by Mark Tufo
Then another world, another reality, would be found. Until then …
He opened up his power, finding mice hiding in abundance, two snakes in the immediate area, and too many spiders to count. He would need to drain energy for himself and eat food and drink water to keep Samantha alive.
The last time he'd taken over a body and tried to blend in with the population had been decades ago. But he was forever plagued with being close to the lineage of the Zaun clan. And now another one had surfaced to block his Ascension.
Dir readied himself to go find the larger of the two snakes when he sensed two people close by, two humans outside the open barn doors.
So close he could snap their necks and drag them inside before anyone was the wiser. He would feast on their energy and bathe in their life blood as it slowly drained away.
When he touched both minds, for an instant, Samantha smiled for him.
Here, not twenty feet away, existed a much better candidate for him. A far superior body and intellect, someone who would command power.
Best of all, someone who had no idea what power he possessed.
Dir stepped to the corner of the barn, directly behind where he sat. He reached out, taking his time, letting his power flow through the brittle wood and across the gap, before slamming into his soul and conquering him.
* * * * *
Michael and Susan pored over the journal. At first they’d feared it would be hundreds of pages of rambling, dating back fifty years.
But the first page started only twelve days before the end of his grandfather's life, and the book ended in less than forty pages.
They were halfway through reading it aloud to each other when Larry and Becky came back.
"Any luck?" Larry asked.
Susan sat back and frowned. "None of this makes sense to me. Half of the pages are in gibberish."
Michael shook his head. “Not gibberish. Latin."
"Now you speak Latin?" Larry asked.
"No, I… I need to study more, but I think I’m starting to understand it."
Larry sat down in Michael's chair and laughed. "Maybe you're slipping over the edge, my friend. You suddenly understand this? I think we need to call in the guys with white shirts and big butterfly nets."
"Not funny." Michael wasn't amused. "I need some alone time to start again from the beginning. The story’s odd, I'll give you that. But my grandfather wasn't loony, he believe something killed those girls."
"Yes, his own two hands," Larry said.
"You're being rude," Becky said to Larry.
Larry smiled. "He understands I'm playing around, right? You want us to all leave; let you spend time with your diary?"
Michael didn't know if the last part had been sarcasm and he didn't care right now. "No, I think I'll go take a walk and clear my head before dinner."
"You just had lunch," Larry said.
"I meant take a long walk. Larry, what's up with you?"
Becky moved past Michael and whispered 'kitchen'.
Larry ignored the question, closing his eyes and settling back in the chair.
"What's up?" Michael whispered when he and Becky were alone.
"I don't know. It's just… something weird happened."
"What?" Michael glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one else came in.
"We were talking and suddenly he passed out. When he came to, he smiled at me, and acted fine."
"Was it the heat?"
Becky shrugged. "I'm not sure. We were talking, I was waiting for him to ask me out, and boom. When he woke he didn't have anything important to talk to me about. Suddenly, the whole reason for being alone passed. Does that make sense?"
"He still didn't ask you out?"
"No. I’m not sure if he likes me or not. Listen to me, rambling on like we're in high school again. I mean, I got the vibe he liked me and Lord knows I put it out there I liked him. But he never asked, never made a move."
"He was going to. We had a big talk this morning. He was upset about you and that cop having breakfast. He swore, as soon as you and Susan got here, he'd pull you aside and ask you on a proper date. Just you two."
"He never did. Besides," Becky looked away, "I have a date with Artie this Friday."
"What? Did you tell Larry?"
"Larry had his chance. Artie had the balls to step up and ask me out."
Michael noticed she was mad, her teeth grinding as she spoke. He put his hands on her shoulders and smiled. "Hey, you're a big girl. You can date whoever you want. I'm mad the idiot blew his chance with you. Trust me."
"What's the big secret in here?" Larry asked as he walked past them and opened the refrigerator. He pulled out the two-liter or Coke and searched for a glass in the cabinet.
"I'll take a beer," Becky said.
Larry ignored her, pouring his soda.
"I can't remember the last time I saw you drink straight soda," Michael said as he watched Larry sip from the glass. "Or did you magically add rum when I wasn't looking?"
"You were probably too busy staring at Becky's gorgeous tits."
Michael thought he heard wrong. "What?"
Larry took the Coke and glass and disappeared into his bedroom, slamming the door.
"I am so sorry …" Michael said, but Becky put her hands up.
"Not your fault or your problem. He's obviously pissed off at me. Either he knows about Artie or he overheard us in here, or he's mad at himself because he knows his shot has come and gone."
"I'll go talk to him."
"Don't bother. With all this shit and stress going on, I think we all just need a little break. I think I'll make myself scarce the next day or so. Call me if you need me." Becky leaned in and kissed Michael on the cheek.
"I don't want you to leave." Michael liked Becky's company, but he worried he wouldn't get to spend any more time with Susan now.
"Michael, you need time to read the book. I need it back, remember? While he's in his room, and with me and Susan not a distraction, you might get something accomplished tonight."
"I'd still rather you stayed and helped me figure this out."
