by Josh Shiben
Chapter 5
The Damned and the Dead
“Consider the chain – harsh and unyielding, it confines and restrains. A chained man is a prisoner to the metal, his freedom subverted by the uncaring iron that binds him. But what of the chain? Every link within it is itself a prisoner to its peers – held in place by the cold metal on either side. The links are as much a prisoner to the chain as is the man they collectively bind.
Now consider the child – born into time, it lives then dies. Each birth is then merely a link in an unfurling chain through time, binding past to future. A constant, unchanging bond forged of the blood of forefathers, creating an unbroken thread in the web of time. Blood begetting blood. It is written in you, in your blood, in your very fibers and is as inescapable as your own flesh, a story burned into the deepest reaches of your being. You are a walking link – a memory of the past, and a premonition of the future, and like a chain, you are bound. Prisoner to your past, slave to your future, you struggle in your now.”
-Gregori Weder
The initial autopsy was complete by the time Burfict got back to the station, and Grange was already leafing through it. “A couple interesting bits here,” she murmured. “Initial tox-report says no drugs found in the guy’s system – not even caffeine. He was totally clean.”
“Shoots the shit out of the OD angle,” sighed Burfict as he sat down.
“Yeah, and it gets weirder,” she continued. “Those injuries on his face – pre-mortem, but not by much, and they didn’t contribute to the death.” She began reading from the page. “’The death was caused due to a sudden cessation in cardiac function, although no trauma to the organ or defects were found. Further analysis required to determine the cause.’ The guy’s heart just stopped beating and he died. No drugs, no deformities, no trauma to the organ… nothing.” Burfict rubbed his eyes and then looked up at Grange.
“Any idea what did that to his face?”
“Coroner’s guess was some kind of animal. Definitely not human, and he said that judging by the teeth marks and tearing, not something with sharp teeth. A cow or pig or something like that. He’s bringing in a biologist from Tuscaron tomorrow to maybe narrow it down.” She shrugged and sat down on her desk, still reading the report.
“How long ago did he die?”
“Estimated 3 or 4 days, based on the flies and how warm it’s been lately. Oh, and I almost forgot the grossest part – he’d been sexually active lately. They found DNA all over his genitals.” She looked up at him with a wrinkled nose.
“So? We’d guessed that.”
“Well, we tried running it through the database to look for a hit, and we got an error. Turns out, DNA wasn’t even human!”
Burfict groaned. “Any idea what it is?”
“Not yet. They’re looking at it now.” Just then, Samuels burst in the door.
“Holy shit! You guys hear? This son of a bitch was a motherfucker too!” He cackled as he sat down at his desk, obviously pleased with himself.
“Yeah, Leanne just told me.”
“Wasn’t drunk, wasn’t high, just in the mood to pork some pork,” laughed Samuels, still delighted. Burfict and Grange both smiled in spite of themselves. “I’ve been working on those since I got word. Anyway, what’d you find out at the college?” Burfict noticed that Samuels didn’t tease him about Tanya this time, which he appreciated. The dead horse had been thoroughly beaten.
“Just some stuff that makes a little more sense now. Apparently that goat he had a picture of had something to do with fertility. It’s not Satanism, probably. When you were at the scene, did you notice any foot or hoof-prints in the mud?”
“I don’t remember any,” answered Grange. “Definitely no footprints other than Sullivan’s, but we’ll need to go back tomorrow during the day and look for hooves, though. I’ve gotta admit, I wasn’t really looking for them. It’s a barn – I figured any hooves we found were part of the scenery.” Samuels murmured in agreement.
“So, if there was no other person there, why didn’t we find a car at the barn? I mean, how did he get all the way out there?” Samuels scratched his head thoughtfully.
“No tire tracks – I was under the impression he walked there.”
“That’s three miles from the main road, and another five before we get to any housing. Do we know where Sullivan lived yet?”
“Still working on that,” muttered Samuels. “The guy wasn’t exactly living on the grid. We’re trying to track his home address down, but not having much luck. His address listed on his license is this abandoned complex way outside of town. Nobody’s lived there for years. And the license has to be a forgery – it says it was issued in the seventies, but there’s no way that guy was in his forties. Thirty at the most.”
