The Devil's Due

by TJ Vargo

  Images of a dark haired young man. Real enough to touch him. Smell the fear on him as he slipped into unconsciousness. It was the man she'd visited in her dreams throughout her life. The one she'd grown up with in her dream world (her soul brother she often thought when she was alone, trying to make sense of her visions). And now, she shared a fear with him that twisted tight around her, making her mind race in mortal terror. Without realizing it, she balled up into a fetal position on the chair, wrapping her arms around her knees. The thing her soul brother feared, the thing that now made her moan softly, it was here too. The bad man, the devil that had fallen to earth as she'd told the priests long ago, he was here in the images, but, as always, she had the sense that he was unaware of her. Well, not completely unaware, but on the fringes nonetheless.

  And there was the terror. In all her dreams in all her years the call had been there for her from the evil thing that stalked her dreams. Show yourself. Let me come and help you. Never had she answered as she hid from the evil one and comforted her soul brother. Still, this was true - the devil had found one of them. She stiffened, following the action that took place in her mind. Her brother had fallen from a high place. He was in that high place (a dusty old loft with the sound of pigeons flapping) when her mind had first snapped, seeing through his eyes as he backed away from the fallen one, feeling his foot slip as he stepped back too far. A psychic scream that rattled her nerves as he plunged downward away from that devil. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. The devil, dressed as a man wearing an odd hat, climbed down toward her brother and bent to touch him. His touch was cold. So cold. The urge to run tightened through her legs. He had one of them. He had found one of them and right now held him in a grip so cold it burned.

  Her eyes darted back and forth beneath her eyelids. Her moans became grunts and she held her arms tight around her chest. Her brother was in the devil's arms, being carried from an old barn. As much as she didn't want to watch anymore she was helpless to stop herself. She flinched as the devil's eyes flashed from beneath the brim of his hat staring into her mind. Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes bolted open. He saw her. Not only saw her, but somehow reached out and touched her with his cold fingers. She screamed, her eyes burning with that cold, and fell to the floor.

  A busboy came first, a young teenager whose eyes went wide as she clawed and punched at him when he tried to reach down to help her. She opened her eyes (they burned) and saw the busboy wipe his hands on the dirty white apron tied around his waist as he backed away and ran out of the room. There were many faces after that, their hands pinning her arms down as she tried to lash out and cover her face. None of them would look at her as she yelled over and over, "He sees me! He sees me!" And he did, grinning and watching while he carried her dream brother. His laughter filling her head until the ambulance arrived and the sting of a needle pushed everything back, clouding her mind. Her pupils dilated, turning to black marbles that looked out blindly as her lips moved once more.

  He sees me.

  Chapter Seven

  Jackson's eyes opened. A bright flare of sunlight blinded him. He closed his eyes and heard the smooth hushing sound a car made as it raced down a paved road. Wanted to open his eyes, but he couldn't. Thoughts floated in and out like music in his head. Where am I? What's happening? But the answers weren't important. Sleep was all that mattered. He felt his questions slip away as he fell into the deep well of black sleep he needed so badly. For now, there was sleep. Blessed sleep. The sound of the road repeated in his head as he slipped away.

  His equilibrium was unhinged. It felt as if his mind was sliding back and forth across the deck of a storm-tossed ship and he fought back an urge to vomit. Had to get his eyes open. See something he could fix on and steady himself. His body shifted as the car bumped along unevenly, the crunching sound of a dirt road the only sound he could hear. He opened his eyes and a large white sign flashed by. A sign nearly overgrown with weeds. The words Clear Creek were painted there in faded black letters on top of peeling white paint. Trees, huge old hardwoods, hemmed in from all sides. He saw a white church steeple straight away, far down the tunnel of trees whipping by on either side. Shops and houses painted white were far off in the distance, lining the street that led to the church. It was a small whitewashed town sparkling in sunlight, looking like something he'd seen in one of those crystal globes you shook to make fake snow fall, and it made him wonder if he was awake or dreaming. His inability to keep his eyes focused and the nausea in his gut were real enough. That must mean the rest of this was too.

