I draw a long, breathless gulp of air, and nearly fall down myself.
From the entranceway, I hear a painful bleat.
I look up and the deer is there, standing despite its bloody condition. Its dark, rolling eyes gleam wetly in the darkness, contemplating me. A warm trickle of blood coats the back of my throat, and I cough it up into my dry mouth. I gaze down at Lou Scully, the shattered remains of the bottle like Lilliputians surrounding a felled giant. He is unconscious…but for only this moment, as his eyes dart open, still glowing gold. His lips part and from them a now familiar phrase slips free: Do…as…Phillip…once…did.
From the deer comes another harsh bleat…and then it charges across the room at me. I have only a second to I raise my hands and scream before it rams into me...
No!
I come out of it in the same position I went in: lying on the loveseat, facing the dark bay window. My hands are clean and dry, my body flooded with sweat. The final scream drawn out of me by the charging deer had only been in my mind…along with everything else.
I voice it again before falling back asleep, only this time it is a whisper.
No…
Chapter Twelve
A pressure on my chest.
Something pressing down on my stomach, on my bandaged scar.
Pain tears through me, momentarily paralyzing me.
I attempt to move, and am able to shift slightly as sleep sluggishly creeps away, ushering me into the cruel waking world. I flutter my eyes against the sunlight stealing in through the bay window, broken from the filter of trees a hundred feet back. In the flickering glare, I see a dark form crouching on my stomach.
Feel its claws digging into my skin.
“No,” my lips utter in unison with the little man in my head.
Again I attempt to move, but my body still clings to the sleep my mind has now let go of. Fear and pain return to me yet again, coalescing into panic as I imagine the baby Isolate on top of me, back from its den after a restful slumber to continue its terrible game. I can see in my mind’s eye its claws bearing down on my throat, one quick lash to complete the job Lou Scully attempted to carry out in my dream last night.
Finally, I coerce my eyes to open, to focus.
The shadow is there, dark and omnipresent, its weight shifting, readjusting itself on top of me. It refuses to leave.
My eyes adjust to the pervading light, the mirroring glare seeping away from the corners of my view to show the hair of the creature’s body, thick and standing on end. I swing my arms and thump my body in a panic. My heart rips through my chest like a caged animal. Gooseflesh explodes from my pores. The thing releases a piercing screech. Dear God, the baby Isolate is on top of me!
But just as my interior voice makes its dreadful conclusion, my eyes (and ears) confirm this as a welcome untruth.
The weight of the thing leaps off me, and from the corner of my eye I see a weighty cat scurrying away from me.
“Jesus Christ!” I shout out loud, clutching my heaving chest, my tender, aching neck. Pain charges through my midsection, the anesthetic cocktail of Percoset and bourbon now worn off. I wonder for a moment how it got inside the house, and conclude that the Isolates’ recent incursion has paved the way for other critters to find their way in.
I struggle into a sitting position, nearly hyperventilating as I gather my wits. Another jolt of pain ricochets through my midsection, burning hot as the swell of my scar pressures my stitches to maintain their hold. Daylight filters in through the icy window. Across the office I see the cat sniffing out the trail of blood on the floor…
Trail of blood…?
They did it again! Those damned-to-hell demons! Not unlike the images once put into me when I murdered my daughter’s dog on the center stone, here they were again planting their dreadful message into me as I loll in some suggestive, half-dream stupor, the evidence of such right before me, lying beneath the cat’s sniffing nose: streaks of blood on the hardwood floor, leading away into the still-lit examining room.
I stand up and grab the arm of the loveseat for support, then stagger halfway across the room, sidestepping a few scattered medical hardcovers before leaning against the desk, short of breath and lightheaded. The cat jerks its head up, its curiosity diverted from the sticky streaks to the banged-up human standing a few feet away.
“I won’t hurt you, kitty-cat,” I whisper weakly, noting the collar around its neck. That’s someone’s cat, the little man in my head notes so matter-of-factly.
No shit, Sherlock, I reply in silence.
