Dark Rite

by David Wood

  “You all right?” the gangly fellow in the middle of the three asked.

  Grant forced a smile, tried to ignore his still hammering heart. “Yes, fine.”

  “Thought we heard you holler.”

  “Just tripped in the dark and banged my elbow. Wasn't watching where I was going.” He rubbed one elbow for emphasis, not even believing himself.

  “What's in there, anyhow?” The young man stepped toward the smokehouse, his grin not quite friendly.

  Grant made a dismissive gesture. “Nothing at all, just old burlap and some broken shelves. I had to break the padlock off to get in because I couldn't find the key. I was hoping there might be something interesting in there, but there's nothing.” He stopped, realizing he was rambling like a fool, and shrugged.

  “Mm hmm,” the man said.

  An uncomfortable silence hung in the air for a few seconds as they looked at each other. Finally, Grant said, “So, can I help you?”

  “Wondered if we might help you. I'm Jed, this is Cliff and Jesse.” He indicated the others with a quick gesture. “We're Pastor Edwin's boys. Mama said we ought to come on up here and lend you a hand,.”

  Grant chose not to mention it was a long trip to lend a hand unasked for. “I'm not really sure there's anything you can help me with. Thanks anyway.”

  “You don't need no stuff cleared out or anything moved? You can't haul much in that car of yours. We got us a truck back there.”

  Grant forced another smile. “Well, I do appreciate that. But I'm not ready to move anything yet. There's still a bunch of stuff to go through. When I am ready to start throwing things out, I could certainly use a truck and some extra hands though.”

  Jed nodded. “Well, you be sure and give us a holler then.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  Discomfort swelled in the air as nobody moved. Grant felt trapped in the door of the smokehouse, pinned by the strangely unfriendly gaze of the three men who claimed to be there to help him. He looked from one to the next and back again, desperately trying to think of something to say. He eventually gestured back down towards the house. “I should be...”

  Jed spoke over him immediately, like he had been waiting for Grant to speak, purely so he could interrupt. “Well, we'll be off then.”

  Grant nodded. “Right. Sure. Thanks again.”

  “Uh huh.”

  They didn't move, or even blink. Grant felt a kind of pressure building up that made him both incredibly uneasy and frustrated. Trembling set in, making his hands shudder slightly at his sides. Unspoken violence hung in the air between them like a storm cloud. He felt his fists closing of their own accord, and realized he had to say or do something. He opened his mouth to speak and Jed and his brothers instantly turned and ambled slowly off back down the path without another word. Grant stood, shivering, in the doorway of the smokehouse until he heard their truck rumble into life and fade off down the mountain.

  Chapter 5

  It was the same dream again. Cassie lay bound on a table, candlelight flickering across her naked body. Ghostly figures circled her, chanting in low tones. She never quite knew what they were saying. The words seemed to dangle there just beyond the edge of comprehension. Somewhere a drum pounded out a slow, deep, relentless beat.

  She thrashed about, trying to free herself, but the bonds held tight. Her breath came in gasps, drowning out the drone of the pale figures that drew ever closer. She wanted to pull away, but how did one do that when they were all around you?

  The figures never touched her in the dreams, but the words seemed to. It was as if the sounds had substance, and as the chanting reached a crescendo, she felt cold, dry hands caress her. She pressed her knees together and tried to pull her legs up as the invisible hands traced the curves of her flesh, moving ever downward, but her bonds held fast. A stray tear trickled down her cheek as one of the figures leaned in close and, for the first time, she recognized a face.

  She started awake, sweat pouring down her face and soaking her pillow. Her t-shirt clung tightly to her. She looked around her bedroom, taking in the cheap paneling, the secondhand lamp, and the dollar store kitsch, reassuring herself that, once again, it had been a dream. Out of habit, she checked her wrists for chafing, but they were fine.

