathan leaned on the doorframe. It’s me, Ace.

Bolts were unbolted and chains were unhooked, and the door opened for them. Nathan stepped through the doorway first, taking Shay’s arm and pulling her in behind him. He nodded at the man called Ace and he shut the door behind them.

The apartment was dimly lit by two tacky lamps in opposite corners of the living room. It was terribly cluttered with boxes, cheap tin file cabinets, and newspapers. Three unfamiliar faces stared at her, and with relief she watched Emily stand and walk to her, smiling. Emily glanced at Nathan. She’s in, huh, Nate?

Would I have brought her here if she wasn’t?

Emily gave Shay a quick hug. Of course not.

Everyone welcome the newest member of the Club, Shay Vivian. Shay, this is everyone. Nathan nudged her toward the living room. This is Orin Winters. The fidgety door man smiled slightly at her. Nathan pointed at the couch. Those two are Sophia Anton and Artemis Duke.

Greetings, Artemis called, lifting a lit joint with her left hand. Sophia smiled at Shay, but said nothing.

You smoke weed? Artemis asked her, tossing her long blonde hair out of her face with a twitch of her head.

Sometimes, Shay replied, sitting down on the couch between Artemis and Sophia.

Artemis smiled. Here you go. Welcome to the Club, Sister, she said, and handed the joint to Shay.

What seemed a ridiculously long time later, Nathan stood and held out his hand to Shay. I’ll take you back to your car now. We’ll be meeting again tonight.

I . . . wasn’t paying attention on the way over, she confessed, standing with his help.

I know. I’ll pick you up tonight, at midnight.

Bye, Shay, Artemis said, waving.

Later, she replied. Emily smiled at her, and Orin and Sophia both raised a hand in farewell.

Tonight then, Nate? Orin asked.

That’s what I said.

They left the apartment silently. The narrow hallway seemed even narrower now. It had been awhile since Shay had smoked marijuana, and its magic was working on her mind. She took her time descending the staircase, and squinted as they walked across the parking lot to Nathan’s car.

Here, he said, handing her a pair of sunglasses. She gratefully took them and put them on her face before getting in the car. He drove her back to the restaurant in silence, and she wondered what he was thinking.

What are you thinking? she asked as they drove up to her white, rusted Chevette.

He looked at her with what she read as surprise on his face. I was thinking about what a great hand I’ve been dealt. He smiled at her. I now have four queens and an ace.

Which queen am I? Her voice sounded small to her own

ears.

Nathan stared at her, and she was even more grateful for the sunglasses. You’re the queen of spades, because you’re tough. I can see that you have great potential for viciousness. I hope you won’t let me down.

CC T"

I wont.

No, you won’t.

Shay stepped out of his car and shut the door. He pushed the button to roll down the passenger side window and leaned over. Keep the shades. She nodded and turned to unlock her car. Oh, and Shay?

What? She turned to look at him again.

His bright blue eyes sparkled. Welcome to the Psycho Club.

CHAPTER TWO

"So, is Queen of Spades sort of my nom de guerre now that I’m in the Psycho Club?"

They were on their way back to The Room. It was five after midnight, and Shay was feeling an excitement growing, starting in the pit of her stomach.

You can consider it a pseudonym if you want. I’ll still call you ‘Shay’ most of the time.

Do you have one?

He smiled without looking at her. Of course. I’m your potentate. I’m the mighty, monarchial Nathan Shipchandler. The crowned head. Your royal personage. I am your sovereign liege, Lady Spade.

You’re the king then.

He glanced at her. That’s what I said.

Shay smiled. You can be funny.

He didn’t reply.

When they reached The Room, the others were already there. It seemed to Shay that they had never left their spots from that not-too-distant morning. She sat down between Artemis and Emily on the moth-eaten couch and accepted the light Emily offered as she put a cigarette to her lips.

Nathan sat down on the floor, facing the five of them. He opened up his briefcase and turned to Orin. Flip on the ceiling light.

Orin turned on the bright fluorescent light before sitting down on the floor in front of Artemis. Sophia was against the wall between the couch and the table with the less-gaudy lamp on it. Shay looked away from the quiet Sophia; her dark, haunted eyes were staring vacantly at Nathan.

He pulled from his briefcase a small pamphlet and looked up at his group with a smile. His eyes focused on Shay, and she stared back, smiling only slightly. I have here, he began, holding up the pamphlet for them all to see, a tract written by an ex-member of the Club. He seems to think himself wise to our cause and is going around publishing this trash about the Psycho Club. So far, I don’t think anyone’s taking him too seriously. I think we should make sure no one gets the chance to.

Who is it, Nate? Sophia asked.

Brent Mason.

Shay watched Nathan’s face carefully, wondering at the calmness in his eyes, despite the fact that he was obviously seething with anger. Did they all look that way—peaceful in the face of violence? I thought you couldn’t leave the Club once you were in, she said quietly.

You can’t, anymore, Orin replied, turning to look up at her. He played nervously with the shoelace on his right shoe. Brent was one of the first members. We had just started, and we were trusting, if not innocent, you know? When he asked to be let out, we let him out. Just gave him, you know, a warning to keep his mouth shut.

