He Comes in the Night

by Ricky Fry

  So they were true, he thought, the occasional stories that drifted down from the mountains and spread like fire through the villages of the valley. Suddenly it all made sense. He and his companions were nothing more to these wild men than a meal.

  He remembered a time when he was only a small boy. His father had taken him into the woods to learn how to set rabbit snares.

  “Bogdan,” his father had said as he stood over him, “what should you do if you see a bear?”

  He was young and foolish then, and had told his father it was best to run.

  “No, my son. You should never run from a bear. They can smell your fear.”

  Afraid as he now was, Bogdan resolved himself not to show this hunter of men his fear, for such a man was no longer human, but a predator, no different from the other predators in the forest. “We’ve had little to eat ourselves,” he said. “I’m afraid we’d make a poor meal. Perhaps you’d prefer to eat the horses?”

  Yegor laughed. “You’re a clever one, Bogdan. I’m almost beginning to like you. But the horses are much too valuable. We can put them to use. Now, which one of you should we eat first?”

  He said nothing. It was not a choice he wanted to make.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to decide. It’s only right seeing as you’re the leader.” The foul man shuffled on his heels to the tree where Vladislav was tied. He traced his blackened fingers under the boy’s chin. “This one might make a nice meal, if only he wasn’t so thin.”

  “Eat me first.” It was the son of Svyatoslav, who had spoken not a single word since their trip began. “Let the boy go and you can eat me this very night.”

  “I think not, but we’ll spare him for now—keep him around until winter and fatten him up. He’s rather pretty, like a girl. My men haven’t seen a girl in some time. Perhaps they would like to have their way with him.”

  Vladislav jerked his chin away from Yegor’s outstretched hand and spit on the foul man’s face—a great wad of phlegm landing squarely on his upper lip.

  “Oh, and he’s feisty.” A long, tattooed tongue emerged from the man’s crusty mouth and licked the runny phlegm from his lip. “I like feisty. I might have to keep him for myself.”

  Bogdan’s mind raced as he searched for a way out of what seemed like a hopeless predicament. What would the priest do? He would pray, he thought. The priest would pray. And so he asked the Lord to deliver them from the wicked hands of these men who had become cannibals.

  He was almost too distracted to notice the dark figure taking shape beyond the cannibals and the campfire. It was the eyes which caught his attention—bright red eyes which, in his moment of despair, brought with them an uneasy comfort. It was an evil he knew, an evil he understood, an evil from which he would always be beyond reach. And then, as quickly as the eyes had appeared, they vanished, fading back into the blackness of the night.

  “You’re in luck,” said Yegor. “My men have filled their bellies with the meat of a deer and are helping themselves to a cask of fine ale. Even finer was the flesh of the poor merchant from whom we acquired it. They’ll have no need of you tonight. Think on your decision, and tell me tomorrow.”

  Bogdan watched him join the other men beside the fire. They ate and drank and laughed like wild demons, boasting among themselves about who had bedded the prettiest girls. As the night wore on and the moon traced its gentle arc across the sky, they began to fall asleep, one after another, drunk on the ale of a merchant who Bogdan knew would never find his way home.

  “Don’t sleep,” he said to his companions. “Tired as you might be, you mustn’t rest your eyes.”

  “You’ve seen him?” A thin line of blood ran from Svyatoslav’s head. Like Bogdan, he’d been struck during the ambush. “You’ve seen the evil spirit?”

  “Yes, and his insatiable appetite is far greater than that of our captors.”

  They struggled against the pull of exhaustion until dawn finally broke over the mountains. The wild men were still fast asleep, drunk on the merchant’s ale. Bogdan knew it would be some time before they woke.

  “Rest now, my friends,” he said. “You will need all your strength for what lies ahead.”

  He had only to close his eyes, and sweet sleep arrived to claim him.

