by Mark Tufo
“Want something to drink?” Mike asked, heading to the fridge still parked midway in the hall.
“I think I’ll pass on that. So you’re saying he dissolved?” the sheriff asked. He was taking copious notes for his investigation. How much of what Mike was telling him would end up on any official report was anybody’s guess.
“Dissolved sounds like sugar in coffee this was much more violent. He melted, it was horrific.”
Mike didn’t know when the transformation happened or even why for that matter, but for now he and the sheriff were no longer antagonistic towards each other. He wasn’t sure he could trust the man completely, but it was nice to at least feel like the man wasn’t going to shoot him and leave his body for the wolves.
“I’m having a hard time with this, Mike. It seems like you’re laying the groundwork for an insanity plea. At trial I’ll have to let them know how lucid you are right now.”
“Should I start running around ranting, maybe do some cartwheels?”
“That won’t help now.”
“Well, then this might,” Mike said relating the story of what came up through the clearing the previous night.
“You’re saying this woman was floating and that she dug those claw marks into your door?”
Mike could tell the sheriff wasn’t buying much of what he was selling, but the conviction with which he was saying it was having an effect. Mike saw ripples of goose bumps on the sheriff’s forearms where he had rolled his sleeves up.
“And that brings us to the present, Sheriff.”
“That’s some imagination, I would think with all that running around in your head that your book would have been better.”
Mike shrugged. “What now?”
“I’m going to have to take you into custody until we can do a full investigation and we can find Durgan’s body.”
“What if you can’t?”
“Well, it will make prosecution more difficult, but not impossible. If he’s in these woods, the bloodhounds will find him.” The sheriff stood and reached behind his back to grab his handcuffs.
Mike’s eyes widened.
“You’re not planning on being any trouble, are you?” the sheriff asked warily.
“Nope, scout’s honor,” Mike said, turning around so that his arms were toward the sheriff.
“I’ve got a feeling you weren’t in the Boy Scouts.” The sheriff placed the cuffs on Mike’s wrists.
Mike laughed. “Busted.”
The sheriff was escorting Mike toward the front door, when the fridge slammed up against it.
“What did you do?” the sheriff yelled in Mike’s ear.
“My hands are cuffed and I’m standing next to you, I didn’t do shit. I’m thinking the house isn’t quite willing to let us leave just yet.”
“Bullshit. Do not move,” the sheriff said as he pushed Mike up against the wall. He pulled his gun out of his holster and slowly approached the fridge which was vibrating hollowly. The sheriff looked around the fridge for some sort of device or cable system that would have moved it. “This is pretty elaborate. I don’t see anything, so what’s the trick?”
“I’m not an engineer, Sheriff, I didn’t do anything.”
“Fine, have it your way.” The sheriff placed his weapon back in its holster and attempted to move the appliance. It may as well have been cemented in place. “There’s nothing holding this thing in here,” the sheriff grunted.
“One would think that,” Mike said, rubbing the side of his head and the patch up against a wall sconce so that he could move it out of the way. When he finally dislodged it enough to see out he was not excessively surprised to see a large black mist pressed against the fridge.
“What are you looking at?” the sheriff said, eyeing Mike.
“My other house guest is here. I guess that’s not really the truth, though,” Mike said, thinking. “More than likely, I’m the guest, he or it has been here longer than me.”
The sheriff again pulled his revolver out of his holster and pointed it at Mike’s chest. “Release whatever switch you have holding that thing in place or I’m going to make you considerably lighter.”
“Do it,” Mike begged. “I’m so tired of living, it’s become so difficult since Jandilyn died. I feel like I’m going through the motions. Every night I go to sleep hoping to be released from this nightmare and each morning I wake up to the horror of realizing she’s gone and I’ll never hold her in my arms again. Do you know what that’s like?”
The sheriff backed up a step from the power of Mike’s words. “If that’s the way you truly feel, why didn’t you just let Durgan do you in?”
“Because he was an asshole sent by a bitch and I’d be damned if I was going to let them win. Although, somehow, Sheriff, I think I already am.”
“Already am what?”
“Damned.”
“Is there a back door?” the sheriff asked as he grabbed Mike’s shoulder and turned him around, but not before he carefully placed the patch back in place. “Your eye creeps the shit out of me.”
“You’re not the only one. And no there’s no back door.”
“The basement then?”
“Never been down there.”
“You’re shitting me. You bought a house without going down the basement first—what if it was two feet under water?”
“I always got the feeling I wasn’t going to be here long…didn’t think it mattered much.”
“Are all you authors as crazy as you?”
“I can’t speak for the others, but I would imagine they have a slice of insanity running through them—how else could they have multiple worlds coursing through their heads?”
“Let’s go.” The sheriff pushed Mike back toward the kitchen and the door that led to the cellar stairs. “Light switch?” he asked, looking into the gloom pooling at the bottom of the stairs.
Mike shrugged. “No clue.”
“Fantastic. Go slow.”
The stairs creaked and shook as the duo descended. When Mike stopped on the basement floor he realized it was dirt by the uneven feel under his sneakers. Mike took another step in, his forehead bumped against a cool object which yielded to his advance.
