The Influence

by Bentley Little

  She hadn’t even been in the mood to have sex for the past two weeks.

  But Don was in great spirits these days. More people had dropped off equipment to be repaired at his shop than ever before, and he’d almost earned enough money to buy that new outboard motor he wanted. Strangely enough, despite his good mood, he hadn’t tried to make love to her, hadn’t asked for sex or even hinted about it, and Jeri wondered if he was seeing someone else. That would certainly account for his change in attitude.

  The thought made her depressed and, on a whim, she drove to Don’s repair shop instead of heading home. He wasn’t there; the place was locked up. He wasn’t at the house, either, and Jeri’s heart dropped in her chest. She tried calling him on his cell phone, but she had no bars, so, leaving the ranch mail in the car, she hurried inside to use the land line. She was able to reach him, but he must have had his phone turned off because all she got was a message. She hung up, feeling worried and frustrated.

  For a moment, she seriously considered getting back in the car and driving around, looking for him. But she knew how paranoid that was and thought it would be better to give him the benefit of the doubt, to wait and then ask him where he’d been this morning when she saw him.

  Besides, she had to take out that ranch mail in case one of the recipients came by to pick it up.

  Like Cameron Holt.

  She shivered.

  Getting a quick drink of water from the kitchen, Jeri walked back outside—

  Where there was a scarecrow standing in her yard.

  She jumped, screamed, and immediately rushed back inside, slamming the door behind her. She had seen the scarecrow for only a second, but it was the closest she had ever been to one of them, and she had noticed the specificity of its mud features, the broadness of its nose, the slightly mismatched eyes, the high cheeks, the hint of an overbite in the mouth. Leaning with her back against the door, breathing hard, she wondered who had sculpted that face and how, who had made those oversized clothes—

  Thump!

  Thump!

  Thump!

  There was pounding on the door behind her, strong enough that she could feel it through the wood, and she let out a scream that would have done Linnea Quigley proud. Jumping away from the door, she dashed over to the phone and dialed 911, an automatic response, though she knew there was no police, fire or sheriff in town and the call would go through to Willcox.

  Behind her the door crashed open.

  She should have called a neighbor. Not daring to look behind her, scrambling to get out of the way in case the scarecrow was right on her heels, Jeri ran through the den to the back door. It took several agonizing seconds to get it unlocked and open—seconds in which she was sure the scarecrow was going to grab her—but then she was outside, in the back yard.

  Where three scarecrows blocked her way.

  Sobbing, she sank to the ground, even while a part of her brain was exhorting her to fight back, call for help, run away, duck, dodge, find a way out. She closed her eyes, hearing rustling movements louder than her own cries, then feeling strong rough fingers of hardened dirt tighten around both arms and pick her up. Screaming now, but unable to resist the urge, she opened her eyes, staring into two deep black holes in a brown mud face, straw hair sticking out far enough to poke into her forehead.

  She had never seen any of the scarecrows actually move, but as she was twisted sideways, as one of them grabbed her legs, as the one holding her arms opened its mouth to reveal teeth made from jagged chunks of rock and broken pieces of bottle glass, she finally did, and the sight terrified her into silence.

  Her last thought was a complete non sequitur: Who’s going to deliver the mail now?

  ****

  Vern Hastings made himself a ham sandwich for lunch, using the curved knife he’d utilized for the sacrifice to smear mustard on the toasted bread. The knife had been washed several times since then, but he liked to think that there was still some DNA on the blade.

  Putting the knife down, he bit into the sandwich, chewing slowly to enjoy the taste.

  Rose walked into the kitchen. “You’re eating a sandwich? I thought we were going to—”

  Vern picked up the knife and stabbed his wife in the throat. Blood gushed out, but it gushed out cleanly, and a ring of yellow was still visible along the upper edge of the wound where mustard from the knife had wiped off on the skin. Collapsing on the floor, she grabbed her neck with both hands, desperately trying to stem the flow, but blood continued to pour down her neck and seep through her fingers.

