by Ronald Kelly
Boyd looked into the man’s eyes and saw that he spoke the truth. Boyd felt the same way. Caleb Vanleer had been more of a father to him than Bud Andrews ever had. He forced a smile. “Don’t worry about it, Caleb,” he said “I’ll handle it myself.”
Caleb watched as the carpenter walked across the parking lot. He saw no sign of Boyd’s pickup truck anywhere and recalled what he had told him about leaving it on top of Craven’s Mountain. His heart went out to the man. His family was missing, and apparently, he was suffering some strange delusions about what had happened to them. Caleb just wished he could have been more help to him.
The mountain man climbed into his Blazer and sat there for a long moment. Considering Boyd’s wild story, he couldn’t help but think of his own encounter with the girl in the mountain clearing. Or rather, what he had imagined had been there. Caleb had just about convinced himself that he hadn’t seen the girl at all; that it had been a trick of the moonlight or, more likely, the half pint of moonshine he had drunk earlier that night. The liquor had never affected him like that before, but then he wasn’t getting any younger, either. Perhaps he simply couldn’t handle the stuff like he used to.
Caleb put the thought of the pretty blonde in the letterman jacket out of his mind and started the four-wheel-drive. He glanced back at Boyd one more time, shook his head, then pulled out onto the main stretch and headed east toward Eagle Point.
PART THREE
Craven’s Mountain
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sarah Milford sat up in the dark and listened. At first, she thought maybe she had been dreaming. But after a moment, the distant rapping came again, from somewhere downstairs. Someone was knocking on the front door.
Her husband Frank heard it, too. He groaned and rolled over. “What’s that?” he asked sleepily.
“Someone’s at the door,” she said. Sarah looked over at the digital alarm clock and saw 2:27 in bright red numbers. “You stay put,” she said, throwing back the bedcovers and stepping into her house shoes. “I’ll get it.”
Frank mumbled something unintelligible and drifted back to sleep.
Sarah fumbled along the edge of the nightstand until the found her glasses. After putting them on she made her way across the dark room to the hall. She waited until they had the bedroom door closed behind her before she turned on the hall light. There was no need to get Frank up. He rose at five A.M. and worked hard at the lumberyard all day. He needed his rest.
Sarah was a third-grade teacher at Green Hollow Elementary School and also got up early, but she knew she couldn’t go back to sleep until she found out who was downstairs. Sarah was like that. She was the type who couldn’t stand to let a telephone ring without answering it, and she was the same way with doors. She didn’t know who would be knocking well after two in the morning, but it was necessary that she find out. For all she knew, it might be something important. A neighbor in trouble, perhaps.
When she reached the foot of the stairs, she began to wonder if maybe she shouldn’t have roused her husband, after all. Sarah thought of all the trouble that had been happening around town—the disappearances and violent deaths—and a jolt of fear suddenly ran through her. She paused in the foyer and waited for the knock to come again. When it did, she relaxed a little. It was a soft, almost timid knock.
Even then, Sarah approached the front door with caution. “Who is it?” she called out, loud enough for her voice to carry through the door of heavy oak, but quiet enough to be unheard by Frank upstairs.
At first, no one said anything. Then a tiny, frightened voice came from the other side. “It’s me, Mrs. Milford,” said the voice of a young girl. “It’s Bessie Andrews.”
Sarah hesitated no longer. She launched herself at the door, unlocking the deadbolt and turning the knob. When she opened the door, she found Bessie on the front porch. The little red-haired girl stood there looking pale and exhausted. She was wearing cords and a pink sweater, as well as a white-and-orange UT jacket that looked three or four sizes too big for her. Sarah recognized the coat immediately. Bessie’s older brother, Paul, had worn it to school during most of the previous winter and fall.
“Bessie!” Sarah cried. She sank to her knees and pulled the seven-year-old to her in a tight embrace. “Good Lord, girl, we’ve been worried sick about you!” Sarah’s relief at seeing the girl standing there, alive and apparently unharmed, wasn’t simply that of a concerned teacher. Sarah had been a Craven before she had married Frank Milford, and Joan Andrews was a second cousin on her father’s side of the family.
