Beasts in the Garden
Eden’s Ashes #1
By Fannin Callahan
Smashwords Edition
All rights are reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the author.
This is purely a work of fiction. Any names, characters, events, places, or businesses are all totally fictitious, and any resemblance to real life names, characters, events, places, or businesses is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Stella Albright lowered herself onto the top step of the front porch, pulled a long bitter swallow of the hot chicory coffee, then carefully placed the cup down on the rough concrete. She looked at her hands and was pleased to see them steady, no trembling fingers betraying the coil of anxiety that threatened to overwhelm her.
The knife sheathed in the scabbard at her waist felt heavy and alive, and as she fingered the hilt of the 9-inch blade, she thought, it looks so easy in the movies.
Redolent with the scent of the nearby swamp, the warm humid air caressed her, the dampness covering her body like an amphibious skin. She knew that when the sun rose, the ground would begin to steam, and the velvety warmth of the night would give way to a wet smothering inferno. She reflected that though Louisiana summers were always brutal, this year had been especially so, almost as if the gates of hell had opened.
And maybe they have, she thought. Maybe they have.
Stella wasn’t sure she believed in hell, but had no doubt there were devils. The fact that she couldn’t explain them, and knew neither their origin nor master did not make them less real. Denial was not possible with what could be seen and smelled and touched and tasted, and in these ways they revealed themselves to her.
Sometimes their scent was overwhelming, so strong it could be carried on the air from miles away. Other times the foul perfume was barely there and almost hidden, so faint you could talk yourself right out of the reality of it. She had not been able to determine whether the strength of their odor was a measurement of their power and wickedness, or simply an omen of their nearness. In her heart she believed it was the former.
Though scent was a powerful indicator, she had discovered that the beasts left the stain of their corruption on most anything they touched. She’d found that out the hard way, and that discovery had led to her first kill.
The whole nightmare of her awakening had begun a few months back with a stop at a roadside deli in Fayetteville. The shop had been sparkling clean, a one-man operation with no more than a dozen tables and a long counter arranged against the back wall.
Stella had watched the deli-man prepare her sandwich—just right on the mayo, generous with the turkey, and he had toasted her bread to perfection. Taking the food to a table near the front of the shop, there had been little more on her mind than the drive home and the bag of books from Barnes & Noble that was tucked in the back of her car, including a new John Sanford thriller that she was excited to read..
Then with one bite of her sandwich, reality was turned upside down forever. With that single little bite came the images, and with the images came the horror. The reality of the deli had simply evaporated and suddenly Stella was in a dank and cavernous concrete building, dark and heavy with the smell of motor oil and gasoline.
Surrounded by the hulking bones of bent and busted automobiles, the deli-man loomed over the broken body of young girl, little more than a child, her golden hair spread fan-like on the oil splattered floor, clothing ripped to shreds, her little neck turned at an impossibly twisted angle.
Amid the blood and the horror, Stella felt herself merge with the beast, and felt his satisfaction, his thrill, and the temporary satiation of a hunger so dark and deep that it could not be described in human terms.
“What are you?” he had whispered, many weeks later, as he lay dying beneath her knife.
“I don’t know,” she had answered.
What am I indeed?
The kill was messy and brutal and horrifying, but Stella had learned two things of huge importance. First, she discovered she was capable of murder, able to plunge the knife in and twist it until all the life was gone. That had been an earthshaking revelation for her, worthy of a front page spread: Young Rural Louisiana Librarian Stabs to Death Fayetteville Deli Operator. Yep, that would sell a paper or two, might even get picked up by the cable news channels.
But the most important thing, the lifesaving bit of information she had discovered was completely unexpected. I know them, but they don’t know me.
Thinking of Fayetteville brought a churning to her stomach, and Stella felt the chicory coffee begin to rise. She leaned over the edge of the porch, spewing vomit onto the leaves of a huge azalea bush.
Straightening, she looked around for something to wipe her mouth, and finding nothing, used the sleeve of her shirt. Vomit will be the least of it.
Stella’s house was situated on a wooded cul-de-sac, and from her position on the top porch step, the newly surfaced asphalt of Magnolia Ave stretched before her like a fat black ribbon, twinkling here and there in the foggy glow of the halogen street lamps. On the right side of the avenue a dozen houses much like her own sat silent and dark, their deep front porches like huge hollow mouths, wide gashes beneath the square staring eyes of second floor windows. On the left side of Magnolia there was only forest and swamp, pierced by the eastern entrance to Tribedoux Park, its arched gate shuttered but never locked. A lock would have served no purpose, for slipping through the tree line along the edges of the park was easily done. The gate was purely decorative, just another piece of cheap Creole froufrou courtesy of city hall.
Four AM on Saturday and the whole of Mamou was sleeping. "Yet here I am. Watching for—what? Monsters?"
Nope, worse than monsters.
For five nights running, Stella had been there on the porch, watching and waiting. This time it won’t be just watching, though, oh no, tonight will be the real deal.