  The chafing had only happened once, the first time she'd had the dream. That had been the one and only time she'd let Carl talk her into smoking with him. He'd assured her it was weed, but he must have added something to it because she almost immediately lost consciousness, suffered through the first of these awful nightmares, and awoke in her bed hours later. Carl said she'd gotten sick and he'd taken her home, but she'd been so freaked out she'd driven two hours to the E.R. in Kingsville to get a rape exam. The results had been negative. That had been a relief, but it still left the chafing around her wrists and ankles. He might not have raped her, but he sure as hell had drugged her, tied her up, and done something perverted. No other explanation made sense.

  After that, she'd tried to break things off with him, but he wouldn't listen. He kept coming around as if nothing had happened. Stranger still, everyone in town assured her that Carl was a good boy and just needed her to set him straight. Why the population of Wallen's Gap seemed to have a stake in their relationship was beyond her. Between Carl's persistence, or arrogance, and the not-so-gentle prodding of every adult in her life, she'd finally given in. Why couldn't she stand up for herself? That counselor lady had been no help at all. Life in Wallen's Gap was like living in a fish bowl. Everyone knew too much about her business.

  That wasn't entirely true. There was the new guy, Andrew Shipman's son. What was his name? Grant? He'd been looking at that awful book...

  And then her stomach lurched and she felt suddenly dizzy. Memories of the dream returned and she remembered the face she'd recognized.

  “I need to talk to Grant Shipman,” she whispered to herself. She glanced at the digital alarm clock beside her bed. It was only 11:30. Late, but not too awful late if she hurried. From the next room, Daddy's drunken snores told her he wouldn't wake before morning.

  She slipped into jeans, flip flops, and a hooded sweatshirt, grabbed her purse and keys, and tiptoed down the hall and out the front door. The cool night air calmed her nerves, but she felt vulnerable out in the dark. The waxing moon afforded enough light to see that Daddy had parked his truck on the street and didn’t block her in like he so often did when he tried to keep her home.

  She slipped into her beat up Honda Accord, which she always parked facing downhill for occasions such as this, put it in neutral, and coasted down the road. When she was well away from home, she fired up the engine, flipped on the headlights, and headed for the Shipman cabin.

  As she drove, she thought about what she would say to Grant. Hi there, I've been dreaming about your daddy stripping me naked and tying me to a table. That would go over well. It didn't matter. She'd tell him the truth and trust him to understand. Her thoughts returned to the book she'd seen him reading in the diner. She hadn't realized it then, but there was something about it that reminded her of the dreams. Maybe she would find the answer.

  The Shipman place lay at the end of a narrow dirt road that wound through a hollow at the foot of Clay Mountain. Last time she'd gone up here was two years ago with a boy from school, but she’d lost her nerve when his hands wandered too far. She hadn't been back since, but the way remained familiar. Things didn't change much in Wallen's Gap.

  She rounded a curve and had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting an old Ford F-250 that was blocking the road. The Honda skidded to a halt inches from the truck, sending up a cloud of dust.

  “What in the holy name of Jesus?” Who would park their truck sideways across the road? There couldn't be more than two feet on a side to spare. She looked up at the empty cab. Whoever it was had abandoned the vehicle. Where had they gone? The dark thoughts in her mind manufactured all kinds of deadly scenarios. Had something happened to them.

  Someone rapped on her wi
ndow and she shrieked in fright.

  “Sorry bout that, Cass. I didn't mean to scare you.”

  She turned to see Cliff Stallard leaning down to look through her window, his bulk straining the buttons of his faded chambray shirt. His grin said he was anything but sorry.

  “Why are you blocking the road?” She managed to put some heat into her words despite the fright he had given her.

  “Run out of gas. Saw I was on fumes, tried to turn around, and, wouldn't you know it? Died right here in the middle of the road.” He paused. “What are you doing up here?”

  “Oh. I needed to talk to Grant.”

  “Grant, is it? You already know him so good that you come see him in the middle of the night?” He leered, his tobacco-stained teeth gray in the dim light. “That ain't a good idea, Cass. What if people found out?”