"Only you can do that. Susan said she didn't understand most of the writing, but you read those words as if you'd written them. We'll just get in the way tonight." Becky smiled. "Don't worry; I'm not taking my little girl away from you."
Michael blushed.
"Call me tomorrow when you figure out what the book says, and if it will help you in some way."
Chapter Twenty Six
"What the fuck is your problem?" Michael asked Larry through the door. He'd tried to open it but Larry’d engaged the lock, and when he knocked he was ignored. "Are you going to answer me?"
Silence.
"Are you five years old? You need to open the door and talk to me."
Michael was pissed. He watched Susan and Becky leave and didn't know if he'd see them again, especially with Larry still around. What started as a great new life was now all fucked up.
"I think you need to leave," Michael said and put his hand on the door. "I know you can hear me." He didn't want to toss out his friend, especially after all they'd been through, but enough was enough. "Pack up and go back to New York."
Michael decided to take a walk and clear his head. He needed to get away from everything for a while. Heading through the living room, he almost walked out the door before he remembered the journal. He decided to find a quiet spot out under a tree, far away from the house and people, and read.
On the steps the heat hit him like a slap in the face. "Sonofabitch," he muttered. He wanted to get away, right now. But he needed lighter clothes and to pack some drinks.
When he went past Larry's door he stopped and put his ear to it. Nothing. He went into his room, keeping quiet, and changed into some new shorts and a white Lollapalooza concert T-shirt. A plastic bag filled with six bottles of water and a box of strawberry frosted Pop Tarts completed his preparation.
Back outside again, he couldn't believe th
e amount of cops still lingering around, in and out of the tool shed. They'd started early, and he didn't have a clue when they would leave. He wanted his life back, as barren as it now seemed without Susan.
Michael trudged through deep tire tracks crisscrossing his back yard, cutting trenches that would fill with water the next rainfall.
"Sir, do you have a moment?"
Michael turned to see a thin man, wearing a suit and tie, and sweating profusely, walk up to him. He tried to hide something small in his hand.
"Can I help you?"
The man put on a big smile. "I'm Rick Cade. I wondered if I could ask you a few questions."
"Who are you?" Michael glanced at the group of police still milling about in the field. This guy sure didn't look like a detective.
"Rick Cade." He put his other hand out to shake. "Channel Six, Jacksonville's Best News."
Michael was instantly pissed. "How'd you get on my property?"
Rick Cade gave him the smile again, full of shiny white teeth. "I walked up from the runoff road."
"You're not supposed to be here."
"I didn't see any signs," he said and waved his hands.
Michael noticed the hand-held tape recorder. He turned and yelled. "Officer, I need some assistance here."
Rick started flapping his arms. "No need for that. How about just a few quick questions?”
Michael waved and one of the cops broke away from the herd.
Rick held the recorder at chest level. "I'm assuming you are Michael Zaun. Did you realize, before you took over the farm, how grizzly the murders were? That your grandfather was a serial killer? What he did to those two, poor girls?"
Michael was relieved to see Detective Stone as he approached.
"I'll ask you again nicely to get the fuck off my property." Michael said with conviction, and he liked the strong voice behind it. Maybe the anger toward Larry right now was giving him some balls. Shit, if this guy didn't move quick enough he might punch his lights out and drag him across the lawn.
"Is there a problem?" Detective Stone asked as he approached.
"I was just leaving, Artie."
Stone glanced at Michael. "Yeah, I'd say so. Get lost." As Rick started to scoot away, Stone grabbed him by the arm. "And I hope - for your sake - this little incident isn't mentioned, even cryptically. I'd hate to arrest you after the fact for trespassing, do we have an understanding?"
"Yes, of course." Rick quickly walked away.
"Can you do that?" Michael asked.
Detective Stone laughed. "No. And he knows it, but we've been doing this dance for a number of years. If I say to squash a story, he will. Besides, I can't imagine he got anything solid out of you. Am I right?"
"You're right. I was getting mad." Michael remembered the rush of adrenalin when he thought he might have a physical confrontation with the reporter. It felt good. "Thanks for my grandfather's journal."
The detective glanced back at the police nearby. "Just hurry up and read the damn thing so I can get it back to evidence. We've got some bigwigs coming in and pushing me out of the way sometime today. I imagine by this time tomorrow I'll be back ticketing jaywalkers. This has gotten huge." He smiled. "And I did it for Becky."
"She's a special lady. So is her daughter."
"Hang in there, kid. You'll win her over."
"What?" Michael gazed off, watching the trees swaying in the hot wind. "We're just friends."
Detective Stone slapped him on the shoulder. "And so were Becky and I until this morning. Keep the faith, kid."
Michael just smiled.
"Let me go and make sure Rick got off the property. He has a habit of hanging around and trying to sneak a quick quote from someone else."
"Larry is inside but I doubt he'll get much from him."
Michael turned and walked across the field, deciding to find the brook that ran perpendicular to the house and barn. He didn't want to go far, but get enough away he'd get some actual privacy.