She had seen him for the first time on Monday afternoon. She had been in the backyard cleaning leaves out of the fish pond and was just coming around the side of the house when she saw him standing at the door, his back to her, apparently having just rung the doorbell.
The smell was on him, thick as molasses.
"Can I help you?" she called out, trying hard to keep the tremor from her voice.
He turned then, and gave her a big wide smile. Alligator, she thought. Alligator man is on my porch.
Alexander Johnson,“Just call me Alex” turned out to be her new neighbor, just making nice and introducing himself around the neighborhood.
"Yeah,” he said. “I just moved into my aunt’s old place—1251. The house with the blue shutters."
"Miss Eva's?" She asked.
“That’s the one.”
She had been able see him clearly then as he emerged from the shadow of the porch and began coming down the steps and into the yard. Black curly hair framing a face just beaming with good cheer. Wide mouth with too long teeth surrounded by fleshy red lips. Dead flat alligator eyes.
“I didn't know she had any family.” Where were you when the cancer took her?
"Well, yeah,” he said. “Everybody has family somewhere, right?"
By then he was standing before her, palm extended. Clearly the beast wanted a handshake.
“Oh, you don’t want to shake with me,” she said. “I’ve been digging in the fish pond.” Stella held up hands which were crusted with bits of leaves and mud. She was backing up a little by then, the rotten dead-thing smell so strong that she could taste it. Alligator man was
looking at her with an interest so keen, it was as if he were trying to crawl inside her skin, to wear her like a brand new suit.
“Listen, Alex, I really need to get back to work, but thanks so much for stopping by,” she told him. “Hope you like it here.” And I’ll be watching you, oh yes, every damn day, one foot out of line and your ass is mine.
Stella had developed some ground rules after Fayetteville, a code of sorts, and by this code the simple recognition of a demon did not give her the right to destroy it, there had to be more.
The beast that was Alex had reached into his pocket, brought out a piece of gum and began to chew. “Oh I will Stella-rella,” he’d replied, his long teeth chomping hungrily on the gum. “This place, I don’t know, it just smells right, don’t you think?”
He had left her then, making his way out of the cul-de-sac. He was halfway up Magnolia before Stella realized that he had called her by a name no one had ever used except her grandmother.
His use of that name had bothered her for days. If this demon knew that much about her, what else might he know?
These were some of the questions Stella hoped to have answers to before the night was done. She shifted her position on the concrete step, looked at her watch, then drained the last of the chicory.
Almost time.
Disturbed as she’d been by Alligator man’s visit, Stella hadn’t known then that in a few short days she’d be sitting here in the dark, waiting to either kidnap or kill him. How could she? She had recognized what he was, yes, but her code did not allow for going around assaulting demon-people just because they had a weird smell and knew your name when they shouldn’t. Not even alligator men who came knocking in broad daylight.
So she’d been watching and waiting—even though he had the smell, and in her gut she knew he was one of them, there could be no lingering doubts.
It didn’t take long for him to reveal his intentions.
On that very first night, Alex “the beast” Johnson had begun peeking into windows, windows that offered views of sleeping children. By the end of the second night, it was clear that he’d focused his attention on a particular house, and by the third night Stella had discovered his plan. All it had taken was a stroll past the Weatherby’s tangled forest of a lawn, and a brushing of fingertips across the hedges the beast had used to hide his approach. Just a quick soft touch of finger to leaf and she had seen what was his mind: torture and death—as expected—but also something more, something akin to a higher purpose. This one was different, and she had instantly decided to keep him alive for awhile. She wanted desperately to know these evil beings, to understand why they walked with humanity.
She was full of questions but one stood out above all the others: which came first—the ability to see demons or the demons themselves?
She didn’t know. But she intended to find out. Tonight.
Stella placed both palms down on the hard stone step, rubbing them lightly over the rough surface, trying to pull within herself some essence of the old place. Her home since birth, she wondered if she would live to see it again. For a moment she allowed herself to think about dying, knowing there was a pretty good chance that this night could end her, and if it didn’t, well, lots of other bad things could come of it. Jail maybe, and even that could end up being the least of it. She felt very strongly that something big was brewing, something completely out of control.
She smelled him all the time now, had become attuned to the variations of his scent.
So strong she thought, and knew he had now left his house.
Seconds passed, then minutes, then, mixed in with the cricket-frog song of the damp darkness she could hear the soft squish of footfalls, stopping, then starting again.
As always, he was being careful. Does he know I watch him? Stella wondered, wanting the answer but knowing it would make no difference. Was the one in Fayetteville just a fluke, and does this one realize that I know him?
She didn’t think so. The beast would have left her for dead that first day on the lawn—eaten me right up with his alligator mouth.
Checking the knife at her waist, Stella then patted both pockets of her loose cargo pants. A taser in one, and a tranquilizer gun in the other. If things went as planned, she wouldn’t need the knife. “Just get the fucker in the house, and it’s all good.” But she’d kill him on the street if it came to it, right in front of God and everybody.