“Where have you been, Bessie?” she asked. Sarah felt the girl tremble in her arms. She pulled away and saw fear in the child’s eyes. “Where are your mama and brother?”
Bessie didn’t answer. She stared at the woman for a moment. Then she spoke, her voice almost a whisper. “May I come in, Mrs. Milford?” she asked. “It’s kind of cold out here.”
Sarah couldn’t believe her manners. “Why, of course, you can, honey! Let’s go in the living room, where it’s nice and warm.” She rose to her feet and took the girl’s hand. She closed the door behind them and ushered the child into the room to the right of the foyer. Soon, Bessie was sitting on a mauve sofa next to the fireplace.
The teacher knelt next to the girl and ran a hand through her coppery hair. She was disturbed by that awful look of fright in Bessie’s eyes. And there was something else there as well. Something downright puzzling. Bessie lowered her eyes slightly, staring at her muddy sneakers. Sarah had been a teacher long enough to recognize that gesture at once. It was guilt, pure and simple. But what would Bessie possibly have to feel guilty about? The child had been missing for two days now.
“What’s wrong, Bessie?” she asked. “And what’s happened to your mother and Paul? Please tell me.”
Tears began to blossom in the seven-year-old’s eyes. “Paul is… somewhere else.” She swallowed hard and continued. “Mama… well, Mama, she’s…”
“She’s what, Bessie?” urged Sarah softly. Her heart began to pound. She felt as if she already knew the answer.
“She’s dead, Mrs. Milford,” said Bessie. “Mama’s dead.”
The teacher raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, good heavens, no.”
She hugged the child again, then stood. “Don’t worry, Bessie,” she told the little girl. “You’re safe here. I promise. Now, I’m going to call the police and let them know you’re here and that you’re all right. Then I’ll go upstairs and get Mr. Milford. He’ll build a fire and I’ll make you some hot chocolate. That ought to warm you up.”
Bessie continued to stare at her shoes almost shamefully. “Yes, ma’am,” she said quietly.
Sarah crossed to the telephone. She was raising the receiver to her ear and about to dial the Green Hollow police department when something strange happened, something she had difficulty comprehending at first.
Bessie Andrews reached to the side pocket of her oversized jacket and it was then that Sarah Milford saw that there was something in there, something large and alive. She could see it shifting restlessly beneath the cloth, eager to be released. Bessie unsnapped the flap, and abruptly, a long, dark animal shot from the folds of the pocket. It leapt upon the girl’s knee, then hopped down into the center of the living room floor.
Sarah couldn’t help but scream, the phone slipping from her hand as she backed toward the bookcase that stood behind her. It was a weasel—a long, black weasel with tiny red eyes. The creature stood there and stared at her. Then it opened its mouth and grinned at her. Grinned at her with tiny white teeth as sharp as sewing needles.
“Frank!” she yelled out shrilly. “Frank, come quick! And bring your gun!”
She faintly heard the thud of Frank jumping out of bed upstairs, awakened by her desperate cry. Sarah looked at the weasel and was stricken by how very red and shiny its eyes were. They seemed to almost expand… to take up her entire field of vision. She felt dizzy and disoriented for a moment, vaguely aware of a mist swirli
ng around those horrible red eyes. Then the eyes seemed to recede a bit and Sarah no longer found a wild animal standing in the middle of her living room carpet. Instead, it was a man. A tall, gray-haired man with a thick mustache and stern, steel-blue eyes.
The man smiled at her the same way that the shoat had. “Do you know who I am, Sarah Craven?” he asked, using her maiden name.
“No,” said the teacher softly, backing away.
“No, you do not know me?” he asked. “Or, no, you can’t accept my being here?”
Sarah said nothing. She recognized the man. She had seen the family photographs of her great-grandfather, or at least, the ones Elizabeth Craven hadn’t managed to destroy. It was him. It was Josiah Craven. He was standing before her in the flesh. But even then she couldn’t accept it. She refused to believe it.
