Summon the Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  Cupping his hand over his wrist, he pushed the button to light up his watch and checked his altimeter. He had gained nearly four hundred feet of elevation, which meant he still had three hundred feet to go. He ran his hand along his waist, inventorying the various cams, nuts, and tube chocks—miniature anchors he could insert into cracks to help protect against a deadly fall. Just two cams, one chock, and two carabiners hung from his harness.

  He swore at himself for being overly cautious on the first leg of the climb. Huddling on a narrow ledge, he peered to the left and right. He could traverse across the sandstone until he reached a gentler slope to the east and walk the rest of the way, but the guards on the wall would see him coming. They’d either shoot him for trespassing or watch him like a hawk until sunrise.

  He inhaled, then spit into open air. He had no choice. To have any hope of breaking inside Holy Mountain, he needed to approach from the cliff. And to reach the top of the cliff, he would have to free-climb.

  Brushing his left hand against the protective gear on his harness, he debated whether or not to use the last of it. If he spread it out, it could protect him from a life-threatening fall for perhaps the first one-hundred feet at most. And he would have to rig the rope again, which would grow heavier the higher he climbed.

  “Kayla,” he whispered. “I didn’t bring enough trad gear.”

  The tiny speaker in his ear crackled with her response. “Do you need to abort?”

  “Probably. But I’m gonna keep going.” He loosened the straps on his harness and let it drop onto the ledge. “It isn’t a difficult climb—or at least it wouldn’t be during daylight. I’ll check in when I get to the top.”

  His wife’s voice quavered with worry. “Be careful out there, Beef.”

  He smiled. Kayla rarely referred to him by his old nickname, and only during dangerous operations. It was a way to remind him of everything he’d been through and survived—a vote of confidence. The moniker had been given to him when he was in Regiment with the U.S. Army Rangers. During a lengthy field exercise with insufficient food, one of his fellow Rangers had remarked, “We could always eat Larson. He’s got so much meat on him, we could go back for seconds. What do you suppose he’d taste like?” To which another replied, “Beef. Definitely beef.”

  Stepping over the coiled rope, he resumed his climb with nothing but his calloused fingers to keep him from plummeting to an early death. He wedged one hand into a narrow crack and stuck out his knuckles to wedge it in, then found his footholds, lifted himself up, and wedged in the other hand. He continued this way for thirty feet then mounted another narrow ledge beyond the end of the crack. Above the ledge and to the west, the cliff sloped away slightly and was covered with beach ball-sized rocks. Turning off his headlamp, he studied the steep grade by moonlight. Shadowy crevices made the stones seem to float above an endless abyss, giving Eric pause. Each gap was a potential sanctuary for wildlife seeking shelter from the cold night. It would be possible for him to scramble up the rocks, then return to the cliff right before reaching the summit, but he would have to check every nook and cranny along the way.

  After weighing his options, he decided it was worth the risk, so he could save his grip strength for the final climb. He peered around the edge of the first rock—all clear. He placed his hand on it, gave it a little shake to test its stability, then pushed up and over so he could examine the crevices around the next. Despite his best efforts, the rocks shifted noisily against each other, and some broke free and tumbled down the slope behind him. He prayed the noise would echo off the hillside and not carry over the top.

  As he moved, he fell into a rhythm. He supported himself with his right hand and both feet while he surveyed the rocks with his headlamp, and as soon as he knew it was clear, he switched sides as if climbing a ladder. Eventually, he began taking two strides forward before scanning the dark crevices. Then three. He’d been climbing all night and was eager to get to the top. A rock came loose and struck him in the shoulder, but he shook it off and kept going. His shirt clung to his body—drenched in sweat in spite of the cool, dry air. His breathing was rapid and coarse, burning his chest and leaving a copper taste in his mouth. The summit loomed above him, less than ninety feet away.

  The muscles in his arms and legs begged for rest. His careful pauses to search the rocks diminished to brief glances. Stones banged against each other like hooves on pavement. Then a sound cut through the noise like a frenetic tambourine, and he instantly froze in place.