  She was with him in his dreams. She was much younger than she’d been the night she died. They were together again in a field of flowers, on that sun-drenched summer day when he’d placed a ring made from the stem of a dandelion on her delicate finger. She laughed and ran her hand through his thick, boyish hair.

  “Promise you’ll never leave me.”

  “I’ll never leave you,” she said. “But you must wake up now, Bogdan. And when this business is finished you must go home.”

  “I don’t want to go home.” He began to cry the way he’d only ever cried as a boy. “I want to stay here with you. I’m so very tired. Please, let me stay.”

  Her hand found its way to his cheek. “My husband, I have made you a promise, and now you must promise me something in return.”

  “Yes,” he said. “What is it you ask? I will promise you anything.”

  “Promise me that you will be strong, and that you will be a father to our son. He will have need of you.”

  He would have promised her the moon, but before the words could reach his lips, he was snapped back to the mountains and the forest by a commotion, people shouting in crazed voices around the campsite.

  He tore at the bindings on his wrists, but they held firm. “What’s happened, Svyatoslav?”

  “Who could know?” The big man struggled with his own bindings.

  It was some time before the campsite settled. The wild men hovered about in small groups, speaking to each other in hushed tones and whispers. It was strange, Bogdan thought, that there had been no sign of their leader, the man called Yegor. And that’s when he saw him, not walking proud and tall as a leader of so many men might, but carried limp and lifeless on a makeshift stretcher. His body was placed beside the fire pit at the center of the campsite, and soon it was joined by five more, just as pale and lifeless as the first.

  “Yegor is dead,” said one of the wild men. He had a scar across his face and hair as red as flames. Yegor had only just died, and already a new leader had emerged to take his place.

  “It was the captives,” said a much shorter man, who spit ribbons of saliva from his toothless mouth as he spoke. “They’ve murdered him.”

  “Yes,” said another. “Let’s kill them.”

  The campsite slid back into chaos. They argued and shouted, until the man who was their new leader slashed the air with a hand in order to silence them. “Very well,” he said. “Bring them.”

  One by one their bindings were cut, and they were dragged, much the same as they had been dragged the night before, to the place where the scarred man stood. Bogdan wondered if they might not all be slaughtered at once, their journey ending in failure almost as soon as it had begun. Was it God’s plan that he should be reunited with Yekaterina in death? But he had made her a promise, if only in a dream, to raise their son.

  “My people want answers,” said the scarred man. “Someone must pay for Yegor’s death.”

  “Did you not cut our bindings with your own hands?” Bogdan scanned the bodies of the dead. There were no wounds upon their flesh. It could have only been the evil spirit who had taken their lives.

  The scarred man stroked his chin. “There are those who tell of witches who consort with the Devil. Perhaps it was some dark magic.”

  He would have denied it, but Vladislav leapt to his feet and spoke first. “Such fools! Do you not recognize the man you have cast in the dirt before you? Have you not heard the stories of Bogdan the Great?”

  A whisper passed among them.

  “He’s not a witch.” Vladislav’s voice lifted up and carried itself over the crowd. “He’s the greatest sorcerer who’s ever lived!”

  “So it’s true,” said the toothless wild man. “It was he who ki
lled Yegor.”

  “Yes, and any man who dares to trespass against him shall discover his vengeful wrath.”

  Their whispers grew into murmurs, terrified voices debating their next move. There were those who thought it was best to kill them, while others, uncertain whether Bogdan’s powers might extend beyond the grave, believed it was too great a chance to take.

  In the end, it was the scarred man who spoke for the rest. “Very well,” he said. “If you are truly a great sorcerer as you say, then we should like to see one final act of magic. If you succeed, then I shall guide you myself back to the place where we first found you.”

  Vladislav’s impulsive tongue had backed them into a corner. Bogdan had no magic, no tricks which might fool even these most ignorant of men. His only option was to use their fear, and the inexplicable loss of so many of their men, against them. If he appeared weak they were as good as dead.