By the time he followed the sounds of running water and found a cleared spot overlooking the brook, he was a ball of sweat. He wasted a bottle of water washing his hands and face before realizing he could've simply used the stream.
Michael started reading from the point where he'd left off, about midway and twenty pages into the diary. He understood the content in a strange way as he read, as if he didn't comprehend the sentences in an intellectual way, but could visualize a pattern emerging in his mind, and the more he read the more he understood, yet he couldn't put it into actual words.
He was almost dizzy when he finished the last page, and disappointed when it ended suddenly and the next pages were blank. Michael felt like he was missing the very last piece to the puzzle.
When he heard the footsteps, he stood, his legs numb from sitting, then he realized he was alone. And scared.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Jim Rutan, bloody, beaten, and disoriented, moved like a zombie, one lumbering step at a time. Insane thoughts ruled his mind, and he couldn't separate his own from those of Dir of The Earth. Colors blended together, forming obscene shapes and figures before him, the ground vibrant where natural forms—dirt, mud, twigs, branches, rocks, pebbles, leaves, trees—lay before him, as if man-made objects, and man himself were insignificant.
His feet splashed into the water but he didn't actually feel it, not like Dir could feel it, mix with it, and become one with it. Every speck of dirt, sand, every grain of rock, remained out of reach of Jim's senses. The loss of sensation was driving him mad.
But Jim Rutan still existed, and he struggled to regain control. Dir had called him weak, and he recognized the truth, but he decided to use his weakness. He would turn it into anger, fuel his mind and his thoughts, and somehow turn the tide. But his plan didn't seem to be working.
When his thoughts dipped, even for a second, hundreds of bloody images poured into every available space, flooding him with grotesque killings, mutilated bodies, a pile of dead babies skewered in neat little rows across a barren plane.
Jim fell, covering his ears with his hands, but the screaming grew louder. He didn't know the noise came from him or the dying, the impaled, and the burnt. His nostrils filled with the stench of peeling flesh and the rot of a million wounds; Dir savored every drop of blood and dipped his amorphous hands into the body cavities of the sick, pulling forth their cancerous growths, their rotting intestines, and feasting while they lived—watched and died over and over.
The madness called, but Jim ignored the pull. He didn't understand what drove him, but he stood on his brittle legs and tried to put his left foot forward. He needed to control his movements and his will and his mind, before he slipped completely over into the abyss.
He sensed a presence, comforting and light, and he groped for the promise of safety with his physical and spiritual bodies, falling into the warmth as his brain, subjugated by so much insanity, finally shut down before it might be permanently destroyed.
* * * * *
Michael caught Jim Rutan as he fell.
Chapter Twenty Eight
"How's it going?" Larry asked from the top step as Rick Cade walked past.
"Good." Rick stopped and glanced back the way he'd come. "You live here?"
"Yep."
"Mind if I ask you a few questions?"
"Of course not, buddy. Come on inside and make yourself comfortable."
Larry held the door for Rick, who went into the living room and stood near the couch. He pulled his tape recorder from his pocket.
"Before we get into that, I have a question for you: Want a beer?"
"Um, no thanks. I just have a few questions."
"Shoot." Larry walked into the kitchen.
"Did you realize, before you took over the farm, how grizzly the murders were?"
"Of course. There were dead cows and people everywhere. Blood covering the walls, feces staining the grass." Larry grabbed two cold beers from the fridge and walked back into the living room. "Jesus die
s here for our sins, you know that?"
"I don't follow." Rick licked his lips. "Did you or the other guy know the grandfather was a serial killer?"
"Shit yes. We came out here to learn from the best."
"Excuse me?"
Larry took two steps forward and smashed Rick in the face with one of the beers. When Rick fell to one knee but lifted his head, Larry slammed him with the other full beer and watched teeth shoot in all directions. "Oh, and just so you know… it's not polite to refuse a beer when offered. Understand?"
Dir heard someone stepping onto the porch outside.
"Help! Help!" Larry yelled and fell back, cracking the coffee table in two.
Detective Stone, weapon drawn, ran into the room and stopped, surveying the scene.
Larry flailed his hands and pointed at Rick. "He attacked me!"
Detective Stone kept his gun out but pointed at the floor. "What happened?"
"He wanted to ask me questions, but when I refused he tried to hit me with this beer bottle. I fought him, taking it from his hand, and he wouldn't stop coming at me. Didn't you hear me scream for you?"
The detective shook his head, bending down to inspect the damage to Rick's face. "That doesn't make sense."
"Neither does crouching in front of someone with a broken beer bottle in his hand, dumb-ass." Larry broke the rest of the glass bottle on Stone's head and kicked him in the back for good measure. Now he was having fun. Two more swift kicks to the ribs brought an audible snap.
"I guess I need another beer. And some rope."
Dir was energized, the destruction fueling his power, and Larry's physical form better than he'd had in quite a long time. Not perfect, of course, gangly, too tall, too skinny and too uncoordinated. But in the hands of Dir, he was a machine, a true specimen who would last longer than the others. He had unused strength in his limbs, a quickness never realized, and an anger that could be used.
