When he finished, he quickly scanned other articles as numbness crept through him like a drug. One described a drought that had fallen over the area in recent days, and a couple of others cited how more town residents were disappearing with no explanations for their departure, and no evidence of foul play. Some residents of Taylor Crossing were voluntarily leaving, fearful of the strange happenings.
Then another headline jumped out at him: Last residents of Taylor Crossing gone. His eyes fanned over the page, reading as fast as he could:
Seemingly overnight Taylor Crossing has turned into a ghost town, as the last known residents of the town have vanished, leaving behind empty buildings, abandoned mines, and vacant streets. A few people in neighboring towns are aware of some acquaintances that have left, moving on into Nederland, Ward, and Boulder. But many in the mining community, nomadic by nature, are simply gone. Few people have been tracked down, but they are saying little. Their apparent fright makes the situation more disturbing, but none of the former residents are willing to talk, other than to say that the strange occurrences in the town were enough to get them to leave.
The article had a grainy photograph, taken at a town fair the previous summer.
“Look,” Anna pointed. Rory studied it carefully. A number of men were lined up in front of the general store, their appearance rugged. A couple knelt in the front row, and behind them, others stood on the porch. They all stared seriously at the camera. Rory read through the names:
William Cordt. He appeared like a jovial man. His face beamed with the hint of a smile underneath his walrus mustache.
Bryon Dillon. Obviously a miner, with overalls, leaning against a pickaxe with his right hand, his left hand resting on his other forearm. Rory squinted at the picture. The man’s left hand was mangled. Something picked at Rory’s subconscious.
“Wait a minute,” he said. Pages started flying as he went back to the other articles. Then he found it, a small piece, barely a mention in the paper about a mining accident at Taylor Crossing. Two men were killed when their mineshaft collapsed. Bryon Dillon, a missionary who was mining for a time in Taylor Crossing, managed to escape with his right leg broken, his left hand crushed. The town doctor had to amputate his left thumb.
The pages seemed to pull away from him, like it was a thousand miles away, down a starry tunnel. Rory drew in a breath and let it seep out slowly. “Where’s the journal?” he asked.
“Myrtle has it,” Anna said. “Rory, what is it?”
He grabbed the notes he’d made the previous evening from the stack of photocopies and went into the front of the store, where Myrtle was sitting at the counter with the journal.
“Can I see that?” He took the journal from her, ignoring her surprised look, and consulted his notes. He turned to the list of names from the journal. Bryon Dillon was there, and so was William Cordt. Rory went back to the picture and read the names. Graham Johnson, next to the miner, stood with his hands crossed over a huge belly, his features a dark scowl – like Gino D’Angelo. And Ignatius Brewster, a grizzled, mean-looking man with crazy eyes and flyaway hair. Old Man Brewster’s grandfather!
He reread the articles about the disappearances in town. And then other pieces leapt from the page. The sheriff was a big burly man. And the post office worker was a British woman. He went back to the photo and studied it, then consulted his notes again. There was something else, something he’d read in the journal. He carefully turned pages. Then it hit him. The miner talked about the general store owner, Henry. Barton described him as an old man, thin as a sapling, with stooped shoulders. He was just like Jimmy.
He slowly lifted his head from his notes and gazed at the photo.
“Look. They’re us.” Rory swallowed a stone in his throat.
“What?” Anna and Myrtle asked simultaneously.
“Clinton’s coming back!” Nicholas hollered from his perch near the front door.
Rory ignored the startled queries of Joan and Myrtle, seized the journal and went out to meet Clinton. Things were starting to make sense. He only hoped he hadn’t figured it out too late.
CHAPTER 59
With the journal in hand, Rory met Clinton on the porch of the general store. “There’s no one around?” Rory asked him, but it was more a statement. The look on Clinton’s face was answer enough.
Clinton shook his head. “We didn’t see a soul. No signs of the volunteer posse. No people, no noise. No sign of anything, for that matter. It’s quiet. Too quiet if you ask me.”