  Vern calmly took another bite as she thrashed about, made loud gasping gurgling sounds, then twitched once and lay still.

  He thought about who would replace Rose during services, who would assist him. Old Etta Rawls, maybe. Definitely not that fat pig Tessa Collins. In fact, it might be time for Tessa to be punished for her gluttony.

  He would be happy to do the honors.

  Popping the last bite of sandwich into his mouth, Vern looked down at the mess Rose had made. Blood was everywhere, and the last thing he wanted to do was clean it up. There was no one else to do it, however, and, sighing heavily, he went out to the laundry room to get a bucket and rag, resenting the angel for making him kill his wife.

  TWENTY NINE

  Stupid! Jill berated herself. Stupid! Both her email and answering machine were full of messages. She hadn’t made any telemarketing calls—or even checked in with the company—for nearly two days, though she’d promised to put in at least six hours during that period. Listening to the messages, she discovered that two different supervisors—one from her group and one from the tier above him—had attempted to contact her to make sure nothing had happened.

  The stress was on, and before calling back she tried to come up with a reasonable excuse, an explanation that sounded legit and would account for her not checking in, but would not make it sound as though she’d purposely blown off work. She finally decided to go with the generic “family crisis,” and since she was such a bad liar, she responded by email. Immediately afterward, she clipped on her headset, logged onto the command center, signed in and started making calls from the list she was given.

  She called for six hours straight, without a drink, food or bathroom break, and it was midafternoon before she finally signed out, logged off and removed her headset. She was dead tired, but she’d made up her time. It had also been an impressive stretch and, hopefully, that would counteract her unexpected period of inactivity.

  Wearily, she glanced down at the open sketchbook on the table in front of her. She tended to doodle when she talked on the phone, and sometimes her subconscious came up with images and ideas that she expanded on in her work. This time, however, there were only endless drawings of the monster, standing and lying in various positions, its body in assorted stages of decomposition and…metamorphosis. The doodles were much more detailed than her usual random scratchings, and they caused her to look over at the new canvases she had leaned against the wall. On each of them, she had painted the same creature—which was why it had been so easy for her to depict what Ross had described—and she wondered again how she could have so perfectly imagined exactly the same beast that Ross had seen before hearing any details of its appearance.

  Where the ideas for the paintings had come from, and why she had done so many, she did not know—and that frightened her.

  Feeling nervous, she walked over to the paintings, pulling forward the ones in front so she could see those behind them. Ten! She’d painted ten of them over the past few days. Jill had not realized that she’d done so many. She had never worked so fast in her life, and the fact that such prolificacy had gone entirely unnoticed by her was disconcerting. Especially considering the subject matter.

  “Jill.”

  In the silence of the house, she clearly heard her name spoken aloud, though where the voice was coming from she couldn’t say. It sounded strangely high-pitched, like someone speaking on helium, and it was accompanied by a tru
ly obnoxious odor, a combination of rot and fecal matter that made her think of a decaying corpse.

  “Jill.”

  It came again, and this time it sounded as though it was coming from outside. Frowning, she walked over to the window.

  Puka was on the other side of the glass, looking in at her, and she jerked back, crying out. The dog was standing on his hind legs, front paws against the window. His fur was gone, as was much of his flesh. Dirt, burrs and twigs were stuck with dried blood to red musculature and white bone. In the burned face, that one crazy eye still rolled around, while sharpened teeth grinned hungrily beneath the exposed nasal cavity.

  The mouth opened, closed.

  “Jill.”

  Screaming, she ran around the butcher’s block, through the kitchen to the back door, intending to dash over to Shan Cooper’s and take refuge inside his house. But Puka was already rounding the corner, walking on its hind legs (it was now an it, not a he), the way a person would, and she could see that wild rolling eye and that terrible white grin even from this far away.