  He swallowed and tilted his head a fraction of an inch, searching for the source of the rattling. The light cast from his headlamp landed on a tiny orb—the viper’s eye. The pupil narrowed to a tiny slit, and the snake reared its head.

  Sweat dripped from Eric’s nose and landed on the rock beneath him. Sensing the movement, the rattlesnake gathered another coil, and Eric responded by leaning in the opposite direction. Slowly, he shifted his hand to the next rock, then his foot. His attention was riveted on the snake, even when the rattling stopped, and his nerves tightened to the breaking point.

  His hand slipped and fell into a crack, and he heard another rattle directly beneath him. He lost his cool, grunting in fear and throwing himself farther up the hill. Scabrous rocks ground away the skin on his elbows and knees, and the rattling continued, seeming to follow him as he went. He scrambled another ten feet, then caught his foot between two rocks and fell heavily onto his chest.

  The chittering noise was right beneath him again, and he briefly wondered what it would be like to die from a snake bite. He tugged against the rocks, but they didn’t move. At any moment, he expected to feel a dozen or more fangs piercing his skin and pumping in venom that would congeal his blood into jelly. Instead, the terrifying noise trickled toward his feet and continued down the hill until it faded beyond earshot.

  Resting his forehead on his arms, he cursed himself for being such an idiot. After a long moment, he lifted himself up and used his hands to grind two rocks against each other. Clumps of sandstone broke free and trickled downward, producing a soft rattle. Now, out of harm’s way, he recalled a training session he’d been through in the Mojave Desert. He heard the voice of his instructor: Rattlesnakes are lone hunters, only nesting together when hibernating for the winter. If you see one, just leave it alone and slowly back away.

  He hadn’t stumbled upon a brood; his imagination had turned bits of rock and sand into vipers.

  When his pulse returned to normal, he continued picking his way forward—stopping twice as often as before. The slope grew steeper until it finally ended at a vertical rock face. Getting to his feet, he traversed cross-slope with one hand on the wall until he reached the northernmost cliff. He sipped from his Camelback, shook out his hands, stretched his arms above his head, then mounted the wall.

  The surface had been pitted by wind and intermittent rain, so he had plenty of hand and foot holds to choose from. He quickly scaled the first fifteen feet then picked his way toward a natural chute. Bracing his back and the sole of his left foot against one side of the chute and the toes of his right foot against the other side, he shimmied upward another twenty feet. Holding himself in place at the top, he grasped a handhold, tested it, then hung from it with one arm. He swung his leg around the outer edge of the chute and found a generous foothold. Digging his heel in, he pushed and pulled until he could reach the next handhold. His trembling fingers threatened to give way, so as soon as he found a pair of suitable toe holds, he wedged his elbow into a crack and anchored himself to give his hands a break.

  Within thirty seconds, his thighs also began to shake. After cracking his knuckles, he continued his ascent. He chose his handholds less carefully, knowing that, within the next few minutes, his muscles would cramp, and he would be powerless to maintain his grip. He dug his toes in and pushed upward, grabbing at any pocket, ledge, or crimp he could reach. Twice, his feet slipped out from under him, punishing his grip further. Then the crest came into view, and with one last push, h
e jumped upward and clawed at it. His entire body shook as he lifted his considerable weight, but he managed to lock out his elbows, then dump himself onto the ground. His breathing came in ragged gasps as he wriggled forward until his legs rested on solid ground.

  He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. Above him, ten thousand stars seemed to congratulate him for his Herculean effort. He wanted to stay there and rest, perhaps until sunrise, but it wasn’t an option. Rolling back onto his stomach, he rose to a crouch and crept toward the earthen walls of Holy Mountain.

  8

  September 3rd

  Stanley, North Carolina

  This wasn’t paranoia—this was real. Something was hunting Gavin Kraft.

  He left the bar at two o’ clock in the morning, and as soon as he stepped outside, a lone man with a pock-marked face pointed at him from across the street. He ignored the rude gesture and lowered his head; in his line of work, you learned to mind your own business. But before he could settle into his black Jeep Renegade, he heard the man say, “Yeah, that’s him, I’m sure of it.”

