The Devil's Due

by TJ Vargo

  Jackson retreated behind the obelisk, laying his cheek flat on the grass. The marble base of the obelisk was hard and cool in his grip, his cheek wet with the last remnant of morning dew. He thought hard. The window on the church was up about ten feet high on the outside wall, angled open from the bottom, pointing inward. It wouldn't be a problem to run to the wall and stand under the open window, but a small stoop was on the back of the church, with a door that opened up right in line of sight with where he'd have to stand under the window. If no one came out, he'd be fine. If someone opened that door, however, there would be no where to hide. Picking a blade of grass, he stuck it in his mouth and chewed on it. Screw it. He’d gone this far and his worry about Felicia was a fever.

  He made it quick. Staying low, just in case someone happened to look out the open window, he rushed over to the side of the church and dropped to a squat under it, placing his back against the whitewashed wooden siding. The contact of the wooden siding of the church jolted him. He stiffened, feeling a surge of energy come into him from the church.

  The air, the way it had felt tingly when he'd first ridden into town, now it buzzed. It was full of an energy that prickled Jackson. Made his teeth hum and drained the color from his eyesight. The graveyard behind him wasn't quite black and white, but it wasn't in color either. Desaturated. That was the only way he could describe it. Like the color had been watered down, dying just a little bit. He'd always heard dogs couldn't see in color and he wondered if this was how they saw the world. It was less of the world that he'd seen moments ago, and yet there was more than he'd ever felt before. He wiped a shaking hand against his cheek. This world was hungry. All around him, ravenous. Tree limbs that hung far out over the graveyard didn't give shade, they sucked at the sunlight, stretching to capture and hold it for themselves. A finger of caution touched the back of his neck and he jerked his head up and pushed himself against the church at his back. A hawk taking lazy turns around the steeple was eyeing him in some unnatural way that he'd never considered before, giving him the sudden realization that he was prey. With his eyes to the sky Jackson blinked back the harsh rays of the sun that filtered from behind the shadow of the hawk. His eyes watered at the touch of sunlight that reached him. Looking down, his mind reeled at the thought that he was a target in this landscape. Everything here sought to take what it wanted. To kill or be killed. The urge to run was immense. But the voices coming from inside the church held him steady. It was a woman's voice. An older woman's voice, barking with the huskiness only years of smoking could bring.

  "She couldn't even get him to put his thingy in her."

  "It doesn't matter. He can be as goody-goody as he wants, but for what I need his blood or his seed will work. If we can't get his seed, we'll get his blood."

  Jackson tensed, reacting to Nathaniel's voice. It continued.

  "Although I'd normally recommend some temptation, this one is different." Nathaniel chuckled. Jackson could hear him rubbing his broad dry hands together before he said, "Not that I understand it, but I know enough about his kind to know that he's an old time honest Joe. He'd give his blood in a minute to save his sister, wouldn't he darling?"

  Jackson wasn't sure who the question was directed to and he was straining to hear the murmur of a reply when a loud voice near the open window interrupted.

  "You bitch. You'll do it, and you'll like it. You'll like it cause we say you will. And if you don't like it, I'll break you in until you do."

  Jackson tensed, unconsciously raising up from his crouch, his body reacting to the threatening voice. Shit, what the hell was going on in there? Nathaniel's voice cowed the man.

  "Are you trying to scare her Fletcher? Is that what you think will help her right now, scaring her? Are you a big man, scaring people? Maybe you'd like to be scared. Maybe you'd like for me to break you in."

  "I'm sorry Mr. Thorne, I just don't think she knows how important this is to us."

  The man called Fletcher sounded more than a little scared to Jackson. He almost whimpered in his reply to Nathaniel. The sound of Nathaniel's long-legged steps, his boot heels knocking on the wooden floor of the church, resounded through the window. Jackson could feel the vibrations of Nathaniel's tread in the wall at his back. Coming closer and closer. Jackson tilted his head back, expecting to see Nathaniel's head poke out the window and smile down on him. He saw a dark shape move past the window. The scuff of a boot heel, stopping then pivoting on the floor, sounded as if it were next to Jackson's ear. A whimper floated through the window.