  The scenery shifted and his head flopped back onto his shoulder. This had to be real - he felt sick enough to die. His weight shifted back relentlessly as the car began to climb, spiraling up a dirt road on a sharp incline. It made him dizzy to the point of passing out. He fought to stay conscious - he had to see where he was going. Pain that had begun as a small tap in his head progressed rapidly to a damning boom. His vision dimmed to a haze. Breathing became shallow, a cold sweat passing over him. He licked lips that were dry and cracked. Close your eyes. Save yourself and pass out. You're dying and you might as well do it comfortably. Just as he thought his brain would explode and his guts would wrench from his body, he saw a structure rise up in front of him. It startled him to see such a thing and he moaned. This had to be a dream. He licked at his dry lips again and battled to keep his eyes open in spite of the crescendo of pain. Someone near him touched his face and began talking loudly. Couldn't decipher what their words meant, or even if they were words. The pain in his head boiled, threatening to split it in two. But he kept his eyes open long enough to see through the pain and the haze and the disorientation. It was in front of him now, thrusting toward the sky. A castle like the kind shown in picture books of the old country. A huge monstrous thing that was as solid and grand as anything he'd ever seen before. And seeing that, the spires of it touching the sun in a blue sky, his strength finally snapped. Blackness pulled him down and captured him once again. He welcomed it with open arms.

  Soft, cool covers. Sunlight coming in through the windows. Everything seemed blurred around the edges. Jackson blinked, sharpening his sight. He tried to lift his head. A vise of pain encircled it, flaring into his temples until he lowered his head back onto the pillow. The throbbing faded slowly. He felt the back of his head gingerly. A swollen area, tender to the touch. A little push on the area jolted pain around to his temples again. He winced and drew his hand away, then more carefully probed the area. Everything seemed to be intact. Pulling his hand away he inspected his fingers. Dried blood speckled his fingertips. The bizarre thought of his father standing over him popped into his head. He imagined him looking down, seeing the dried blood on his fingers and saying, "Well son, you can't make an omelet unless you break a few eggs." Bastard.

  "He's awake."

  Jackson jerked his head up and regretted it. He sucked in air through clenched teeth and closed his eyes, waiting for the bolt of white lightning searing the backs of his eyeballs to fade away.

  "You'll probably be feeling a little nauseous, maybe even dizzy. That's what a bad concussion will do for you. If I were you, I'd stay as still as possible for the rest of the day."

  He didn't recognize the man's voice. Whoever it was, he had cold, dry hands that touched Jackson's forehead, then probed at the glands under his jaw. With his pain beginning to subside, Jackson opened his eyes. A withered old man looked back at him, nearly bald and with skin so thin it was nearly translucent. There was the look of a vulture about him, but a lot of old men looked that way. It was the long nose (the nose never stops growing you know) and the fringe of hair around their bald heads that did it. The old man took a step back, folding his arms on his chest in satisfaction. The suit he wore was in a style that caught Jackson's attention. A row of buttons running up the sides of his brown jacket. A vest and tie. Tails running off the back of the jacket. Dressed up like someone in that old movie with the three ghosts of Christmas, what the hell w
as that? Charles Dickens wrote it. A Christmas Carol, that was it. This old geezer was dressed up like he was from that old movie. Jackson carefully pushed up to a sitting position, keeping his eyes on the man who stared at him intensely, a smile creasing his face.

  "Where am I?" Jackson asked.

  "You're in your father's castle," the old man replied.

  "My father doesn't have a castle," Jackson said softly. Barely owns the farmhouse, he thought, looking around the room. Sunlight came in from a tall window to the right of his bed. A window larger than any in the farmhouse, that was for sure. The walls were made of huge stones. A chandelier glittering with crystal hung from a ceiling that was at least fifteen feet up. The bed, furniture and woodwork were all ornately carved hardwood, stained a reddish-black color that glowed with strength and power. He took this all in slowly, taking his time looking over the ornately stitched rug and old portraiture paintings before he got back to the man watching over him. Jackson moved his hand over himself under the blankets. Not a stitch of clothing. Being naked and having a head that screamed with pain every time he moved cut his options down significantly. He considered the old man for a moment, wondering why he was smiling. What the hell - there was nothing to lose by asking.