  Gavin cast another glance across the street and again found the man standing by himself.

  “Nutjob,” Gavin muttered as he cranked the motor. But, beneath the wide sores, there was something familiar about the man. Finally, a name arrived, riding a wave of terror. The man’s name was Paul, and he used to be one of Gavin’s distributors. Gavin had cut him off when he dipped into the product and got hooked. Junkies didn’t get wholesale prices.

  Paul undoubtedly knew the deal—rolling on your supplier means stepping into an early grave. But he was unmistakably alone, so either he was off his rocker, or he was wearing a wire.

  Gavin pulled his trucker hat low over his eyes and put the Jeep in reverse. He backed up until he was parallel with Paul, then rolled down the window. “Excuse me, sir, do you need a ride?” His fist tightened around a .40 caliber pistol, but he didn’t lift it. If he could get the junkie to ride along, it would be easier to dispose of the body.

  Paul shook his head violently. “I—I’m not supposed to talk to you ever again.” Then his eyes widened, and he clamped his hands over his mouth.

  Yep, he’s finally melted his brain, Gavin thought. He gave an easy shrug and said, “I can still give you a ride. You still living under the bridge south of town?”

  Paul flinched and stared at his shoulder as if a hornet had suddenly landed there. He mumbled a few words, then began shaking his head again. His voice rose until it was loud enough for Gavin to hear. “No-no-no-no. I won’t do it ever again. I’ll kill myself before I do, I promise!”

  Gavin’s face soured, and he shifted into first gear. “Whatever, dude, you’re on your own. Make sure to write when you get to the loony bin.” He made the statement for the benefit of any unseen listeners—in reality, he planned to visit Paul under the bridge before the sun rose.

  That is, if he could figure out who or what was hunting him.

  In the three hours since he left the bar, the night had only grown stranger. Instead of visiting his lab in the woods, he drove straight home, only to find his front door wide open. With his Smith & Wesson leading the way, he searched the house from top to bottom. But it was exactly as he’d left it. The wide-screen TV was still on its perch, the laptop still rested on the couch—even his gun collection hadn’t been touched. And the lock on the door hadn’t been tampered with or damaged in any way. But he had the only key, and he was certain he’d locked up before leaving.

  After checking the house again, Gavin kicked his feet up, opened his laptop, and tried to relax. Then, a light turned on in the kitchen. He shot to his feet, raised his pistol, and rushed into the kitchen, hoping to catch the intruder off-guard.

  But there was no one there—and the lights were still off. The glow had come from the refrigerator, which was open a crack. Gavin narrowed his eyes, then closed the insulated door. He opened it and closed it again, checking for a loose seal. It seemed completely fine and even required a forceful tug to open.

  After checking the doors again, Gavin returned to the couch. He opened the laptop, expecting to resume the video he’d been watching, then cursed at what he saw.

  His internet browser had more than a dozen tabs open. The first three were filled with pictures of meth-addicted teenagers. The next seven contained research into mythological creatures—goblins, ghouls, vampires, werewolves, minotaurs, living shadows, and something called a “Wendigo.” The last four tabs each had a single word typed into a search engine, which formed a message when taken together. “Some nightmares are real.”

  Gavin was already on his feet, pacing the room as he opened each tab. After reading the word in the final tab, he tossed the laptop onto the couch. “I know you’re in here, asshole. And believe me, this is the last place you want to be. I’m going to find you, and I’m going to kill you. You hear me?”

  There was no response. He listened to the sound of his own breathing for a moment, then whirled as a faint voice began to speak. The television flickered to life, revealing a celebrity chef addressing the camera.

  “Real funny,” Gavin barked. The remote wasn’t in its normal place on the coffee table, which meant the prankster had turned on the TV from somewhere nearby. He stepped forward, intending to check the hall closet, but stopping short when he felt something press against his right butt cheek. He spun around, finding no one and nothing behind him. His hand shot to his back pocket, and his heart skipped a beat. He withdrew the remote and held it in his open palm, studying it as if it was an alien artifact.

