The Devil's End

by D A Fowler

  The wide porch steps groaned as they approached the hazy burgundy door. It opened before either of them could knock, although no one was standing behind it. Jeanette Quincy fearlessly led her husband inside.

  There was a creaking sound above their heads. “Who’s there?” Jeanette called out, taking a few bold steps toward the staircase. “Albert? What’s going on over here?” Receiving no reply, she grabbed her husband’s belt and started pulling him up the stairs with her.

  A shadowed figure appeared on the landing when they were about two thirds of the way up. “That you, Al?” Willard asked uncertainly, having never known his stodgy neighbor to go for costume parties, or parties of any kind, for that matter. But he was wearing one hell of a Halloween getup.

  The small bumps on Nephyrcai’s forehead had extended about an inch.

  The shoe-leather skin on its face was gathered up in multi rows of wrinkles, and yellow fangs protruded between mummified lips. The lifeless clay was conforming to the nature of the beast within.

  It snarled, “Well, well, if it isn’t the Quincys. How nice of you to drop by. As a matter of fact, we were just talking about you. What a coincidence.” It started down the stairs.

  Willard gripped the banister, realizing that a stranger —with a serious vocal cord problem—was behind the hideous mask. “Now hold on there. Buddy. Suppose you tell me what this is all about. My wife seems to think—”

  “Your wife is a dirty little slut,” Nephyrcai hissed, its green slimy tongue snaking in and out between the fangs. “She was Cunt Queen of the class of ’fifty-seven, remember? But that didn’t bother you! You married her anyway, you spineless wimp, made her a respectable woman, riiight?” Malevolent laughter. “Well, she hasn’t changed a bit!”

  Jeanette gasped. “Willard! Are you going to let him get away with that?”

  With uncharacteristic aggressiveness Willard shoved his wife aside and bolted up the remaining stairs to teach the freak a lesson he wouldn’t forget if he lived to be a million. His fist was swinging into position when he was hit by an invisible train. With the speed of a bullet his body was knocked down the stairwell and slammed into the wall, his life ended by the abrupt dropping of a dark veil. He bounced off the wall and landed facedown on the floor.

  Jeanette appeared to be jitterbugging against the banister, staring down at her husband’s body with disbelieving eyes. Nephyrcai slowly descended the steps until it was standing just above her. Its sulfurous breath enveloped her like a smog. “And now you, my dear. I’m wondering how you must feel now that your precious pussy-whipped husband is dead. The only man on earth who ever respected you, including your father. What will you do now? Hubby hadn’t earned a full pension. And you’re far too old and repulsive to peddle your wares on the street.”

  Jeanette slowly turned back around, looking dazed. “Willard’s dead? He can’t be dead. He’s all I’ve got…”

  The flames into which she stared sparkled with glee. “What a sad little testimony. It gets me—right here.” A gnarled, warty hand with two-inch talons unzipped Montgomery’s trousers and pulled out a stiff rope of what looked like raw sausage. “Here, would you like to suck on that? I know you sucked a lot of cock in your day; no doubt you miss the variety. Put your lips around this sweet morsel. Let me fill your fat belly with the seeds of Hell.”

  “You filth,” Jeanette spat, refusing to look at it. “Disgusting pervert. If my husband is really dead, you’d better believe you’re going to pay!”

  Her tormentor grinned, its obscene tongue snaking across its upper lip. “Hey, I was just trying to think of something fun to do; I always try to entertain my guests. Perhaps you’d prefer to get fucked in the ass. Or would you rather have a bath? Remember the ones your father used to give you? Until you were what…twelve? Remember what he used to do with the bar of soap? The look on his face when he did it? Oh yes, he knew what he was doing. And later, when you were tucked away in bed rubbing yourself because it itched—and oh, an itch so delicious to scratch—he was in the bathroom jerking off over the toilet, thinking about that precious little gash between your legs—”

  Screaming for him to shut up, Jeanette tripped and fell backward down the stairs. Landing on her husband’s body, she burst into angry, bitter sobs.

