The Narrow Gate: A Supernatural Thriller (Solom Book 2)

by Scott Nicholson

  “‘Probably’?”

  He flicked the beam vaguely to his right. “Sure, honey. Up there. We’ll come to that creek soon, and then we can decide whether to follow it down to the river or stick with the trail.”

  It was the first time he’d hinted that any decision would be mutual. That should have given her a cheap glow of victory, but it actually made her more nervous than she wanted to admit. She looked behind her, hoping to recognize the trail from their earlier passage, but all she could see were hickory and oak trees, which stood like witches with multiple deranged arms.

  “Let’s hurry,” she said. “I’m getting cold.”

  The colorful nylon biking outfits gave a pleasant squeeze to the physique, but they were designed to let the skin breathe so sweat could dry. Breathing worked both ways, though, and the soft wind that came on with dusk made intimate entry through the material.

  “I think I remember this stand of pines,” her husband said. He gripped the pen light against one of the handlebars as he walked, so the circle of light bobbed ahead of them like on one of those “Follow the bouncing ball” sing-a-long songs on television. Carolyn thought the perfect tune for their situation would be AC/DC’s “Highway To Hell.”

  It was maybe a minute later, though time was rapidly losing its meaning during the interminable trek, that Carolyn heard the sounds behind her. At first she assumed they were the echo of her footsteps, or maybe a whisper generated from the bike’s sprockets. She breathed lightly through her mouth, or as lightly as she could, given the fact that she was bone tired, a little bit pissed, and more than a little scared. Leaves rustled. Something was moving, larger than squirrel-sized, churning up dead loam and breaking branches.

  She edged her bike closer to Elliott’s until her front tire hit his rear.

  “Jesus, Carolyn. Are you trying to run me down?”

  “I heard something.”

  “I hear lots of somethings. Didn’t you read the guidebook? The Southern Appalachians are home to a number of nocturnal creatures. Don’t worry, all of the large predators are extinct, thanks to European settlers. Ergo, nothing to fear.”

  “Can we stop and listen for a minute?”

  “Every minute we stop is another minute we’re lost.”

  “I thought we weren’t lost.”

  “We’re not. We’re just reorienting with our intended destination.”

  “Try the cell phone again?”

  “No bars. Signal’s deader than Bobby Kennedy.”

  Ten minutes later and they reached the creek. The gurgling of the water and the cold, moist air alerted them to its presence before they blundered into it, because the pen light’s beam had begun to fade. Carolyn welcomed the discovery not because it was the first definite landmark—if, in fact, it was the same creek as they’d crossed earlier—but because the white noise of the rushing water masked the sounds of the footsteps that followed their tracks a short distance behind.

  “The creek, just like I said.” Elliott pointed the light into Carolyn’s face. It was barely bright enough to make her squint. “The question is, do we follow the water or stick with the trail?”

  Carolyn was tempted to remark that he was finally asking her opinion, now that the situation had reached the south side of hopeless. Instead, she allowed him to retain a sliver of his pride. After all, there would be a later, and the politics of marriage, just like the politics of a republic, were constantly swinging from one party to another. And the pendulum was going to be weighted to her side big time for the rest of the vacation.

  People didn’t wander off and die in the Appalachian Mountains. There was just too much development. Maybe in Yellowstone, where grizzly bears still roamed, or the Arctic Wildlife Refuge with its sudden snow storms and sub-zero temperatures. Here, the worst that could happen was a miserable night in the woods, with granola bars for supper and a surly husband to endure.

  Except something had been following them. No matter what Elliott said.

  “We shouldn’t trace the creek,” she said. “It looks like the rhododendron get thick down there, and all those rocks are probably slippery. One of us might fall and break an ankle, then we’d be in real trouble.”

  “Good point.”

  Another blow for girl power, but Carolyn didn’t think the creek was that dangerous. She was afraid she wouldn’t be able to hear the footsteps over the rushing water. “Why don’t we leave the bikes here? We can’t ride them, and they’re slowing us down.”

  “We paid a deposit.”