Ignoring the cat, I run my gaze along the red streaks, which lead back into the examining room. There’s a wet smatter of bourbon on the floor. Nearby, the shattered amber remains of the bottle I’d allegedly smashed over Lou Scully’s head. I look around for the hatchet, but do not see it anywhere. I peer over toward the examining room and for a sick moment wonder if the deer from my dream is in there—or at the very least, some evidence of its prior presence, mud, blood, or both. Swallowing past a huge lump in my throat (and wincing from the pain it causes), I force myself to believe that there’s no way the animal could’ve gotten down here from the upstairs bedroom, either by itself or by the hand of the Isolates (or Lou Scully!), how it could not have found a way to right itself off the table and come charging at me with revengeful intent in its eyes.
Only one way to find out.
I take a step toward the examining room, staring at the brightly lit tile floor as I make my approach, boots crunching over shattered glass. Noting the streaks of blood, I see that they’re thicker near the entrance, with bloody footprints in them—human footprints—sprinkled with dirt and leaves. Lou had not been wearing shoes, I remember from my dream. And his feet had been filthy, as if he’d walked through the woods to get here. Christ, it was no dream. It really happened.
Which means…the deer is…
I stop at the threshold of the room, too scared to peer in. What will I find? The injured deer from my bedroom, strengthened through the supernatural influence of the Isolates, poised to charge at me with its teeth bared, wholly intending to take a bite out of my bruised neck? Or will I find my former associate Lou Scully, who’d started out as my savior in this brutal chapter of my life, who’d informed me of this job and guided me toward taking my first giant step right into Ashborough, New Hampshire, now a part of this unspeakable horror that has become of my life.
The Old Lady had me…
Jesus Christ, Lou. You knew all along, didn’t you?
Seems he did, Michael. He did what he had to do to save his family…
Oh…my...God…
Sounds familiar, eh Michael?
Just as the Isolates had threatened me and my family, they somehow had gotten to Lou, all the way in New York City, so much so that he was forced to sacrifice the life of a friend—his friend’s entire family—in order to save his own.
Just as I did with Phillip Deighton…
Phillip’s final moments filter back into my head, a replay seen over and over again...
I held the wood club in both hands, sweat pouring from my palms, my mind circling in vain attempt to find the logic behind their perverse request. Maltor! the Isolates screamed. I set my eyes upon Phillip. He was crying, tears pouring down his bruised face, through the blood, the dirt, the pain.
I closed my eyes, raised the club, and swung…
I shiver from the horrible memory, of Phillip’s torn face as he gazed up at me, his eyes glazed with imminent death, mind clear with the knowledge that a fatal blow was about to be delivered upon him by the man he failed to properly position into Ashborough’s twisted design. I can recall how the bat in my hand hissed viciously through the air…how the resounding vibration of the bat connecting with Phillip’s skull had run from my hands all the way to my thrashing heart, my ruptured soul.
Shaking off the memory, I place my hand on the doorjamb, realizing now that I haven’t seen the axe Lou had dropped on the floor.
M
ichael, that was a dream. The axe is still in the woods where you dropped it, and the deer is still on the floor in your bedroom, most assuredly good and dead.
Yeah, that’s all well and fine, but what of the blood? And the shattered bottle?
I remind myself that this very kind of nightmare logic is all too real here in Ashborough, and that a few months back I’d awoken from a dream of killing the family dog with blood and hair on my hands.
It’s the blood…a blood secret, here in Ashborough.
I take a few deep breaths, settle back down to earth, then step into the room.
The floor is streaked with blood, ghostly footprints and erratic streaks spread about it like a piece of weird art. The examining table is also stained, brown splotches of blood in addition to the week-old muddy remnants of the dead Isolate I’d laid on it…and fine, nearly invisible patches of brown hair.
Deer hair? Or is it hair from the long-dead Isolate, a minute detail I hadn’t noticed until now?
No sense in concerning myself with it. It appears now that I am alone. There is no deer. And no Lou Scully. And that’s all that matters.