“And I’ve already put out calls to cab companies, asking if any of the local drivers dropped someone off in the area,” chimed in Grange. “Nothing yet, but they’re still asking the drivers.” Burfict nodded and sighed.
He looked at the clock – the day was nearly over, and he had little to show for it. The seconds just kept ticking away, like a maddened countdown. Inexorably, indefatigably, time marched towards the night, bringing with it the promise of violence. The next nightmare would be here soon. Burfict suppressed a shudder, and tried to concentrate on the case.
From the journals of Dr. Alan Kaspars
10/2
I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I guess that scare from that crawlspace got to me. I swear, when I lay down, all I can think of is those little legs scuttling over my skin. How if I were to lift up the covers, I’d see them, crawling all over me. Just a mass of black bodies and legs down there. I know it’s just my imagination, that all of it is in my head, and that I’m just freaked out. So I lie there, pretending not to pretend that I’m covered in spiders.
There was also something sitting in the seat of my car today. It was a statue of some kind. Or more like an idol, I guess. Like the kind of thing you might see a cult worshipping in some over-dramatic horror movie. It must have gotten stuck on my jacket or something when I fell into the crawlspace. Or maybe I grabbed it when I was climbing out of there and didn’t even realize.
I opened the car door and took the thing out, and immediately was struck by the oddness of it. The statue is made of some sort of ceramic or maybe stone material, but it’s very smooth and light. It doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen in nature, but I suppose it could be some kind of volcanic rock I’ve never heard of. The material itself is jet black, and almost looked like it would be clear if it didn’t swallow up the light passing through it. The figure is a large rounded triangular shape, and jutting out from the central mass are 6 long, thick legs, which look like they turn into braided cords or ropes at the end. A round, oblong shape at the narrow point of the triangle must be the head, although the mouth looks more like another braided tube than any jaws. Two smaller arms protrude around the head, and hang down limply – these also end in those ropey coils. The entire thing stands maybe 8 inches tall, including the base. There are some inscriptions there – some sort of language or hieroglyphic I can’t recognize. They’re different from the glyph on the door yesterday – of that I’m certain.
I can’t explain why, but something about the statue looks obscene. It’s like I’m looking at some sort of bizarre fetish that I don’t understand – I’m sure it’s distasteful, but I couldn’t tell you why. Something in the pit of my stomach just tells me that it’s wrong. I took it out and set it on my porch in the back yard. Don’t want it inside my house or my car.
It really is wonderfully carved. The craftsmanship, I mean. I’m looking at it out there on my back porch now, and I can’t find a single tool mark over the entire surface of the thing. I can see why John was so taken by it. I spoke to him about it. It could have gone better, but I’ll transcribe it below. Maybe something will jump out me after a good night’s sleep tomorrow.
“I went to a house at 1288 Juniper Lane.” He said nothing – jus
t stared out the window. “John? I was at Stephen Melker’s house.”
“You’ve seen the idol, then?”
“That statue? Yes. How did you-“
“The idol. Of the queen. Rogenshnack”
“Rogenshnack? You keep saying that. Is that her name? The Spider Queen’s?”
He laughed. It was an insane laugh, like a man who has no recourse left but laughter. Finally, “She has no name. She needs no name. She is our rogenshnack, and our grats clench.” I have no idea what he was trying to tell me. Gibberish defining gibberish. I decided to change the subject.
“Who made it? Was it you?”
“It was given to me. Just as it has been given it to you. And just as you have already gifted it to the prey when you have become witness.” He changes his tenses - a sign of dementia or Alzheimer’s. Another clue, or more babblings of a madman?
“Did you know Melker before he killed himself?”
“Dead men tell no tales. Dead men – “
“John, why did Melker kill himself?”
“- no tales. Dead men tell no tales.”
He continued to repeat that over and over. I could get nothing else out of him. Still, I feel like I’ve made some sort of progress.
