Lost Gods

by Brom

  “No,” Davy bawled, trying for his feet. He fell to his hands and knees, looking back over his shoulder terrified as he crawled, clawing at the grass, trying to get away. Chet’s long stride quickly closed the gap.

  “Stay away from me!” Davy shrieked. “Stay away!”

  Chet drove his boot into the demon’s rear, sending it facefirst into the dirt, stomped down hard on its back, pinning the monster, slicing and hacking until its head too rolled from its shoulders.

  The only sound then was Joshua sobbing.

  Chet looked up at the house, saw there were lights on upstairs. Lamia was there, he knew it, could feel her—knew she’d be waiting for him.

  Chet dug one of the revolvers out of the satchel and started up the hill.

  CHAPTER 94

  Chet walked around the station wagon, knife in one hand, one of the revolvers in the other. He took a quick peek through the windshield, saw that the car was packed and ready to go. He glanced up at the second-floor windows. Candlelight flickered through the slits in the curtains, but all was dark below. He crept up the walkway, realizing he had no real plan other than getting in, finding Trish and the baby, then doing whatever he had to, to get them out.

  He stopped before the steps, before the string of bells, wondering if he could cross in his current form, or if he would need the key? He slowly extended a foot over the bells. There came no sound and he met no resistance. Am I truly flesh?

  He crossed over the bells and up onto the porch, over to the door. It was unlocked. He pushed the door inward and stepped inside.

  The long hall was dark, the only light coming from the top of the stairs. Music drifted down—the crackling warble of an old phonograph—some bluesy tune.

  Chet started for the stairs, then stopped, noticing a dim glow escaping from beneath the bottom of a door at the end of the first-floor hall. He crept toward it, peering into each room as he passed, trying to discern the shapes and shadows within.

  Someone began singing along with the phonograph. It was Lamia, from upstairs, her song drifting down, echoing all through the house. Chet was struck by how beautiful her voice was and for a moment, just an instant, he felt a tug, a longing for her. “NO!” a voice inside him shouted. It was Gavin’s voice, like a slap to the head.

  He forced himself forward and thought he heard a sob, pressed his ear to the door—another sob. “Trish,” he gasped. He shoved the revolver back into the satchel and tried the knob. It was locked. The crying stopped. Chet slid the key from his pocket, touched it to the key plate, and there came a “click.”

  He opened the door, knife ready.

  Trish sat on the bed in her nightgown. She looked pale and wan, with dark circles under her eyes. Slowly her expression changed from one of fear and apprehension, to confusion, then disbelief. “Chet?” she said, barely able to utter the words.

  Chet nodded, putting away the key, moving quickly to her.

  They embraced.

  “Chet,” she whispered. “Oh, my God, Chet . . . how?” She pushed him back, searching his face, then grabbed his hand in hers. He saw her flinch. “Chet . . . you’re so cold.” She pressed her hand to his cheek. “God, what’s wrong?”

  “Another time. We have to get you out of here.” He pulled her up from the bed and started away. She didn’t follow.

  “I saw your body,” Trish said. “You were dead. Chet . . . I don’t understand.”

  “I died.” He looked deeply into her eyes. “But I came back . . . that’s all you need to know right now. I came back . . . for you . . . for our child.” He extended his hand.

  She stared at him a moment longer, then took his hand, following him from the room.

  They moved quickly down the hall, heading for the front door. Lamia could still be heard singing on the floor above. Trish grabbed him, pointed to a closed door. “She’s in here,” Trish whispered. “Our little girl.”

  The door wasn’t locked, and they walked in.

  Dried flowers hung in bundles along the wall and a spinning night lamp projected stars across the walls and ceilings. A crib stood in the corner, draped beneath a canopy of white lace. Trish ran to it, throwing back the lace and lifting up a child with dark curly hair.

  She brought it to Chet, smiled at him. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  He nodded. “She is.” Her eyes were open and looking at him. “She looks like her mother.”

  Trish beamed.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Amy. It was my grandma’s name.”