  "Really Mr. Thorne, I'll keep quiet. Please, no, no - pppleeease."

  It was a sound that crawled up Jackson's back. That energy from the church he'd connected with earlier intensified. He stared dumbfounded at the graveyard and forest beyond and put his hand over his mouth to keep the scream in his throat bottled up. There were things moving out in the forest. Things he didn't know were there before, but showed themselves now. Behind the black leaves and impenetrable shadows he couldn't help but watch them, his testicles drawing up against his crotch as he listened to them moving, coming closer to the edge of the forest. Glimpses. Flashes of movement. Jackson felt sick when he figured out what they were doing. It was worse than him seeing them. They were coming toward him.

  He stood up and pressed himself against the church, watching the things worm their way through the forest toward him while he listened to Nathaniel’s voice float out of the window just above his head.

  "Are you in charge now Fletcher? Are you getting too big for your britches, talking out of turn like that?" Nathaniel waited a moment, letting Fletcher apologize and grovel before clicking his tongue and saying, "No, no, no - you're right. You're a big boy now. Maybe you don't need me. Maybe you're a big enough boy to play with friends of mine who really know how to break someone in."

  "No. I swear I won't talk out of turn again. I'm not too big for my britches. I swear it."

  Jackson squirmed, hearing a grown man, one that probably had kids and a wife, pleading and using the language of a child. It made him all the more aware of what kind of a man - or thing - Nathaniel was. Nathaniel kept talking.

  "They would love to have you Fletcher. In fact, I'm quite sure they're coming for you right now. They want to show you how they break someone in."

  Jackson was shaking now. So bad he had to cross his arms in front of him, holding them tight against his chest to keep them still. They were coming. Whatever they were. The bushes he had come through to get here bent and shook with the weight of things that slipped through them. Making chittering sounds, moving with unnatural jerky motions. His heart pounding in his chest, Jackson turned his face to the side and closed his eyes. Didn't want to see them. No sir. Let Nathaniel and the rest of them come out here and find him, but he did not want to see what was coming out of the forest.

  "Go on out there and say hello to them Fletcher. They want to pull you in tight and take care of you, that's all. You're their big boy now. They want to see how you've become all grown up. They want to break you in."

  The high-pitched moan of Fletcher stood Jackson's hair on end. He could hear Fletcher making feeble sounds, being dragged out of his pew in the church towards the back door of the church. Jackson thought about running to that door to meet them, beg for Nathaniel to keep those things away from him. Opening his eyes, he focused on the wooden steps leading up to the door, not wanting to see the things he could hear sliding - not walking - sliding through the graveyard. They were getting close. Standing to his feet in the shadow that huddled against the side of the church, Jackson moved toward the steps leading to the door. Those things were coming. Hide. Find a place to hide from them before they get you.

  He was at the base of the steps, bringing a hand to his mouth to stifle an odd little whine he couldn't hold in when he heard Fletcher at the door. He watched the door knob turning.

  "Go out Fletcher. They're waiting for you out there. Go out and say howdy."

  They were behind him, but he wasn't go
ing to look. His heart hitched, missing a beat. That sliding noise came up behind him and was joined by another sound. A wet smacking sound, like huge gumless mouths opening and closing. Then the door at the top of the steps in front of him began to open and he saw Fletcher's hands grabbing weakly at the door frame as he was being pushed out the door. Jackson swallowed and licked his lips. Maybe. Maybe Nathaniel would help him - get these things away from him. All he needed to do was run up those stairs and push past this Fletcher guy. Shove him down and plead for Nathaniel's help.

  "PLLEEEEASSSSE NNNNOOOOOO!"

