The Long Way Home

by Richard Chizmar

  The muted pealing of a bell came from the school.

  The dogs and cats had been bad enough. Especially Sophie. Poor Sophie. He missed her so much.

  You’re going insane.

  Alex kept his eyes on the double doors at the school’s entrance.

  Stop it now while you still can. Before you’re a gibbering maniac.

  The doors opened and children poured out of the building, down the broad steps.

  Before you become a killer.

  The children hurried down the path toward the sidewalk.

  Go! Now! Run!

  With a cry of panic lodged in his throat, Alex turned and ran. He braced himself for an explosion of the creature’s anger inside his head, but it didn’t come. Maybe he was too far away. Maybe the connection didn’t extend very far, maybe not even beyond the studio.

  The Black Diamond was just a few blocks over. He wondered if Marcus would be there at such an early hour.

  Alex ran faster as it began to rain.

  ****

  He entered the Black Diamond, soaking wet, as Marcus wiped down the bar. When Marcus looked up and saw Alex hurrying toward him, out of breath, water dripping from his hair and down his face, he stopped wiping and said, “What the hell happened to you?”

  Alex bumped into the bar and nearly knocked over one of the stools as he panted for breath.

  “Calm down, take a seat,” Marcus said.

  He perched himself unsteadily on a stool with both arms resting on the bar. Suddenly overcome with emotion, he struggled not to cry.

  “You’re not gonna believe me, Marcus,” he said. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

  “Let me get you a drink.”

  He put a glass of bourbon in front of Alex, who picked it up with a trembling hand and gulped it down. He thumped the glass onto the bar and stared at it a moment, thinking. Marcus would never believe what he had to say. Alex needed to show it to him.

  “You have to come with me,” he said.

  “What? Where?”

  “You’ve got to come to my place. I’ll show you. If I tell you, you’re gonna think I’ve lost my mind.”

  “I just got here and started my shift,” Marcus said. “I can’t take off now.”

  “Look, you’ve got to, because…because…”

  His shoulders began shaking with sobs before he could get it under control and he lowered his head.

  “Jesus, Alex, what’s going on?”

  He took a deep, steadying breath and lifted his head, looked at Marcus. “You’re the closest thing I’ve got to a real friend in this town. You’ve got to help me. And to do that, you’ve got to come to the studio and see what…what I’ve done.”

  Marcus nodded slowly. “Okay…yeah…look, I’ll ask Jerry to come out of the office and work the bar for an hour and we’ll take off. Okay?”

  Alex nodded and wiped the tears from his face.

  ****

  Alex did not speak on the way to his place because he knew how crazy everything would sound. Marcus had an umbrella, but Alex hardly noticed the rain as he walked, then jogged, then walked again, while Marcus struggled to keep up.

  Once inside, he took Marcus to the kitchen, where Alex removed his dripping coat and hung it on the back of a chair. Marcus did the same, and they sat at the table to catch their breath from the walk.

  “Earlier in the week, I heard a sound in the middle of the night,” Alex said. “At first, I thought it was the cat. But it turned out to be a huge block of granite in my studio. It wasn’t there when I’d gone to bed, but it was there in the middle of the night all of a sudden, out of nowhere.”

  “Someone brought a block of granite — ”

  “Not just a block. It’s at least ten feet high. It’s huge.”

  “Then it must weigh — but where did it come from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re saying someone brought it into your studio and just left it there? For no reason? That’s crazy.”

  “See what I mean? Well, I went to work on it. The thing I — the piece that I did, it’s…it’s in there now. That’s what I want to show you.”

  “Okay. Then why are we sitting in the kitchen?”

  Alex leaned toward him and whispered, “Because I’m afraid of it.”

  Marcus looked at him silently for a moment, his face tense with concern. Then he said, “If I go in there with you, will you promise me something?”

  “What?”

