A Desolate Hour

by Mae Clair

  “Stop worrying,” Suzanne said to her back. “I’ll be healed up in a few more days. In the meantime, I’m just going to have to buck it up. Unless you want me to go to the TNT, there’s nowhere I can hide from Shawn.”

  “The TNT?” Sarah turned, an off the wall idea springing to life in her mind. “I should have thought of that myself.”

  Suzanne shook her head. “What?”

  “I know just where you can hide out for a while. It’s the last place Shawn would ever look for you.”

  “Where?”

  Sarah smiled. “How do you feel about UFOs?”

  * * * *

  “Sure you’re up for this?” Shawn grinned, looking between Mitch and Painter, measuring each with a quick glance. Wednesday night with beer fueling their bravado, they’d been up for anything. Now, Friday morning, a gray sky feeding the nesting shadows of the TNT, they were subdued. It all came down to saving face, though Mitch appeared to have more balls than Painter.

  The red-haired man was skittish as a colt, constantly glancing over his shoulder at the slightest sound. He’d probably bail before the whole thing played out, but that was okay. Shawn only needed one victim and Mitch’s bulk would make him slow.

  They’d each brought guns, hunting rifles for distance. He wasn’t crazy about having them armed, but he’d played along and lugged a thirty-gauge from home. You couldn’t go Mothman hunting without a gun of some sort. If the idiots only knew the real reason they were there.

  A lick of adrenalin made him giddy, and he had to fight to keep from laughing.

  Mitch shielded his brow with the flat of his hand and took an eagle-eyed look around. “Pretty dense woods in this spot. What makes you think we’re going to find the creature here?”

  “Don’t know.” Shawn tugged on the brim of his bright orange ball cap, seating it more comfortably on his head. Mitch and Painter each wore one too, making them easy to spot. After they split up, Shawn planned on ditching his. “Had to start somewhere, and this is where that tourist couple saw the thing last summer. Remember?”

  A couple staying at the Parrish Hotel had stumbled over the Mothman while exploring, the woman managing to snap a blurry image of the thing. Eve Parrish had the photo hanging in the lobby of her hotel, something for tourists to gawk over. Shawn thought it looked like a gray blob, but everyone else babbled about it like it was gospel. He’d overheard several awestruck debates about where a wing started and whether this or that curve was part of an arm or a leg.

  “We should probably split up. Meet back here in an hour or so.”

  “I don’t know.” Painter shifted, scratching the stubble on his cheek. “This is starting to feel like a waste of time. I could be doing something else on a day off.”

  Mitch guffawed. “Like what? Chasing Judy Freiz? That girl isn’t going to look twice at your skinny ass.”

  “Stuff it, Mitch.”

  “Hey come on.” Shawn held up his hands, wanting to usher proceedings along. “I thought we were here to take down the bird, not each other.” He adjusted the rifle strap over his shoulder. “We deliver the Mothman, you guys can have the pick of any girl you want. They’re gonna be all over us.”

  “You already had the best-looking girl in town and lost her.” Painter let an edge of disgust creep into his voice. “I don’t get how you could cheat when you had someone like Suzanne waiting at home. Hell, she was Miss Point Pleasant before you were married.”

  Shawn clenched his jaw, struggling to keep anger from his face. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he ground words out between his teeth. “Looks aren’t everything.”

  “Don’t get testy.” Mitch picked up on his aggravation. “It’s already sweltering out here.” He wiped a meaty hand across his brow. “Let’s get going so we can wrap this up by noon. I want to get back for a cold beer.”

  Shawn nodded. He struck off in one direction while Painter and Mitch headed in another.

  Damn. He hadn’t wanted them together. He could take either down easily, but in tandem they presented a problem. Hopefully, they’d split up.

  He waited until he was certain they were a good distance away, then circled back to the cars—his Dodge, Mitch’s Ford truck, and Painter’s beat-up wagon. Shawn ditched his hat and the rifle in the Charger, then dug under the passenger’s seat for the knife.

