Occasional Demons

by Rick Hautala

  “Now ’n again,“ Howie replied, followed by a watery cough.

  “I don’t really need to see the top, you know,“ Derek said. “From the outside, it looked like the windows are all boarded over, anyway. We won’t get much of a—“

  “Just painted ov-ah. They’ve been scraped off in a few places, and the view’s purty nice. Really nice. Specially on a night like this.“

  Derek wanted to ask him what he meant by that. The moon, he had noticed earlier, was still playing peek-a-boo with the clouds. Any view he was going to get would be of a dark ocean and a darker land.

  “Not much further,“ Howie said, panting so heavily now the sound echoed in the well of the lighthouse like something else—something much larger, breathing in the darkness.

  At last Howie, then Derek reached the landing and entered the area where the huge lantern had once been. A metal railing ran the circumference of the tower. The room was piled with junk—discarded beer cans and bottles, wrappers, cigarette butts and what looked like dried, used condoms—what Derek called “Coney Island Whitefish.“

  The painted-over windows had spray painted messages: lovers initials, logos for several hard rock bands, and assorted obscene epithets.

  “Best view of the town’s over he-ah,“ Howie said, leading Derek over to the railing where a large area of the paint had been scraped away. Derek followed him, aware of the sweaty, huffing man close beside him in the darkness. It was only when he was close beside Howie that Derek noticed that the man seemed to be give off the same dank, rotting smell he had caught at the foot of the stairs.

  He hadn’t really noticed it in the truck on the drive out here, but now it was almost repulsive. Like somehow the stink stuck to Howie—recognizing a kindred spirit!

  Derek shied away from the “view“ so he could catch his breath, but the rotting fish smell seemed to trail after him.

  “Say—I could use another brewski. How ’bout you?“ Howie asked, his voice sounding raw and dry.

  Derek was thinking great—anything to get the hell out of here and the damp, suffocating stench. Back to the Rusy Scupper—and sanity.

  “Why don’t you wait here,“ Howie went on. “I got a couple a’ cold ones in the truck. I’ll go get ’em.“

  “I’ll come with you,“ Derek said. “Or let’s just head back to the bar—drinks on me!“ The prospect of staying up here—alone—didn’t really appeal to him.

  “Now wait a minute—thought you wanted ta’ see the ghosts that are spozed to be here,“ Howie said. “I made a big effort …“

  Was that a mocking tone in his voice now? Derek wondered. He couldn’t see the man’s face, and he didn’t think it would be nice to shine the flashlight onto him. He could only guess what Howie’s expression was.

  Another, stronger chill hit Derek as he watched the man moving toward the descending staircase.

  “Be careful, though … Maybe the ghosts only come out when there’s only one person here,“ Howie said.

  “I doubt that.“ Derek was having a hard enough time keeping his voice steady. “I seriously doubt there’s anything up here that isn’t human.“

  Howie laughed out loud at that, and the sound of his laughter made a weird reverberation in the stairwell.

  “Are you sure you’re not chicken-shit?“

  “No.“ Derek felt a rush of defensiveness. “I just...“ He let his voice trail away as he looked around the circular room. It seemed suddenly much larger. The deepest shadows near the ceiling seemed to drip with menace.

  “Enjoy the view,“ Howie said. “Be right back. Won’t take me but a coupla’ minutes to get the brews.“

  Derek was trapped again. Can’t traipse after him. Chicken shit indeed!

  With that, Howie descended the stairs, his feet making heavy clumping sounds that rang on the metal steps and echoed in the dark throat of the building. Derek angled the light in Howie’s direction, not shining it directly on him. Howie seemed to sink into the depths of the lighthouse and then disappear from sight.

  As soon as he was gone, a muffled silence filled the top room of the lighthouse.

  The sounds of Howie descending seemed distant, almost hallucinatory, then...practically nonexistent. And the discomfort Derek felt about being here alone in the dark intensified.

  He took a slow breath, held it for a few seconds, and waited, willing his pulse to slow down.