“Think I found a light,” Mike said as the sheriff got down behind him. “By my head there’s a light hanging down.”
The sheriff batted the side of Mike’s head.
“Yeah, that wasn’t it.”
“Sorry,” the sheriff told him.
Mike heard the click as the sheriff threw the switch. At first nothing happened, both thought the light must have been burned out. And then it began to flicker to life. “Must have had to warm up,” Mike said, turning away from the slowly building light.
“What the fuck is this place?” the sheriff asked, moving past Mike and farther in.
Mike turned his head to follow the sheriff’s steps. Steel tables lined the far wall, gleaming surgical tools hung on pegboards: bone saws, rib splitters, oversized scalpels.
“This looks like a mortuary,” Mike said, panicking. “I really don’t want to be down here.” He backed up.
More than one table was bathed in a rusty brown substance. “Dried blood,” the sheriff stated as he got closer.
Dried husks of what looked like internal organs were piled in the far corner from where Mike stood. Mike cramped and violently vomited. “I need to get out of here,” he begged, still hunched over, long lines of spittle hanging from his mouth.
“How could you not know this was here?” the sheriff shouted in an accusatory tone.
Mike could only shake his head.
The sheriff went farther than the light could pierce. Mike thought for sure he would get swallowed up in the bleakness of the place.
“I think I found your Durgan,” the sheriff said as he dragged something large toward the center of the room.
“What is it?” Mike asked not looking up.
“I’ll play your game, but I’m winning. It’s a body bag.” The sheriff dra
gged it into the light.
Mike could feel his pulse quicken, his pupils began to contract and his sight started to tunnel so only pinpricks of light could enter. The sheriff grabbed the oversized zipper, a smile of satisfaction crossing his lips.
“Please, Sheriff…” Mike said, a wicked case of vertigo threatening to drop him on his ass. “Please don’t open that.”
“No desire to see your handiwork, I take it?” the sheriff asked as he pulled the zipper down. “Huh?” He stood.
Mike watched as a tress of dirty blonde locks spilled out from the bag. He knew without going any farther who was in that bag.
“Who the fuck is this, you sick fuck!” the sheriff was screaming from a million miles away.
Mike was rapidly losing consciousness as his back slid down the wall. “It’s Jandilyn,” he murmured moments before he blacked out. His respite from the horror was short-lived as the sheriff manhandled him to his feet and gave him a once over across the face to get him awake.
“Who is in that bag!” the sheriff was shaking Mike so hard the back of his head was making a sickening thwacking sound against the concrete wall. “That is not your month-long dead wife in that bag, it can’t be.” The sheriff seemed to be hoping at least that that was the case.
Mike couldn’t bring himself to look over, but he didn’t have to. “It is.” he cried softly.
“The woman in that bag hasn’t been dead more than a few minutes. Rigor mortis hasn’t even set in. What have you done?” he asked as he slammed Mike hard against the wall again for good measure.
The sheriff finally let him go, Mike slid down halfway, tears the size of small marbles fell in his lap. The sheriff went back to the body and felt around in the woman’s pockets until he found what he was looking for, he stood up quickly as if he didn’t want to be this close to death.
“What the fuck is going on?” he asked as he swept his hand across the side of his face. He looked from the picture ID to the face in the bag and back again at least a dozen times.
Mike had already realized what was going on. “That’s my Jandilyn.”
“It can’t be!” the sheriff said nearly hysterically. “Did you dig her up? But that can’t be it…she looks like she just fell asleep. I have to call this in. Get your ass up.”
He grabbed Mike by the shoulder and hauled him to his feet. Mike looked over his shoulder as he headed to the stairs. Jandilyn’s arm fell out of the bag, her modest engagement and wedding rings shone brightly in the dim light.
Mike’s sob caught in his throat. “I love you, Jandilyn,” he said.
“Move!” the sheriff said, not wanting or willing to believe the body in the basement was anything but the fresh kill of a madman. To think on any other scenario opened up doors to places he had no wish or reason to visit.
Patches stood at the top of the stairs, her tail was going back and forth in an excessively agitated manner. Mike stopped two steps from the top.
“What are you doing?” the sheriff asked. Mike could sense the panic rising in the man much like his own had been.
“My cat won’t get out of the way.”
“Kick it, I don’t care, they’re all just bats with a ‘c’ at the beginning of their name.”
“And no, wings. Move, cat,” Mike said. But she wouldn’t.
Patches hissed at the men as if in response.
“I’m going to shoot the thing if you don’t hurry up and get out of here. I don’t see anything,” the sheriff said as he peered around the side of Mike.
Patches stared a second longer at Mike and then rounded the corner to go back upstairs Mike presumed. Mike got back to the top.
“I need to get to my cruiser, but that fridge is wedged tight. If I undo your cuffs will you behave?” the sheriff asked pleadingly.
“Would you believe anything I say, Sheriff?” Mike responded. “Even I wouldn’t take the cuffs off me in this predicament.”