  “No, it's not like that.” She was suddenly flustered. Even at midnight she couldn't get a modicum of privacy in this town.

  “Daddy's gonna be here in a few minutes to bring me some gas. I think it would be a good idea if you was gone when he gets here, him being the pastor and all.”

  Cassie looked again at the big truck blocking the way, and nodded. “I suppose you're right.” She turned the Honda around and headed back down the road, shame and impotent rage welling inside her. She wasn't going to give up. She had to find out the truth, and she believed Grant held the key.

  At the end of the dirt road, Clay Mountain silhouetted like a sleeping giant behind her, she paused. Where the dirt met the tarmac there was nothing but trees to left and right. But on the opposite side of the road, about fifty yards to the left, was a turnoff. One of those places for people to pull over and rest if they were too tired to continue on their journey or something.

  Cassie drove to it, pulled up close to the trees and parked in deep shadow. She killed her engine and lights and sat there, waiting. Why had Cliff been up at the Shipman cabin? And who runs out of gas like that, halfway through a three-point turn? Ten minutes passed, then twenty, and still no sign of Pastor Edwin and the gas he was supposed to be bringing. It shouldn't take this long. After thirty minutes, Cassie's nerves began to jangle like a cold hand creeping up her spine. She thought about walking through the woods to get up to the cabin, but that was a long way and she was likely to get lost.

  After forty five minutes her nerves got the better of her and she was about to start up the car and go home when headlights lit the distance, coming from Wallen's Gap. The lights blinded her as they swelled up, painting the trees in bight greens, before zooming straight past the turnoff to Grant’s cabin and barrelling on down the road. Cassie let out a breath she’d been unaware she was holding and fired up the battered Honda to head back home. Something very strange was happening and it scared her to think what it might be.

  Chapter 6

  Grant sat hunched over a steaming cup of coffee, scowling. It wasn't the coffee that had him in a foul mood. In fact, that was the only good thing about the day so far. But he was tired, annoyed and, if he was honest, more than a little scared. He'd endured a terrible night's sleep, his dreams plagued with screaming girls tied to tables, and strange rednecks with faces that kept morphing into twisted, demonic visages as he tried to escape from them along darkened corridors, his legs like lead. Several times during the night he had woken himself crying out, the sensation of pursuit still fresh in his adrenalized, sweating body.

  Eventually he dragged himself from bed and brewed coffee, resigned to the fact that he would get no more rest anyway. He had an appointment in Kingsville at ten a.m. to sign off on a bunch of legal paperwork and figured he might as well get an early start. It wasn't like there would be much in the way of traffic, but he had to somehow justify his rising close to dawn.

  Grant finished his coffee and chewed his way through toast that tasted like cardboard and sawdust on his tongue, then gathered the papers he needed. Two hours on his cell phone the afternoon before and several more hours through the evening had finally revealed that he needed to go to his father's attorney in Kingsville and then find a notary and the county courthouse, to file the numerous, frustrating forms. At least once this was done, he would have nothing left to worry about but his father's personal possessions and cabin. A part of him was tempted once again to just give up on it, keep driving once he was finished in Kingsville and have a real estate agent deal with selling the cabin and everything in it. Did he really need the hassle of all this garbage and these hillbillies? But with Suzanne gone, what did he have to go back to? An apartment as empty and pointless as this cabin.

  His eyes roved the spare furnishings and something like nostalgia drifted over him. He had not known his father well, but he felt there was a certain closure to be found here. He owed it to himself and his dad to make the right decisions with all this. And besides, he might turn up something valuable or personal that he could treasure. Some connection to the man. The train of thought led Grant back to the strange book in the smokehouse and he shook his head, clearing his thoughts quickly before he ruminated on that too much. It made him intensely uncomfortable to even picture it in his mind's eye. He had seen that picture move, heard the girl's scream and the chant and the drum.

  “The hell with this,” he muttered, forcing the thoughts from his mind. He grabbed his keys and left as the soft pink of dawn began to give way to the blue of a clear, bright day.