  “We can come back and get them tomorrow, once we figure out where we are.”

  “I know where we are. I’m an engineer, remember?”

  “Ergo.” Carolyn didn’t mean for the response to sound so bitter, but she was cold, her rump was sore from the ten-speed’s narrow seat, her calves ached, and her face and arms were scratched by branches. “In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t a problem you can solve with quadratic equations.”

  Elliott’s widened eyes doubly reflected the pen light, as if she had slapped his face. She savored the victory for a mere second and decided to finish the coup. She grabbed the light from his hand and swept the beam against the surrounding trees and underbrush, like Luke Skywalker slashing down Empire storm troopers.

  “I heard something out there following us, and I’m good and goddamned scared.” She hadn’t used two expletives in the same conversation since her days at Brown, and it gave her a sense of what the feminists called “empowerment.” It was frightening. She would give up power for security any day. But she had a feeling she needed the adrenaline and anger if she was going to get them out of this mess.

  “Okay, okay, calm down,” Elliott said, and the patronizing tone was suppressed but audible. “You’re right. We should leave the bikes and stick with the trail. Let’s cross here and hide the bikes in that thicket, then keep walking.”

  “Fine.” She trembled, and she didn’t know whether it was from the chill mist of the creek or her anxiety. She held the light while Elliott guided his damaged bike through the water, carefully choosing his steps on the mossy stones so his shoes would stay dry. He slogged through the mushy black mud of the opposite bank and stood above her, lost in the dark web of wood and vines.

  “Come on, Carolyn. I can’t see anything.”

  She took one look behind her, half expecting to see a crazed black bear or a red wolf or even a mountain lion, then navigated the rocks and headed up the embankment. She slipped once, going to one knee in the lizard-smelling mud, but Elliott grabbed her upper arm and tugged her to solid ground. Then he dragged the bike up and wheeled it into the bushes.

  “Do you want to have a snack?” he asked. “An energy bar or something?”

  “I want to get out of here.”

  “Let’s look at the map one more time.”

  Carolyn nodded and gave the pen light back to her husband. She recognized that she had literally and figuratively passed the torch, but she didn’t care. Truth be told, she was nearly in tears. So much for her run as Margaret Thatcher or the Republican Hillary Clinton.

  They moved a little away from the water and gathered around the pen light as if it were a battery-powered campfire. Somewhere above them, the moon had risen, but its reassuring glow was filtered into teasing gauze by the treetops. Elliott was studying the map when Carolyn heard the scrape and rustle of leaves.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked, her heart a wooden knot in her chest.

  “Just the wind. Or maybe a raccoon.”

  “The wind’s not blowing. And raccoons don’t get that big.” Carolyn was struck by the image of a mutant, man-sized raccoon, reared up on its hind legs, crazed yellow eyes blazing from a bandit mask. The image should have made her chuckle, at least on the inside. Instead, the tension increased its grip on her internal organs. And, goddamn, she suddenly needed to pee.

  She didn’t relish peeling down her nylon shorts and squatting in the darkness, further exposing herself to whatever was out th
ere.

  “Okay, if we’re right here and can make three miles an hour, we should reach the main road by eleven o’clock. Then we can find a house and call for a cab or something.”

  The idea of walking up on a stranger’s porch and knocking was almost as scary as the thing that was or wasn’t following them. “I don’t think they have cabs out here.”

  “Maybe the police. Or the Happy Hollow office.”

  Elliott must be scared, too. Otherwise, he’d never admit to others that he’d made a mistake. Carolyn’s knowledge of his failure was one thing, he could gloss that over in the coming week and eventually have her believe getting lost had somehow been her fault.

  But here he was ready to tell the local sheriff’s department or the rental cabin management that he’d wandered off with no respect for the wilderness, that his modern-day James Fennimore Cooper act had gone bust, that a Yankee engineer with a wristwatch calculator couldn’t navigate the ancient hills. Carolyn couldn’t wait, even if it meant he’d be pissy until they made it back to White Plains.

  Mostly, she couldn’t wait to see a street light.