  "What are you so happy about?"

  "I'm happy that we found you. We've been searching for many years."

  "Looking for me, huh?" Naked or not, Jackson had enough of this geezer's ridiculousness. He carefully swung his feet out of bed and pulled a bed sheet over his shoulders, wrapping it around himself as he stood up. The old man rushed over, hands outstretched.

  "You can't get up yet. If you fall and hit your head again it'll be your end."

  Swinging a hand like a bear to back the old man away, Jackson clenched his teeth against the drumbeat in his skull. White spots swam in front of him. His legs trembled. But he was walking out of here, God damn it. His voice shook as he tried to control the pain. "Old man, I don't know who you are or what you're talking about, but you better get me my clothes."

  "Jackson."

  That voice was vaguely familiar. Jackson turned his head, looking for its source. The blanket wrapped around him slipped off his shoulder as he clutched at his forehead. Even the simple movement of turning his head was too much. A vise squeezed his temples, reaching intolerable levels. The blanket fell completely away, falling to his feet.

  "Get back in bed son."

  From far back in a corner of the room, hidden in the shadows, Jackson could barely see him. He walked from the shadows into the sunlight. The black beard. Long black hair. Dressed all in black. It all came back in a rush. Jackson slowly pushed his hair out of his face back onto his naked shoulders. His hand shook so bad he had to tighten it into a fist to keep it still. He remembered. The bodies of his father and Tina in the loft. Nathaniel taking him there and then coming at him. Him falling, trying to get away. But why had he been trying to get away from Nathaniel? He held a hand at his forehead, trying to remember. Ahh yes. Nathaniel had said he was his father. His father. This was insane.

  He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the pain in his head, and pointed in Nathaniel's direction. "Stay away from me. I don't want you coming near me." Naked, his body shivering as his head raged and spun, Jackson had to open his eyes or risk falling down from dizziness. Nathaniel was next to him. Before Jackson could react, Nathaniel's hands cupped his face.

  "You're in pain. Doctor Kirtland, my son is in pain."

  Too weak to pull away, Jackson stared into Nathaniel's eyes. "You're not my father. My father's dead."

  "I know that man is. I buried him and that girl for you."

  Weird as it was, Jackson thought he recognized Nathaniel's eyes and he kept staring into them as he asked, "Is there a reward for me? Are you turning me in? Why don't you just do it and stop torturing me you son of a bitch!" A sting on his shoulder barely registered. He could feel the needle in his arm, something burning under his skin as it was injected. Too weak and wasted to care. He pushed at Nathaniel's hands on his face, then gave up. They had him now. He'd be in a jail cell in no time.

  "Jackson, you're my son. I've searched for you since the day you were taken from me." Nathaniel moved his face close enough to kiss Jackson, whispering. "No man will ever take you away from me again. You're with your family now Jackson."

  Family? Staring at Nathaniel's eyes, feeling the strength slump from his legs, the word "family" burned into his mind through the pain. He fell forward onto Nathaniel, no longer able to hold himself up. As he was laid back onto the bed, his eyes were already closed, but he kept thinking about Nathaniel's eyes. Black eyes. His head filled with lightness as the burning in his arm spread through him, erasing his pain. From somewhere outside of himself he felt Nathaniel's hand cup the back of his head, laying it softly on the pillow. Falling calmly into oblivion where no pain could touch him, he held the vision of Nathaniel's eyes fiercely. They were black eyes. There was only one place he'd ever seen eyes like that before. They were the same eyes he saw when he looked in a mirror.

  An insistent shake on his shoulder woke him. He was sitting up before he knew what was happening.

  "What's going on? Where am I?"

  He stopped. A moment of clarity. That old man was Doctor Kirtland. This was the huge, rich-looking room he had woken up in before. There were only two things missing from the last time he'd been awake - his pain and Nathaniel.

  "How's your head?" Kirtland tapped a bony finger on the side of his bald head as he asked.