  “Take your clothes off, cunt,” the demon commanded.

  Still sobbing, Jeanette sat up and began to unbutton her blouse.

  The walking horror continued to circle the tomb and try to climb up. Beth sat hunched in the center of the roof, her knees drawn up, her arms wrapped tightly around them as she rocked back and forth, blubbering softly. Every few seconds she would see large, bloody fingers pop up and try to get a grip along the edge of the roof, accompanied by the thud of shoes kicking the wall, and the vise around her heart would become another notch tighter.

  At one point the deranged creature had burst through the tomb’s door, and she had been able to hear it below her, opening and slamming the coffin lids. Looking for a way up so it could get her and tear her apart like it had Roger. Like it probably had Nancy. Beth had forced herself to accept it. She’d found what she’d come looking for. And now it was going to kill her.

  But then she could hear the crunching of leaves as it moved away, and soon she could see the back of it appear from top to bottom as its distance increased. It looked somewhat human from the backside. A pudgy giant with short-cropped hair and a hump between the shoulders. From the other side it looked like something walking out of her worst nightmare. A face that wasn’t a face…

  She stared across the cemetery at the base of the path long after the chilling figure had disappeared into it. Finally she stopped rocking. It was really gone. She could get down now, put Roger back together, and the two of them could go home and have lunch. Tuna salad sounded good. She could whip some up in no time.

  She crawled to the edge and looked down at the ground where her husband’s mutilated body lay in hacked bits and pieces. She thought of Humpty-Dumpty and uttered a shrill giggle. Roger was going to need a gallon of Super Glue.

  Jolts of pain shot up her legs when she hit the ground. She stumbled forward on her knees, her spread palms automatically positioning themselves to break her fall. They slid over a bloody mound of sodden leaves. Lying next to it was one of Roger’s hands sans the bones; the skin had been pulled off the meat like a sheath. Beth picked it up and carefully arranged the limp fingers between her own, then got up and walked woodenly toward the path, occasionally banging a knee on an upright tombstone from not paying close enough attention to where she was going. She squeezed Roger’s hand.

  “It’s going to be all right, honey. As soon as we get home I’m going to make us some nice tuna salad sandwiches and some iced tea, and after we’ve finished eating, you can light up your pipe, and we’ll go sit in the living room and read, take our minds off our troubles for a while. That sound all right with you?”

  She had only walked a few yards into the path when she heard something behind her. Not thinking, her body acting exclusively on its automatic defense system, she shook the hand loose and spurred into a run. She didn’t get very far. She was tackled from behind by what had surely been a four-hundred-pound bag of cement. In slow motion she flew through the air, watched as the ground rose up to meet her. A stout twig so perfectly positioned upward entered her left eye and ripped through vital brain tissue. She was mercifully unaware of what happened to her body afterward.

  Luke was still sobbing uncontrollably an hour later when the phone rang. Carol left her heartbroken, mortified son on the couch and rushed into the kitchen to answer it, hoping against hope that it would be her daughter calling to say she was at such and such place and would be home as soon as the fog did its disappearing act.

  It was Hugh, his voice low and void of amenities. “Have you found Lana yet?”

  Carol sighed despairingly. “No. I called the police, but they can’t do any
thing in this fog. And somethin’ else has happened. Luke accidentally found the remains of that puppy the kids had in our neighbor’s trash can about an hour ago; he’s very upset and I can’t seem to calm him down. I called the police about that, and they told me they’d gotten a report from the postman that my neighbor is dead! They told me to just lock all my doors and windows and sit tight until they get things under control. Hugh, I’m scared! I’m afraid that boy— that horrible monster—has gone berserk or something. They told me he’s missing. What if Lana—”

  Hugh exploded with anger. “Why didn’t you just take the kids and move in with the Hell’s Angels? I’m hangin’ up to check the flight schedules right now. I’ll call you from Rapid City when I get in. The damn fog should be cleared up by then.”