  There was nothing to be afraid of, he told himself. He didn’t believe in ghosts and the supernatural. It was bull, and any stories about this lighthouse—or any lighthouse—being haunted were just stories and nothing more.

  Still, the darkness seemed to press in, rubbing up against him like an unseen animal. He found it difficult to take a deep enough breath—the air was of thick and fetid. He sniffed with laughter, trying to calm himself by thinking how ridiculous he was being.

  But it didn’t work. Without Howie here, he felt exposed, even in the darkness, and vulnerable. If he caught even a slight shifting of motion in the darkness, he was sure he would scream.

  Chicken-shit for sure.

  From far below, he heard the heavy tread of Howie’s feet on the steps, and then the sound stopped. Derek knew he had reached the bottom floor. He wanted to call out to call out to Howie and tried not to imagine him opening the door and stepping out into the clear, fresh night air.

  The dryness in his throat got worse, and he found himself anxious for Howie to return—if only for the relief the beer would bring his dry throat.

  “What’s the matter with you?“ he whispered in the dark. The sound of his own voice set his nerves on edge even more. Without even thinking, he started for the steps and, directing his flashlight beam down, started to descend. Hell, he had to get out of here.

  He was only three or four steps down when he heard the outside door slam shut. Howie, going out for the beers. The echo filled the darkness like a blast of thunder, and Derek’s panic spiked.

  He didn’t like it here.

  Ghosts or not, this place was too creepy, and with or without Howie, he didn’t want to be here. Not one more second. He had taken only a few more steps down when he heard something else—a loud clanging noise, a rattling of chains—and then gears, the noise so loud it hurt his ears.

  “Howie?“ he called out. “What the hell—?“ His voice was pathetically small in the darkness. As he directed his flashlight down, he felt dizzy. He was losing it—big time. The spiral metal staircase seemed to telescope crazily in and out.

  He tightened his grip on the railing so much his arm hurt all the way up to his shoulder.

  “Howie? What was that? Howie?“

  He heard the fear in his voice but no longer cared how he sounded. This was all wrong, and he had to get the hell out of here.

  The rattling sound stopped, but it was immediately replaced by a loud grinding that sounded like two heavy rocks, rubbing against each other. Derek’s teeth were on edge as he dashed down the spiral staircase as fast as he could without falling, slipping, sliding down like a tumbling rag doll.

  He hit the ground floor with a jolt that made his jaw snap painfully. His face was slick with sweat, and his hand was trembling as he grabbed the doorknob and gave it a savage twist.

  Almost out—thank God.

  He’d expected the old door to open easily, but there was resistance, and it sent an electric jolt of pain through his wrist. Blind with panic, he clenched his hand into a fist and rained several heavy blows against the door. The unyielding wood resounded like a drum.

  But beneath that he heard a new sound that filled the dark interior of the lighthouse.

  A sound and a smell.

  The nauseating stench of rotting fish and lobster shells grew so strong Derek dropped to his knees and retched. Pinwheels of bright light zipped like fireworks across his vision. The sound of grinding stones had now stopped…only to be replaced by the sound of rushing water.

  Trembling with fear, Derek directed his flashlight down into the basement of the
lighthouse and saw that a dark gush of water was rushing in. Did some big wave hit? He wondered. He stood there, paralyzed, and watched the water rise, fast, steady...filling the basement.

  Panting, Derek looked back at the door and noticed for the first time that the entire edge was line with a heavy rubber seal. Like a—like a—gasket.

  It wasn’t until the water reached his feet, soaking through his sneakers, that he realized what was going on.

  The lighthouse was being flooded—with him in it!

  He lurched toward the stairway, but as he did, a heavy clang sounded from above. He didn’t need to see it to know that the top of the stair had been sealed off.

  Of course.

  He was trapped.

  The water rose rapidly in the confined space, carrying with it the briny, sick smell of the ocean’s dead. Derek moved quickly toward the staircase, knowing he was trapped—but not ready to give up yet.

  There had to be a way out.