  “It’s done,” he said, as though his spell had already been cast.

  The scarred man laughed. “But what have you done, Bogdan the Great? My eyes have not lost sight of you, and I’ve seen nothing which might convince me.”

  “Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it hasn’t been done.”

  “If this a trick, you shall pay with your life.”

  Bogdan waved a hand toward the six dead bodies still spread beside him on the ground. “Why don’t you ask your friends? You shall join them soon enough.”

  The man’s face flushed with anger. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me what you have done.”

  “Can you feel it? Even now as we speak the curse is seeping into your bones. Soon it will take hold and there will be no stopping it. Before the moon is once again full in the sky, every last one of you will be dead.”

  “I feel it!” The toothless man cried out as if he was already suffering in agony. “I feel his loathsome curse in my bones!”

  The cries of the toothless man were met by others, until a great panic had descended again over the campsite. But Bogdan would not rest. If he was to convince them beyond all doubt, he would need to drive them mad and shatter whatever was left of their spirits. And so it was his turn to laugh. He threw his head back to face the sky and laughed like a demon—a demon who had claimed another soul for Satan. When at last he stopped, he set his gaze upon the eyes of the scarred man.

  They were eyes which shone bright with fear. “Is it too late? Can the curse be lifted?”

  “Why should I do such a thing? You have tasted human flesh, and I have no doubt you’ll taste it again.”

  “What would you ask of us?” The scarred man dropped to a knee and ran his fingers through his coarse, red hair.

  “Swear an oath,” said Bogdan. “You must never again raise human flesh to your lips.”

  “I swear,” he said. “I swear before the earth and the sky and the Lord in Heaven, not a single man among us will eat the meat of another.”

  Bogdan closed his eyes and opened them softly for dramatic effect. “Then it’s settled. But I must warn you that should you break your oath, and taste the flesh of men, it will turn to poison inside your stomach and you will rot from the inside out.”

  They came one at a time before him and kneeled, each repeating the same vow that had been made by their leader. When it was finished the horses were returned, and as promised, Bogdan and his companions were guided without incident to the place where they had been ambushed.

  Svyatoslav was happy to find his pipe still stashed away in his saddle bag. “In all my years as a soldier, venturing far and wide through distant lands, I’ve never seen anything to match such horrors. Our mission is truly blessed, for only the Lord could deliver us from the jaws of cannibals.

  “Yes,” said Bogdan. “We are indeed blessed, but it was not the Lord who saved us. It was the very creature we seek to destroy.”

  The big man smiled as he packed his pipe. “God works through all things, my friend.”

  Maybe Svyatoslav was right, but Bogdan was tired and his head hurt, and they had many long hours of riding ahead of them. Whatever the evil spirit’s intentions at the campsite had been, he thought it was still unwise for them to sleep through the night.

  “Vladislav!” The big man rode up beside the boy and landed a hearty slap across his back. “You must never whistle again!”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Stale air burned in her lungs until she reminded herself to breath. Her body was stiff with anticipation. Word had finally come down from the judge. The jury had reached an unanimous verdict.

  After a night of fitful sleep, she’d been escorted into the courtroom by Mr. Bennett’s assistant, a young women who was only in her twenties, but who wore the studious face of someone much older.

  “This way,” said the assistant, her face framed by thick-rimmed glasses. She ushered Nancy into position just behind the defense table, where her husband was already seated alongside his attorney. “I’ve been holding a place for you.”

  “Thank you.” She forced a thin smile across her lips and took a seat.

  Byron turned and blew her a kiss as they stood for the judge’s entrance.

  They were expecting the worst. The new evidence had been damning. It wasn’t hard for the prosecution to paint her husband as a sophisticated white collar criminal. One after another they detailed offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, Bermuda, Panama, and Switzerland—each stuffed with a million dollars or more of money that had been siphoned off from investor accounts by a network of shell companies and trusts. There was even a bogus development company in a place called Georgia, a tiny country in the Caucuses, nestled between Turkey and Russia. The only Georgia Nancy had ever heard of was the state made famous for its peaches.