  Carol winced as the line clicked and went dead. She’d never wanted to see his face again. But she needed him to hold her now. She’d never been more frightened in her entire life. If anything had happened to Lana, she would feel totally responsible. And she didn’t think she could live with that.

  “It’s time we headed for the hills. Our appointment draws nigh,” Nephyrcai said, picking up a box of candles Azrahoth had taken from the Chandler residence.

  The three demons had fully bloomed into the physical manifestations of innate evil. But they would not remain incarnate for long; the corrupted flesh would begin to crumble, become a heap of meaningless dust. Released from confinement, the infernal creatures would normally return to the metaphysical realm, where their powers were limited to the access of human inclination. From their dark world they could suggest, not control. But a suggestion was all that was usually necessary.

  Howbeit this was not a normal occasion. The key was in their hands; with the Gate incantation of the original High Priestess, whore of the fallen sons of God, they could make the ethereal cervix between the spiritual and physical worlds dilate permanently. Except for the Master’s relatively small body of mortal followers, humanity would be doomed. The earth would again belong to the creatures of darkness.

  Nephyrcai settled its fiery gaze on Lana. She sat on the edge of the bed, dressed and perfumed, her hands folded calmly in her lap. The room was a sweltering, dry sauna, and her skin glistened with sweat. Dennis sat beside her, seemingly unaffected by the heat. His head lolled from side to side as he continued to inspect objects in the room which by now were quite familiar to him.

  “Lana, you will walk with me,” Nephyrcai said. “I have the honor of giving your body to the High Priestess. I’ve no doubt she’ll be very pleased.”

  Azrahoth and Vikael cackled gleefully. Vikael hissed through curled, blackened lips, “Do let me offer the boy.”

  Patting an empty wasp’s nest where there had once been a cheek, Azrahoth retorted, “Only if you’ll let me recite the incantation.”

  Nephyrcai nodded. “The book is downstairs; you can get it on our way out. Come, children. It is time to fulfill your destinies.” It held its hand out to Lana. She took it and slid off the bed.

  They followed Azrahoth from the room. Dennis and Vikael, also holding hands, brought up the rear. The procession became solemn, all footsteps in sync. They marched slowly down the steps.

  Lana observed the man’s body lying against the wall and wondered idly who he was, and if he was as dead as he looked. Not that such trivia mattered. She was going to fulfill her destiny. That was the only thing that was presently relevant.

  As Azrahoth stepped across the living room to get the ledger from the television console, Lana’s eyes were drawn to another body sitting in the center of the couch. It was a woman, and she was naked. Her eyes were opened wide with unseeing terror, her mouth open in a silent scream. Lana stared blankly for a few moments and then looked away as Nephyrcai lead her toward the open front door.

  Twenty-Nine

  At last the sun made a belated appearance in the popcorn-dotted sky over Sharon Valley. The halted machine spurred into activity. Automobile engines roared to life, daily rituals grudgingly began. A small portion of the population moved completely unaware that the day was any different than the day before it or the thousands of days before that. They knew nothing of cold-blooded murder and kidnapping, and other acts of violence never dreamed of in Sharon Valley. In their case ignorance truly was bliss, and something of a wonder as well. The police had made a concerted effort to contain the panic by demanding silence from those who were not so blissfully ignorant; mass hysteria was a frightening possibility in a town that size, and one which was inclined to get bent out of shape over small, ridiculous rumors anyway.

  Something like this could turn Sharon Valley into a literal war zone. If the people didn’t start tearing each other apart, they would swarm to the police department like angry wasps, demanding miracles. But in spite of the department’s efforts, the majority was now aware that something was happening, and that whatever it was wasn’t good. It was practically impossible to keep a domestic argument a secret, much less something as vile and aberrant as murder. The switchboard at the police station was jammed with calls as one voice after another asked the harried desk clerks: “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?” They wanted answers and they wanted them NOW.

  Sharon Valley had become a virtual powder keg searching for a match.