  “Howie, can you hear me? Are you out there?“ he shouted. The water was almost up to his waist by the time he sloshed to the stairs and started up them. The chill numbed him, and the dampness made him fight to breathe.

  The roaring sound of rushing water dropped, but the steady flow continued to rise with such power it swept Derek off the stairs.

  He splashed and struggled to stay afloat, but there a strong downward pull drew him into the center of the narrow circular building and tugged him downward. God no, he thought.

  Not down.

  Not down there!

  As he floated past the stairs, he made a frantic grab for the railing and caught on for a second but then was quickly yanked away.

  “Help!... Help me!“ he cried. His voice echoed in the narrow confines of the tower.

  Was he calling for Howie?

  No, he realized that was not what he was doing.

  Could anyone outside hear him?

  Only Howie—who had done this to him. He’d brought him out here and trapped him on purpose.

  But why? Derek wondered, crazy, mad with the terror as the water filled the . Christ, why go to all the trouble to fill the lighthouse with water and drown him when there would have been so many easier ways to get rid of him. Why not just shoot him, or push him into the ocean? Why go to all this trouble?

  The water rose higher and higher, carrying Derek up with it, a human cork until his head bumped against the bottom of the top floor. It wasn’t hard to imagine that, within seconds, the water was going to rise above the floor level, trapping him beneath its surface.

  And that would be it.

  Derek gripped the metal railing and raised his face as high as he could to catch a breath—a final breath—but then a miracle happened.

  The water stopped rising.

  There was a space, no more than three inches between the surface of the water and the floor, but it was enough. Derek could breathe.

  I can breathe!

  He was just beginning to think he actually might get out of this somehow when he felt something brush against his leg beneath the surface of the water. It wasn’t much. Just a feathery light brushing.

  It’s nothing, Derek tried to convince himself. But then, struggling to remain afloat, the touch came again, this time in several places.

  And then something pinched his left thigh just above the knee.

  “What the—!“ Derek shouted, taking in a mouthful of salty water as he reached down and swatted away whatever it was. A terrifying image suddenly entered him mind, filling him with cold, gripping fear. Before he could ponder it, several more unseen things brushed against him, and this time they latched on, pinching him in several locations at once, hard, holding.

  Then more, and again, the pinching, the ripping...

  Derek screamed so loudly his voice broke, and he sputtered into a violent fit of coughing. He still held the railing and flashlight with one hand. With the other, he reached down and tried to pathetically swat away the things that had latched onto him.

  One dug into his hand. He screamed even louder.

  When he brought his had up, he saw the fat blue claw grab dug in deep. Then he knew. He had to choke back another scream as tears filled his eye.

  “It’s a trap,“ he whispered, his voice ragged and broken.

  Right from the get-go...maybe it had even started back when he first talked with that woman—what was her name? Meg or Marge?—at the hardware store. She had set him up, and then Howie had brought him out her to spring the trap.

  Derek cried out...begging, pleading...as more things, unseen beneath the dark water, latched onto his body.

  And he realized what he was: a piece of bait, like a fish head jammed into a lobster trap to lure in the crustaceans.

  That’s what this lighthouse was—a huge lobster trap. And he was the bait for what was coming to have supper.

  Through the agony, he finally understood.

  And then he let go of the railing.

  Scared Crows

  a HELLBOY story by

  Rick Hautala and Jim Connolly

  Just after dark, the rainstorm swept across the mountains to the west and blew eastward, heading toward the cold, gray Atlantic Ocean. The small town of West Buxton, Maine, was just one of many small New England towns in its path.