  As he climbed into his car the sensation of being watched washed over him, prickled up his spine and gently gripped the back of neck. Why did this keep happening? Half in the car door, he paused, looked around. Trees shifted in a soft breeze, birds sang. No person anywhere to be seen. He walked away from the car a few paces and looked deeper into the forest, down the driveway, up towards the smokehouse.

  “Anyone there?” he called out. “I'm about to leave for the day, so if you need to talk to me, now's the time!”

  He felt like a fool calling out to the woods. His heart hammered ridiculously fast, but no one answered. He didn't know what he would have done had anyone actually replied. Probably jump right out of his shoes. With an annoyed grunt, he climbed into the car and turned the key. The sound of another engine barked and rattled over his own the moment his fired. With a curse, he killed his again. The distant sound of a diesel motor drifted through the air. He opened the car door and hopped up on the hood, peering down where the drive wound through the forest. The diesel sound was almost gone, receding down the dirt road leading away from the cabin. He caught a glimpse of a truck snaking through the twisting mountain road before it vanished down the hollow.

  “What the fuck?” He slipped back into the car, restarted it and roared around in a wide U, spraying gravel up against the front of the cabin. With no regard for his shocks, he hammered down the rutted drive to where it met the paved road and skidded to a halt at the intersection. Nothing. No vehicle in either direction until the road curved away through the trees.

  Maybe he had been hearing things. Hardly any sleep, his nerves in tatters, perhaps it had only been his own engine echoing through the forest. Was that even possible? But he'd seen the truck! Regardless, there was nothing to see now. He turned towards Wallen's Gap and was soon cruising through the main street.

  Even this early there were people moving about, a smattering of cars gliding slowly by. He caught sight of a young girl, maybe sixteen, weirdly out of place in old-fashioned clothes, standing on a street corner as he passed. Her bonnet half-shaded her face, but her expression held such a deep and terrible sadness that Grant hit the brakes, twisting in his seat to look back. The girl was nowhere to be seen. He stared at the empty pavement where she had stood. She had definitely been standing right there. He ground his teeth. This fucking town.

  Impotently angry at just about everything, he revved the engine and drove on. A block further, a flash of jeans and a white shirt caught his eye as he passed the park. Was that Cassie or was he seeing things again? Rather than risk a wreck, he hung a right, went around the block, and cruis
ed by the park again. It was her. She sat alone on a swing, gently swaying back and forth, head down. Her hair obscured her face, but she seemed sullen, sad.

  Grant pulled up to the curb, wound down the window. “Hey, Cassie!”

  She looked up with a start, dragged one forearm across her face. “Oh, hi.” Her voice was tight.

  Grant frowned. Had she been crying? “Everything okay?”

  She nodded, forced a smile that was totally unconvincing. “Sure, everything's good.” She glanced left and right, almost as if she was afraid to be seen talking to him.

  “You're up bright and early,” he said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

  Her shoulders hitched and dropped.

  “You usually up so early?” He felt like a fool the moment the words left his mouth. What kind of lame ass thing was that to ask someone, especially a cute girl? As her face creased in a frown he hurried on. “I'm not. I hate early mornings as a rule. But I have to go to Kingsville today. Got to deal with some stuff about my dad.”

  Cassie's face slipped through a few quick changes of expression, surprise to thoughtfulness to something like hope. She nodded again. “Long drive,” she said.

  “Not as the crow flies but, with these winding roads, I figure a couple of hours, right?” There was suddenly something unsaid hanging in the air between them.

  “About that,” Cassie said. “You know, I...” She thought better of it, stopped abruptly.

  Grant's heart did a two-step with nerves and he took a leap. “You need anything in Kingsville? I'd be happy to pick something up for you.” Her eyebrows lifted, lips parted like she wanted to say something. “Or I could, you know, I could give you ride up there if you need it.” Was he being a complete douche? Who offered such a long ride to someone they hardly knew?