Eyes well adjusted to the darkness, Stella had no trouble spotting her target even though he was dressed in black and well hidden by hedges. He was right where she knew he’d be, in front of the Weatherby house, making his way to the westernmost window. If he followed his pattern—Oh God, please let him follow his pattern—he would spend the better part of an hour peering into the window, unspeakable excitement radiating from his body in waves. Stella knew that on the other side of that thin sliver of glass slept the Weatherby’s twin daughters. Would it be gentle Emily or the audacious little Sarah that he’d choose for his sport? Or does he plan to somehow take them both?
She believed her plan was solid, but would she be strong enough to drag him down the street, and into the house on her own? At first she had thought the porch steps would present an insurmountable hurdle, but then she’d remembered the portable ramp they’d used for her grandmother’s wheelchair. It could be attached to the small side porch, where double doors led into the dining room. Using the ramp meant that she would only be challenged with dragging the body up a slight incline. It wouldn’t be easy, but Stella was confident it was doable. Even better, the dining room entrance was situated on the eastern side of the house, well hidden from view. If dragging the beast through the door took more time than she’d allotted, it wouldn’t be the end of the world; even in broad daylight, this section of the house could not be seen from the street.
Once she had him in the house she could take her time getting him down to the basement. That part should be easy because she’d have the downward momentum of the stairs to her advantage.
Satisfied that she’d planned everything as carefully as possible, and knowing that she only had about a half an hour to make contact, Stella left the safety of the porch and entered the tree line at the edge of her property. She looked back through the trees to the Weatherby house. Alex was still outside the window, peering in. Every fiber of her being was alive with the need to kill him. No, stick with the plan. Keeping to the woods, she made her way around edge of the cul-de-sac, then cut into the trees at the edge of the park itself.
Inside the park, Stella easily found the well worn footpath and followed it westward for another hundred feet or so until she was well inside the interior of the park. A thin film of sweat covered her skin, and she shivered as something furry and low to the ground brushed against her leg in passing. Just an armadillo she thought, but her mind was filled with visions of snakes and gators and all manner of biting things.
On she walked, past the empty playground, the jungle gym looming in the darkness like some giant dark behemoth, past the swings, unmoving, still as death. Oh God, oh God if those freakin’ swings start movin’ it’s all over, I’ll die of fright right here in the park, just don’t look, and then she was past them and up ahead stood the gate, its scroll work gleaming in the moonlight.
Time to get at it, she thought. Careful to make as little noise as possible, she dropped to the ground and began to roll around in the dirt and twigs. Sufficiently filthy, Stella then began to pull large strands of hair free of her ponytail. Still not satisfied, she filled both hands with dark black earth and rubbed the mess into her hair and all over her face.
Now for the hard part.
Without pausing to think, Stella freed the knife from its scabbard, and quick and hard, slashed across the knee of her pants, hard enough to penetrate the fabric and the layer of skin beneath. The pain was vicious, which made the second gash more difficult to deliver. By the time she was done, Stella had sliced her leg in three different places, and though the cuts were not deep, t
hey produced an adequate amount of blood.
Stella used some of the blood that was oozing from her leg and rubbed it onto her face. He would smell it, and he would come.
“Help,” she called out. “Please someone, I’m hurt.”
By this time Stella had crept up to within just a few feet of the gate. She leaned against the twisted trunk of a cypress tree, snakes of Spanish moss dripping from the branches, partially obscuring her from view. Listening intently, she slipped her hand in the pocket of her cargo pants, her fingers closing tightly around the taser.
Within moments she could hear him approaching the gate, then the clank of iron as he opened it and stepped into the park.
She knew he could see her then, as she could see him.
Showtime.
Chapter 2
Jilly Babineaux sat on the edge of the wrought iron bed, exhausted, yet jazzed in a way that left her nerves jangling, sure that even the sound of her breathing must be blasting all through the house. She felt as if her whole body was humming. What she was about to do was final. There would be no turning back.
Deep within the house came the unmistakable sound of a clock striking the hour. Bong. Bong. Bong. It went on until Jilly counted 12 strikes, midnight, when all good girls should be fast asleep. She’d read that line somewhere. But then, no one had ever accused her of being good. Good for nothing, maybe, she’d heard that plenty of times. Not in those exact words of course, more just tip-toeing around it, like, Jilly, you aren’t measuring up to your potential, or some such shit.
Her eyes traveled around the bedroom. It was cold and impersonal, she’d done next to nothing to try and make it her own. She’d arrived in this house on her 17th birthday, the government sponsored guest of one Nancy Jo and Martin Gilmore, and even from that very first day, she knew this would be her last stop. No more foster homes for her.
As foster parents went, the Gilmores weren’t the worst. At least Martin hadn’t tried to play grab-ass and Nancy Anne made sure there was plenty to eat. Mostly they left her alone, content to cash the checks and mind their own business. That had been just six short months ago, before the crazy stuff.
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