by Mae Clair
“That’s just it.” Sarah ducked beneath another branch. “No one knows. A lot of people used to say it was the Mothman, but there were some strange things that went on here last fall that changed that. Now people believe it’s an alien presence. My friends, Eve and Katie, even have a name for it. Um…” She favored him with another uncertain look. “I mean, him. He’s an alien by the name of Indrid Cold.”
Quentin absorbed the crazy declaration in silence, chewing the thought around in his head. He had driven through several states because of a family curse that may or may not exist, a strange amulet, and a dead Indian chief. Did he have the right to scoff at aliens and UFOs?
“You think I’m crazy.” Sarah frowned when his silence continued. “That we’re a town full of crazies.”
“No. It’s not that.” He came to an abrupt halt, pushing Sarah to the side as something massive winged past. A low drone exploded in his head and the cold sweat of fear prickled his skin.
Sarah stifled a gasp and pulled him deeper into the trees. “Mothman,” she choked.
Quentin chanced a glance at the sky, catching a glimpse of large leathery wings. A rush of air buffeted him. The droning grew louder, drilling painfully against his temples. He couldn’t move, rooted to the spot as his mind reeled in chaos. A flash of images and emotions bombarded him.
Leaves matted on the ground, wet with rain and blood…the harsh rasp of breath in his ears…footsteps pounding against soft, wet soil…a scream, feral and alien, unlike anything he’d ever heard…the stench of death…unbearable agony as if something inside of him had been ripped away. Emptiness, desolation…
Quentin choked, reaching to steady himself against a tree. The thing was still there, somewhere above him. His sight was filled with the glow of red eyes. Luminous, large, and insectoid, they blotted everything else from his field of vision. Somewhere over the punishing drone in his head, he heard Sarah screaming. She tugged on his arm, but he was immobile, mesmerized by that malevolent stare.
The eyes wormed into his skull, the thunder of wings battering his ears. The drone rattled his teeth and sent splinters of pain into his neck. Still he couldn’t move, those malignant eyes holding him in place. The tug on his arm became forceful.
“Quentin!” Sarah’s scream was filled with terror. She choked on a sob. “Quentin, please!”
But there was no need to move. The thing had touched his mind, communicating in a whirl of chaotic thought and pulsing emotion. A combination that was both terrifying and exhilarating as he danced on the edge of an alien consciousness. He tilted his head back, opening his mind to the turbulent rush, knowing that somewhere in that frenetic muddle, there had to be order. A message.
The Mothman stretched a bony arm in his direction, claws extended.
Sarah screamed.
* * * *
Caden took the cruiser from Will Hanley’s place, Ryan saying he’d catch a ride with Weston when he was ready. There was still a lot of area canvasing to do and phone calls to make to Will’s friends and associates, a job Caden had intentionally pushed off on Ryan. His brother was more than capable to handle the tasks without him. Radioing for two patrols, he directed one through town, the other into the TNT via Fairground Road. He took Potters Creek Road at the opposite end and was soon surrounded by trees.
Evening air carried the odors of lichen-covered bark and soft moss through the open windows of his car. Birds chattered from leafy branches and insects kept up a steady buzz in the background. Several miles into the old ammunitions site, he spied a maroon Monte Carlo off the shoulder. The plate on the back read Rhode Island.
Pulling in behind it, he came to a stop then killed the ignition.
Eve had told him Marsh was from Providence. Whether Quentin was a Mothman fanatic or simply out for a hike, Caden wanted him out of the TNT. At least for now. Between sightings of the cryptid, and the worry of having a murderer on the loose, the last thing he needed was a tourist who might get turned around in in an unfamiliar area and end up lost. Or worse yet, become another victim. He radioed the tag for an ID to be sure, and wasn’t surprised when it came back registered to Marsh.
Leaving his cruiser parked behind the Chevy, Caden jogged into the woods. Within minutes, the busy jabbering of birds and insects fell silent, muffled by the trees. He slowed his pace, a trickle of sweat dripping down his neck in the dead air. Even the breeze had stopped, the humidity seeming to ratchet higher with each step he took. A few speckles of rain pattered the leaves overheard, but the clouds that had massed over Point Pleasant since yesterday remained swollen and full.