  Dogs were not designed to walk upright, so Puka’s steps were slow and awkward, and Jill ran in the opposite direction, screaming. “Help! Help!”

  She sped through the side yard to the front of the house, running into the middle of the cul-de-sac while simultaneously checking out her neighbors’ driveways. Shan Cooper’s El Camino was gone, as was the Porters’ Explorer. But Tim’s pickup was in the Russells’ carport, and she headed directly across the street as fast as her legs would carry her. Gina’s Kia was not there, but she and Tim never drove together, so the odds were that Tim was home.

  He wasn’t.

  She stood, screaming and crying on the Russell’s front porch, banging on their door, jabbing the button for the bell, but there was no response, and when she turned around, she saw Puka crossing through the center of the cul-de-sac, still standing erect.

  “Jill!” the dog called out. Its voice was louder now, though just as high-pitched. She could hear it all the way over here, above her own frantic crying.

  Desperate, Jill ran around the edge of the circle back to her own house. There was no sidewalk, but there was a dirt trail, and she passed over two driveway entrances on the way to her own, when she suddenly knew what she had to do.

  The dog was already turning around in its disturbing, awkward way.

  She ran up to her front door. Had she locked it or not? Not! She opened the door, grabbed her purse from the spot next to the couch where she’d dropped it, and was already fumbling for her keys as she carried the purse back outside and hurried over to her van. It, too, was unlocked—thankfully—and she got in and locked the doors as she rummaged through her purse, finally finding the Econoline’s keys. Glancing at the side and rearview mirrors, she didn’t see Puka, which meant that the dog was either in back of the van or in her blind spot, and she shoved the key in the ignition, started the engine and threw the vehicle into reverse.

  There was a crash and a bump, and as much as she had once cared for Puka, she hoped that she had run the dog over. Tires squealing, she backed the van all the way over to the Russells’ house across the street, feeling a sense of relief as welcome as it was horrific when she saw the bloody body crumpled at the edge of her own driveway. Just to be on the safe side, she shifted from Reverse to Forward and ran over the dog again. Then did it one more time for good measure.

  She didn’t want to see the result of her efforts, but she had to make sure Puka was gone for good, so she got out of the van and walked back. What had once been a dog and had then become a monster was now a flattened mess of blood, guts and bone on the edge of the road. She got close enough to verify but not close enough to see details, then hurried back in the house, locking the door behind her. She wasn’t about to pick up the body, but she couldn’t just leave it there, and when Shan or one of her other neighbors came home, she’d have him take care of it.

  She considered calling Ross and asking him to come over, but didn’t want to throw this on him right now, not with everything else he had to worry about.

  She’d tell him tonight when he called.

  There was a knock at her front door, and her heart leapt in her chest.

  “Anyone home?”

  It was Ross! Grateful, she ran to the door and yanked it open.

  “Nice day for a…walk,” he said, frowning as he took in her rattled, disheveled appearance. “What happened? What is it?”

  Unable to stop herself, she burst into tears, throwing her arms around him and hugging tightly. She made him close the door and lock it, and on the way to the couch told him about Puka. Immediately, he turned around and went outside to look at what was left of the dog. She could see the expression of horror on his face when he saw the flattened, bloody remains and knew he was far out of his comfort zone, but when he offered to pick up and dispose of the body, she gratefully allowed him to do so. Part of her wanted the dog buried—she owed Puka at least that much—but the animal was not what it had been, was not the pet she had known, and she did not raise any objection when Ross used her shovel to scoop it into a Hefty bag and then threw the bag into the covered garbage can at the side of the house.

  Afterward, she made him wash off the shovel with Lysol and leave it lying flat on the ground at the side of the house to dry.

  “Done,” Ross announced, coming back inside, and he scrubbed his hands with Comet in the kitchen sink in order to get off whatever germs might have been on his skin.