The sheriff removed his hat and ran his hands through his thinning brown hair. “I’ll shoot you dead if you try anything. You hear me?” He reached for his cuff key, his hands were visibly shaking. He had to grasp Mike’s wrist to steady his own, but that was much like grabbing a handhold on a ship in a squall, Mike was no better off. “You’re going to hang for this,” the sheriff said as he removed the cuffs.
“This is a bad way to start an alliance,” Mike said as he brought his hands to the front of his body and rubbed where the cuffs had chaffed him.
“This is no alliance, I…we just need to get out of here. I don’t know how you did it, unless you just found some girl that looked like your wife or maybe just made a fake ID who knows what you sick fucks having going through your minds.”
“I did not kill my wife.”
“Maybe not your wife…but your fingerprints are all over whoever that unfortunate young lady in the basement is. I can get you some help, Mike, it looks like you’ve never recovered from the loss.”
“So I’ll be healthy when I swing?” Mike asked, a sick smile splashed on his face.
“Let’s just get this thing out of the way.”
“The suns almost setting, I don’t think that’s such a wise idea.”
“Setting? I just got here.”
“I’m thinking we were in the basement a lot longer than you realize.”
The sheriff strode over to the windows in the living room. “It must be getting cloudy, it can’t be any later than ten.”
“The only reason it would be this dark at ten am was if there was going to be a tornado.”
“That’s insane, there’s no tornados in upstate Washington,” the sheriff said as he peered through the window. “My watch says seven thirty, how can that be?”
“There still might be time, let’s get out of here,” Mike said, bolting down the hallway.
“Stop!” the sheriff shouted, thinking Mike was making an escape attempt. The sheriff’s view was obstructed by the staircase but he could hear Mike rustling around in one of the cabinet’s in the kitchen. “Stop what you’re doing, Mike!” the sheriff yelled.
Mike paid no heed. “I thought it was in here!” he yelled triumphantly. “Sheriff, let’s get out of here!” Mike ran back down the hallway.
The first thing the sheriff noticed was the octagonal steel of what appeared to be a rifle barrel. He fired his revolver once, placing one well-aimed shot between the third and fourth rib on Mike’s right side. The round slammed Mike up against the wall as it shattered the two ribs and punctured his lung. The crow bar clanged to the ground and slid toward the fridge.
“A fucking crow bar? I thought it was a rifle,” he said, placing his revolver back into his holster and running over toward Mike. Mike’s complexion had paled considerably, he looked waxen. Questioning eyes looked up at the sheriff. Blood flowed freely from under Mike’s arm.
Mike noted that he was again on the ground but this hit did not seem to pack as much punch as the earlier one when he saw Jandilyn in the body bag. “I thought it would hurt more,” Mike rasped.
The sheriff ran to the laundry room and grabbed a handful of towels, he placed one tightly up against the wound, holding it in place. “What were you doing?” the sheriff asked him.
“I was going to help you pry the fridge away from the door.”
“I told you to stop.”
“It’s better this way.”
“You are not going to die on me, Talbot, you got that?”
“Do you really have that kind of pull in the afterlife?” Mike asked.
The sheriff couldn’t tell if Mike was being sarcastic or the blood loss combined with shock was making him start to hallucinate. “Hold this tight,” the sheriff, said moving Mike’s arm over the wound with the towel in between. “I’m going out to my cruiser and radio for help.”
“I think that window of opportunity has closed,” Mike said.
The sheriff got chills. “You’ll die when I give the say so.”
“Comforting,” Mike said with a small smile. “Jand
ilyn, is that you? Paul? Dennis?” Mike said as he stared off into space.
The sheriff ran to the fridge which moved effortlessly to the side. “What the hell?” The sheriff opened the front door and placed one foot on the porch when he saw something coming from the woods. He pulled his foot back into the house before he could even register the dread that rocketed through his system.
He swung his gaze from the cruiser to the thing coming at him.
“You won’t make it,” Mike said from the hallway.
“How…how can you know?”
“I’ve had the good fortune to meet it earlier.”
“What is it?”
“Put the fridge back.”
The fridge slid as effortlessly back into place as it had moved out. The sheriff did not seem convinced his stalwart defense would hold.
“Sheriff, please lift my patch off my face, I can’t move my arm anymore.” The towel was soaked dark red and was lying on the ground, Mike’s arm hung uselessly by his side.
The sheriff did as Mike asked, the view from his damaged left eye now seemed to be the more prominent of the two. ‘Reality’ seemed to be taking a backseat as the shadows around him grew more substantial.
“I think I’m dying,” Mike said as a shadow dislodged itself from the nearest wall and materialized into a familiar shape.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – The Sheriff Part Two
The sheriff was looking down at Mike, an ever increasing show of alarm spreading on his features. “What’s out there, Mike? I need to radio for help!” the sheriff asked desperately.
It took Mike a moment to concentrate on the words the sheriff was speaking.
“Tell him she’s a purveyor of souls,” a familiar voice spoke.
“Paul?” Mike hitched, “You’re alive?”
“Not quite, buddy,” Paul said with a bittersweet smile.
“Who are you talking to?” the sheriff asked, following Mike’s line of sight and not witnessing anything except a slight chill and a swirl of dust.
“She’s a purveyor of souls,” Mike spoke.