  Because the noise was back, closer, to the right now.

  “You heard that?”

  “No.” He said it so firmly it sounded like self-denial.

  “It’s closer.”

  His face contorted in the dying orange orb of light. “Listen, Carolyn. This is the twenty-first century, not the goddamned ‘Blair Witch Project.’ In real life, people don’t get stalked by cannibalistic hillbillies or eaten by wild animals. And, last I heard, aliens don’t have secret landing sites in the Appalachians. That’s the Southwest desert, remember? Ergo, there is nothing following us and I’m trying to solve this little problem you created and get us safely back to civilization.”

  Leaves rustled ten feet ahead of them, behind a gnarled evergreen. Despite herself, Carolyn moved closer to Elliott and clung to his arm. He stiffened and smirked.

  “I’ll get us out of here,” he said. “Have I ever let you—”

  The pen light died and darkness rushed in like water flooding a ruptured bathysphere. It was almost as if the light warded off the other sounds of the night, because the still air was filled with chirring, scratching, and creaking. Beneath those came the ragged whisper of breathing.

  Carolyn’s eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight just in time to see a large black shadow hover beyond Elliott, then her husband was ripped from her grasp. He gave a wet gurgle, as if a freshet had erupted between the granite stones of his face. One of his legs flailed out and struck her kneecap, and he gave a bleat of pain. Drops of liquid spattered on Carolyn and she screamed.

  The air stirred above her head and she looked up to see a curved and dripping grin of metal catch the distant eye of the moon. The grin descended and bit with a meaty thunk, and all Carolyn could think was that the meat must have been her husband, that arrogant engineer with a fondness for college football, the Bush clan, plasma television, and pharmaceutical stocks.

  The scream jumped the wires from her brain to the ganglia low in her spinal cord, a place encoded during the Paleozoic Era when flight meant survival and the higher thinking processes shut their useless yammerings.

  She ran blindly, branches tearing at her hair, heedless of the trail’s direction. The moist hacking continued behind her, but she scarcely heard, because her eardrums protected her high-order brain. She was an animal, scrambling through the leaves, guided by instinct as she ducked under branches and dodged between scaly oaks and beech.

  She couldn’t see but she didn’t need to see, because her eyes were jiggling orbs of dead weight in her skull and a more primitive sight led her onward. All knowledge was in her skin, mind given over to flesh, she was aware of nothing but the roar of wind through her throat and the pulse in her temples and the dark sharp thing at her back and—

  She didn’t see the maple with the low branch, because her eyes shut down, but she did see the bright yellow and green sparks that exploded like fireworks on the movie screen of her forehead.

  Carolyn was unconscious as the goats gathered around her, and her useless, high-order brain stayed mercifully absent as her true-blue Republican blood leaked into the land of legends.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The general store was crowded with a mix of locals and tourists. Odus, his ball cap tipped low and a toothpick between his teeth, stood by the sandwich counter and waited as Sarah rang up the purchases of a chubby boy in too-tight nylon biking shorts and tank top. The customer’s shoulders were pink and peeling, the sign of a spoiled city boy getting too much sun on vacation.

  The boy’s dad stood beside him in a red sweat suit that was meant to portray athleticism, but instead gave the impression of a sausage that was about to bust out of its skin. Sarah bagged the boy’s mound of candy bars, pork rinds, and lollipops.

  A bluegrass band was tuning up in the park across the road. A Solom community group bought four acres along the river that was now cleared and grassed, with a band shell at one end. From early summer until the end of October, weekly shows were held in the park. The music was either bluegrass or traditional old-timey, though the general store hosted occasional debates about the difference between the two labels. Odus plucked some mandolin himself, and even sat in on some local recording sessions, but he didn’t like performing in front of people.

  Sarah looked away from the register and frowned at him. He gave a small nod that said, “We need to talk after you take care of business.”