  Chet wanted to cradle her, to crush her to his chest, embrace both of them, to bask in their warmth, their love. This was his family, his flesh and blood, everything he’d fought so hard for. “We need to hurry,” Chet said, putting an arm about Trish and leading her from the room.

  The record still played, but Lamia was no longer singing. Chet switched the knife to his left hand and tugged one of the revolvers back out from the satchel with his right, as they moved quickly to the front door. They pushed out onto the porch, Chet keeping a close watch on the stairs behind them.

  Trish let out a sharp cry and Chet spun around.

  Lamia stood there on the porch, staring at them.

  CHAPTER 95

  Stay the hell away, damn you!” Trish cried and whirled away from Lamia, intent on the far side of the porch, saw the figure, the towering shadow behind Chet. “Look out!” she cried as Jerome grabbed Chet from behind, snatching him up off the ground in a crushing bear hug, pinning Chet’s arms to his side.

  The gun went off, blasting a hole into the porch. Chet let out a yell, more of a growl, thrashed and kicked, but the big gardener didn’t so much as flinch.

  “Run!” Chet shouted.

  Fingers, hard as roots, locked on Trish’s arm, twisting her around, prying the child from her grasp. Trish fought to hold on but was helpless against the might of this woman, this creature.

  The baby wailed.

  “Let her go!” Trish screamed, trying to pull her back.

  Lamia shoved Trish, sent her flying down the porch steps. Trish’s foot caught between the planks as she fell. Something popped in her knee and pain shot up her leg. She let out a cry, clutching her knee.

  Lamia cuddled the baby, touched her lip with one finger, cooing to her. “There, there now. You’re okay. Mother has you.”

  The baby stopped crying as she always did when Lamia held her.

  “Mama,” came a voice, then many voices, the children; hundreds of them were coming up the hill.

  Lamia walked up to Chet. “Chet, my lovely child. You left me. Why did you leave me?” Her silver eyes were pulsing.

  Chet’s face cinched into a snarl. “Fuck y—” He never finished, the anger, the rage, slipping away, replaced by . . . what? Trish wondered. Love? Longing? He looked like the children, the ones now gathering about the yard, staring at Lamia as one would their dearest love.

  “I missed you,” Lamia purred.

  Chet nodded absently, his eyes never leaving hers—a man in a dream.

  “Where’s the key, Chet? My lovely sweet child.” She traced a finger down his neck, his arm, slipping the revolver from his hand, tossing it out into the yard. She then took the knife, clutching it like a long-lost treasure. She nodded to Jerome and he sat Chet down, keeping one big hand on his shoulder.

  “Chet, the key?”

  Chet reached into his coat and pulled out a key tied to a leather cord, handed it to Lamia.

  “Mama,” the children called in their low drone. They were at the steps, pressing as near to the line of bells as they dared. One of them bumped the string; there came a light tinkle and they all fell back.

  The bells, Trish thought. The bells! She snatched up the strings. The bells rang and the children fell farther back, their hands clasped to their ears. Trish tugged at the tattered strands, pulling them apart. The old yarn tore easily, snapping between her fingers.

  “What are you doing?” Lamia shouted. “Stop that!”

  The str
ing fell apart, the barrier severed. The children’s faces lit up and they pressed forward, rushing up the steps and onto the porch, giggling, laughing as they swarmed about Lamia, hundreds of them, all trying to touch her, their wispy fingers trailing along her hair, dress, arms, mouth, and eyes.

  “Get away,” Lamia hissed. “All of you.” Her face twisted into something horrible, something cruel and wicked. “Away from me!”

  CHAPTER 96

  Chet blinked. For a moment he wasn’t sure who or where he was. He saw Trish on the steps and it came back to him in a flash. He spun, tearing free from Jerome’s grasp, dropping and rolling across the porch. Jerome lumbered after him but was no match for Chet’s speed. Chet shoved his hand into his satchel, found Gavin’s other big gun, yanked it out, and fired. The slug tore a massive hole in the gardener’s chest, sending him crashing backward over a chair. Chet was up and at the man, jabbing the revolver against the side of his head and firing again, blowing the top of Jerome’s head off.

