Lord of the Mountain

by William Ollie

“You are!”

  “Who is your Master?”

  “You are!”

  “Who holds your soul?”

  “He does!” they all cried out as one, all pointing to the satanic statue.

  “Will you serve him?”

  “We will!”

  “Forever?”

  “Forever!”

  Pitch pointed to the ground. “On your knees!” he said.

  Vonda and Earl stood frozen, eyes wide, mouths agape as everyone fell to the floor but them, gasping and moaning and flailing their arms.

  Pitch, hands held high above his head, looked up at the glowering statue.

  “Dark Master, we come to you at the appointed time! To honor you! Prince of Darkness, Ruler of Night, let us renew our pact! Oh great and powerful Master, we embrace you as our one and only god! We worship you! We live for you, and will die at your beckoning! Guide us! Protect us from harm! Slay our enemies and give us more! Slay them and give us all! And when we have all, GIVE US MOREEEEE!”

  Pitch ran around the stage like a bible-thumping Baptist preacher, while down below, his congregation remained on their knees, praying and shouting out pledges of deep and everlasting devotion.

  Earl was trapped in a dark fog, and had been since taking a seat in Pitch’s library. He remembered the eyes, the words floating around the room and the trip upstairs to the dining hall. The disgusting things Pitch, Fletcher and Teddy Levay revealed were like bloody epitaphs scraped across his brain. But he could not speak, could not react. All he could do was sit and listen, and perform like a circus monkey when Pitch told him to.

  The trip into the basement was horrific, each shuffling step sending a shuddering jolt of panic rippling though him. He did not want to continue, did not want to see what waited at the bottom of the stairs. But as much as he wanted to grab Vonda and turn back, he couldn’t. His body simply would not obey him.

  Flames crackled and popped.

  Black smoke drifted toward the ceiling as Earl stood between Vonda and Frannie Mitchell, looking up at the altar, at a leering granite statue that seemed to be staring back at him, as Pitch’s words echoed through the air. Pitch’s image, the statue, the child; everything Earl looked upon shimmered and wavered as if being reflected on water, or seen through a thick wall of searing flames.

  Earl wondered if this was what Hell looked like.

  Pitch smiled and laid a hand across the child’s forehead, as a frigid breeze prickled the back of Earl’s neck, the result of a cold wind that blew through the basement; the air, so thick and heavy now that he could hardly breathe. He turned, watching in horror as a writhing black mass floated across the huge, cavernous hall, a myriad of twisting and swirling shapes swallowing the torchlight as they drifted toward him.

  He looked back at the statue, and an icy hand gripped his shoulder. Something brushed against his leg and he yelped. He looked behind him but nothing was there. A pebble of fear dropped into his heart, sending out rippling waves of panic that clutched his heart and stained his soul, until the once fearless policeman was nothing but a quivering sack of skin and bones, waiting for the darkness to claim him, while the murmuring figures remained on their knees, and Vonda smiled up at the stage.

  Earl wondered what Pitch had done to her.

  Pitch grabbed a jeweled knife from the side of the altar, and raised the curved blade into the air. “This life I give to thee!” he cried out, as the black, ululating mass enveloped the crowd and the torches sputtered and died, leaving the basement in total darkness, screams echoing throughout the cavernous hall as a brilliant flash of blue light exploded like a gigantic photographer’s flash pod directly over the kneeling sycophants, sending blinding white streaks across the ceiling as the black mass lifted, revealing dark shapes that floated and quivered and hovered above the crowd: fluttering wings and snarling dogs, tentacles and tangled nests of serpents, writhing and squirming until the shapes melded together forming the leering face of the demon.

  “DARK MASTERRRR!” Pitch cried out, and then buried the blade in the screaming child’s chest and sawed upward, blood that gushed from the wound running down the altar as the little boy’s body bucked and heaved; the billowing cloud swirling, while Pitch, a human monster who had made a deal with a creature as old as time itself, reached into the gaping wound, prying and pulling, tugging and ripping, until a still-beating heart was visible in his hand, until that bloody organ was held high above his head, and his eyes rose up to the ceiling, as he shouted, “FOR YOUUU!”

  Evie Miller screamed.