  That was all it took. Hearing that high pitched plea for help from the man being pushed through the door above snapped Jackson out of his fear. An anger as real and solid as the heartbeat drumming in his ears overtook him. Angry with himself for even wanting Nathaniel's help. Angry for his weakness. He jumped off the steps and grabbed one of the beams supporting the roof of the stoop. There was no time to think about it. He jumped, holding the beam tightly. His momentum swung him out, then back toward the steps. He let go and flew into the black space under the staircase. Spiderwebs wrapped around his face. Solid ground met his feet as he rolled under the steps and he held his breath, feeling a spider tickle across his cheek. Don't move. Don't breath. Do absolutely nothing. The air split with Fletcher's scream.

  "NOOOOOO!"

  Jackson held his breath, listening for any sign that someone had seen him. An eager sound, wet and hungry, flew up the steps toward Fletcher. Through the cracks between the wooden steps, Jackson could see black shoes kicking as Fletcher struggled with something. There were other sounds too, sounds that drained the blood from his face. Fletcher's voice muffled, then became far away. In another moment there were no more sounds from Fletcher. The only thing Jackson heard was the sound of the screen door above scraping closed. Then.... nothing.

  Moving out from under the stairs, Jackson looked around. There was no sign of the man called Fletcher. Nothing. He reached up to put his hand on the stair rail. His fingers slipped in something. A viscous substance that stretched clear between his thumb and forefinger. Without thinking he tried to scrape the stuff off his hand on the rough edge of the railing. A splinter slid under the pad of his index finger. It didn't matter. He kept rubbing like his life depended on it, ignoring the jabs of pain the splinter shot through his finger until he was sure his hand was rid of the slippery film. Once done, he dug the splinter free from the pad of his finger. His finger bled while his mind raced.

  That man named Fletcher was gone. He was here a moment ago and now he was gone. He pulled a short piece of skin away from his finger to get at the tip of the splinter that had broken off under the skin. Getting a fingernail under it, he pried it free. It stuck to the tip of his fingernail, a small black blot, and he examined it. Could he even trust what he'd heard? Maybe this Fletcher guy was back in the church. Maybe hearing those things coming out of the woods was nothing more than a mixture of anxiety and three stiff Bloody Marys. Or maybe it was a wild echo that shook loose a little later than normal from the crack he took in the back of his head a couple days ago. None of it could've happened. Not really. It was just, just... insane. He flicked the piece of splinter off the tip of his finger.

  A sound, a deep thunk, made him jump. He turned swiftly to look toward the window of the church. Someone had pulled it closed. Then he heard the sound of a latch being locked from the inside of the window, making a loud metallic clicking sound. Voices inside the church murmured. He couldn't hear anything with the window closed. But then the loud deep bass of Nathaniel's voice vibrated through the closed window. Nothing stopped that voice.

  "Does anyone else have something they'd like to say to my poor sweet Felicia?"

  A lull, nothing but the small sound of a chair scraping on the church floor.

  Taking a deep breath, Jackson crouched and ran at an angle away from the church, careful to keep his profile low. Reaching the woods, he sprinted through them, dodging trees and leaping rocks like a deer. He didn't even remember getting on his horse, one moment he was running, the next he felt the muscled sides of the horse under him, all clomping hooves and froth spitting from the sides of its mouth onto his white-knuckled hands. He didn't know what was real anymore. The coffins with the black-eyed corpses of young women in them - did he really see those? The way those things, whatever they were, came out of the forest and slithered through the graveyard - did he really hear (and see, don't forget that) them? It didn't matter. None of it mattered. It couldn’t have been real. It just couldn't be. But he had to get away just the same. As far and as fast away as possible. Back to where there was plenty of alcohol to drink and no graveyards to think of. No liquid black marbly eyes staring up from corpses that looked like Felicia. No gibbering things coming at him, slinking and sliding like nothing he'd ever seen before. This was a time to drink like there'd never been before.

  He yelled, "HAH!" digging his heels into his horse, taking one last look behind him as he left the town behind, the wind trying its best to dry the sweat from his face that wouldn't go away. Getting to a new bottle of liquor was all that mattered.