Caden threaded deeper into the woodland, the crunch of leaves and twigs beneath his shoes unnaturally loud. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled over the horizon. An inner sense of foreboding slithered awake, warning of danger. The air was too stagnant, the sluggish hush of the forest unnatural. Pausing, he stilled his breath to listen. Seconds passed, one quicksilver tick of time slipping into the next. Still nothing moved. Perspiration beaded in his bangs and gummed his shirt to his back.
Quentin had to be out here somewhere.
“Marsh.” His voice traveled a short distance and was quickly swallowed by the lassitude of the trees. His hand strayed to the holstered revolver at his hip.
Something moved up ahead and the brand on his forearm flared with heat, all the signal he needed to break into a run. Like a claxon warning of imminent danger, a woman’s shrill scream pierced the air. Gun in hand, he vaulted a fungus-riddled log and bolted in the direction of the sound. The sudden thunder of wings crashed over him.
A second later, he thrust through a tangle of red oak and beech and came to a wrenching halt. Twenty feet away, the Mothman hovered shy of the ground, wings spread wide. Caden barely registered Sarah Sherman’s stricken face when she whirled in his direction. All he saw was a lethally clawed hand reaching for Quentin’s throat.
There was no time to yell.
He pulled the trigger on the revolver and pumped two shots into the Mothman.
* * * *
Shawn sat in the driveway staring at his house. It was stupid to run. He’d taken food from Hanley’s place, thinking he’d have to disappear, but no one knew what he’d done. He was a good old boy, the town’s favorite sprint car driver. No one would believe him capable of murder. He could hang out as always, go to work, visit the River, maybe even pick up news on what they were saying about Hanley, poor bastard. Someone had to be a test sacrifice, and Will had made an easy mark.
You cannot stay here.
The voice in his head was starting to irritate him. He needed a shower and a change of clothes. And he needed to pick up all that shit littering the porch and lawn, papers from the box Suzanne had given to Sarah.
Thinking of his ex made his heartbeat quicken. He’d gotten off on slapping her around, but killing Hanley had left him with a queasy feeling when it was done.
You will get used to it.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Part of him wished he could go back to the old Shawn. The one that spent his days racing and drinking, that didn’t know the first thing about killing anyone.
It is too late for that.
Yeah, that was the hell of it. At the very least he was going to get cleaned up, wash the stink of blood off him, and track down the word in town. Maybe not today, maybe tomorrow. He’d call work and tell his boss he’d been sick, coming off a bad hangover. For a supervisor, Newt Brady was okay. He’d let him slide with that excuse before, probably because Brady had firsthand experience with the bottle. No sense in the pot calling the kettle black.
Dragging himself from the car, Shawn plodded for the house. Killing took a lot out of a guy. He was tired, his head hurt, and his stomach rumbled. After a shower, he’d throw a frozen pizza in the oven and guzzle a six-pack of beer. That might make him feel human again.
All that should concern you is finding the demon and completing the task.
The demon could wait. Shawn p
icked up the scattered papers and photos from his lawn, plopped them in the carton on the porch, then dragged the box inside. He thought about adding his knife to the collection but slipped it through his belt instead. It was part of him now, just like the voice in his head. The spirit had led him to Suzanne and Will Hanley, but the next killing would be one of his choosing.
You are the descendant of Obadiah Preech. You will do as I direct.
So it was Obadiah rattling around in his head. The old man he’d often bragged about, standing true at Fort Randolph against the Indians. Shit. He really did have a line that went back that far.
Shawn wound his way from the living room to the kitchen, then rooted through the refrigerator for a can of Budweiser. Popping the tab, he looked around the small room. Dishes crusted with food were stacked in the sink, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts sat atop a week’s worth of newspapers on the counter. Crumbs covered the breakfast table and the trash can in the corner hadn’t been emptied in days.