  “God help us!” she cried out, and Pitch leapt from the stage, sprinting to the kneeling woman and snatching the hood from her head. Like a deranged faith healer, he spread a hand across Evie’s forehead, held the heart above her and let the bleeding heart drip, shoving her head back until her eyes met his, blood beginning to trickle from her nose as her head vibrated. Screams and hollers and gibbered, nonsensical words spilled rapid-fire from her mouth, while her arms flailed and her body convulsed, and dark red blood streamed from her ears, her eyes and her nose.

  “This is how God will help you!” Pitch screamed, and Evie Miller’s head exploded, spraying blood and brains and bits of bone through the cold, dank air, while Pitch, who dropped Evie twitching to the ground, turned to the stunned sheriff, grabbed a handful of shirt and pulled him close, looked him dead in the eye and snarled, “On your knees!”

  And Earl fell to the floor, tears streaming down his face, as Pitch said, “Don’t you ever cross me, Earl Peters. Don’t you even think about it! Ever!”

  “I… I won’t.”

  “You will never cross me!”

  “No.”

  “Never!”

  “Never.”

  “Say it!” Pitch screamed at the big policeman. “I will never betray you, Father!”

  And Earl cried out in anguish, “I will never betray you, Father!”

  “Again!”

  “I will never betray you, Father!”

  “Again!”

  “I WILL NEVER BETRAY YOU, FATHER!” he shrieked, hands clutching his face as Pitch, grinning, put a foot in the sobbing policeman’s chest, shoved him to the ground, and said, “Welcome to Hell, Big Earl!”

  * * *

  The implications were staggering. Arleta Briscomb was involved in this up to her bushy black eyebrows. And if she was, that meant she had murdered her own seven-year-old son, and probably had poisoned her husband like so many throughout the years had jokingly suggested. And what did that mean; that a pack of hillbilly Devil worshippers were running around the mountainside, stealing children every thirteen years? Or were they taking them from all over the state and had finally decided it was safe to hit here again? Or was she involved with some sick, perverted son of a bitch masquerading as an upstanding member of the community?

  “Thirteen years ago, her boy disappeared… all of a sudden Arleta buys this piece of land… Don’t nobody know where the money came from.”

  And where was she now? She could be anywhere: in a cave on the mountain behind her house, or in a shack two counties away. Or up at that mansion with Judge Croft, the mayor and the town’s filthy rich Dutch uncle… and Earl.

  Alvie Ross glanced at his watch. It was eleven-fifteen. He had to get up Seeker’s Mountain. He had to talk to Earl. He pulled onto State Road 21 and headed back to town, foot on the floor, pedal to metal as he passed houses and farms, and the cutoff to Sid Haines coal tipple, racing hell-bound into the night, until he came to the split that would take him up the mountain, and saw Arleta Briscomb’s car pass by headed toward the Main Street Bridge. He slowed and swerved onto the roadway, transmission whining as he popped the clutch and shifted gears, and once again, floored it, finally catching up to Arleta and Caleb near the spot where Marty Donlan’s Model T had plunged off the embankment. He moved into the oncoming lane in front of Arleta, and slammed on his brakes, tires screeching and smoking as the police car fishtailed to a sideways stop in the middle of the bridge, and Alvi
e Ross jumped out of the car, pistol drawn as he hurried over to Arleta.

  “What in the god damn hell do you think you’re doin’?” she screamed out her window as Alvie Ross reached in and grabbed a fistful of her coarse, wiry hair.

  “Where’s Leonard Hopkins?”

  “Ow, you hillbilly cocksucker! I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!”

  Caleb laughed and Alvie Ross released Arleta. He walked around the front of the car, to the right front fender. Standing by the spot-mirror, he swung the pistol butt, showering broken glass onto Caleb and his mother. He reached through the windshield and grabbed Caleb by his jacket, pulled him screaming halfway out of the car, and crammed the barrel of his revolver into Caleb’s mouth.

  “One more time,” he said. “Where’s Leonard?”

  “Fuck you, you son of a bitch!” Arleta, still screaming, shook a fist at Alvie Ross, and Alvie Ross cocked the hammer back.

  “Mah…mah,” Caleb gasped around the barrel.

  “Don’t do it!” Arleta cried out.

  “Where is he?”

  “Up at the mansion! He’s up at Pitch Place!”