  Still, Nancy held out hope for some miracle. In his closing statement, Mr. Bennett told a different story, choosing to focus on the Hardaway’s active involvement in local charities, and the regular donations they’d made to the cancer center at Boston Children’s Hospital.

  She’d left that day feeling somewhat optimistic, but the two weeks of jury deliberations had taken a heavy toll on her spirits. The days at home had passed slowly, and she found herself wishing more than once for the dreadful monotony of the courtroom. She’d spent most days in bed, her only relief the assortment of pills she’d been prescribed by her psychiatrist. There was nothing worse, she thought more than once as the weeks dragged on, than frozen time.

  Byron had fared no better. On the night she’d planned to share her revelations about the nanny, she found him babbling to himself in his study. It would have to wait, she’d told herself as she stood outside the study door listening to her husband babble, for a better time. But a better time had never come.

  And so the fragile balance in the Hardaway home held steady, until the lawyer called to say the jury had reached a verdict. Now, as she faced the possibility of a life without her husband, without a father to raise their daughter, she would have given anything to go back to the beginning. She’d pushed him too hard. She’d wanted too much. She was as responsible for their destruction as he.

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” The old judge repeated the same formality she’d heard a hundred times on the legal procedurals she sometimes liked to watch.

  The jury forewoman, a public school teacher who’d taken copious notes throughout the trial, took her position at the front of the jury box. “Yes, Your Honor, we have.”

  “Very well,” said the judge. “Please inform the court of your decision.”

  The forewoman cleared her throat. “On the charge of bank fraud, we find the defendant guilty.”

  A cheer erupted from the gallery. The judge banged his gavel and called the room back to order. Nancy thought she was going to be sick.

  “On the charge of embezzlement, we the members of the jury find the defendant guilty.”

  The onlookers, notable victims of her husband’s crimes and their immediate family members, cheered again. This time, the judge sent officers out into the galler
y and threatened to clear the courtroom.

  Nancy’s head spun as the forewoman continued. Tax evasion—guilty. The guilty verdicts kept coming, until her vision narrowed down to a single point and then everything went black.

  The next thing she remembered was an officer holding a wet towel over her forehead, and the piercing flicker of fluorescent lights.

  “Ma’am, you okay? Do you need an ambulance?”

  “No.” She struggled to get back up to her feet. “No ambulance. Where’s my husband?”

  “Take it easy, Mrs. Hardaway. You took a pretty good knock to the head when you blacked out.”

  She was in a strange room, with only the officer for company. “My husband—where’s Byron? Where have they taken him?”

  Mr. Bennett appeared in the doorway. “Nancy, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, Anthony. I’m fine.” She hated being treated like a delicate flower. Men were always doing that. “Will somebody please tell me where Byron is?”

  “He’s in custody,” said the lawyer. “I asked the judge to extend bail until the sentencing hearing, but my request was denied.”

  She thought she might collapse again and fought hard to stay on her feet. As much as she’d prepared herself for the day she might finally lose him, imagining it over and over in those idle moments in the courtroom, it came like a rush of blood to the head. It was over, she thought, and there was nothing more to be done. She wondered how long he would be gone.

  “The car’s waiting,” said Mr. Bennett. “Please, let me at least see you home.”

  “Are they out there?”

  “Who?”

  “The reporters. Those lecherous parasites can’t wait to get their money shot for the evening news—the fallen socialite.” She would have watched the same thing herself had she not been cast in the starring role.

  “Hold your head up, Nancy. No need for shame. You’re a victim of this as much as anyone.”

  She cast a sideways look at the officer before returning her eyes to the lawyer. “Anthony, we both know that’s not true. I pushed him. I wanted more and more, and if he hadn’t been caught it would have never stopped.” Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over, running in thin lines down her cheeks.