Now we know better, Nathan added, looking at Shay as he spoke. If someone wants out these days, they die.

How many have died?

Seven, he replied immediately. We let three go before wising up. Two of those three met with unfortunate accidents at a later date. The only one left is Brent. He put his number right here on the tract, so it should be simple enough to find out his address.

Phone numbers don’t tell you where someone lives, Shay argued.

They can give us a general idea, Emily said. We just have to match them up.

Do you think that’s really his number? she scoffed. I mean, you’d think he’d be smart enough to keep that a secret—especially knowing that you guys might be a bit upset with this Psycho Club revelation pamphlet.

Yeah, you’d think he’d be smart enough to hide from us, but unfortunately, some people are far too trusting when it comes to the Psycho Club. Nathan smiled sweetly at her.

"When it comes to you, you mean, Sophia mumbled. People are far too trusting when it comes to you." Her eyes sparkled with some hidden humor.

Of course, he replied.

The phone number turned out to be Brent Mason’s after all. Emily tediously matched up the phone number with the address, which was under the name ‘Peter Anderson.’ She called the number from a payphone and asked for Brent. The woman on the phone asked her to wait a minute, and she hung up.

Now, Shay and Orin were driving down Santa Monica Lane, Uptown, searching for 32149. Orin didn’t say much, which was fine with Shay. Nathan had given her this assignment as her initiation; the gun felt heavy in her coat pocket.

So, do you know Brent? she asked Orin as she peered through the open window at the house numbers.

Yeah, I know him. He and I were the original two members, along with Nate.

So you were friends?

Orin pulled the car over and nudged Shay, pointing across the street to a white house with a perfectly manicured lawn. There’s 32149 Santa Monica Lane. He stared at the house, and then looked at Shay again. Brent and I were best friends, he said quietly. "Nate moved here to Kohler Lake in tenth grade and started hangin’ out with us. We called ourselves the Three Musketeers. Eventually, we became the Psycho Club. When Nate made the initiation rule, Brent freaked out and decided he didn’t want to be part of it anymore. As far as I know, he went to college, married a

preacher’s kid, and that’s it. Last I heard from him was three years ago."

Shay swallowed; her mouth was dry. She stared at the white house that glowed in the light of a street lamp.

Enough reminiscing—let’s get this over with. Orin crawled out of the car.

Shay walked with him across the silent street and around to the back of the house. Orin crouched down and looked under the doormat, then stood and felt along the top of the doorframe and inside the porch light. Recalling Nathan’s earlier comment, she tapped him on the shoulder. What? he whispered.

People like Brent Mason are very trusting, she whispered loud enough for him to hear.

Yeah....

She reached in front of him and quietly turned the doorknob. The door wasn’t locked. Orin smiled at her as she eased open the door and they stepped silently into the kitchen.

Shay knew what they had to do. She was in charge of knocking off Brent, and Orin was to kill anyone else in the house. Her heart rebelled at the thought for only a second, and then she felt a rush of adrenaline. It made her head spin.

Orin led the way through the living room and down the hallway. Everything in the house was white; white walls, white carpet, white furniture . . . pure. He listened at the first door, and then peered around the corner. Yes, they were all trusting. The bedroom doors were wide open. Pure trust, Shay thought. It made her want to laugh.

Orin nodded at her and she followed him into the room. A man and a woman lay sleeping peacefully in their queen-size bed, surrounded by white linen. The curtains were white . . . the woman’s nightgown was white. Shay walked to the man’s side of the bed and crouched down to face Brent Mason. He was good looking. For some reason, she had pictured an older man, even though Orin had told her they were in high school together. She grabbed a white pillow off the floor and stood up. As if in a dream, she covered Brent’s bare chest and neck with the pillow and pulled the trigger on her borrowed gun. His body jerked once, and the stuffing from the pillow billowed around the white, streetlight-washed room. She backed away, amazed at how little sound there had been. Orin had killed the wife; Shay hadn’t even noticed.

Dark blood began to drip down the side of the bed, soaking into the carpet. Soon a large black-red stain stood out on the white bedding where Mr. and Mrs. Mason lay dead. Shay ran out of the room.

Orin was in the hall. There’s a kid in there, he whispered.

Shay swallowed hard and looked up at him. Well?

You kill her.

"Nathan told me to get Brent—you’re supposed to kill anyone else."

Well I’m telling you—kill the kid!

Orin . . . Shay faltered.

"Do it! he said through clenched teeth, and put the gun under Shay’s chin. Or you’ll hold the record for the shortest time in the Club!"

Angrily, she backed away from him and entered the room, shutting the door behind her. She knelt down beside the small bed and stared at the blonde child sleeping there. Your parents shouldn’t have been so trusting, she whispered. A white teddy bear lay on the floor near the bed, big and fluffy. She picked it up, looking at the girl who couldn’t have been more than three years old.

Hurry up! she heard Orin hiss from the other side of the door.

Shay panicked. She set the bear down on the bed next to the child and aimed. The gun went off, splattering stuffing everywhere. The girl jumped and began to cry. Shay grabbed up the remains of