by Mae Clair
“You mean like ghosts?” Caden asked.
Evening waved his oddly shaped fingers. “Ghosts, aliens, werewolves. You’d be surprised what people believe they’ve encountered.” He hesitated briefly, tapping one long finger against his chin as if pondering the idea. “Of course, it’s not in my place to validate one way or another. I simply meet with the test subjects to gather information. Those behind the studies have a specific interest in the Mothman. That’s how we found Mr. Mason.”
“You’re going to have to explain that.” Ryan couldn’t keep a clipped edge from his voice.
Evening regarded him steadily. “The organization required a subject who encountered the Mothman.”
“Lyle?” Caden sounded incredulous.
“So he claimed. I’m not sure how the organization found him—that’s not my job—but they pay their subjects well. There are several initial interviews to weed out those looking for quick cash. By the time the subject is placed under my scrutiny, they’ve been thoroughly vetted. Naturally, we occasionally have someone slip through that’s found a way to circumvent the process, but for the most part, the cases referred are credible.”
Ryan found it hard to believe Lyle had seen the Mothman. A lot of people had jumped on that bandwagon back in the sixties, but he didn’t remember anything about Mason. The guy definitely seemed like the type who’d want to make a penny off the publicity. Probably how he’d ended up as a guinea pig for Evening. “What’s any of this have to do with Mason returning to Point Pleasant?”
Evening cleared his throat. “Are you familiar with the term Flicker Phenomenon?”
Ryan exchanged a glance with his brother. Even Weston looked confused. Apparently, their strange visitor hadn’t shared this particular part of his tale with the sheriff.
“Flicker Phenomenon is a type of hypnosis using light.” Evening spoke patiently as if instructing children. “The concept behind the study is that flickering light is able to cause alterations in consciousness, even induce visual hallucinations. Subjects are manipulated through regression.”
“What does that mean?” Ryan asked.
“They are mentally guided backward in time to the point of their encounter. This allows the practitioner to determine whether or not the episode is genuine or a contrived fantasy. Specific details that might otherwise be buried in a subject’s subconscious can then be harvested. In the case of Mr. Mason, he was in a deep hypnotic state when a disruption occurred.”
“What kind of disruption?” Weston asked.
“A high intensity alarm was inadvertently activated at the facility. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the interruption severed my connection to him. I left for a moment to pursue the nature of the alarm. When I returned, the subject was gone.”
“You mean Lyle?” Ryan disliked the term “subject.” Regardless of his feelings for Katie and his gut reaction to her ex, he liked Evening’s haughty manner of talking even less. “Are you saying he’s still under hypnosis?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Evening folded one hand over the other on his lap. “Mr. Mason is fully cognizant of the present, but during our sessions, I reawakened something from his past. I’ll call it a wall. I was unable to determine the cause, only that he has internalized what he perceives to be a grave wrong. In a lucid state, he would never act upon these feelings, but his mind is no longer functioning rationally and has twisted the injustice out of proportion. Mr. Mason holds extreme animosity for someone in Point Pleasant.”
“Katie.” Ryan’s gut clenched. “Damn it! I knew he’s been stalking her.”
Evening’s brows drew together. “Who?”
“Katie Lynch,” Weston supplied. “Mason’s ex-girlfriend. They have a son together. Lyle never admitted to being the father, but it’s common knowledge to most everyone in town.”
“I see.” Evening contemplated the thought briefly. “That would appear to make sense. It’s my belief Mr. Mason will return to Point Pleasant, if he hasn’t already, with the intent of collecting debt on someone’s past sin. It’s why I’m here. I felt it prudent to share the information so appropriate measures could be taken. Naturally, I’ll need to see Mr. Mason as well in order to…rewire his brain, so to speak.”
Weston frowned, plainly soured by the terminology. “We haven’t seen him yet.”
“Doreen Sue did, according to Eve.” Caden offered the information with a shrug. “I’m not sure how reliable that is. Eve heard it second or third hand. Supposedly, Doreen Sue saw Lyle buying cigarettes at the gas station.”
