by Brian Hodge
It almost seemed as if the forest had spontaneously grown around the car.
Now he could not help himself. Before he fully realized what he was doing, his mouth had opened and his voice was echoing with shocking, terrifying volume through the incredible forest: “Hello! Is there anybody here?”
Now, a sharp, staccato clicking, almost insect-like, burst from the darkness around him. His eyes frantically scanned the shadows, trying to lock onto the source of the sound, but it was impossible. When he looked left, the rapid click-click-clack, click-click-clack seemed to come from the right; when he looked behind, it came from the front. Some distance farther down the trail, bright daylight shone through a break in the trees, and thinking it the most likely direction the car’s occupant might have gone, he started jogging toward it. To his relief, as he put some distance between himself and the sheriff’s vehicle, the bizarre sounds began to abate.
Even though his mind had yet to grasp the nature of his predicament, he stalwartly clung to the belief that the world itself had not changed; he simply didn’t have enough information to process what was happening. But the moment he set foot in the open space between the great trees, his last bastion of rationality crumbled and dispersed on the four winds like so much dust; his breath caught in his lungs, and his body nearly collapsed beneath its own weight.
Miles and miles distant, beyond a series of mist-shrouded ridges, a stone tower ascended to the heavens like a monolithic needle, dwarfing the multitudes of block-like structures, immense in their own right, that gathered at its base. Taller than any manmade edifice, the thing bore a strangely organic aspect, as if it had thrust itself out of the ground and climbed toward the sun, seeking to pluck it from the sky. The dimly glowing, oblong objects that drifted in the air around it, diminutive in comparison, had to be bigger than whales to be visible from such a distance.
Smallwood heard a rustling sound behind him and, fighting back nausea, dazedly swiveled around. Of the shocking images his eyes had just beheld, the one standing before him was surely the most incongruous: a disheveled-looking white man with long, greasy hair, dressed in tattered denim, regarding Smallwood with hostile, deep violet eyes. His lips slowly spread in a shark-like smile to reveal a mouthful of crooked yellow teeth. He was obviously not the driver of the sheriff’s car.
“Whatcha say, nigger?”
For a second, Smallwood stared in disbelief, as rooted to the earth as one of the giant pines. But the words served to anchor the chaos in his mind, and like a low flame, fury began to displace his terror. Then, before he even realized what he was doing, he leaped forward with a cry and began to pound the smaller man with his fists. With every blow he landed, his dread diminished ever so slightly.
“You son of a bitch,” he growled. “You wanna know what I say? This is what I say.” He smashed his fist straight into the man’s nose, and his hand came away bloody. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
The smaller man staggered slightly but maintained his footing; and then, shrugging off the punches as if a child had delivered them, he rose to his full height and offered Smallwood another mocking smile. “That kinda attitude ain’t gonna get you nowhere, boy.”
Before Smallwood could even consider a reply, the clicking sounds again rose all around him, and now he could see signs of movement in the underbrush between the trees. Here and there, flecks of light appeared in the shadows, and a strong acidic odor, like the smell of ants he had crushed in his fingers as a child, rushed to his nostrils, bringing water to his eyes. He backed away from the strange white man, trying to orient himself so he could make a break for his truck.
As the click-clack noises grew louder amid the trees, behind him, from the direction of the tower, a deeper, heavier sound rose, as if in response to the others. Like the pounding of drums, the noise grew stronger, more tangible, vibrating through the ground so intensely that he felt it in his shins. The sunlight dimmed, as if a cloud had passed overhead, but a small, timid voice inside assured him that the sky was cloudless; and with a cry of near-mindless panic, he suddenly bolted and ran at breakneck speed into the trees, back in the direction of his truck.
Behind him, the chattering noises rose in volume and pitch. And mixed in with them, the distinct sound of human laughter: the cruel mirth of the man who had called him “nigger.” Soon, Smallwood could no longer hear laughing, human or otherwise; only his own shrill cries as he dashed up the path toward his truck, which seemed as remote as the safe, comfortable life he had left behind in a world that no longer existed.