He scratched his stomach. The place was starting to look shoddy now that he didn’t have Suzanne to clean up after him, but what the hell. There were perks to living alone.
He guzzled most of the beer, then carried the can into the bedroom where he stripped off his soiled clothes. He grabbed the transistor radio from his dresser and carried it into the bathroom where he cranked the shower. Standing with a hand braced against the cool tile, he let the water wash the stink of blood down the drain. The moist heat bordered on orgasmic as it soaked into his abused muscles. Maybe it wasn’t beating Suzanne or killing Hanley that had sucked the energy from him. His exhaustion could be the result of Obadiah hitching a ride in his head.
You will not think such things. I have waited a long time for my heir.
Heir.
He snorted. Like he was some kind of royal prince or something. Hell, why not? On the radio, Rick Springfield finished belting out “Jesse’s Girl,” giving way to news at the half hour. Shawn reached for the soap, then lathered it between his hands. He couldn’t get many stations on the transistor, just a small local one that broadcast from an abandoned factory. Two volunteer DJs who were good at spinning hits and providing gossip with a bit of color. They did a fair job at keeping up with his sprint victories, but lately they’d taken to dissing his performances.
He dumped shampoo into his hair. Everyone was a fucking critic.
“Point Pleasant was rocked this afternoon by the murder of local resident, Will Hanley.”
Shawn froze as the announcement crackled from the radio. He wiped soap from his eyes, thrust open the curtain, and stepped onto the floor, dripping wet. Leaning over the sink, he cranked the volume on the radio.
“Police aren’t releasing details, other than to say homicide is suspected. Sixty-two, Hanley was a widower and local farmer who lived peacefully in his home off Butterman Road. More details will be released as they become available.”
Shawn released a pent-up breath. Something akin to elation streaked through him. They’d found the body. That meant they’d start looking for evidence—fingerprints, signs of forced entry, blood splatter. He’d been careful to cover his tracks, and the fingerprints he’d left behind wouldn’t matter. Obadiah had assured him they couldn’t be traced.
A crazed giggle bubbled up from his throat. He was going to get away with it. There was nothing to tie him back to the crime.
Why did they not mention the demon?
The Mothman didn’t matter.
It is all that matters!
Shawn lifted his head and looked in the mirror. The glass had fogged with steam from the shower. He used a palm to wipe it clear, catching a glimpse of his face. Eyes he didn’t recognize stared back at him, but the reflection was his own—Shawn Preech, murderer. By tomorrow the town would be buzzing about Will’s death.
He’d done it. Knifed the old man and given the town something to chatter about. Tomorrow, he’d stroll into the River and listen to what they were saying. Idiots like Duncan and Donnie Bradley discussing his handiwork without even knowing it. Hell, maybe he’d get up close and personal with one of them, show them what the point of a knife felt like. It might be fun to test the blade out again.
The Mothman wasn’t the only one who needed killing.
* * * *
An inhuman knife-like cry ripped from the throat of the Mothman the second the bullets exploded from Caden’s gun. The creature blasted him with outrage so intense that the emotional feedback forced him to one knee. The branded marks on his arm erupted in agony, set aflame by the cryptid’s shock and fury.
He dropped the revolver and locked a hand over his forearm. With a final shriek, the Mothman exploded into the sky. Caden ducked his head against the tumultuous battering of its wings and grit his teeth. Within seconds, the cryptid became a distant speck swallowed by a heavy layer of clouds. If it had been angry before, it was incensed now. He’d kept Gardner from shooting it then turned around and pumped two bullets into its wing.
Idiot.
He pulled himself to his feet.
But the thing had been unpredictable lately, and he couldn’t risk it harming Marsh. He hoped to hell none of the other patrols looking for the creature stumbled across it. As furious as it was, the Mothman would be out for blood.
“Caden, thank God you arrived when you did.” Sarah’s face was the color of bone. She appeared unharmed, her fingers wrapped around Quentin’s arm in a trembling grip.
Retrieving his gun, Caden holstered the pistol and stepped closer. “You two okay?”