  Chet turned the gun on Lamia, looking for a clear shot. She clutched the baby, glaring at him through the swarm of ghosts, then her eyes changed, turning into pools of affection, of tenderness and devotion, all inviting him in. “Chet, I love you.”

  “No,” Chet said, but the gun grew heavy, and his arm began to droop.

  More and more of the children swarmed around Lamia, creating a swirling shroud. She wavered and blinked, slashing at them with Senoy’s knife. And each time she did, each stroke of her arm, Chet saw her not as the mother of all his longings, but as something dark, something sinister—he saw the lilith, her pulsing silver eyes with black slits slicing down their middles.

  Someone was shouting. A woman. “Shoot her, Chet!”

  Chet knew that voice. “Trish,” he whispered, tearing his eyes from Lamia, and when he looked upon Trish, on this woman he’d been through so much with, had suffered so much for, he remembered what true love felt like.

  He raised the gun, stepped forward, and jammed it into Lamia’s chest. He pulled the trigger twice.

  The blast knocked Lamia into the wall. She shrieked, a horrible inhuman sound. Chet grabbed for his child as Amy began to slide from her grasp. The lilith’s eyes flashed, blazing white hot. She yanked the baby back, slashing at Chet with the knife. Chet jumped back, hit one of the chairs, tripped, and fell.

  Lamia spun away, stumbling into the house, clutching the baby to her chest. Chet raised the revolver and started to fire again, but didn’t, fearful he might hit Amy. He leapt up after Lamia, but she slammed the door shut before he could reach her. He grabbed the knob, found it locked, and began kicking the door. On the fourth kick the door flew open.

  Lamia was nowhere to be seen.

  Chet entered the dark house. There was a trail of blood along the floor, leading up the stairs. He followed, reloading the gun as he went.

  The children too, moved up the stairs, blowing past him like a light breeze. The blood led to a closed door at the far end of the hall, but he didn’t need the blood to tell him where Lamia was; the children flowed through the closed door, physical barriers meaning nothing to them.

  He heard a wail, then a baby’s cry. He grabbed the knob, twisted, putting his shoulder into the door. The door wasn’t locked and flew inward. Chet stumbled to a halt.

  The only light in the room came from the hall, but it was enough to see that Lamia was dead, her eyes now black, unmoving, staring up at the ceiling. She lay in the center of a large pool of blood, the knife on the floor next to her and the key clutched to her chest. The baby, his child, sat cradled in the crook of Lamia’s arm, wailing.

  He could see where Lamia had hastily tried to draw a circle around her and the baby with her own blood. There were even a few arcane symbols scribbled along the edges. He shuddered to think how close she must’ve come to creating a door, to escaping to who knew where with the child, the key, and the knife.

  Amy’s cries grew and Chet stepped into the circle, keeping the gun on Lamia as he plucked up his child. He could see the massive hole the slugs had made in Lamia’s chest, felt sure she was gone, but Chet had spent too much time in purgatory to be satisfied with that. He slid the blood-soaked key from her dead fingers, shoved it back in his pocket, then picked up the knife and deftly cut Lamia’s head from her neck, her hands from her wrist, her feet from her legs.

  He watched her for another minute before putting the gun and knife away, then stood, clutching the baby close to his chest, and left the room, heading back downstairs.

  Trish had managed to pull herself to the door and when she saw Chet and the baby she let out a cry, began to weep. Chet knelt down next to her, handing her their child. She cradled it to her breast, clutching it as though she would never let it go again. After a minute of just hugging the child, she reached out to Chet, pulled him close, and they held each other, the baby between them. A feeling of utter fulfillment swept over him, of happiness beyond anything he’d ever known, and he clung to it, wanting to be sure to carry it with him always. Always, he thought.

  Chet noticed a few of the children circling them, watching them with curious faces as though they too wished to join them. Chet wondered if these poor famished souls had ever known what it is to have a family. His own pale hand caught his eye, distracting him. I’m flesh, he thought. He’d not been able to see past all the obstacles, the key, Senoy, Lamia, to even consider what might happen if he made it this far. Can I leave this place? Go with them? What would happen?