  A prickle of anticipation traveled up his fingers when he grasped the handle. Against his palm, the wood was rough and warm, a perfect fit that made his breath quicken. Gummy air kept his T-shirt plastered to his skin and a fat bead of sweat oozed down his neck. Licking his lips, he leaned against the car door. He’d do everything right this time, the way he should have done with Hanley. A butchered body in the TNT would immediately scream “Mothman,” and that would bring hordes of hunters to track the monster down. When they flushed it out, he would be there to confront it.

  And unlike centuries ago, this time he would end the creature’s miserable life.

  Slipping the knife through his belt, Shawn jogged into the TNT.

  * * * *

  Quentin knew if he stuck to the weedy path jigsawing through the woods, he’d reach the igloo eventually. Trampled briars and crushed grass defined where other curiosity-seekers had stepped before. According to Sarah, the old World War II bunker attracted everyone from spiritualists and UFO fanatics to kids up for a dare. After encountering the Mothman on his last visit to the TNT, he hadn’t been eager to return, but a phone call to Pen earlier that morning made him reconsider. He’d caught her in a depressed mood, pregnancy hormones and his lack of progress leaving her sniffling into the phone. He’d tried to assure her she was getting worked up about nothing. That Madam Olga’s warning had been a typical carnival trick, but she’d rattled off a string of calamities and deaths in their family tree, all related to twins. Quentin hated to hear her cry, and his protests had sounded hollow even to him. It was hard to refute fact while staring at the fat scars road-mapped across his hand.

  His call to Pen had been all the incentive he needed, especially with Sarah at work and time on his hands. Stopping by the local hardware store, he picked up a can of yellow spray paint, then pointed his Monte Carlo in the direction of the TNT. The trail had been easy to find, the entrance marked by the graffiti-stained post with Beware the Mothman scrawled in the center. He grabbed a flashlight from his glovebox, then wound his way down the overgrown path, pausing every so often to mark a tree with a short line of yellow paint.

  Trampling through the woods was outside his usual comfort zone and he wanted a clearly defined exit should he need it in a hurry. Knowing the Mothman could reappear at any moment added fuel to slumbering anxiety.

  Eventually, he found the igloo. The domed shell was recessed into a hillside, blanketed with a crown of foliage and trees. He had to pick his way through a tangle of brambles to reach the entrance. Rusting metal doors gaped open on either side, yawning to reveal a heavy web of shadow within. A single gash of diffused light slanted across the dirt floor but otherwise the bunker was dark.

  Quentin set the paint can by a pile of rocks. Flicking on his flashlight, he stepped inside.

  The place smelled of mold, damp leaves, and wet stone. It was cooler in the dome, but not remarkably so. Beer cans and cigarette butts littered the ground, along with a few dented ammo containers. Someone had dragged a broken crate inside and had tried to use it for kindling, judging by the charred remains. A whisper of soot lingered in the air.

  He played the beam of the flashlight off the walls, picking out veins of dirt and patches of lichen. Pen would probably hone in on a supernatural vibe standing in his place, but he felt nothing. The air was slightly moist and clung to his skin displacing the heat outside, but otherwise the igloo was barren.

  “Stupid legend.” He raised a hand and scrubbed the back of his neck. For Pen’s sake, as long as he was there, he might as well follow through on the fool’s errand. He should have asked Sarah more questions. Maybe there was a cer
emony he had to perform, ritualistic words to mutter.

  “I’m looking for Jonathan or Sutton Marsh.” His voice was overly loud, cast back with a slight echo. It dawned on him he could no longer hear the breeze rustling through the trees outside. The drone of insects had vanished, taking with it the trill of birdsong. Had that heavy maw of silence hung there since he’d entered? “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  He stepped closer to the wall and brushed his hand over the rough stone. A bolt of cold shot up his arm. Quentin wrenched backward. “What the hell?”

  The stone was old, recessed into the earth. Of course it would be cold. Wetting his lips, he rubbed the pad of his thumb over his fingertips. A faint residue clung to his skin. In the beam of the flashlight, it looked faintly blue, almost phosphorous. Squinting, he moved closer to the wall, studying the buildup on the moldy stone. Just dirt and grime—until he touched the sediment and it flecked off in his hand with that same blue tint. Quentin raised his fingers to his nose but the stuff was odorless.

  Something moved behind him. He glanced over his shoulder but the interior of the igloo was empty. Probably just a displacement in the air.

