Anna wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly. She did not bother to say: “You mustn’t blame yourself.” She knew that David knew it was wrong for him to blame himself, but she also knew no amount of rationalizing could ever erase the guilt he felt—and that he simply had to accept.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve not put you in a very romantic mood.”
“We’ll work it out,” she said. He had told her to forget about the accident once he told her the story, and that was what she intended to do. Janice Foster’s death, tragic as it had been, was over and done with and no amount of soul-searching would ever bring her back. Anna intended to offer David comfort, the kind of comfort that would be satisfying to her as well.
They walked up to the bedroom together.
There seemed to be no light at all in the room. Yet they could see one another. Perhaps they were so familiar to each other’s touch that their minds made up the difference, casting substance where there was only shadow. There were whispers floating over and around the bed; the words were unintelligible, although their meaning was clear. The bed moaned—what might have been an obscene sound was instead warm and sensual and perfectly fitting.
Arm touched arm. Leg touched leg. Anna sighed, lifting her head until her lips met his. She seemed to see him above her, could trace his outline, though she could actually only guess where he ended and the blackness began. His presence was enough. It was above her, around her, inside her, everywhere.
He could see her too, beneath him. Felt her soft breath on his face, the brush of her hair, even the scrape of an eyelid now and then, the moist caress of parted lips. He wanted to be gentle. God, how he wanted to be gentle. Wasn’t that what everyone wanted these days? No. Anna did not want that, not just now, not that way. She clenched his shoulders with a sudden frenzy of desire, and David felt glad that her lust easily matched his own, that he did not have to hold back, secure in the knowledge that they were not so much using one another, as gaining from each other, expressing a need and love that now, at least, seemed sturdy and enduring.
Neither of them could hold back any longer.
Jeremy had been momentarily caught in the glare from Eleanor Morrison’s headlights as he began to bicycle up to the top of Bannon Mountain. For a moment he wondered if she had seen him clearly, if she would stop—or worse—call up his mother when she got home. But he couldn’t worry about such things for long. He had a job to do.
He had sneaked out as soon as he heard his mother’s snores issuing from her bedroom down the hall. He pulled on sneakers, grabbed his jacket to guard against the summer night’s chill, and got his bicycle out from the garage. It was an old bike, but a reliable one, with speed shifts and even a headlamp which, unfortunately, was running out of juice and emitted a very weak light. But it was better than nothing.
It took him half an hour to reach the turn-off. There was a breeze blowing against him, but still he was grateful for it. Burning calories as much as he was, his body heat had soared and he was sweating profusely. It would be even worse once he started the climb. Once he was safely past Mrs. Morrison’s house he pulled over to the side of the road and rested for a moment.
He was not as scared as he had thought he would be. Then again, he was still a good distance away from his destination. He was sure that he would be terror-stricken once he actually reached the lookout. Already dark strains of fear tugged at his heart and his pulse quickened. This was really an isolated area out here; except for the Morrison place, the mountain was completely deserted. What was he trying to prove? he asked himself —but he knew he could not turn back now. His warm bed and safe quarters beckoned longingly, but the mountaintop beckoned even more. He had to find out if somehow his unconscious mind had been up there earlier this night, if he had really seen what he’d witnessed in his nightmare. But Lord, if there were a car up there, and somebody in it, he would go stark, raving mad with terror. And if the car’s occupants had been screaming almost ninety minutes ago, what sort of condition would they be in now?
He started up again after a few minutes, the road steadily progressing at an increasing slant. Forget about the fear, the sheer drudgery of it all was beginning to dissuade him. This was a road made for cars and trucks, not people walking or bicycling. He found that he had to rest every few minutes. Finally, he just gave up and hopped off the bike and walked along with it. He would make better time that way.
Like Eleanor Morrison before him, he looked straight into the portion of the road illuminated by his headlamp, trying not to think about the darkness beyond it, and what might lie inside it, but thinking about it nonetheless. He had to be brave. He had to prove what he could do. He was reaching an age where he would soon have to support his mother—both financially and emotionally— and not the other way around. He had to begin taking responsibility, had to carve out a niche for himself, and to do that he had to face up to his fears and confront them. He had developed a sense of deja vu while climbing the mountain, and he realized with an icy start that he had walked up this road many times in his dreams. Not just tonight, but often. Remembrances of these past dreams or unconscious astral journeys—if that was what they were—came rushing back to him.
And here he was, walking into the very sum and substance of his nightmare, entering his dream world of his own accord. What a fool he was. But he couldn’t stop himself. He had to know. He had to know if what he had seen was real. He had to know that there was something beyond the mortal ken and consciousness. He had to know that somewhere his father was alive, somehow still living, as if that knowledge would erase the horror of his death, its sheer futility, and all the pain he and his mother had suffered because of it.
He heard a fluttering in the branches over his head. Don’t worry—only a bird. Nothing to harm you. Ghosts can’t hurt you. What would he do if he saw a ghost? Stop thinking like that! Ghosts can’t hurt you. Your father’s ghost would never hurt you! Your father loved you, didn’t he?
