The Summoning

by Bentley Little

  "Call!" her father ordered as he ran down the hallway, and she hurried to obey. Her mother was crying, gathering up photos and mementoes, shoving them into her oversize jewelry box.

  Sue sped out of the bedroom, down the hall, into the kitchen. She found the list of emergency numbers next to the phone and quickly dialed the Rio Verde Volunteer Fire Department. Chief Simmons answered, "Fire station," he said sleepily.

  "There's a fire on our front lawn!" She was practically shouting into the phone, her words all running together. She forced herself to slow down. Behind her, she heard bare feet running across open floor. Her mother, brother, and grandmother. "There's a big fire on our front lawn. My name's Sue Wing. I'm at ten-oh-one East Shadowbluff." : :,

  "East Shadowbluff?" The captain was Instantly wide awake .....

  "Yes."

  "We'll be right there."

  By the time she ran outside, where her mother, her grandmother, and John were standing on the stoop---her mother desperately clutching the overstuffed jewelry box--she could already hear the sirens. Her father had turned on the hose and was attempting to spray the fire at the foot of the smaller tree, but the water seemed to be having no effect. They had not gotten to the blaze in time. It was spreading, burning out of control.

  Sue caught her grandmother's eye. The old woman was tightly holding on to John's hand. He was staring at the fire, the colors of the flames reflected on his face, and he was smiling.

  Influenced.

  Her grandmother nodded once at Sue, turned her attention back toward the blaze. She understood. The fire had been deliberately set. The cup hugirngsi wanted to destroy the willow trees.

  Sue ran back into the house to grab some pots and pitchers they could fill with water.

  The fire truck arrived a few moments later. The flames, by this time, were a high as a man and had blackened the first six feet or so of each trunk. Individual branches had also caught on fire and looked like drooping sparklers, the thin willow leaves igniting quickly and in sequence. The fire lit up a full half of the block, and in its glow Sue could see their neighbors standing in front of their own houses, watching, waiting--not volunteering to help.

  There was no hydrant nearby, Sue realized as two fire men jumped off the back of the truck, pulling a large canvas hose.

  "Stand backt" one of the men ordered. She and her father moved back onto the porch with the rest of the family. Another man ran around the side of the truck, flipped some levers, pushed some buttons, and a powerful jet of water shot out of the hose held by the other two men, drenching the tree on the left and almost instantly dousing the fire.

  Three minutes later, both fires were completely out, and the hose was shut off.

  A man walked toward them across the scorched grass, and she recognized Mr. Buford from the burger stand. She and her father met him halfway.

  "Thank you!" her father said, taking the fireman's hand and pumping it" Thank you very much for putting out fire!"

  Mr. Buford smiled, embarrassed. "That's what we're here for."

  "Thank you!" :

  "Thank you. This is the first time we've gotten a chance to try this new pump outside of practice." He looked from her father to the rest of the family. "Are you all okay? "We're free," Sue said.

  "Thanks."

  Chief Simmons walked over. Sue was suddenly embarrassed to be outside and in her pajamas. Neighbors were coming out now, coming by to survey the damage. She saw curiosity on the faces, interest. But no sympathy.

  The chief took off his hat, wiped his forehead. "Do you have any idea who might have done this?"

  Sue shook her head.

  "This was arson, you know."

  She nodded. "I know."

  "But you don't know who did it? You can't think of anyone who would want to do something like this?"

  The cup hugirngsi, she wanted to say, but she sensed that this was neither the time nor place to bring that up. One look toward her grandmother confirmed the rightness of her decision. "I don't know," she said.

  "We'll come back in the morning, go over everything, see what we can discover. We're only volunteer, but we're not bad at investigating arson, and we may be able to come up with something. So don't walk out here or touch anything until we go over it first, okay?"

  She nodded.

  "That goes for your neighbors too."

  "No one will touch anything."

  "We'll fill out a full report in the morning, too, Your father will have to sign it."

  "Then tell him, not me."

  The chief looked embarrassed. "I just thought--" "I understand English," her father said, offended. "I'm sorry," Chief Simmons said.

  "That okay," her father said.

  Sue nodded to the chief, to Mr. Buford, left them talking to her father, and walked back toward the porch. Her mother was still clutching the jewelry box, as though she had not yet realized the fire was out and the danger was over, and her grandmother was still holding tightly on to John's hand John was staring dejectedly toward where the fire had been. She realized that he had not spoken, had not uttered a single word, since he had come outside. Sue moved to her grandmother.

  "That was close," she said.

  Her grandmother nodded, did not look at her. "Yes," she said. Her voice was flat, completely devoid of emotion. "Yes, it was."

  Huell Hinkley had never liked working the lot at night. It wasn't because business was slow at that time, though it was. It wasn't because he would rather be home with Ellie, though he would.

  It was because he could never be certain that someone wasn't hiding behind one of the cars.

  It was a weird phobia, and not one that should have affected a grown man, but there it was. Although he would never admit it to a living soul, not even to Ellie, that was why he asked Steve to stop by on the nights he worked late. He pretended it was for the company, claiming that he got lonely working at night by himself with no one to talk to, but the truth was that he was scared.