  Carol watched through her living room drapes as the two patrol cars converged on the house next door, bright lights flashing impressively, boasting of unquestionable authority. The neighbors who beheld them experienced a pang of paranoia, a conditioned response due to the humiliating times those same lights had appeared in the rearview mirror.

  Three officers crept up to the Guenther house, pistols draws. Carol thought it was like watching a TV movie. Surely this wasn’t really happening right next door.

  The fourth uniformed cop was headed toward her house, his young face grim. The script called for him to knock on her door. Feeling a bit disoriented, Carol went to open it.

  He spoke crisply. “I’m Officer Tom Pate. You’re the lady that called, ma’am?”

  She nodded numbly. “Yes, I’m Carol Bremmers. Would you like to come in?” She stepped back and gestured for him to enter. After tossing a fraternal glance back at the officers still cautiously approaching the Guenther house, he slapped a hand over the firearm on his left hip and bellied into the room. He first noticed the sullen boy sitting on the couch sucking his thumb. The boy looked much too old to be doing that sort of thing. Pate grunted with disgust and turned around to face Carol.

  “Normally one of our detectives would be around to ask these questions, but they’ve pretty well got their hands full right now.” He pulled a small pad and pen from his shirt pocket and seemed to search Carol’s face for approval. She shrugged helplessly.

  “What do you want to know? Please, have a seat. I don’t think I can stand on my feet very long, ’specially not discussing something like this. Luke, why don’t you go to your bedroom, honey, while I talk with the officer.”

  Like a remote control robot, Luke got up and marched stiffly down the hallway, his thumb still planted firmly in his mouth. Carol took a deep breath and ordered herself not to cry. He would snap out of it. She just had to try to be understanding. He was one upset little boy.

  “You from Texas, are you?”

  Carol managed a weak smile. “How’d you guess?” They sat on opposite ends of the couch. Pate leaned forward, resting his elbows on the knees of his starched gray uniform slacks, his brow creased with professional concern. “Ma’am, when was the last time you saw Spiro Guenther?”

  The name chilled Carol’s blood. For a moment she couldn’t think. “I believe it was last Saturday. He was out back playin’ with my kids an’ that…dog. You know about that, don’t you?”

  Pate nodded briefly. “Yes ma’am. But our main concern at this point is who killed Mrs. Guenther. Her husband used to be on the force, so it’s possible some creep he busted finally got out of prison and came t
o get revenge, killed whoever he could find at that residence. But since the son is missing, it might well be him too. We never had any trouble with Spiro before—called him the Gentle Giant—but we knew he had, you know, brain problems, so you never know.”

  Carol’s throat tightened. “I know. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about him being over here. Do you…do you think he might have had something to do with my daughter’s disappearance?”

  Pate only tapped his pen against his pad, his lower lip sucked in. His refusal to answer stabbed Carol in the heart.

  “My God, you do, don’t you?” Her hand flew to her mouth, a barricade against enemy tears.

  “At this point, ma’am, I really can’t tell you much of anything,” Pate said truthfully, attempting to make his voice reassuring. “We’ve got, including your daughter, six teenagers reported missing right now, and one dead. Now if it was only one or two, maybe even three, we really wouldn’t think much of it. You know how kids are; they get pissed off at their parents, go hide out at a friend’s house for a while, assert their independence, teach their parents a lesson. They usually don’t stay gone more than a couple of days. But with this many, and on top of these two murders, we’re persuaded there’s something bad wrong in this town. Now maybe Spiro Guenther disappeared for the same reason they all did—supposing this is all connected somehow—and is innocent of any crime. But from the report called in by Sam Weaver, we gather Mrs. Guenther had been gone at least a couple of days, which lends credence to the theory that next door is where this whole thing got started. I know that’s not encouraging, but that’s all I can tell you, ma’am. We’re working on it—now that we can. That was one hell of a fog, wasn’t it? Heard it’s been that bad around here before, but not in my day. Jesus. Well, let’s get on with this and I’ll get out of your hair. Were you aware of any hostility between Spiro and Mrs. Guenther?”