  It was late October and already past peak foliage season this far north. The storm’s powerful winds blew sheets of cold rain that shined like silver strings in the few streetlights that lined the all but deserted Main Street. Fast-running water, dead leaves, and blown-down branches choked the rapidly over-flowing gutters. Nearly every resident of the town, at some point or another that evening, muttered some variation of: “Good thing this ain’t snow, or else we’d be buried alive.“

  Moving perhaps a little too fast, a battered Chevy pulled into the rutted dirt parking lot outside a bar called The Crossing, which was located on the outskirts of town, just past the railroad crossing. Water and gravel from the muddy puddles splashed against the underside of the car, which sagged noticeably to the left because of the massive weight of the driver. Dark, wet leaves, looking like bloated leeches, stuck to the mud-splattered sides of the car as it lurched to a stop in the far corner of the parking lot where the red neon light of a beer sign didn’t quite reach.

  There were only two other vehicles in the parking lot that night--a black, late model Ford pickup that was pitted with rust and holes, and a mud-splattered Nissan Maxima sporting New York plates.

  The driver of the Chevy killed the engine but didn’t get out right away. For a minute or two, he sat there behind the steering wheel, listening to the sudden gusts of wind that punched against the side of the car like powerful, invisible fists. He focused on the rain that was pouring out of the rusted gutter above the bar door. Finally, with a belly-deep grunt, he grabbed the travel cooler that rested on the seat beside him, took the key from the ignition and pocketed it, and opened the car door.

  His long, tattered trench coat was soaked through the instant he stepped out into the storm. Rain ran in glistening streams down his face, making the deep red tone of his skin look like flayed meat. Taking long strides, with the travel cooler banging against his leg, he made his way to the front door of the bar and entered. A gust of wind slammed the door shut behind him, but even with the door closed, he could hear the high-pitched whistle of the wind and the splash and splatter of the rain outside.

  The bartender, a man named Kyle Kelly who owned the Crossing Bar and lived in the small apartment upstairs, glanced up. His eyes widened ever so slightly when he saw his new customer, but Kyle had been a bartender pretty near his whole life, so he knew not to show too much surprise.

  “’Evenin’, Hellboy,“ he said with a quick nod.

  He was about to follow this up with something on the order of Kinda surprised to see you ’round these parts again, but thought better of it.

  “Damn good thing this ain’t snow,“ he said as he watched Hellboy stride over to the booth at the back of the bar and
sit down heavily, not bothering to remove his sodden trench coat.

  There were only three other customers in the Crossing tonight. Two regulars--brothers named Jed and Tommy Farrow who did odd jobs around town whenever their welfare checks ran out--were seated at the far end of the bar, close to the jukebox, which was playing a sad-sounding song by Emmylou Harris. Also seated at the bar, closer to the door, was an attractive, dark-skinned woman. She’d already told Kyle that her name was Lorraine, even though Kyle wasn’t one to pry. After ordering a beer, she’d gone on to inform him that she was on her way to North Conway to attend her sister’s baby shower. Not finding any fast food restaurants handy, she’d stopped in here for a quick bite to eat and a cold one. That “cold one“ had turned into a few more beers, and by the time Hellboy arrived, Lorraine was looking just a wee bit tipsy.

  Unlike Kyle, all three patrons – if a place like the Crossing can actually honor its customers by calling them “patrons“ – watched Hellboy with varying degrees of thinly-veiled interest. Tommy, the younger on the Farrow brothers, couldn’t help but hoot with laughter at the sight of the new customer.

  “Whoo-ee,“ he said, slapping his brother on the back and smirking with a wide grin that made him look even more of an idiot than he generally did. “Just when you think you’ve seen it all, huh, Jed?“

  Jed, the older and slightly more level-headed of the two brothers, simply sighed and shook his head before turning around and silently hoisting the beer he had in hand.

  “How ’bout that, Big Bro?“ Tommy went on, jabbing his brother’s arm again, almost making him spill his beer. “The things you see when you don’t have a gun, huh?“

  Jed snorted and kept drinking, his Adam’s apple working rapidly up and down in his thin throat as he drained his glass.

  “And—Christ on a cross—was that really a freakin’ tail I saw sticking out from under his coat?“

  “Just shuddap and drink,“ Jed said as he slammed his empty glass down on the counter and signaled to Kyle for another one.

  But Kyle, ignoring Jed for the moment, called out, “What can I get for you, Hellboy?“