Didn’t he?
The wind had grown calmer, and the air was still and there were no birds crying out in the night. Nothing moved, except for Jeremy, wheeling his bicycle to a strange, forbidding destination. In his dreams, he had come here many times; had traveled often to his lookout he was even now approaching. He had been up there and looked down on the valley below, at the buildings, at the roads, curving like strings through the green and yellow patches of the earth. He had not been alone then.
He would not be alone now.
At last he reached the final bend in the mountain road, beyond which lay the observation point. His heart was pumping wildly; he could hear it, and he wondered if everything in the woods could hear it too. He took each step separately, slowing to a snail’s pace, inching around that last tantalizing, mesmerizing curve. What would he find there? He prayed the little light on his bicycle wouldn’t go out; the batteries were so old and run-down. The moon was not nearly bright enough. He would scream if it went out, scream right out loud, like a child, like a baby, not caring who heard. He knew in the last second before he rounded the bend that this lookout point had always symbolized for him the most oppressive and lonely terror he could ever face at night. His light must stay on. He could not stand the darkness!
To reach the observation post he had to first walk through a natural tunnel which cut through the trees and underbrush and emerged in the clearing on the other side. Little white pebbles, long reeds of narrow green grass, and the rutted marks of countless automobiles crunched beneath his feet. Overhead, the branches of the trees, their gnarled outgrowths tangled together like witches’ fingers, formed an impenetrable natural ceiling. The forest on either side looked impassable.
And then he was there at the clearing. He held his breath. There was the car! The car he had seen in his dream! It was gray and dirty, windows glinting with moonlight. Perhaps it was an abandoned vehicle. Perhaps it had been there for months. Yes, yes, that was it. It was an old car, had been here for years. Exhalin
g with relief at the thought, he made a cautious approach.
This was no abandoned car, he realized upon closer inspection. He recognized it for one thing. It belonged to Tommy Bradley, an older boy who had just graduated high school. Tommy was bumming around town during the summer before leaving for college in the fall. He always hung out with his girlfriend, Shelly Spencer.
Just about to look in the back window, Jeremy stopped in his tracks, thinking of Tommy and Shelly. What if they were in there? They would kill him, think he was some kind of Peeping Tom or pervert. They’d never believe that he’d come to save them, to warn them of impending danger. And they’d tell his mother, too.
No, they wouldn’t dare snitch on him. It was awfully late and he bet they’d told their respective parents some kind of phony story to cover up their actual whereabouts. Still, it was not his place or desire to spy upon people, especially people engaged in that kind of stuff.
So he stood and listened, hoping he had not been seen, waiting to hear some noise, some sign, a whisper, anything to indicate that they were both safe and sound inside, alive and breathing.
But there was nothing. He felt cold and lonely again. Wait! There was a noise. An odd sound. Only it didn’t come from the car. It came from the woods all around him. He wondered if the sound had traveled up from the valley. He could see a few lights way down below, but was sure that the cause of the noise was closer to him than that. He looked around the clearing, but saw nothing.
Then he heard a rustle in the grass near his feet.
He looked down, saw it, and quickly backed up with a start. The thing crawled into the light shining from his bicycle. Jeremy saw what it was but could not believe it. There was no name for it, no word; it was like nothing he’d ever seen before. And it wasn’t alone—there were others with it, too. His mind too perplexed to be shocked, wondering if perhaps a joke, a grisly trick, had been played upon him, he stepped over to the car door and put his hand on the knob. Pressing inwards with his thumb, he pulled the door open and got inside.
His mind was working now on a purely instinctual level, not stopping to dwell on the nature of the creatures that were even now surrounding the auto. He shimmied over onto the front seat, his body smeared with a viscous liquid that was all over the vinyl covers. Blood. A great deal of blood. It had already happened, what he’d seen in his “dream.” Somehow he had seen it, those two people murdered. People he knew. Fearing incapacitation from a morbid reverie, he snapped out of it and focused his attention on the dashboard in front of him. He had not yet learned to drive, and had never been particularly interested in acquiring the skill. Now he wished he had learned early like some kids did, anticipating their first license at sixteen. If only he could turn on the headlights, if might frighten the animals off.
Again he told himself not to think too much about the things outside the car. Time enough to do that once he was safe and sound. While he experimented with the various knobs and dials on the dashboard, his mind acknowledged the fact that the windows on the right hand side of the car had been smashed inwards; he had not noticed before. Furthermore, the front door on the right side was slightly ajar. Tom and Shelly must have been attacked while in the car, must have somehow gotten out and ran off into the woods. Had they escaped? Somehow he didn’t think so. He knew that they were still in the woods, past concern, horribly dead. And he was next!
The headlights came on suddenly, but it only made matters worse. The whole clearing was alive with the horrors, squirming and wiggling and crawling every which way, darting out of the path of the light, still intent upon reaching him in the car. The keys? Where were the keys? If only he could have started the ignition, somehow he would have found a way to drive out of there.