Rory looked up the road, toward the higher mountain peaks. He wasn’t sure if his newfound knowledge was feeding his fear, but he was spooked. He swore he could smell something just out of reach, something rank and dead. He also felt as if he were being watched, as if Ed and the other Nephilim knew exactly what he was doing this very second. “Have I got some things to tell you.”
“What?”
They both jumped as the store door opened. “Sorry,” Anna came out. “Where’s Travis?”
“He took off,” Clinton said. “He wanted to know what was going on. How can I tell him what we’re dealing with when I don’t even know?”
Rory held up the journal. “There’s some amazing stuff in this thing. That miner had a lot figured out. From what I can make out, the Nephilim are gathering together, preparing for a final, big ceremony – a releasing ceremony. But they have to gather a few select individuals, role players if you will, who perform specific tasks in order for the ceremony to work.”
“We know how the ceremony works, too” Anna said, filling Clinton in on what she’d found out. “It fits with what Barton wrote.”
“Yeah. And we’re filling the roles,” Rory said, describing the picture from the newspaper.
“Which ones of us?” he asked.
“Look at the list Barton wrote.” Rory showed him the list from his notes. “Emily Graves, the British postal woman, Henry Calhoun who ran the general store, and William Cordt who owned the Silver Dollar Saloon.”
“And Daniel Thomas was the town undertaker. He looks just like that hiker that disappeared,” Anna said. Rory looked at her in surprise. “I saw him in the picture,” she explained.
“Howard Stein? You knew him?” Clinton asked.
She nodded. “I’ve seen him around the store.”
Clinton’s jaw dropped as he leaned over and read from Rory’s notes. “There’s me, just like the sheriff a hundred years ago. And the journalist, like you.”
Rory nodded slowly. “It’s – ” He stopped. “Sh!” He put a hand on Clinton’s shoulder and pulled him back on the porch. “Who’s that?”
Clinton looked down the road, where someone had appeared on the far side of the café. “I don’t know.”
They watched for a moment. It was a man in jeans and blue plaid shirt, long white hair flying around his head. “That’s Brewster,” Rory whispered. He opened his mouth to call out, but Clinton hit him on the arm.
“Don’t! He might be one of them now.”
Rory gritted his teeth at his own stupidity. “Get inside!” he warned Anna. She blanched and hurried back into the store. Then he and Clinton crouched by the porch steps and spied on the old man. Brewster peered up and down Main Street, then disappeared from view.
“Where’d he go?” Clinton leaned forward.
“I don’t know.”
Brewster appeared again, this time dragging something.
“It’s a man,” Rory hissed.
“He’s unconscious.”
“Or dead.” They exchanged a wary look.
“What’s he doing?”
They watched as Brewster struggled to drag the man by the shirt across the dirt road and up to the lakeshore, then all the way down to the end of the dock. He stared at the body for a moment, then walked back up the dock and went between some trees near the car shelter.
“Now what?” Clinton asked.
Before Rory could answer, Brewster emerged carrying large stones piled in his hands. He went back
to the body, stooped down, and began stuffing the rocks into the man’s clothing. He made another trip to the woods and returned, filling the man’s pockets with more rocks. The clothing bulged. He went again to the woods, this time lugging a large stone, so heavy that he bent over as he carried it. He managed to get down the dock, where he took a rope from a canoe, tied one end around the stone, and looped the other around the man’s neck.
“That’s it,” Clinton said, stepping forward. “I’m going to stop this.”
“Wait. What if he’s a Nephilim?”
Right then, Brewster got down on his hands and knees and shoved the body off the dock. It hit the water a few feet below with a sizeable splash. The large stone with the rope around it was yanked off the dock, creating a second loud splash.
“Hey,” Clinton yelled, leaving the porch at a full run. Rory leaped off the porch after him.
Brewster looked up at them in surprise, but he didn’t move. They ran down the dock, their footsteps thumping on the boards like cannon fire.