  In the daytime, there was no problem. He was king of the car lot. He could be working alone, the whole street could be empty, the whole damn town could be abandoned, and he wouldn't give a rat's ass. But at night it was a different story. At night, he remained a prisoner on the steps of the office, looking over the shiny metal roofs and hoods, peeking through the windshields and windows trying to detect signs of movemenL He would come down from the steps if a browser came by, using the o1> porumity to look behind whatever vehicles had seemed suspicious to him that evening, and he would do the same thing if Steve stopped by, but otherwise he would remain in the office or on the steps, waiting, worrying.

  Hinkley stood on the steps now, wondering if someone had crept between the Nova and the Impala on the north east corner of the lot while he'd been on the phone a few minutes ago. He stared at the two cars, at the two cars immediately in front of them, but saw nothing, no shadows no movement.

  Did a vampire even have a shadow?

  That was what he was worried about. A vampire. The vague fears he'd previously held had coalesced into concrete form within the past week, and had made these past couple of nights a living hell. Once again, he cursed Tanner for making him work evenings.

  He glanced to his left, toward the desert. Past the buildings, the sand was purple with dusk, and those sections of hill and butte which had been so clear and so clearly defined only moments before were now little more than hulking amorphous shapes against the darkening sky.

  The vampire could be anywhere, He realized. In one of the canyons, in the arroyo, by the river. Behind one of the cars. There was a honk from the street, and he jumped, nearly slipping off the step.

  "Popl"

  He looked up to see Steve sticking his head out of a police cruiser parked in the middle of the street. "You scared the shit out of me!" he yelled.

  "Sorry!" Steve grinned. "I just came by to tell you that I can't stop in tonight! Too many things going on! I'll try to swing by again, though, a little later!"

  Hinkley nodd
ed, smiled, and waved, his stomach sinking as his son drove off. His heart was still pounding, and he tried to catch his breath as he scanned the car lot. He had a bad feeling about tonight.

  Turning, he walked up the last two steps into the office and closed the door. He switched on the portable black and-white TV on the desk, and sat there, one eye on the

  TV, one on the lot, nervously twisting the jade ring on his right pinkie .... Immediately after stepping outside onto Miss Atwood's porch, Emily knew that it had been a mistake to walk rather than drive.

  The night air was freezing, more like December than October, but it was not the cold that convinced her she had made a mistake--it was something else, a feeling in the air, a sense that this night was different from others. She had never believed in ESP or pre monitions or any of that psychic stuff, but this was not like a vision. It was something she knew, something she felt deep in her gut, and it frightened her.

  She buttoned her jacket against the cold and took her daughter's hand.

  "Come on," she said, "it's freezing. We'd better get home."

  Pam turned around and waved to Miss Atwood through the window. The piano teacher waved back.

  They lived only three blocks from Miss Atwood, but tonight those three blocks seemed like three miles to Emily. She hurried her daughter along the cracked side walk toward home. l ""Miss Atwood said that I'm good enough to start in the advanced book next week," Pam said. Emily, smiled, tried to appear interested.

  "That's great." Something was definitely the matter. The night was cold, but it was not windy. She could hear wind, however, and water, and the sounds seemed to come from all around them, not from any particular direction. There was something threatening and unnatural about the combined noises, and she wanted to run down the sidewalk, across the street, and around the block all the way home, locking the door behind her and pulling all the curtains. It was only her own high heels and Pam's presence that kept her from doing so.

  Pam continued to chatter on about her piano lesson, going aver mistakes she'd made, difficulties she'd mastered, things her teacher had said, but Emily paid attention to none of it. Her eyes were on the night around them, on the houses that looked abandoned, on the saguaros that looked like people, on the bushes that looked like animals. Nothing seemed right tonight, nothing seemed normal. Her perceptions had been altered, heightened, and everywhere she glanced there was danger. The sounds of wind and water increased in intensity. Then she saw it.

  At the end of the block, standing unmoving beneath a weak streetlight, was a large overweight man.

  She stopped walking, holding tightly to her daughter's hand. Pam gasped at the force with which her mother held on to her and stopped as well. She'd been talking about how she was looking forward to the advanced piano book because it had more popular songs, but she stopped talking, as she followed her mother's gaze.

  "Mom?" she said, her voice frightened.

  Emily motioned for her daughter to be quiet. She took a tentative step forward, waiting to see if the figure moved, but the overweight man remained still. She'd been hoping he would step more fully into the light, that she would be able to reassure herself that nothing out of the ordinary was happening here, but her own chills and Pam's voice told her that was not the case. She stared at the unmoving silhouette at the end of the block. Something about the form was familiar but she found that despite the familiarity she was frightened.

  "It's Elvis," Pare said softly. What?"

  : It's Elvis."

  So it was. Emily's heart leaped in her chest. She recognized the figure now. Elvis. Elvis Aaron Presley. The King. The King of Rock and Roll.

  They stood stock-still, Emily holding tightly to her daughter's hand.

  Between here and the corner, the side walk was a chiaroscuro mosaic, the square sections of cement divided into what looked like huge black-and-white tiles, lightened by porch lights and street lamps, darkened by shadows and night.