  Then, as his attention was still on the remote, the channel changed. Blowing out his cheeks, he thumbed the power button. After a brief moment of darkness, the television screen lit up again.

  “Universal remote. Clever.” Gavin skirted past the TV and unplugged it, then dumped the batteries out of the remote and cast it aside. He turned away from the TV and faced the room, then gasped and took a step back.

  The sofa, coffee table, and recliner were tipped to one side, standing on end.

  Cursing, he ran into his bedroom. It had been ransacked—clothes and jewelry were scattered across the floor. The dresser drawers had been removed and overturned. His full-length mirror was shattered, and a thousand frightened faces stared back at him. He stared at the spider-webbed mirror, trying to fathom how all of this could have happened without him hearing it. Then, in the jagged reflections, a black orb appeared above his right shoulder.

  Grunting in fear, he spun around, raised his pistol, and pulled the trigger. The .40 caliber round punched through his bedroom wall and embedded itself in the living room floor. He spun again, then again, but found nothing. Unsure if he’d lost his mind or if the orb had been a trick of the light, he returned his gaze to the mirror. Impossibly, the mirror was reversed so it faced the wall. The words, You will pay for the children you poisoned, had been carved into its wooden backing.

  Without thinking, Gavin shot the mirror. He swore, then shouted, “Keep the stupid house. I’m gone.” He turned on his heel, but before he could make it to the living room, a dark figure appeared in the doorway, blocking his path.

  “Gotcha!” Gavin emptied the magazine, hitting the man—or whatever it was—in the chest and head.

  The ebony figure didn’t react, other than to lower its head and speak in a rumbling voice. “You cannot leave. Not yet.”

  Gavin backed away, tripped over a dresser drawer, then got back on his feet. His free hand searched his pockets for his spare magazine, but it was gone. With wild eyes, he searched the floor for a weapon.

  “I won’t kill you. I won’t even hurt you.” The creature took a step back, and its glossy black body reflected flashing blue and red lights. “But they might.”

  Gavin’s mind raced as he searched for an explanation—anything he could tell the cops to keep himself out of jail. Then his eyes lit up, and he said, “This house is clean! And I haven’t done anything wrong; you’re the one trespassing.”

  The
beast opened its palm, revealing a plastic bag filled with cream-colored crystals. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  “Wait—don’t!”

  Before Gavin could finish his protest, the creature tore the bag open and scattered its contents on the floor.

  “No!” Gavin dove forward and began picking up the damning shards. If he cleaned them up, he might be able to flush them down the toilet before anyone saw them.

  “This batch came from your kitchen in the woods. I gathered some before the police sealed the place off.” The creature knelt as if pitying Gavin, then continued, “I’m sorry, but you don’t have enough time to clean this up. They have all the evidence they need, and someone will have heard your pointless shooting. Here—for your trouble.” The creature opened its other palm, and a single, .40 caliber round landed on the carpet between Gavin’s hands. “Use it wisely.”

  9

  Holy Mountain

  Moffat County, Colorado

  The lock pick gun trembled in Eric’s hand. Sweat rolled into his eyes as he squeezed the trigger, pressing the pin into the tumblers. A tiny electric motor whirred, sending vibrations through the gun and into the lock. There was a click, and Eric pulled the door open. He held it open with one foot, twisted, and threw the lock pick gun away. He glanced up at a magnetic sensor on the door frame, then smirked and strode inside. The sensor would have triggered an alarm, and guards would be heading in his direction within seconds. But he didn’t mind. The sooner he was caught, the better.

  He’d noticed the steel door during his reconnaissance of the city a few nights before. Guards would sometimes pass through it, hike to the edge of the road, and scan the valley with night-vision binoculars. The door didn’t lead to a storage room embedded in the wall, like many of the others did—it was a private entrance.

  There were no lights in the passage, so Eric had to feel his way along. He turned a corner, then spotted a sliver of light beneath another door. The handle turned in his grip, and he stepped into Holy Mountain.