Grange lifted the glass to her lips, and Burfict watched as the amber colored liquid slowly disappeared, a whitish ring of foam about the cup the only sign that there had once been beer there. She put the glass down on the table, sighed, belched, and then bowed deeply to Samuels’ applause. David smiled in spite of himself – he generally hated going out, but somehow these two managed to make him enjoy the time anyway, as long as the crowd remained small.
He felt his mind flick along the other patrons of the bar, and wished he could stop it. The waitress was melancholy, a sick sister. He felt her pain as his mind slid to the next patron. A drunk in a dead-end job and failing marriage. He felt the man’s self-loathing like an ache in the pit of his stomach. David had tried drinking his talent away before, and it just made the probing less controlled, as if he were opening the nozzle on a fire-hose. The result ended up feeling like a sloppy grope as his mind plumbed the others nearby even more intimately. The process was unavoidable, so Burfict remained sober and let his mind rove on like a man with a key to an unknown lock, trying every door on a street. It was exhausting.
David took a drink of his beer, and listened as Samuels told his joke. The man prided himself on his jokes, this one in particular. Burfict had heard it before, but enjoyed watching the excitement in Samuels’ eye as he told it, as if the punch line were a glorious, but closely-guarded secret. Grange was listening with rapt attention, and Burfict realized this joke was not meant for his enjoyment. He savored the peace of the evening as his mind slipped along to the next group of patrons – a pleasant looking young couple in their twenties.
He tasted fear, anger and resentment. Shame and hidden bruises. The girl’s bitterness so strong it ruined his drink. “Stop,” he thought to himself. “Please, just give me one night to relax. Just one night without this,” but he inexorably felt his mind touching that of the man. Red was smeared across his being like the girl’s bruises had been across her several weeks before. Unwashed stains. There they sat, talking just a few yards away, and Burfict had to force himself to take another drink. This was why he never came out. Grange could call him an agoraphobic all she wanted, but David was confident she would surely change her tune if she only knew what it was like. Burfict stayed another half an hour, all he could stand near the couple, and then drove himself home. He was dreading the coming dreams, but that suffering was unavoidable. He might as eliminate the unnecessary grievances. Burfict fled home to his empty house, towards loneliness and nightmares.
Nathan Sullivan looked through the telescope to the sky, searching for Sagittarius. It had become a nightly ritual under the tutelage of The Whisperers, scanning the blackness in between stars for the sign. He found the centaur with ease, and from there it was simply a matter of habit to find the glow of the Omega Nebula – at once both a deathbed and birthing place of the stars. The Harbinger lie there, 8,000 light years away. Nathan’s heart skipped a beat – it was brighter. The stars were right.
He’d had visions of this moment as a boy, when he would lie in bed trembling from fear and the cold; when the angry shouts of his parents reverberated through the halls of his home as if the voices themselves had a physical presence. The slamming of doors, the threats, and finally the crying were his lullabies then.
The Whisperers had first spoken to him as a child, ushering him from that place into their world beyond. He listened to their wisdom in rapt wonder, trembling now with apprehension, a nervous excitement. He had seen so much from beyond the veil, where there is no time. He remembered watching his parents’ home collapse into disrepair and abandonment as years ticked by. He remembered their worry at his disappearance, their mutual suspicion and gradual self-destruction with a certain satisfaction.
As he gazed through the telescope, Nathan remembered the world 8,000 years prior, the men with their simple copper tools on a fertile crescent, unaware that in the cold void of space, the Harbinger had already torn itself apart in an apocalyptic super-nova. He remembered the Romans, marching in their columns, conquering their speck of dust in the cosmic abyss, oblivious to the light streaming at them through the blackness between stars. Nathan had watched the nations in amusement as they went about their petty wars, all in denial that their end had already been written deep in the gulf of space eons prior. As the light from the death-throes of the star finished its long journey to the telescope of Nathan, he smiled for the first time in decades. The end had arrived.
He entered the derelict building in which he had been living and walked to the bedroom. Tonight he would achieve his destiny. He would finally fulfill his purpose. He would fulfill mans’ purpose. He opened the trap door and gazed at the glyph there. The abstract geometries fell away and Sullivan stared into the endless abyss of the Strythgk’lt. The three Whisperers in Yellow gazed back at him from beyond, wordlessly beckoning him through.