A pounding of footsteps sounded down the stairs, and a moment later Frank entered the living room, dressed in his striped pajamas and carrying a Winchester rifle. He shot a glance at his wife, who stood next to the bookcase, her face pale and her eyes wide. Then he looked at the tall man in the black broadcloth suit. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, directing the barrel at the intruder.
“I am kin,” he said, turning toward Frank. “Of your wife, that is.” His smile faded and he scowled at the man with dark contempt.
“Shoot him!” Sarah screamed. “Shoot him, Frank! He isn’t real!”
Frank couldn’t understand what his wife meant, but he didn’t wait to figure it out. The tall, gray-haired man took a step toward him and he lifted the stock of the Winchester to his shoulder. He squeezed the trigger and the gun went off with a loud crack.
A black hole opened in the white shirt just above the top of the old man’s black vest, but that was all. Frank waited for blood, but none came.
The man continued to walk toward him. He grinned and began to laugh.
Frank was working the Winchester’s lever, jacking another .30-caliber cartridge into the breech, when the old man reached out and wrenched the rifle from his hands with no effort at all. The preacherman stared down at the weapon, then back at its owner. “You fool,” he said. “You poor, ignorant fool.”
Then, like the strike of a snake, Grandpappy Craven lashed out with the rifle. Its walnut stock struck Frank Milford across the crown of his head with such force that it splintered the wood. It also caved in the man’s skull as if it were as brittle as an eggshell. Sarah knew that her husband was dead before he even hit the floor.
Grandpappy flung the rest of the rifle away and turned back to the one he had come to see. “Ah, Sarah,” he said softly. “I see the Craven in your face… in your eyes, in the color of your hair.”
Sarah Milford pulled her stunned eyes from her dead husband and stared at the man before her. “What do you want from me?” she asked hoarsely.
“Your love,” he told her. “Your eternal love and devotion, that is all.”
Grandpappy took a step toward the woman, then was aware of the other one present in the room. He turned toward Bessie Andrews, who sat on the sofa crying, her eyes glued to the motionless form of Frank on the living room floor. He walked over and ran a long-fingered hand through her red hair. “You did well tonight, young lady,” he said. “Now, you go on outside to your mother and let Grandpappy do his work.”
For a moment, Bessie couldn’t move. She could only sit there and stare at the man Grandpappy had killed. The man she had helped him to kill. Then, suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to be away from that room. She looked up at Grandpappy and saw the way he stared at Sarah Milford. Bessie saw the hungry look in his eyes and it frightened her. She left the couch and walked toward the foyer. She closed her eyes as she stepped over Frank’s body, then ran for the front door.
A second later, she was outside and jumping off the front porch of the Milford house. She saw her mother standing on the sidewalk, her hands outstretched.
“Come here, Bessie,” she whispered. “Come to me, darling.”
Bessie was frightened of her mother—of what she had become— but she was even more scared of Grandpappy Craven. Obediently, she went to her mother. They stood there together and stared at the house. “What’s he gonna do to Mrs. Milford, Mama?” the girl asked.
“He’s going to do to her what he did to me, honey,” Joan explained, caressing her daughter’s tear-stained face. “He’s going to make her a Craven again.”
Bessie shivered at her mother’s touch. She wanted to close her eyes to what was happening inside the Milford house, but she couldn’t. She stared at the living room’s big bay window and past the curtains saw the form of Sarah silhouetted against the inner light. There was no other shadow, but Bessie knew Grandpappy was there nonetheless. She watched as Sarah threw back her head, exposing her throat. Then she tensed up, all of her muscles growing rigid, as if with agony… or pleasure.
It was then that Bessie forced her eyes shut. Even then, she couldn’t separate herself from what was taking place. She heard soft sounds, like an infant earnestly sucking at a bottle. But these sounds, although similar, were less innocent and far more sinister.
“Don’t worry, Bessie,” whispered her mother. “It’s all for the best. You’ll see.”