Evening raised a pale eyebrow. “Doreen Sue?”
“Doreen Sue Lynch,” Weston inserted. “She’s Katie’s mother and runs a hair salon here in town.”
“Of course. I believe I’ve passed it. I’ll make a point to talk to her.”
“We’ve also seen Lyle’s van,” Ryan said.
Caden frowned. “With a West Virginia plate that dead-ended at the DMV. I’m not sure it was his, Ryan.” He shifted his gaze to Evening. “Do you know what kind of vehicle he was driving?”
“I can’t say. The facility I work for is located in Pennsylvania. Mr. Mason’s car malfunctioned shortly after he arrived. He requested advance funds to have it repaired.”
“Or he could have replaced it with a van and transferred his tags. Katie said the van outside her house was dark blue or green. Plain panel, like a work vehicle. He could have picked it up cheap.” Mulling the thought over, Ryan tugged on his bottom lip. “But would he be skilled enough to alter the plates? Would he even think about that if his mind was warped the way you said?”
“He would if he wanted to fly under the radar.” Caden looked back to Evening. “This facility you work for…you said it’s in Pennsylvania. Where exactly?”
Evening pressed a fist to his lips and cleared his throat. “We don’t make a habit of broadcasting our location. The area is rural, north of Pittsburgh.”
Caden narrowed his eyes. “Where?”
“Who cares?” Ryan paced off a tight circle. “Katie’s had some creep watching her house for two nights in a row. Mason’s been seen in town and we know he’s here because of a grudge.” He pivoted to face the sheriff. “Pete, I’d like to put protection on her place. I’m going to have to tell her about this.”
Weston nodded. “I can have a car make regular rounds. You might want to suggest she stay somewhere else for the time being. I’ll put out a wire on the van and the plate. We’ll bring Mason in for questioning.” Standing, he steepled his fingers on his desk, shifting his attention to Evening. “Are you staying at the Parrish Hotel?”
“I am.”
“Katie Lynch is the manager there.”
“I believe I met her this morning.”
“Then take a good look, because that woman’s got an eight-year-old kid. She doesn’t need some hothead with a buried grudge targeting her because you rewired his brain. Make sure you clean this up, Evening.”
“Understood.” Evening acknowledged the command with a thin smile bordering on arrogance.
Ryan was tempted to knock it from his face, but Caden grabbed his arm and dragged him from Weston’s office.
“Did you catch that guy’s name?” his brother asked.
“I caught his conceit. It stinks. Like shit.”
“Evening, Ryan. His name is Evening.”
“So?”
“Don’t you remember what Parker said? Cold must return. Evening will follow. Too coincidental, don’t you think?”
“That a guy in the looney bin happens to hit on some dipstick’s name?” He’d forgotten that quirky mantra of Parker’s. It wasn’t like Evening’s last name was Jones. How did a kid with little connection to the outside world know about a guy like Evening? “Look, the whole thing reeks if you ask me, but you’re going to have to handle that arrogant bastard on your own. I need to get to Katie.”
Caden nodded briskly. “I need to see someone too.” He headed for his desk.<
br />
Ryan came up behind him as he hooked the jacket from the back of his chair. “Who?”
“No one you know. At least not personally.”
“Should I be worried about that?”
“Grateful.” Caden smiled tightly and headed for the exit. “I’ll call you when I’ve got something.”
* * * *
Caden made a quick trip to West Central for a brief discussion with Nurse Brenner. When he asked about the name “Evening,” she said the only time Parker had mentioned it was in his message to Caden. She’d thought he was referring to the time of day, not a proper name. Busy with her own mini-crisis involving a patient who insisted snakes had slithered into his bathroom drain, she pointedly showed him the door. Caden had wanted to talk with Parker’s doctors, or at least look at medical files, but the authorization involved paperwork, jumping through hoops, and navigating red tape.
Instead, he headed where he’d originally planned—the TNT.