A screech jolts me, so loud and so near I think it might be a part of my own thoughts. At the same time the cat (an Isolate!, my mind mistakenly screams) races into the room, skids across the bloody streaks, then tails back and attempts to pounce a skittering mouse squeaking in fear of its very life. The mouse scurries quickly across the room and disappears into an uncovered vent below the cabinet. The cat duly slams into the cabinet, hesitates, then utilizes a paw to unsuccessfully fish the critter out.
Heart beating crazily, I stand there watching the cat for a few minutes, literally paralyzed by the animalistic screech it’d produced in its mission to capture the mouse. I kneel down and look at the cat, feeling residual remnants of my dream painting the room in a dull, illusory hue. I wonder if this feeling is a painkiller hangover, my mind suddenly aware of the pain throbbing along the stitched edges of my scar. Time for another one. And another swig of something strong.
I make a kitty-like sound. It’s a half hiss, half whisper that sounds like nothing but seems to attract cats of all denominations. It works just as I hoped. The cat interprets the call as a friendly gesture. It prances over and rubs its body back and forth against my knee, sniffing my hand as I scratch behind its ears. Not really knowing exactly how to pick up a cat without getting my eyes clawed out, I stand up and continue on with my kitty-noise, rubbing my fingers together as I exit the examining room, into the waiting room.
The cat follows, and I consider leading it outside through the side door but think twice about doing so. Taking into account how the Isolates (and Christine) had used this door as their exit last night, I feel it prudent to keep this door shut for now, and even go over and lock the bolt. The cat mews once and peers up at me with yearning green eyes.
“C’mon little kitty.”
I lead it through the hallway and into the kitchen, the little bell on its collar tinkling the entire way. Opening the fridge, I’m not surprised to see a dearth of contents, but am still able to unearth a few slimy slices of turkey wrapped in wrinkled tinfoil. The cat voices its excitement and digs in as soon as I drop it on the floor.
As the cat eats, I peer about the kitchen, left in utter disarray, week-old soiled plates and glasses in the sink, some broken on the floor, the cabinets opened (including the one the baby Isolate came leaping out of). Passing through the hallway—the basement door is still shut, and for now I plan to keep it that way, as I’ve spent too much time down there recording what’s happened, and not enough time looking for my family—I enter the living room, and am again greeted with the same horrific mess I saw earlier. I tell myself that if I plan to assume as normal a life as my tortured mind and body will let me, I must begin to make sense of my environment, and that means cleaning it all up.
The front window is still boarded up, so I cannot see outside, and I make it my first priority to remove all the barricades I’d worked so hard—and in vain—to put up.
Behind me the cat mews, and even this unexpected noise startles me, despite its gentle nature. It circles my feet, tail erect, the very feel of it making me shudder as though some giant water rat were offering its affectionate wares.
“Time to let you out,” I say, moving to the door. The small scalloped windows at the top of the door confirm what I saw in my office not ten minutes earlier: daylight filtering in, the sun’s glare reflecting off the icy snow of last night’s storm. Seems I’ve slept through the night, the thought of which offers a thin slice of comfort, considering my fragile state.
I turn the bolt on the front door, then unhitch the chain and unlock the doorknob before opening it. Bright sunlight pierces my tired eyes, blinding my wide-open pupils. The cat scurries out and I nearly trip over it as I step outside onto the wooden porch, into the frigid air.
Where Phillip Deighton once showed me a plastic bag containing his wife Rosy’s eviscerated eyeballs.
From the front yard, perhaps fifteen feet away, a female voice: “There you are, Bonzo!”
My heart bangs against my ribcage, delivering clouts of pain into the wound across my gut. At the same instant, a breeze sweeps by, the freezing January air feeling dry and rotten, bringing with it something awful smelling from the woods.
I cup my hand over my eyes to block the glare of the reflecting sun, barely able to make out the figure crouching on the snow-covered walkway, scooping up the cat.
Chapter Thirteen
“Hi there,” she says.