Bessie knew that was untrue, however. Her mother would never have lied to her, but the thing she had become would. She thought of the way she had been used by Grandpappy that night. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Milford,” she cried softly. “I’m so sorry.”
But she knew the woman was in no condition to forgive her for her treachery. From somewhere in the house, she heard the teacher moan, as if surrendering to the one who possessed her. Then the horrible sounds ended and there was only silence.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Tammy Craven pulled her car into the driveway and sat there for a moment. She stared at the rusty trailer that stood on its foundation of concrete blocks a few yards away. She wondered if she should have come there that afternoon. She had heard the stories around town, stories concerning the man and his drinking problems. Tammy had been raised in a home without alcohol. She felt uncomfortable around anyone who drank. But she knew she had to put her prejudices aside, for the man she had come to see was tormented by the same evil that she was. And she knew it would be up to them—and them alone—to put an end to it.
She left her car and walked to the trailer. She climbed the wooden steps to the door. She paused for a second, then knocked.
It was a while before she received any response. Eventually, a slurred voice came through the aluminum-and-plywood door. “Who is it?” Boyd demanded.
“It’s Tammy Craven,” she said, sounding a little more timid than she would have liked. “I need to talk to you.”
“Go away,” he grumbled. “I ain’t got nothing to talk to you about.”
Tammy wasn’t about to give up that easily, however. “Yes, you do,” she told him. “We need to talk about what’s happened to my husband. And your wife and children.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” growled the carpenter.
Tammy began to lose her patience. “Open this door, Boyd Andrews!” she told him. “We don’t have any time to waste, and you know it.”
The man was silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, he sounded less belligerent than before. “The door’s unlocked.”
Tammy opened the door and stepped inside. The interior of the trailer was shadowy and stank of sweat and liquor. It took a moment before her eyes adjusted to the gloom. When they did, she saw Boyd sitting at the little table next to the kitchenette. He looked haggard and filthy, his clothing wrinkled and stained. There was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the table. It was half full.
“Want a drink?” he offered. “Take a look in the kitchen cabinet. You might just luck up and find yourself a clean glass. But I doubt it.”
“That stuff isn’t going to do you any good,” she said. Tammy could smell the high, sour stench of the whiskey from where she stood, seven feet away.
“I di
dn’t invite you in to hear a sermon,” said Boyd, picking up the bottle. “I thought that was your old man’s department.”
Tammy watched as the carpenter raised the bottle to his mouth. She couldn’t believe she had the nerve to do it, but she walked over and jerked it from his hand.
“Hey, what’d you do that for?” he complained. “Give me that back, damn it!”
“I’m not going to let you drink yourself into a stupor,” snapped Tammy. “Not now, of all times.”
A dark look came into Boyd’s face. He glared at her as he struggled to stand up. “You give me that bottle right now, woman, or I’ll—”
“Or you’ll do what?” Tammy challenged. Her eyes flared angrily behind the lenses of her glasses.
Boyd made it to his feet, but could go no further. The rage left his eyes and he sagged back down in his seat. “Hell!” he cussed.
Tammy walked to the kitchen sink and found it full of dishes. She dug them out and set them on the counter, until she found the bottom of the sink. “You’ll thank me for this later,” she told him. Then she poured the remainder of the Tennessee sipping whiskey down the drain.
“Shit, woman!” moaned Boyd. “Do you know how much that stuff costs?”
Tammy set the empty bottle on the kitchen counter, then turned to the man. “Don’t cuss at me, Boyd,” she told him firmly. “And another thing. My name isn’t ‘woman.’ It’s Tammy. You got it?”
Boyd’s eyes widened a little. “Yes, ma’am!” He stared at her in a new light. “I always thought you were as gentle as a lamb,” he told her. “Didn’t know you were half Tasmanian devil.”
Tammy couldn’t help but smile. “Neither did I,” she said. “Until just lately.”
“So, this thing you want to talk about,” said the carpenter. “I reckon it has to do with my family disappearing, just like your husband did?”