His worst fears had come true. He had known all along that something horrible waited for him at the top of the mountain, but he had never expected anything like this. His mind still reeled at the sight before his eyes, unable to comprehend or explain, or even accept, what he was seeing. A dream. It had to be a dream.
They were swarming all over the car now, some entering in through the broken windows like they had before, others preferring to crack through the panes on the other side. The sound they made hurt his ears, and the sight of them as they came at him was more than he could bear. But he could not cover both his eyes and his ears at the same time. Shutting his eyes was not good enough: he wanted to protect them. His flimsy eyelids would rip apart easily under the creatures’ attack; they would be shredded like paper, leaving the succulent, tender eyeballs vulnerable to assault. Not his eyes. Anything but that. They must not take his eyes.
They were all over him. He could feel them tugging at his skin, biting into his chest through the clothing. His final thought, surprisingly, was how much he hated his father. Jeremy had spent so many years mourning him, had come up here tonight because of him, and now he was suffering a death that was a hundred times more horrible than the one which had claimed his father.
In the last seconds, a reflex action, he sat back and relaxed while they fed on him, determined to at last set free his astral spirit as he had been trying to do all week. That they could not take from him; his flesh and blood, perhaps, but not his astral body, not his “soul.”
Mercifully, Jeremy died before he had time to wonder: But what if there’s no such thing as a soul?
Randall Thorp had spent a good part of the early evening trying to make up with his children. He had taken them to the quarry, hoping that their delight with the place and with the water would help to soften their attitude towards him, but they’d stayed away from him all afternoon. Little Martin had come closest to weakening, but the others—especially Gladys—made sure he stayed well away from his father. Gladys hated him; he was sure of it. And who could blame her?
He didn’t know why he had done what he had done. Looking back on it, it was the act of an insane man, a barbarian, someone worthy only of contempt. And he had never thought of himself as that kind of person. Not until now. No matter how hard he tried to make excuses for his behavior, his conscience was having none of it.
He had lifted that cruel black strap and slashed it across their faces, their skinny arms and bare, shorts-clad legs, as if they were wild dogs threatening to tear him asunder. Thank God he had stopped himself before it had gone too far. Already their lovely faces were marked. He desperately hoped all traces of the wounds and strokes would disappear before they went back to their mother, or else. Or else she could take legal action against him. No one in this world was more despised than a child-beater. And what had they done to deserve it? Surely nothing so severe that such punishment was just or fitting. Maybe a spell in jail was what he needed to atone; a sacrificial offering before he would even begin to forgive himself.
Sitting in the kitchen with his bottle, however, his thoughts began to lose focus; he veered back and forth between self-contempt and self-congratulations. The kids had asked for it, he told himself, not answering him when he called, hiding in the garage. But they had only been playing, his other voice said, maybe they hadn’t heard you. Stop being paranoid. I Am Not Paranoid! Let’s have another drink to celebrate!
He had come out of his self-induced trance by the time they’d returned home from the quarry. The kids had found it too cool to go in the water, and they had left not long after that couple had gone off into the woods. He didn’t know who the woman had been, but he sure envied the man she was with. A woman like that, what was it like to make love to a woman like that?
After dinner—he’d served three TV dinners to three unsmiling children—he’d given them ice cream, and patted them on the heads, and let them watch what they wanted to see on TV. But at bedtime, there had been no good-night kiss from any of them, no hug. He had never cared before; not he could think of nothing more precious. Little Martin had come that close to giving in, but a harsh look from his sister had deterred him. He had tucked them into their cots in the room down the hall, turned out the light, and gone straight to the
kitchen to have, he had told himself, only one tiny little nightcap. Half a bottle later, he was still in the kitchen, still wallowing in self-pity.
He felt suddenly fatigued. He hadn’t realized how tired he was. Better get to bed. He would try even harder to win those kids over tomorrow and he would succeed. He had to. Why, if they ever told their mother what had transpired . . . There you go again, he admonished himself, worrying about yourself again. Well damn it, said the other voice. If I don’t, who will?
He went into his bedroom, so exhausted and intoxicated that he could not be bothered with removing his clothes. Sleep, sleep was all he wanted. His bedroom was large and looked even larger because he had nothing in it but a narrow old bed with metal railings at either end, a small night table and a tall black wardrobe in the corner. His socks and underwear were simply thrown onto the floor of the wardrobe in disarray, as he could not be bothered separating things or buying a dresser to keep them in. Clothes were scattered all over the bed and on top of the tattered straw circular rug that covered the space in front of it.
He lifted an arm that felt like lead and turned off the lamp on the night table, nearly knocking it over in the process. Within moments he was fast asleep and snoring.
He had terrible dreams, so vivid and intense that he could have sworn they were actually happening. Screams were coming from the children’s room, and in his dreams he tried to get up from his bed, but he couldn’t move, and the floor seemed fifty feet away and the door to the hall at least 500 yards. The screams grew louder and louder, and he thought, “The children— something’s hurting the children,” but try as hard as he could, he was simply not able to get up off the bed.
Spawn of Hell Page 29