“You’re drowning him!” Clinton said when he reached Brewster. Rory got there and looked into the lake. The body was nowhere to be seen; only a few bubbles popping on the lake surface gave any indication that something had sunk into the depths.
“Of course,” Brewster said. “Only way to get rid of them properly.”
“That’s murder.” Sheriff Truitt grabbed at Brewster’s shoulder.
“Ya can’t murder something that’s already dead.” Brewster stood up and harrumphed at Clinton, even though Clinton towered over him by six inches. Rory stared at Brewster, as the realization swept over him. Brewster wasn’t a Nephilim.
“Wait.” Rory pulled at Clinton’s sleeve. “Let him explain.”
Brewster narrowed his eyes. “I know things.” He marched off the dock and toward the store, with Rory and Clinton in full pursuit.
“Wait! What do you mean?” Rory asked, finally stopping Brewster as he ascended the porch steps.
The old man turned to them. “Just like my granddaddy, I know things.” He rubbed at a pinpoint on his chest as he talked. “He knew when the evil came to the town, and so did I. I knew it when I saw you.”
“Why is my being here important?”
“Because you’re the chronicler. Just like Burgess Barton.”
“What?” Rory felt faint. He took a step back. “How do you know that?”
Brewster glowered at him. “Don’t you listen, boy? Evil’s come back to the town. I wondered that when you showed up. You were the last one to come here. And then I could feel them coming.” He paused dramatically. “Now we got to get rid of them.” He gestured at the dock. “Got to drown the body, then they can’t come back.”
“That man was a Nephilim,” Rory said, regaining some composure.
The store door crept open and Myrtle peeked her head out. “What’s going on?” she whispered.
“Now you’re getting it.” Brewster ignored her and threw Rory a toothy smile. “But you know, you can’t just kill ’em and leave ’em. You have to trap the spirit in the body. Get a noose around their neck, and strangle ’em. That’s the best.” They looked at the old man like he was from another planet, but he continued on, oblivious to their stares. “Or you can knock them out. Did that to that one,” he gestured toward the lake. “Not the best; you hit ’em too hard, you might draw blood, but I was lucky. Once you take down the host without spilling blood, that keeps the spirit from getting away. Then you drown the body.”
“He’s right, Rory.” Myrtle came out onto the porch. She pointed to the journal, still clutched in his hand. “Barton had that part figured out.”
She took the journal, flipped carefully through it and read a passage:
I know now that water is the key, just as it was in the Good Book, how God destroyed them in the Flood. I shot one in the head, and saw the spirit leave, cursing me. Some can be tempted to drink pure water from the well in town, but only pure water. Others are too strong-willed for this. I had to resort to other means. I was able to sneak up on one, using recently learned tracking skills to go undetected. In this manner I strangled him with a garrote. Once this was accomplished I waited, but the spirit did not leave the body. Then I weighted down the body and put it into the lake. This is the way to destroy them forever. I have much to do.
“I found that while you and Anna were in the back room, but you took off before I could tell you.”
Rory took in the deep blue water, sparkling dark in the sunshine. How many times had he rowed across it, and all those times, never knowing what lurked beneath the surface. “The lake’s a graveyard,” he whispered. Brewster grunted in an approving manner. “But getting them to drink water? It’s impossible.”
“Or strangling them?” Clinton was staring at the lake, his jaw open in wonder.
“It’s impossible,” Rory repeated, troubling over the influx of information.
“No,” Brewster shook his head. “The old miner did it and so can we. Then you can do what you want to with the body, trap the spirit forever.”
“That’s why the spirit left the body of the man I killed. Because I shot it.” Rory turned to the mountains, toward the spot where his bloody battle took place. He raced to put his thoughts into a logical order.
“Yep, I saw that body.” Brewster pursed his lips. “That was a good shot. Too bad it didn’t work.”