  It had grown noticeably colder, the gray slant of light across the ground dimmer.

  Quentin hesitated. “Hello,” he called again.

  There was no echo this time. Coalescing shadows swallowed his voice and crushed the word silent. Turning slowly, he kept his back to the wall. Cold radiated from the stone, rolling over him in a cloak of chill air. Something filmy brushed against his cheek and he batted at it as if swiping away a cobweb. A rustling erupted from the corner. Pivoting, he swung the flashlight in that direction.

  “Who’s there?”

  All around him the walls began to glow with scattered flecks of blue. The same luminescent color bled from his pocket. Quentin dug into his jeans and extracted the amulet. The stone pulsed with light, the veins of black deepening to thin slivers of ink. A wash of blue spread from his hand and fanned across the floor. He no longer needed the flashlight to see. The sharp bite of cold against his palm almost made him drop the amulet.

  Ask, a masculine voice instructed, the word heard only in his head.

  He gaped at the darkness. Something unseen moved in the shadows. It made his skin crawl, his gut clench up. “Who are you?” His mouth was dry.

  No reply.

  His fingers tightened around the amulet. Sarah told him the thing only answered in the positive or negative. She said it was an alien—or at least, that’s what some people believed. He groped for a name, trying to remember everything she’d told him.

  “Are you Indrid Cold?”

  Yes.

  A dozen thoughts spider-walked through his head. He could be hallucinating, the glowing sediment on the walls tainted with some kind of chemical. It was no secret the TNT was on a government Superfund site. Pollutants and toxins had leeched into the soil. Who was to say those same impurities didn’t contaminate the walls of the igloo, affecting him subliminally? Cold could be a figment of his imagination, dredged from his subconscious.

  But what of the amulet? The damn thing glowed, reacting to that otherworldly light with an eerie pulse of its own.

  “My sister…” He wet his lips, deciding to accept Cold’s oracle-like abilities at face value. At least for now. “My sister thinks my family is cursed. Is that true?”

  Yes.

  No hesitation. Not exactly the answer he wanted. Shifting, he squinted, hoping for a glimpse of the thing in the corner. Shadow lay upon denser shadow, untouched by the blue light.

  “Did Cornstalk curse my ancestor?”

  Yes.

  The word of a disembodied alien to match the word of a carnival fortune-teller. He’d scoffed at Pen, but he couldn’t counter the reality of an alien voice inside his head. Lach Evening said the amulet had belonged to Jonathan, and that his brother, Sutton, was responsible for unleashing Cornstalk’s curse. Quentin could think of only one reason for the Shawnee chief to curse the man. After what Sarah had told him about how the Indian had died, he saw no way around the grim truth.

  “Did Sutton kill Cornstalk?”

  Yes.

  His gut plummeted. Dragging a hand over his face, he blew out an impatient huff. No one wanted to delve into their family tree and discover a murderer. “Why twins?” All the catastrophes and untimely deaths Penelope had unearthed related solely to twins in the Marsh line. There had to be a reason.

  Heavy silence resonated through the igloo. Quentin swore softly. Yes or no answers only. Taking a moment to refocus, he concentrated on what he already knew. He’d come to Point Pleasant to learn about Jonathan Marsh, but Sutton seemed to be the one responsible for the curse.

  Something clicked in his head. “Were Jonathan and Sutton twins?”

  Yes.

  Both were at Fort Randolph around the time Cornstalk was murdered, but Sutton was the one who’d released the curse. “Was Jonathan there when Cornstalk was killed?”

  No.

  The blue light faltered, dimming slightly. A sliver of warmth crept into the air as the slash of sun angled over the ground brightened in intensity. The shadows flinched away as if stung by the blossoming light. Quentin sensed Cold withdrawing.

  “Wait!” He took a hasty step forward. “I’m not through. I have more questions.” A shitload of questions, but the protest did no good. As quickly as Cold’s presence appeared in the igloo, the aura vanished. The change was immediate. In the span of a single breath, the sound of the surrounding woods intruded into the dome, and the ethereal blue light radiating from the walls faded completely.