  Jill was not a drinker, but in the cupboard she had a bottle of scotch left over from her old boyfriend that she’d brought with her to Magdalena and kept on hand in case she ever entertained and guests wanted some. It hadn’t happened yet, but she could really use some extra courage right now, and she poured herself a shot. Ross declined an offer for one of his own, so she drank his, too. He was considerably less rattled than she was, but then he hadn’t seen Puka in action.

  She was putting away the bottle when she saw Ross looking at the paintings against the wall. “When did you do these?” he asked.

  “The past few days.”

  Frowning, he started looking through them. He pulled one canvas out from the back and placed it next to one in the front, rearranging all of them until, in a few minutes, they were lined up in a semi-circle around the room.

  Jill saw the progression immediately. She hadn’t noticed it before because her eye had always been on the creature, not the background, but now she saw that there was a story going on around the central figure.

  “When did you paint this one?” Ross asked.

  She could barely speak. Her voice when it came out was a whispered croak. “The day before yesterday, I think.” In this picture, the monster was curled up inside of what looked like a translucent egg on the floor of a darkened room. Inside the egg, one clawed hand was pointing to the right.

  And at the edge of the painting, between the wall of the room and the edge of the canvas, a small skinned Puka, standing on hind legs and nearly invisible amidst a depiction of dead cattle, was heading off in that direction.

  She didn’t remember painting the dog at all. She remembered painting the cocooned monster, but, if asked, she would have sworn on her mother’s life that the background had been a solid brown or blue.

  Only none of the backgrounds were solid colors. They were all scenes, though that was not something she had noticed even this afternoon when she had been sorting through the works herself. Looking at them now, in the order in which Ross had placed them, Jill saw the evolution of the beast from a dead body enveloped in an egg to a fearsome monster standing tall and looming over the smoldering ruins of Magdalena. Somehow, in her paintings, she had predicted not only the return of her dog but the burning of Dave and Lita’s chickens, which were visible in the corner of the very first canvas. Seeing that, it made her wonder if the other events depicted would come true. There was a line of angry well-armed men with elongated animal shadows walking through the desert, a street littered
with the mutilated bodies of women, a field of wildly overgrown and unsettlingly colorful vegetation, and those smoking ruins, out of which were crawling creatures that looked like they’d come from the depths of hell.

  She tried to tell herself that it was all coincidence, that none of it meant anything, but she did not voice that thought to Ross because she knew it was not true.

  Were they all hers? Or had something been working through her?

  She was afraid to even consider that line of reasoning.

  “Did you really come here for a walk?” she asked, clumsily trying to change the subject.

  After a pause and a long look into her eyes, he let her. “Sort of, I guess. I mean, I drove here, and I definitely would have been willing to take a walk, but mostly I just wanted to see you.” He looked into her eyes. “You don’t want to go for a walk now, do you?”

  “After what happened, you mean?” She thought about it. “I think I do. I usually walk when I need to relax or de-stress or want time to think. It helps me. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No. Like I said, I’m up for it.” He took her arm in an exaggeratedly courtly fashion. “Shall we?”

  It occurred to her that the last time they’d walked together they’d seen that skinned-seal thing covered with ants, and, the time before that, the deformed wormlike cow inching its way across the dirt. Then they were out the door and starting up the road, and it felt so good to be out of her house and away from her yard, that she pushed all reservations aside. Besides, it was daytime. What could happen in the daytime?

  Puka.

  She pushed all reservations aside.

  They walked in silence, but it was a comfortable silence. She didn’t feel like talking right now, and Ross seemed to sense that. She was grateful to him for it, and she untwined her arm from his and simply held his hand. The weather was cool but not cold, and his warm hand felt nice in hers. Although the sun was out, billowing white clouds were rolling upward in the east. If this was summer, she would have thought they were monsoon thunderheads, but this time of year, she didn’t know what to make of them. They were beautiful, though, like something out of Arizona Highways, and she thought that maybe she would like to paint a picture of clouds sometime.