  She had dreamed of meeting Elvis for most of her life, had faithfully bought every Enquirer and Star that proclaimed Elvis alive, praying it was true, that he had gone into hiding, become part of the federal witness protection program, that he really had been spotted eating at Burger King.

  But she knew now, with that same gut certainty that had earlier told her this night was dangerous, that Elvis was dead and had been since

  1977."

  And that he was standing at the end of the block.

  The figure turned, faced them, and now she could see the white suit, the black hair, the sideburns.

  "Morn," Pare said, and there was terror in her voice. "Let's get out of here."

  Elvis started toward them, moving through the shadows and light, a labored lumber that would have been comical were it not so frighteningly odd.

  "Mom!"

  The King lurched toward them, grinning at Pam.

  "No!" Emily screamed, jerking her daughter by the hand.

  And then Elvis was upon them.

  Angelina worked slowly but with purpose. There was no hurry. Her sons, David and Neal, were safely within the padlocked storage shed and there was no way they were going to get out.

  She used the wire cutters to snip the strands of clothes line that stretched across the small backyard. Mr. Wheeler was right. If she was ever to get into heaven and save her soul from the eternal torment of hell, she had to abide by the word of God.

  And, according to the Bible, if her sons disobeyed her, they were to be put to death. The Lord did not tolerate disrespect to parents.

  She heard David crying within the shed, heard Neal yelling, pounding on the door in a desperate effort to get out. She smiled to herself as she snipped the last strand of clothesline and let it fall to the dirt.

  She'd called Wheeler this afternoon and told him of her decision to put her sons to death for their transgressions, for David's refusal to brush his teeth after dinner and Neal's unwillingness to make his bed, but the pastor had suggested that she offer her children to the Savior as a sacrifice and let Him decide on their punishment. Her heart had swelled when she'd heard those words. The idea that the Lord Jesus Christ would deign to visit her humble trailer filled her with jubilation, and after she'd locked her sons in the storage shed, she'd set about cleaning the inside of the trailer and sprucing up the surrounding yard.

  She threw away everything that belonged to her children, and that made the cleaning much easier.

  Now it was night, and she knew that it was time to pre pare her sacrifice to the Lord.

  She went back inside, took a knife from the drawer in the kitchen, brought along the twine she'd purchased earlier in the day, and walked out to the storage shed. Care fully, not speaking, she unlocked the storage shed door and opened it a crack. As she'd expected, Neal tried to make a run for it, tried to push the door open and flee, but she shoved the knife through the crack, catching him in the cheek. He fell down, screaming, holding his face.

  She grabbed David's arm, pulled him out and shut the door, locking it again.

  David tried to twist his arm, pull out of her grasp, but she sliced off a chunk of his thigh, the knife easily shaving off a thin piece of skin and muscle, and he went limp in her arms. The blood was flowing, fairly pouring from the wound, but she ignored it and dragged her son across the small backyard.

  She tied him to the cross pole of the clothesline, leaving his naked, bleeding body in a reverent position of crucifixion. For good measure, she wrapped some twine around his testicles and tied it. She did the same to Neal on the other clothesline pole. She went back inside, took a shower, put on her pajamas, and crawled into bed to watch an old rerun of The Bob Newhart Show.

  Outside, David was silent, but Neal continued to howl well into the night.

  She turned off the TV and fell asleep to the music of his screams.

  She dreamed of Jesus, and in the morning both of her boys were gone.

  Emily looked from Robert to Woods and back again. "Elvis killed my daughter."


  "The tape is rolling. Tell us again exactly what happened." Robert smiled sympathetically and handed her a Styrofoam cup of coffee. A long time ago he had dated Emily. In those days, before his marriage to Julie, he had even hall thought that he and Emily would marry, although he could not imagine himself married to the woman now seated before him. Many times, over the years, he had thought of her, of their short time together, and he wondered if she, too, remembered those old days, or if her time with him had just blurred into a hazy, indistinct past. He wondered what it would have been like had they married. Would he look older now? Would she look younger?

  That was what he hated most about living in a small town--the past was always intruding. You could never get a clean start if your history was a part of your present.

  Emily sipped the coffee, looked up. Her voice was surprisingly calm, eerily devoid of emotion. "Elvis Presley killed Pam. We were walking home from her piano lesson, and we saw him waiting under a streetlight at the corner of Ocotillo and Indian Hill. Pam recognized him first.

  Then he ran toward us, and I thought he was going to tackle us both, but I just felt a... a rush of air, and then both of them were gone."

  "Elvis and Pare? ....... "Yes." Emily leaned forward in her chair, and around her neck Robert saw a gold chain and a square of green. A jade pendant.

  He stared at the chain around her neck. "May I see that?" he asked.

  She frowned, fingering the necklace nervously. "This?

  What for? Pam gave that to me last Christmas." "Humor me."

  She unhooked the necklace, handed it to him.

  "What did Elvis look like?" Woods asked. "Did he look like he was dead? Did he look like a ghost? Do you think it might have been an Elvis impersonator, someone dressed up to look like--"