  Jackson was a little scared to test it, but he did, giving his head a slight shake. Nothing. Clear and pain-free. "Better," he said.

  "Good," said Kirtland, turning to leave.

  "Wait a second, let me come with you." Jackson began to get out of bed. Before he could get one leg on the floor Kirtland was across the room. Jackson froze. How the hell did the old man move so fast?

  "Relax friend. Your father is on his way."

  The door closed behind Kirtland. Jackson stared at the door for a few moments, then looked around the room. No one moved that fast. He thought hard about that one for a minute. Must be his head. That was it, his head was still acting up. Looking around the room, he questioned if any of this was real. Castle my ass - this must be a dream. He stuck the tip of his tongue between his teeth and bit down. Son of a bitch that hurt. This was real.

  Slowly, he slid his legs out from under the covers and got out of bed, still worried the pain in his head would come back. Once on his feet, he slowly turned his head back and forth. No problems there, but it did feel kind of heavy, as if it were a couple sizes too big. He took careful steps toward the window, his feet sinking in the plush rug. He was naked, but didn't care and he stepped up to the window, looking down. The sun was below the horizon, leaving a golden glow hanging in the valley far below. Nothing but the big trees of an old forest as far as he could see. He put his hands on the glass and leaned against it, his nose fogging the window. There was a town far below through the trees. He remembered seeing it before. A slight wind slipped through the bottom of the window and his stomach muscles tightened, the hairs rising up all over his body. He remembered being driven here, feeling the movement of a car beneath him. Coming through a forest. Seeing that town and then seeing a massive castle on top of a mountain. He breathed on the window, laying a film of condensation on the glass and stared through the foggy glass. I'm in that castle now. But why? Why was I brought here? And why is Nathaniel saying he's my father?

  "Doctor Kirtland tells me you're feeling better."

  Jackson whirled. It was Nathaniel, and he had a woman next to him. A tall, beautiful dark-haired woman who stared at Jackson's nakedness. He stared back, noticing her long black evening gown. Nathaniel had also dressed up, wearing a well-tailored black suit and burgundy tie.

  "Jackson, this is your sister, Felicia."

  Nathaniel said it with a smile, then threw something across the room. Jackson caught it against his chest. It was a suit, followed by a pa
ir of shoes, which he also caught.

  "Get dressed. I've got a surprise for you downstairs." Nathaniel backed out of the room, still smiling. "C'mon Felicia. Let's give your brother some privacy. I'm sure he won't let us wait too long."

  Jackson hadn't moved except to catch the suit. He held it and the shoes against his chest, stunned as the woman looked over his nakedness. She finished gazing at his body and moved to his eyes before turning to leave, seeming very amused as she flipped her hair over her shoulder and went out the door. Jackson watched her well-turned calf, the last piece of her slipping away from sight around the door.

  "Come down when you're dressed. We'll be waiting at the bottom of the steps," said Nathaniel, closing the door behind him.

  First things first. Jackson looked down. His lips moved silently, thanking God. The way that woman looked, and the way she looked at him, he couldn't believe he hadn't gotten a serious hard on. He walked over to his bed and sat down. Sister? Father? What the hell. He pulled his pants on and then began buttoning his shirt, wondering what exactly was happening here. He stood up and buttoned his pants then pulled on a pair of black socks. This wasn't a dream. But it was as strange as one. He took a deep breath and patted at the pockets of his pants. A sliver of ice lanced his stomach. He didn't have it. They must have taken it along with his clothes. He had to get it back, right now.

  This place was big. Jackson hurried down the hallway in the direction he'd seen Nathaniel and his sister go. Echoes of his footsteps cascaded through the hall, ahead and behind him. Although well lit with crystal fixtures high overhead, the castle had a massiveness to it that gave everything a moody, heavy feel. The burled wood paneling on the walls seemed thick as iron plates. The ceiling went upward forever. As he reached the end of the hall he slid his hand on the banister that curled down the staircase. The damn thing was as thick as a python. Stopping, he turned and listened to his footsteps echoing behind him.