“Yeah.” Clearly rattled, Quentin exhaled a ragged breath. “If I hadn’t seen it…I’ve heard of the Mothman before, but never really believed.…”
“I’ve grown up here and never seen it.” Judging by her expression, Sarah still wasn’t convinced of what she’d witnessed. She cast a glance over her shoulder as if expecting the thing to swoop down on them at any moment.
“Anyone hurt?” Caden looked between the two of them.
Both shook their heads. Marsh glanced toward the western horizon where the creature had disappeared. “I still don’t understand what happened. I heard a buzzing sound. When it stopped, I was bombarded with thoughts and images I didn’t recognize. Like something had crowded into my head.”
“It projects emotion, normally fear.” Caden’s eyes narrowed. Images were new, contact he’d never experienced. Why would the creature broadcast random thoughts to Marsh? “What kind of images?”
“Glimpses of the past.” The new voice made Caden pivot. He should have recognized the lilt immediately, the accent impossible to identify. The man who faced him was tall and slender with white-blond hair and coal-black eyes. For once, he wasn’t dressed in his customary black, but wore crisp jeans and a white button-down shirt. Despite the casual clothing, he projected a refined air better suited to an earlier century.
Caden found his voice. “Lach.”
“Who?” Quentin’s tone indicated this wasn’t the first time he’d encountered the blond-haired man.
“I’m afraid I did not properly introduce myself at the cemetery.” Lach inclined his head toward Marsh. “My name is Lach Evening. You are Quentin Marsh.” No handshakes were exchanged.
“How do you know that?” Still looking shaken, Sarah focused on Evening.
“Miss Sherman.” Lach favored her with a glance. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
She flushed and dropped her gaze. “Thank you.”
A typical feminine reaction where Lach was concerned. Old-world charm and neoclassical features had even made Eve stammer when she’d first met their alien friend. It had been nine months since Lach visited Point Pleasant, following the trail of Katie’s ex, Lyle Mason. Caden had butted heads with the mysterious Man in Black, but given time, they’d developed a tenuous friendship.
“I assume you’re here for a reason.” Caden kept his voice neutral.
“Pleasantly to the point as always, Sergeant
.” Evening’s lips curled slightly. “It is prudent I speak with you.”
Given he had a murder on his hands and a patrol that might encounter a rampaging cryptid at any moment, Caden was tempted to brush off the request. But Evening was Indrid Cold’s son. If anyone had an inside track on the Mothman or events in Point Pleasant, it was the centuries-old alien standing before him. What a rush it must be to have lived eons and not look older than thirty.
“What about the Mothman?” Sarah glanced between the two of them.
“It is best you do not speak of the encounter.” Warning underscored Lach’s precisely modulated words. “Reports of the cryptid will only serve to escalate trouble that could otherwise be avoided.”
“People have a right to know it’s out here,” Quentin said.
Sarah nodded her agreement. “If Caden hadn’t shot it, it would have hurt Quentin.”
“You don’t know that.” Caden shifted. Lightning flickered in the distance, inciting a blast of dry wind. A low murmur of thunder chased the gust through the grass. “Lach is right.” He hoped Sarah would see where he was coming from even if Quentin didn’t. “We’ve already had some earlier upset today that’s taxing our resources. The last thing I need is a panic. For the good of Point Pleasant, I’m asking you to keep this encounter to yourselves.”
Sarah fidgeted, casting an anxious glance skyward. Caden recalled her dislike of storms.
“What kind of upset?” She honed in on what he hadn’t said.
“You’ll hear about it soon enough.” He narrowed his eyes. “What were you two doing out here anyway?”
Sarah shot Quentin a tense look.
He spoke before she could answer. A little too quickly for truth. “I asked Sarah to show me the TNT.”
If they wanted to keep secrets, fine, as long as they maintained the same level of secrecy when it came to the Mothman.
“We should head back now.” Sarah appeared eager to be on her way. She sent another nervous glance to the sky as lightning flickered behind the clouds.