Morning had given way to early afternoon by the time he arrived, the narrow roads cut through the old munitions site splattered with sunlight. Many of the trees still had their leaves, dense woodlands on either side marked by sienna, copper, and gold. Every so many yards a narrow footpath, marked by a swing-arm post at the entrance, sliced into the foliage. Dried leaves scuttled across the road, snared on the opposite side in clusters of thistles and ferns.
The TNT was the home of the Mothman. The first time he’d seen the creature, he’d been eighteen. He and his friends, along with a few girls, had come here on a Halloween night, hoping to scare up some fun. Nothing too terrifying, a harmless trick to frighten the girls. Near the igloo where the Mothman had been sighted, he’d planned to creep into the woods, then cry out as if he’d been trapped by the monster.
Instead, he’d come upon the creature in the darkness, a grayish-white bulk sheltering beneath the trees. A thing of nightmares and chaos, it was strung together by gray flesh and leathery wings. Squatting with its wings folded close to its body, it gazed at him with malignant red eyes. A splintered branch pierced the right wing, pinning it to the tree.
He should have yelled his head off. Called for Wyatt and Glen. Instead, he’d cautiously walked forward and extracted the branch. The thing had surged to its feet and burst into flight.
He should have been terrified. Anyone who’d ever encountered the Mothman reported an overwhelming sense of horror. Unlike others, Caden had seen the creature up close. Touched it, opening a channel between them. Dark emotion had poured directly into his head—confusion, melancholy, pain. A deluge of misery that left him gasping for breath.
It had been an eye-opening experience to learn emotion was the cryptid’s defense. A reflex means of driving predators away. But instead of flooding Caden with fear, it had used that power to share its misery. Quiet agony that had nothing to do with its wound but something ugly and raw, buried deep inside.
Several miles into the TNT, Caden pulled off the roadway. If he drove far enough, he’d encounter shells of buildings and old ruins tumbled among the trees. The Army left its mark behind when abandoning the site, including chemicals that leeched into the soil. Now a wildlife refuge, the TNT had been placed on the government’s Superfund site for clean up. In the meantime, the continued buzz over red water seepage and ground contaminants only fueled speculation about the Mothman and other strange phenomenon. As a kid, Caden had heard tales of three-headed fish in the ponds, squirrels with eight toes, and a red fox with a double snout.
He’d never seen anything out of the ordinary other than the Mothman, but Eve and Katie claimed to have spoken to an unseen entity with oracle-like powers in an abandoned weapon’s igloo. According to folklore, the TNT was bisected with ley lines. Those who put stock in the supernatural believed the igloo was positioned on one of those lines, creating a doorway, or “thin spot” between worlds. There were even tales of George Washington encountering unexplained phenomenon when he’d surveyed the land preceding the Revolutionary War.
Caden wasn’t entirely convinced the legends were true, but had the scars on his arm to prove the Mothman was real. Pulling off the narrow lane, he parked his car, then killed the ignition.
The air was crisp, layered with the musky scent of dried leaves and soil when he stepped outside. The primeval atmosphere never failed to amaze him, the hush of deep woods broken only by a soft sigh of wind through the tree branches or the occasional cry of a crow. Leaving the car behind, he headed down a rutted path. Within a few yards, the trail became buried beneath overgrown weeds and briars, the brown plants acting like a net to trap fallen leaves. The latter crunched under his shoes as he threaded his way deeper into the woods.
By the time he reached the igloo, second thoughts crept into his head. He didn’t doubt Eve and Katie had experienced something inside the bunker, but to test the theory left him waffling with indecision. On one hand, he knew the Mothman was real. He even believed the ghost of his dead sister, Maggie, had communicated with their mother over the summer. Boiled down to the dregs, the supernatural was almost commonplace in Point Pleasant if you knew where to look.
Ryan wanted him to communicate with the Mothman, but he didn’t have the power to summon the creature on a whim. The thing had a mind of its own. It came when it wanted, and lately hadn’t bothered. Which left the oracle, as Eve and Katie had taken to calling the unseen presence in the igloo.