  Alvie Ross eased the hammer back into place, and Arleta cackled, “Ain’t gonna do you no good, you stupid cocksucker. We done gutted him like a fish!”

  Alvie Ross let go of Caleb and pulled the trigger, Arleta’s screams echoing through the night as Caleb’s head jerked backwards, and blood, bone and bits of brain sprayed the brown leather seats he fell upon.

  “Nooo!” she cried out. “You murderin’ bastard!”

  Headlights appeared as a car pulled onto the Main Street Bridge, and Alvie Ross raised a hand to shield his eyes. Then he walked back around the front of the car, stuck his gun against the screaming woman’s head, and blew it apart.

  Teddy Levay pulled up to the police car, stopped and killed the engine, and he and Judge Croft got out of the front seat. Vonda opened the rear door. Tugging Earl’s arm, she pulled until he slid across the seat, and the two of them stepped onto the asphalt. Another car drove onto the deep end of the bridge, its engine purring as it pulled slowly forward, and then stopped behind Levay’s Model T.

  “God damn, Alvie Ross,” Levay called out. “What’s going on here?”

  Alvie Ross raised his arm, sweeping the pistol back and forth between Croft and Levay. “I know what y’all did, Teddy.”

  Croft took a step forward. “The hell you say.”

  “Get back, goddamn you. Vonda, you and Earl get over here.”

  “Thank God!” Vonda cried out. “They killed that little boy, Alvie Ross! They sacrificed him!” She grabbed Earl’s sleeve and pulled him shuffling across the road. “Look at him. They doped his food and made us watch!”

  Alvie Ross met them by the side of Arleta’s car. “You and Earl get behind me,” he said. Then to Croft and Levay, “Down on your hands and knees! Now!”

  A car door opened and closed, and Pitch stepped up behind Levay’s car. “The hell’s going on here?” he said.

  “It’s him!” Vonda cried out. “He made them do it!”

  Alvie Ross turned to the smiling stranger as Vonda reached into Earl’s jacket, pulled out his .38 and stuck it in the deputy’s back. “You stupid hick,” she said, and then blew a fist-sized hole out the front of his stomach, sending Alvie Ross down to his knees, crumpling to the ground while his gun clattered to the blood-spattered asphalt.

  “Get that goddamn car out of the way!” Pitch yelled, as he made his way back to his own car and jumped inside, Croft climbing into the police car, starting it up and moving it out of the way as Teddy Levay and Vonda led Earl back to the mayor’s car, Vonda shoving him inside, and then getting in beside him while Levay closed the door and scrambled into the driver’s seat.

  When Croft jumped inside, the car roared away, leaving Alvie Ross face-down on the asphalt, stretching out an arm and grabbing his pistol, firing one final shot as the other car pulled forward, and Alvie Ross fell dead in the roadway.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  There came the crackle of gunfire, a loud pop as air rushed from Pitch’s front tire, and the car tilted to the right. Should’ve emptied her gun into the son of a bitch! he thought, stepping on the gas pedal before Earl’s deputy could get off another shot, honking his horn to get Levay’s attention as the mayor’s taillights disappeared into the fog at the far end of the bridge.

  He held his wrist up to the moonlight. It was eleven-thirty. The incident at the bridge had cost him time. Precious minutes had ticked off while he sat in his car trying to figure out what the hell to do next.

  The wobbling tire thwacked against the pavement as Pitch jammed the gas pedal to the floor and raced down Main Street, sparks flying when the rubber flew off and the screaming metal rim kissed the pavement.

  Somehow, that country hick had figured it out. But how? How did he do it, and more importantly, did he tell anybody else?

  Did somebody tell him?

  Pitch didn’t care about any of that now. He kept his foot on the gas and kept going. He’d limp up that mountain like a three-legged dog if he had to. He sped lopsided by the courthouse, the screeching rim throwing sparks behind it as he rushed past the bank and glanced at his watch: 11:32. Only two minutes had gone by. Pitch touched his bulging jacket pocket and smiled.

  I’ll be alright. Hell, I’ll be right on time.

  The car bounced across the railroad tracks at Jimmy T’s, the wobbling wheel throwing the car into a shifting sideways lurch as Pitch gripped the steering wheel tighter and kept going. But now the wheel was vibrating and jumping, the bent rim banging against the road, the front end thumping, the whole car bucking like a wild stallion as he started up Dingess Street, around and up, until he got to the top of the hill, where he pounded the steering wheel and shouted, “Won’t be long now, GODDAMNIT!”