Rory looked at the two men. “It makes sense on one level. In the Biblical story, God used the Flood to wipe out the Nephilim. And the research I found says they hate and fear the water. Why wouldn’t they, if it was used to permanently exile them?”
“But why would they drink the water if it’s bad for them?” Clinton asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Rory mulled over what he’d been reading in the back room. “Water’s a destructive force for them, but in and of itself, water can also be pure. And legend has it that well water is pure because it comes from deep within the earth, not like collecting rainwater in cisterns, or even the lake water, which is contaminated by runoff. The book of Jeremiah, in the Old Testament, talks about God’s people forsaking him. They try to collect water from broken cisterns, and God rebukes them for not turning to Him, the Living Water. You see? It’s paradoxical. Well water is pure water, living water that the Nephilim think they need for cleansing and ascension. But the pure water is also the very thing that destroys them.”
Clinton had a look of disbelief on his face, but Brewster only nodded pensively. “That’s why we ain’t had any rain lately. They burn the moisture right outta the sky, burn it outta the air itself,” the old man said. “Otherwise they wouldn’t survive.”
“Of course.” Rory felt a rush of excitement building within him, the journalist’s feeling of the story coming together. “I read an article about a drought here a hundred years ago, when the Nephilim invaded the town.”
“Yep. A good rainstorm would keep them at bay.” Brewster studied the stark blue sky. “There ain’t a cloud around. Too bad.” Rory and Clinton found themselves looking up as well.
“Now what?” Clinton asked.
“Why not just run?” Rory suggested. “What would happen if we left?”
Brewster shook his head. “They’ll come after us. Then we’d unleash them on others. Besides, we can’t leave because they’re spreading out. Some of them are waiting down the road. We’d never get past them.”
“How do you know?”
Brewster stared hard at Rory. “I know how they work,” he said. “Things are set in motion now. It’s too late to run.”
“So what do we do?” Myrtle interrupted.
Rory locked his gaze with Brewster, searching those black eyes for signs of lunacy, his gut telling him the old man was right. “We hunt them down, immobilize them, and then drown them,” he finally answered.
Brewster raised a gnarled hand. “No, that’s too hard. Look how long it took me to get one body to the lake. How long do you think it’ll take to find them, get close enoug
h to knock them out or strangle them, and haul their bodies down here? And we have to get them in the lake before sundown.”
“Why?” Rory asked.
“Once the daylight is gone, the spirit can leave,” the old man said.
“He’s right.” Myrtle held up the journal. “Barton talked about that. He wrote that once the daylight is gone, the spirits escape back to the darkness where it came from.”
“Back to the darkness,” Rory repeated. “A darkness that’s physical and metaphorical.”
“But how are we going to get them if we don’t go after them?” Clinton asked.
“We’ll lure them down into the Crossing. Lure the ones we can into drinking water from the old town well. The others we can lay a trap for, sneak up on them, use something to strangle them, then put their bodies in the lake.”
“That might work,” Rory said.
“Oh sure. Just like that.” Clinton said in a voice laced with sarcasm.
“You got any better ideas?” Rory hurled back.
“We can do this,” Brewster said with confidence. He took in both men with a steely gaze. “But we got to get them down here.”
Rory paused to calm himself. “How?” he then responded, avoiding Clinton’s eyes.
“We’ll call them,” Brewster said. They both looked at Brewster with utter skepticism. He waggled a hand at them as if he’d read their thoughts and dismissed it. “We’ll make a ruckus, right here on Main Street. They’ll have to come.”
“Why?”
“Because they need you.” Brewster clamped a bony hand on each of their shoulders.
“He’s right,” Myrtle agreed, turning to Rory.
“That’ll have them running here. We’ll lure those that we can to the well,” Brewster reiterated. “Once they know there’s pure water available, at least some of them will want to come and drink. The others we’ll knock out or strangle.” Ignoring the skeptical gazes, Brewster hefted his jeans up around his skinny waist and started walking toward the dock. “We got work to do.”
Nephilim Genesis of Evil Page 27