It took him a while to reach the spot. Once or twice he thought he heard someone moving through the woods beside him, but each time he stopped, the sound ceased. Chalking it up to his imagination, he pulled a flashlight from his belt and stepped inside the old bunker.
Like most of the igloos in the TNT, the ammunition shelter had been cut into the hillside, making it hard to spot from the air. The crown was buried beneath a dense mat of grass, brambles, and weeds. Trees grew on top of the structure and clustered around it. Barricaded by metal doors, the bunker almost seemed a natural part of the earth.
One door stood slightly ajar, offering passage for anyone brave enough to enter.
Flicking on his flashlight, Caden stepped inside. The air was considerably colder, the darkness heavy and moist with the scent of mold and decay. He played the beam of the light over the crudely hewn walls, picking out scrawls of graffiti. Names and dates, a few symbols that may have been satanic in origin. A pile of rusted containers lay heaped in the corner, old metal barrels that had once contained chemicals.
“I’m looking for the Mothman,” he said aloud to the darkness.
Silence mocked him. Of course the damn thing wasn’t going to answer. Nothing was there.
He walked closer to the edge of the enclosure, playing the beam of his flashlight over the graffiti. Eve said the thing would only answer yes or no.
“Do you know where the Mothman is?”
More silence, heavier this time, as if something grew and swelled within the bunker. Cold air crept down his back.
“Did the Mothman kill the missing dogs and Wilson’s cow?”
A sensation of ice pebbled his exposed skin. The temperature plummeted a good ten degrees.
No, a voice said inside his head.
He spun, jerking the beam of the light behind him. Nothing there. Of course not. The thing had communicated telepathically.
He swallowed, his mouth dry. The air grew heavier as if an unseen presence shared space with him. Something foreign and wintry that couldn’t exist in a normal world. He hadn’t felt fear when he’d faced the Mothman, but a sliver of it washed over him now. His free hand strayed to the pistol holstered at his hip. Little good against a specter he couldn’t see, but the gun instilled a measure of security.
“I need to know what’s going on.”
Damn. Only yes or no questions.
Caden wet his lips. “Do you know what caused the dogs and the cow to die like that?”
Yes.
“Can you tell me?”
Silence.
Did that mean it couldn’t, or wouldn’t?
Turning slowly, he swept the flashlight to the far corners of the igloo. One section followed by the next, until he’d covered the perimeter. The only shapes snared by the beam were the heap of rusted barrels. The air temperature plunged again, a signal the thing grew irritated, impatient.
Caden’s breath plumed in the air. “Can you tell me where to find the Mothman?”
No.
Shit. Not that trying to communicate with the damn bird would do any good if it wasn’t involved in the latest rash of weirdness. He considered everything that had happened recently—the dogs, Wilson’s cow, reports of strange lights, Parker and his reference to Cold and Evening.
“Do you know Indrid Cold?”
Silence. Intertwined with a sense of surprise, even shock. In the darkness, something touched Caden’s face. A questing brush of fingertips like suction cups.
Recoiling, he whipped the light around, met with the same empty darkness as before. What the hell was he dealing with? Aggression would do no good.
“Do you know Indrid Cold?” His voice carried a thread of anger.
Yes.
How could this entity—whatever it was—be familiar with delusions created in Parker’s mind? Unless Cold wasn’t a delusion.
He shook his head. More likely he fed his own thoughts into the entity and the thing bounced them back.
“What about Evening? Do you know Lach Evening?”
Yes.
It needed to tell him what he didn’t know.
“Parker Kline is missing. Do you know where he is?”
Yes.
The reply drew him up short. He could spend all day asking about specific locations. Having a powwow with an invisible bogeyman was going nowhere fast. If Parker was out there, he needed help before he hurt himself or someone else.
“Is he still in Point Pleasant?”
Silence.
Tired of playing games, Caden stalked across the igloo. He swept the beam of his flashlight toward the ceiling, then down to the ground. “Come on, answer me, you freak. Ghost, demon, whatever the hell you are. I need a fucking answer!”