  Quentin swore softly. Striding from the igloo, he halted outside the doors and examined the amulet. The stone had returned to its natural opaque state, making him wonder if he had imagined the glow. The snap of a twig drew his head up sharply. A rustling noise grew in the distance as if someone—or something—cut a path through the trees. Jamming the amulet into his pocket, he jogged toward the sound.

  Whoever, or whatever, it was moved away from him, threading deeper into the trees. Ducking beneath a branch, he veered from the path to follow. A few minutes later, he stopped to listen, the noise shifting course to a different direction. The Mothman was winged, but would the creature also prowl on foot?

  Wiping sweat from his lip, Quentin changed direction, maintaining pace with the crunch of underbrush in the distance. He hadn’t gone far when he realized he’d left the can of spray paint behind. One elm or spruce looked almost identical to another, and he hadn’t counted the turns he’d taken. Stupid mistake.

  He wasn’t lost so much as disoriented. All he had to do was get his bearings, refocus, and track his steps back to the igloo. He should be able to see signs of a path. Bent ferns, trampled grass, something along those lines. An outdoorsman he wasn’t.

  Up ahead, a flash of fluorescent orange flitted through the trees.

  A hunter. Not only was he lost, he’d been chasing a damn hunter. The best thing he could do was turn around. He didn’t know the hunting laws, or if he was in an off-limits area, but the last thing he needed was to be mistaken for game—or worse—the Mothman.

  Hesitating, he thought about calling out, but the hunter would probably think him some stupid tourist who didn’t know his way around a stand of trees. Now that he was closer, he could see the man was heavyset with a mop of brown curls sticking from beneath an orange cap. Walking in a half-crouch, he held a rifle clutched at the ready in both hands, his expression edgy, a little scared.

  Mothman hunting?

  Deciding a little ridicule was better than being lost, Quentin was about to call out when an inhuman shriek sent every bird within a hundred yards bursting from the treetops. The hunter yelped, jerking his gun to his shoulder. He pivoted to sight down the barrel and Quentin instinctively ducked for cover.

  Somewhere in the distance, a man’s terrified voice exploded over the screech of crows and blackbirds: “Mitch! Pai
nter! Help me kill the fucking thing!”

  Chapter 9

  Shawn was decent at stalking. If his old man had taught him anything, it was how to move quietly through the woods and zero in on prey. His dad knew how to put game on the table, how to skin it, too. He’d always carried a big buck knife with him for the job, but never the knife Shawn clutched in his hand.

  Licking his lips, he hunkered down and waited. It took a while, but Mitch and Painter eventually split up. He’d already flagged Mitch as the slower prey. The guy’s bulk would make him harder to take down, but his flab would rob him of dexterity. Painter was edgy, greased-hog slick. The more skittish of the two, he was also unpredictable. Best to play it safe and go after Mitch. Shawn couldn’t afford to screw up again.

  The spirit inhabiting him was restless, its need for revenge growing greater each day. His ancestor’s urgency ate at Shawn, hollowing him from the inside out like an empty husk. Hunger was a constant pang. No matter how much he scarfed down, his stomach grumbled in protest. Even his thoughts had become muddled, less and less his own as Obadiah cluttered his head.

  Willa. Dear, lovely Willa. Your face haunts me even now.

  Shawn shifted the knife to his left hand to rummage a peanut butter cup from his pocket. He peeled off the wrapper and stuffed the candy in his mouth. The orange covering fluttered to the ground, becoming trapped among a clump of weeds. Crushing it under his foot, he followed the path Mitch had taken.

  When he’d killed Hanley, he’d been excited by the prospect, now he wanted the task done and over. Mentally, he calculated how many more cuts of the knife it would take to bring down Mitch than it had the farmer.

  Slash. Do not plunge the blade.

  Yeah, yeah, he knew the score. Only the Mothman had multiple claws on each hand, and he had a single-bladed knife. No one would buy the creature as the killer. He saw that now, as clearly as he saw he’d lost control over his vengeful ancestor. Obadiah was too consumed by hatred to spot the flaws in his plan, but the screw-ups didn’t matter. Once Shawn did as the spirit required, he’d be free of the thing, and the power of the knife would be his. When he killed the Mothman, he’d be walking on fame. Real fame, not the petty shit he earned from dirt track racing. He’d kick the local circuit goodbye and move on to better things, a man of wealth and power.