  "Get away from me." Jackson swatted at his cheek, where someone was patting him. Voices blurred on the edge of his consciousness.

  "Clean that up. Get his head off the table."

  A strong hand grabbed him by his hair, pulling his head off the table.

  "Careful, you'll hurt him."

  A hand twisted in his hair and yanked forcefully. His eyes felt like they'd been glued shut. He forced them open. A face was inches away, the mouth pressed so tight its lips were nonexistent.

  "You're drunk boy. Get yourself cleaned up."

  His mind churned, muddy and disoriented with the alcohol in his head. "Get your hands off me. Off!"

  It wasn't even his voice, but rather the voice of a little boy desperate to pull away from his drunken father. But his father was so strong he couldn't get away. He arched his back and sat up so fast it made that mouth in front of him open in surprise. His hands locked on the neck below that face. No more. No more. Just leave me alone.

  "Stop it Jackson! Let him go!"

  The voice shouting in his ear cleared his head - his throbbing, heavy head that was laced with razor-blade liquor. His hands dropped from Dr. Kirtland's neck, hanging limp by his sides. He took a step back. Felicia grabbed his hands, pulling his attention away from Kirtland who was bent over and choking.

  "Jackson, wake up. It's okay. It's just me, Felicia. Everything's okay now."

  Air filled his lungs, clearing his head. He turned, catching a hard glare from Kirtland. The old man's face was scarlet with two veins pulsing under the thin skin of his forehead. He waved a hand, coughing and then straightening up, turning to leave the room. A young woman, a white apron hanging over the black blouse and skirt of her maid's uniform stared at Jackson with wide eyes. Kirtland's voice strained, "Clean up this mess and get him sober. He's expected to be, to be... aware tonight."

  Jackson had his bearings now. The horse ride back. Putting the horse in the barn. Then making his way to the kitchen where he just lined them up and knocked them down, trying to ice his brain, numb it from what he'd seen.

  Looking down at the table, the side of his face still wet from passing out in the slick of alcohol that had spilled, he saw the empty bottle of vodka laying on its side. The glass he had drunk from stood upright, an oily splash of Tequila swirling in it. It was all a blur. He stepped back and would've stumbled if Felicia hadn't rushed in, grabbing him under his arms.

  "Come on, come on. Lean on me," she said, leading him out of the kitchen.

  Hot steam laid a thick sweat on his face as he let Felicia run the washcloth over his chest. The pulse of pain in his head had loosened its grip enough for him to keep his eyes open, watching her. He pinched the bridge of his nose and wiped away the sweat. Naked, in the bathtub with his sister washing him. Taking care of him as she would an invalid. He was embarrassed, but had little say in the matter with his
damn head throbbing like it was. He watched her minister to him in silence. Her olive skin shining with beads of perspiration, her long black hair hanging in thick glossy swirls, curled from the steam rising off the water. It was the first time he'd seen her in a t-shirt and jeans. The water had run off the washcloth and ran down her arm, wetting her white t-shirt against her skin on her shoulder. He could see the smooth muscle of her shoulder flex when she wrung the rag out. She ran the wash cloth up his neck and wiped his face.

  "Feel any better?"

  "I'm alright. Hung over, but alright."

  Felicia sat back, her jeans tight on her thighs as she balanced on her feet in a squat. She pushed a curling ribbon of black hair off her face.

  "You want to tell me what you're doing?" she said.

  Water sloshed back and forth as Jackson sat up. "That might be a problem," he said, splashing water on his face and finger combing his hair back over his shoulders. He was dehydrated as hell and he let the water run off his face into his mouth, then listened to it drip into the bath from his nose and chin.

  "C'mon Jackson, can't you talk to me?"

  He shrugged. "Maybe you can start. What were you doing at the church this morning?"

  "Someone died. There was a funeral."

  "Is that why everyone was wearing black."

  Her hand tightened on the wash cloth. Water pattered on her thigh, blooming into a dark spot. Her mouth tightened. "Where were you this morning?"