  “When we’re done in there, if I think you need to get some help — I’m just saying, you know, if I think you need to see a doctor, something like that — you’ll do it. Deal?”

  Alex was surprised by the flush of embarrassment he felt in his face as he nodded. “Yeah, I know, like I said, you’d think I was crazy if I told you everything first.” He stood. “Let me show you.”

  They went down the hall to the closed door of the studio. As he unlocked it, Alex said, “One thing, and it’s very important.” He turned to look over his shoulder at Marcus. “If I say run, you run. Understand? You just get the hell out of here as fast as you can. Do you hear me?”

  Keeping his face neutral, Marcus nodded.

  Once in the studio, Alex heard Marcus gasp when he saw it.

  The enormous figure stood in the original position in which Alex had carved it, but now the front of the pale creature was drenched in a crimson apron of blood that cascaded down from the chin and over the front of the body, dribbling in streams down the neck and throat, covering the belly and thighs. The tremendous hands were splashed with it, as was the base in which the creature’s feet were still trapped.

  “Jesus Christ, Alex, what have you done?”

  “I told you, I went to work on the granite and—”

  “No, the blood, all this blood.”

  “Oh, yeah. That. That’s from the animals.”

  Marcus turned to him. “Animals?”

  “Cats, small dogs. That’s what I was afraid to tell you. See, this thing—”

  Marcus squinted at him as if Alex suddenly had gone out of focus. “You’ve been sacrificing animals to this—”

  “No, no, no. I fed them to him. I mean, he made me. He sent me out to get them. He…I don’t know how…he gets inside my head and makes me…he makes me do things.”

  No longer squinting, Marcus looked hard at Alex as he slowly took a step backward, then another. “You’re serious about this, Alex?”

  “Yes! I’m telling you, it had me hunting for children earlier today. It wanted me to bring it a child. But I went to you instead. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Taking another step back, Marcus said, “You have to get help, Alex. Okay? You need to see somebody right away. You promised me you would, right?”

  “Marcus, you’ve got to believe me. This thing, it’s, I don’t know, it’s a—”

  “Listen to me, Alex. This thing?” He reached up and placed a hand on the creature’s stone arm. “It’s a statue. That’s all. It can’t—”

  Marcus screamed as he was lifted off the floor, but by then, it was too late. The creature had wrapped its enormous paw around Marcus’s neck and lifted him to its widening mouth. It bit into Marcus’s throat and neck as if it were biting into a ripe apple.

  Alex whimpered as Marcus’s legs kicked and jittered. He slapped his hands over his eyes, but still heard the jagged, gargling screams, so he stuffed his hands over his ears and clenched his eyes shut. His head filled with the sound of his own sobs.

  ****

  Later, once the studio was silent except for the slow, gentle dripping of blood from the statue, Alex picked up his hammer and chisel. He did not want to think about what he was doing because he was afraid he would think himself out of doing it, and he had to do it.

  He imagined living the rest of his life the
way he had lived the last few days and knew that he would rather die. If he had the courage to end it himself, he would, but he did not believe himself capable of it. Looking at the bloody claws at the end of his sculpture’s muscular, scaly arms, he suspected it would not be a problem for the creature.

  The studio reeked of blood and human waste, and Alex used his foot to nudge aside the remaining pieces of his friend, Marcus. They left gory smears on the floor. He crouched before the statue and placed the tip of the chisel against the granite base.

  “You’re finishing me.” It was Alex’s own voice inside his head, but they were the creature’s words.

  “Yes,” he said out loud.

  “You’re freeing me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “No. Yes. I am. Of course I am. But I can’t live like this.”

  The room began to spin in a blur all around him, but his eyes remained focused on the rock. The sounds of the hammer striking the chisel and the chisel cutting into the stone filled his head until they were so loud they would have drowned out the creature if it had spoken. But it remained silent as Alex worked, waiting patiently for its freedom. His focus became so intense that everything rushed together in the center of his field of vision and he was swallowed by blackness.