As my eyes adjust to the glare, I see standing before me a teenage girl, nineteen tops, wearing a black leather biker jacket and worn denims tucked into a pair of combat boots. She’s thin and quite pretty, light brown hair cascading down from the edges of her black knit beanie to her shoulders. She’s got more makeup on than most of the young girls here in Ashborough (whom I’ve always assumed had lost interest in keeping themselves fashionably up-to-date, given the never-ending burden on their shoulders) and exhibits more piercings on her face than most women have on their ears—lip, nose and eyebrow. She gazes at me with round blue eyes clear as crystals, red lips pouting as I hesitate to reply.
“Sorry about Bonzo. He has a habit of getting into places he doesn’t belong.”
Crossing my arms, suddenly and rather hugely conscious of my filthy, bloody condition (despite the fresh scrubs), I put forth my best grin. “Oh, hey, it’s no problem. I…uh, enjoyed his company.”
“You a doctor?” she asks, a gentle, mischievous grin pulling up the corners of her full lips. I think, perhaps, she’s being sarcastic; after all, how many doctors have a battlefield of wounds on their face and arms?
“Actually, yes,” I reply, struggling to maintain a sense of normalcy. Conscious of my hidden wound, I place a gentle hand across it, working to hide the grimace on my face as pain darts to all points in my body.
She smiles, and for the first time in months, I feel a sense of genuine warmth from another human being—of innocence not yet drained from the evils saturating Ashborough. There’s no sarcasm here...and no strong sense of masked dread. She’s new in town, I can tell, and not yet poisoned by Ashborough’s infectious venom.
Damn it…I feel sorry for her, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Not a goddamned thing.
And yet as I shiver beneath the encompassing grasp of icy-cold wind, I find myself wanting to tell this poor young soul to run away, to flee the terrors soon to turn her and her family into dead souls. My eyes are drawn into the woods at the side of my house, where not a hundred feet back my one-time patient Lauren Hunter was gravely injured by the Isolates in their attempt to force me to sacrifice her within the circle of stones.
Christine’s taken voice returns to me: Do as Phillip once did to you.
Oh my God. Now I understand.
I look back at the girl. She’s staring at me, a blaze of street savvy respect in her eyes. She’s the ‘been there, done that’ kind of kid who’s liv
ed life to the fullest, but is smart enough not to let it drag her down. The type that every adult thinks is on drugs, but doesn’t touch much more than cigarettes and beer.
“You must be new in town,” I say, all of sudden aware of the irony in her cat’s arrival. Just as my dog had bounded away from our minivan on the day we moved in and ended up in Phillip’s arms, the new neighbor’s cat ends up at my house. The coincidence can’t be ignored. It’s the damn same scenario, right down to each pet getting a slice of turkey for a treat.
As she speaks, I continue to realize with terror what’s happening here.
“I just moved here last week, with my parents and my brother.” She cuddles Bonzo the cat close. “We’re your closest neighbor.”
They’ve moved into Phillip and Rosie’s house.
Do as Phillip once did to you…
Shivering, I say, “It’s nice to meet you…uh…”
“Shea,” she says, the smile leaving her lips. Her eyebrows come together with a noticeable pinch of apprehension. And rightly so. Given my appearance (and the boarded up windows in my house), she’s somewhat disconcerted with what she sees in her new neighbor. But she’s also curious.
“I’m Dr. Michael Cayle. It’s nice to meet you Shea. I, um, I hope you’ll pardon the appearance of my house. Strong winds took my windows with them as they passed through town. Caught me some shards in the face. We get some nasty weather about these parts.”
“That sucks.”
I smile, genuinely, for the first time in ages. “Indeed it does. I needed new windows anyway.”
“Well…I’m used to strong winds and bad weather. We’re from Seattle.”
Seattle. Damn. How did the Isolates get to them? And why? Suddenly a million questions were rolling through my head, and I had it in me to answer some of them before…before…
Do as Phillip once did to you…
I shiver uncontrollably. I’m about to freeze my ass off. I need to get back inside.
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