  Then the wheel buckled and the axle collapsed; the car ground to a screeching halt and Pitch jumped out, cussing like a lunatic as he raced up the road as fast as his legs could carry him, past houses and cars, barking dogs and screeching cats, running until the paved road turned to dirt, and he found himself standing in front of the same path he had wandered up twenty-six-years ago to the night.

  He looked down at his watch, grimacing.

  Because it was 11:45.

  Pitch glanced up at the full moon, and saw Scratch’s cruel face leering down at him.

  Somehow, he wasn’t surprised.

  He charged up the mountain, dodging bushes and low-hanging tree branches, feet churning, falling and crawling and getting back up, leaning, clawing and clutching, grabbing handfuls of dirt and foliage to keep his balance. Every once in a while he’d give his bulging pocket a reassuring pat.

  He came to a solid wall of bushes and brush, where he threw himself to the ground and crawled on his belly, digging his way under and through, until he found himself lying on a narrow path, and knew he was almost there.

  He rolled over, onto his back. Gasping for breath, sweat streaking dirty trails down his face, he looked at his watch… and screamed.

  Pain, as real as the gold ring on his finger, wracked his body. “Please,” he whispered as he crawled forward. “Wait.”

  He got to his knees, and struggled to his feet, his arms aching, his legs hurting, grabbing his belly and doubling over as his knees wobbled, and he staggered bent over along the trail, lumbering up to a tree line that seemed so far in the distance he thought he might never reach it.

  He glanced at the watch wrapping his thin arm.

  It was 12:10.

  Impossible! his mind cried out, as a sheet of snow-white hair fell across his face, impossibly long as he touched it and traced it down to his shoulders, shrieking at what he knew it must mean.

  “Wait!” he screamed, pushing himself away from the tree and staggering up the path, until the clearing finally came into view.

  His blood was acid scorching his veins; his tears, tiny shards of glass shredding his eyes. His joints throbbed. His skull,
which felt like someone had driven an axe into it, pounded unmercifully. He fell to his knees and something cracked—he couldn’t tell if it was a twig or if he had broken a leg, because every square inch of his body was a raw and shrieking wound.

  And there it was, right in front of him.

  The cave.

  Firelight glowing within the dark mouth of it.

  All he had to do was get up and run to it. But he couldn’t run. He couldn’t even stand. So he crawled forward on hands and knees, blubbering, babbling as his watchband slid down his withering wrist, and long white hair fell across his shoulders, sweeping the ground he dragged himself across. His organs shriveled, his skin turned hard, and rough as leather. His fingernails, stretched out and curled over, snapped like brittle twigs as he pulled himself forward.

  “PLEASE!” he screamed.

  “WAIT!” he shrieked.

  He crawled on his belly into the mouth of the cave, and saw that huge, muscle-bound demon grinning at him, and a frail old man standing in dirty and torn rags by a crackling fire, screaming and crying and beating his head against the rough-hewn wall, his long white hair touching the ground, and Pitch knew that it was his own voice screaming, and that if he looked into a mirror, that frail old man would be reflected in it.

  Scratch laughed, and in a voice very much like the one Pitch had left on the mountain all those years ago, he called out, “Damn, son. You really are a gambler.”

  Pitch looked at his watch, and almost laughed, himself. It was twelve-twenty-six.

  The pain stopped, and the frail old man quit screaming.

  “Well?”

  Pitch reached into his jacket, pulled out the bloodstained sack and tossed it to Scratch, who removed from it a small, withered heart, and then wrapped his huge, clawed hand around the thing. Then, hissing like a snake, he opened his hand and showed the beating organ to Pitch.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Pitch said. “Just eat the goddamn thing.”

  The demon, laughing now, crammed it into his mouth, chewing and swallowing as he shook another from the pouch. He held the heart up to his mouth and bit down. Blood squirt over his lips as he grunted and chewed, chewed and swallowed. Then he plucked the last remaining organ loose, closed his hand around it, and then opened it to reveal the organ writhing in his palm as if it were beating inside a chest. “Sure you don’t want some?”