  ****

  He rose slowly from the blackness, then emerged like a corpse bobbing to the surface of a still lake. Before opening his eyes, he wondered if he was still alive.

  He was, once again, lying face-down on the cold floor of his studio, muscles aching. It was colder than usual, bitingly cold. Pushing himself slowly to his knees, he wondered why he was still alive and suspected he had lost consciousness before finishing the job. He stood, swayed dizzily for a bit, then turned around.

  The statue was gone.

  He quickly looked all around the studio and his eyes fell on the great hole in the wall that had once been the last window in the row, the one with the blinds up. It was gone, as was most of the window next to it, and cold night air filled the studio.

  The creature had let him live and had, like some kind of phantom, disappeared into the night.

  But it might come back.

  That thought quickly cleared up the grogginess in his head and he left the studio, hurried down the hall, went into his bedroom, and flipped on the light. He pulled a large suitcase from the closet, flopped it onto the bed, and opened it. He quickly rummaged through his drawers and closet, stuffing clothes into the suitcase.

  When it was full, he forced the suitcase closed, took all the money from his wall safe, grabbed his coat in the kitchen on the way out, and left.

  Outside, he walked. He had no idea where he was going, only that he was going away. If it came back, he would not be there.

  What if it doesn’t come back?

  Not my problem.

  He picked up his pace.

  What if it stays out there? You know what it’s doing.

  Not my problem.

  You know it’s hurting people. Killing them. Shedding their blood. Bathing in it.

  At the next corner, he stopped and watched for a cab, started waving at the first one he saw. He focused on the three words, like a mantra.

  Not my problem. Not my problem. Not my problem.

  (written with Ray Garton)

  THE CUSTER FILES

  The handwritten letters, journal entries, and notes excerpted below are from the personal collection of esteemed historian Ronald Bakewell. The papers were discovered after Bakewell’s recent death and assembled into the narrative that follows by Bakewell’s longtime associate, Byron McClernan. They have not been made available to the public until now. In an effort to provide clarity, minor editing has been done to the language, and spelling and punctuation errors have been corrected.

  ****

  (Personal letter—Private George E. Adams, Seventh Cavalry—June 21, 1876)

  Dear Father and Mother,

  I miss you both desperately but believe you would be very proud of your youngest son. I have learned so much during my time here and the men I ride with are of the finest caliber. I am proud to serve by their side and pray I will distinguish myself in battle, as so many others in the Seventh have done before me. Lieutenant Colonel Custer is a larger than life figure. He reminds me of Grandpa Frank at times, with his booming voice and ability to make the tallest of tales seem believable. The men admire and fear him in equal measure. Some believe him to be aloof, even cruel, but I find him charming and confident, and would follow him anywhere…

  ****

  (Journal entry—Corporal John J. Callahan, Seventh Cavalry—June 21, 1876)

  …and because of this strategy it has been long days of riding and short nights of rest. It is no wonder the men are so tired. Still, I have heard few complaints and witnessed even fewer moments of weakness amongst the men. We have been trained well and know the routine. I have little doubt the campaign will be successful.

  Oh how I wish you were here with me, my darling Wanda, sitting beside me on this dark prairie, staring up at the magnificent night sky, counting the stars and playing our wishing game. My first wish upon a star tonight would be for our precious baby Genevieve to grow up to find happiness and good health. My second would be for you and me to build that cabin by the lake we always dreamed of, to grow old together, and watch our grandchildren play at our feet. One day, soon, I promise you…

  ****

  (Personal letter—Private George Eiseman, Seventh Cavalry—June 22, 1876)

  I hate it. The men are filthy. Fighting, cursing, farting, burping, shitting, pissing. They are no better than the horses that carry them. The officers offer meager improvement, bullies and barbarians to a man. The days are endless, the mess tastes like buffalo droppings, and there is not a single aspect of this dreadful land I can give praise to. I hate it here.