  Sarah paid rapt attention to the customers, smiling as if she appreciated them for more than just their money. A six-pack of Mountain Dew, two cups of overpriced coffee, a microwave burrito, a honey bun, a bottle of sun block, a rustic bird house, a basket made of entwined jack vine, a stack of Doc Watson CD’s, and two bags of Twizzlers changed hands before Sarah got a break. She picked up a dusting cloth, came to the sandwich counter, and began wiping down the dewy glass.

  “You had me worried,” he said.

  “Don’t waste a good worry on me.”

  Normally Odus wouldn’t. Sarah Jeffers was tougher than beef jerky and had the backbone of a mountain lion. But toughness and spine didn’t matter when you were standing up against something that ought not be. Odus ground the end of his toothpick to splinters as he spoke around it. “I seen him.”

  “Seen who?” Sarah said, suddenly taking a great interest in the chub of gray liverwurst. Odus didn’t see how anybody could eat that stuff. Bologna was okay, but he preferred good and honest meat, like ham, that looked the way it did when it came from the animal.

  “We both know who,” he said.

  A tan, Florida-thin blond approached the cash register, pigtails tied with pink ribbons. She wore a T-shirt that read “THIS DOG DON’T HUNT.” In her hands were a gaudy dried flower arrangement and a miniature wooden church, no doubt decorations for a seasonal second home. Sarah’s face relaxed in relief as she went to ring up the sale.

  “Are you the storyteller?” a voice behind him asked.

  He turned and faced a man wearing sunglasses who held a cassette tape as if filming a commercial. Odus was on the cover, dressed in his folksy garb of denim overalls and checked flannel shirt. He’d even borrowed a ragged-edged straw hat for the photo because the university woman who recorded it said the package needed what she called a “hook.” Odus didn’t know a damned thing about marketing, but he knew stories from eight generations back.

  The Hampton family had passed along the Jack tales, in which Jack usually put one over on the old King. “Jack and the Beanstalk” was the best-known of the stories, but that one didn’t have a king in it. The university woman said they were parables in which the Scots-Irish who settled the Southern Appalachians were able to get proxy revenge on their English oppressors. Odus didn’t feel particularly oppressed by anybody in England, except maybe when Princess Diana got all that attention for getting killed, but he figured the university woman was a lot smarter than he was about such things.


  “I did some telling on that one,” Odus said. The tape was called “The Mouth of the Mountain.”

  “So you’re a celebrity.” The man was eating a Nutty Buddy ice cream cone and a string of white melt rolled down the back of his hand. He licked it up.

  “Not really. I just talked. The woman who made the tape did all the work.” Odus looked over at Sarah, who was busy taking money for a gee haw whimmy-diddle, a folk toy that basically consisted of three sticks and a tiny nail. Retail value: $6.99 plus tax.

  “Do you tell them in public? We’re going to be up for two weeks and would love to hear some authentic Appalachian stories.”

  “They ain’t authentic,” Odus said. “They’re all lies.”

  The man laughed, ejecting a tiny peanut crumble that arced to the floor at Odus’s feet. “That’s good. I’m buying this one, and I’m sure I’ll be pleased. If you’re not holding any performances, can I hire you to come down and tell some stories around the campfire in our backyard?”

  Sweat pooled in Odus’s armpits. He didn’t mind telling the stories to family or his few close friends, and he could even put up with talking them into a microphone, but the idea of spinning out some Jack yarns while a bunch of tourists yucked it up and sipped martinis was more than he could stand. “I don’t do tellings in a crowd,” Odus said.

  “This won’t be a crowd. Just us and the neighbors. Maybe ten people.”

  “Ten’s a crowd.”

  The man looked at the tape. “Fifteen dollars for this, huh? I’ll pay a hundred dollars for one hour.”

  Odus thought of the wallet in his back pocket, the leather folds so bare a fiddleback spider wouldn’t hide in them. A hundred bucks would buy a case of decent whiskey, and decent whiskey would maybe drown out those dreams of the cheese-faced man in the black hat. From the park, the sounds of the string band blared from the PA speakers. “Fox on the Run,” complete with three-part harmony.

  The man was mouthing the waffle cone now, running his thick, pink tongue around the cone’s rim.

  “I’ll have to think on it a spell.”