  More and more children surrounded them, all staring at Trish, a few of the bolder ones trailing their ghostly hands along her shoulders.

  “Mama,” one of them called, and the others began to pick it up. “Mama,” they said, a chorus of moans, all looking at Trish. For a moment, Chet thought they must be mistaking Trish as their mother, or possibly wanting her to be their mother, then a chill swept him. Oh, Christ, he thought, they aren’t reaching for Trish.

  Trish stared at Chet in horror, then down upon the baby as she slowly lowered her to her lap. The little girl looked up at them with pulsing silver eyes.

  Trish shook her head. “No,” she uttered weakly.

  Chet slipped the knife from the satchel. “Set her down,” he whispered.

  Trish looked at the blade. “Chet? What—”

  “Trish, put her down. Now.”

  “No.”

  “That’s not Amy,” Chet said. “Trish, listen to me.”

  The child’s eyes found the knife and a long hiss escaped her throat.

  Chet grabbed for her.

  She kicked out from Trish’s arms, tumbling onto the porch. She rolled onto all fours and scrambled away, moving quicker than should’ve been possible.

  Chet was up and after her, tugging out the pistol.

  “No!” Trish screamed. “NO!”

  The infant sprang down the stairs, skittering along crablike on her hands and feet, her limbs twisting and bending in impossible ways. She glared at Chet with bulging, pulsing eyes, her lips peeled back into a toothless snarl, hissing like some misshapen spider from Chet’s darkest nightmare.

  Chet fired just as the baby reached the end of the walkway. The infant darted into the bushes leaving Chet unsure if he’d hit her or not.

  “STOP!” Trish cried, the angst in her voice cutting Chet to the bone. He didn’t slow down, chasing the baby into the bushes. He found no trace of her, but quickly realized he need not worry about losing her. The children flew past him, all following an infant toward the gravestones. Chet saw that she was crawling, that he’d hit her after all.

  He ran up behind her.

  She stopped, turned, looking up at him with those pulsing silver eyes. “Chet, I love y—”

  Chet fired, the slug catching her in the chest, knocking her to the grass, almost tearing her in half. He let out a moan, as though it had been him that was hit, then walked up, his teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached. He held up the knife.

  Her face softened, her limbs returned to form, and she r
eached for him with her tiny hands. “Daddy,” she said, her voice now that of a little girl. “Please don’t hurt me, Daddy.”

  He clutched the knife tighter and tighter, thought of Gavin, of a man forced to shoot his own two boys, could think of no torture worse. Gavin’s voice came to him. “It’s not your daughter. Finish her. Do it now. Or hell will have no end for you.”

  “God!” Chet cried, his hands shaking. “Oh, God.” He dropped to one knee and slashed the blade across the child’s neck, severing her head from her body.

  Lamia’s eyes glared at him blazing with hatred, then slowly fell shut.

  Chet turned away and began to sob.

  CHAPTER 97

  Trish sat on the porch, watching as Chet shuffled along the walkway and up the steps. He walked over and knelt down beside her.

  She searched his face for some sign of a miracle, some trace of hope, but found only grief and pain. She turned from him, began to sob again, felt his hand on her arm and pulled away. “Don’t,” she whispered.

  He let go, collapsing against the wall. “I’m sorry, Trish. So sorry.”

  She hardly heard him.

  She wasn’t sure how long they sat there, him staring at the moon, her at the blood slowly drying on her hands, but when he called her name again, she realized that the moon was gone, that she could see a hint of daybreak on the horizon.

  “We need to get you away from here,” he said. “I’m not sure how long I have.”

  When she didn’t answer, didn’t do anything more than stare blankly at the marsh, Chet put an arm under hers and lifted her up onto her good leg.

  Trish had long since given up on the idea that this might all be a dream, a nightmare that she would awake from, but of late she’d begun to hope maybe she was insane, all of this some hallucination. “This isn’t real, is it? I mean . . . it can’t be.”

  “I don’t know what’s real anymore,” Chet said, his face grim. He carried her down the steps, down the walkway to the station wagon, helping her into the passenger seat. He got the engine going and they drove away from the house.