  ****

  (Journal entry—Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer, Seventh Cavalry June 23, 1876)

  …therefore I can only describe it as a feeling of being set free after a long imprisonment. Imagine an eagle taking flight for the first time after enduring a lengthy injury to one of its wings, a grizzly bear healed of its hindquarter wound and returning to the fast hunt. That is akin to what being on campaign feels like for me. I was born to lead men in the field. I was born to chase glory. I sit here on my cot inside my tent, writing by the light of a single lantern, and I am at absolute peace with but one corner of my heart left incomplete. I will return to your arms soon, my dearest Libbie, and we shall once again sit upon the porch at Fort Lincoln, sip your splendid tea, and doze to the setting sun. Sleep now, as shall I. More tomorrow, my Rosebud.

  ****

  (Journal entry—Corporal John Foley, Seventh Cavalry—June 23, 1876)

  I believe the men feel it, feel something, even if the officers continue to turn a blind eye. First, there was the missing food supplies. The cooking staff was publically scolded for being careless but the matter was never investigated further. Unusual to say the least. Reno is the most detail-oriented officer I have ever served under. Then there was the captured scout from two nights ago. Reno insisted that he was Lakota, while Tom Custer and Benteen argued that he was Cheyenne. Well, then why did my old friend Sergeant Perkins tell me confidentially that the scout was of neither tribe? That he was some new breed he had never seen before. Wild, feral, with the strangest markings on his pony Perkins had ever seen. Eyes the color of blackest night. Skin paler than many white men. And then there are the rumors of how the scout had bitten two men during his capture. Both soldiers now quarantined in Sick Hall. Finally, there is the matter of so many other men falling ill. Why are there so many? And why all the secrecy surrounding their illnesses? I am not a man of superstition, but it is beginning to feel as though this campaign has been cursed.

  ****

  (Personal l
etter—Captain Thomas Custer, Seventh Cavalry—June 23, 1876)

  …but I imagine we will just have to wait and see. Terry and Gibbon are out there if we need them. The same should be said of Crook, but I believe he would be a tad slow in coming to our aid, even if summoned. (That was a joke. I think. I hope.)

  George is clear-headed and affable thus far into the march, if a bit more subdued than his usual nature. One of the Crow scouts asked me yesterday, a look of sincere concern etched across his brown face, why George had cut his long yellow hair. He was convinced that it was bad luck for him to have done so before battle. I could only chuckle when brother Boston chimed in and responded with that crooked grin of his, “Come now, haven’t you ever heard of ‘Custer Luck’? The only kind of luck George has is of the good variety. The man was practically born with a horse shoe up his rear end.”

  I will write again, old friend, when time and temperament allow. In the meantime, light a cigar for me next time you sit down at the chessboard. Tell Charlie I said to break a leg.

  Yours truly,

  Tom Custer

  ****

  (Personal letter—Sergeant Robert H. Hughes, Seventh Cavalry—June 23, 1876)

  Something is wrong here. It began as an underlying feeling of unease—the past few nights have been too quiet; where have the night creatures gone? Even the crickets and frogs remain silent—but it has since grown into something else entirely. I have the most dreadful feeling.

  ****

  (Journal entry—Corporal George H. King, Seventh Cavalry—June 24, 1876)

  I was on the way back from my morning smoke when I overheard Curley and Bloody Knife talking to some of the officers. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I listened to them report, “Big camp. Many lodges, many fires burning. Too many braves to count.” I pulled Bloody Knife aside later in the day and asked for more details. His eyes told me everything else I needed to hear. “Must wait for more men. Bigger guns. Yellow Hair is brave but will not listen.” Bloody Knife’s voice was solemn, his eyes anxious. I have never seen him act in such a manner. He told me he is praying to the Great Spirit for a vision to be sent to Custer in his sleep. I’m not holding my breath. I’m not sure the bastard ever sleeps.