Chapter 8
The blended aroma of fresh produce, seafood, tangy spices, pine oil cleaner, and old sweat transported Copeland back almost thirty years, to a place in his memory that would have remained sealed if the unique and apparently timeless smell of Cooper and Rankin’s Supermarket had not unexpectedly unlocked it. The store’s interior had probably been remodeled a time or two since the 70s, but one would never know to look at it. He could almost be an adolescent again, walking in to buy some groceries for his mom and dad—or to sneak a peek at some of the magazines they used to keep behind a special partition in the far corner of the store.
Lynette needed a few items that well-wishers from Rodney’s wake had not provided, so he had volunteered to go shopping for her. For the better part of the day, she had been writing thank-you notes and signing insurance documents, holding up admirably, but still a few days short of being up to sort through Rodney’s room and personal belongings. Without being insensitive, he hoped she might manage it while he was still around to help her.
From the moment he had awakened this morning, it was Debra Harrington who had dominated his thoughts; not just her nascent influence on his emotions but also her strange “vision” at the Barrows’ place the previous afternoon. That, together with the bizarre events of the past couple of days—among which he counted the weird light he had seen on the ridge and maybe even Lynette’s sleepwalking—added up to a disturbing and so far unfathomable mystery that nagged at him relentlessly. That each inexplicable occurrence tied in with the others he had no doubt, yet the prospects of piecing together such a puzzle seemed bleak when each disparate fragment defied comprehension.
Again and again, in his judgment, the clues led to the doorstep of Barrow manor. The idea that such a degenerate clan might be at the center of some heinous but simple intrigue was hardly a stretch, but this community’s recent tribulations were far from simple. Unfortunately, the strongest evidence against the Barrow family was his intuition, and on reflection, he could not ignore the possibility that their worst offense might be the fact they offended him. But each time he considered offering them the benefit of the doubt, the image of Levi Barrow’s cunning, staring eyes—or the shocked face of Zack Baird as he fled from the Barrow property with the devil at his heels—removed all doubt from his mind.
He had just picked up some soap and a package of razors when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he saw a stooped, grizzled octogenarian clutching a wooden walking stick and regarding him curiously from behind Coke-bottle glasses. “’Scuse me, sir. You live around here?”
“Not really, no.”
The old man sighed. “That figures. You look like you got some sense about you.”
“Do you need help?”
“Me and my boy are trying to get to Elkins, and we can’t get no good directions from these people. I was hoping maybe you could do better.”
“Maybe I can. You take a right out of here. Go about a mile and get on 201 South. Then it’s about fifteen miles to U.S. 250 West, and that takes you straight there.”
“That’s just what the fellow down at the gas station and that woman over there at the register said. But we already done that and ended up on some back road that damn near took us over the edge of a cliff.”
Copeland frowned thoughtfully. Perhaps the man had happened upon the old dolomite quarry, except that it was five miles in the other direction. “I’m sure they have maps here. Maybe a
map would help.”
“I got one. And it don’t show this town but for a little black dot in a big green blob.”
He chuckled. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Well, I wish I could be more help.”
“Oy,” the man grumbled with a vexed shake of his head. “Thanks anyway.” He ambled toward the front of the store, striking the floor with the tip of his cane a bit harder than necessary.
Copeland couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man, though he didn’t think such a frail old thing ought to be behind a wheel, especially on these treacherous mountain roads. If the rest of the world were lucky, his son would be driving.
Paper towels. Lynette had wanted some paper towels. He had already passed by the paper goods, his mind on other things, so he headed back that way, going over his mental list in case anything else had slipped his mind.
As he strolled by the checkout aisles, it occurred to him that an inordinate number of people were waiting in line—damn near as bad as the Dominick’s back home.
No wonder. Only one lane was open.
The middle-aged woman at the register was saying to an irate-looking young man, “Sorry, I’m the only one here. Our other two checkers didn’t show up this morning. It’s not like them at all.”
Copeland had just grabbed a couple of rolls of paper towels when a little vibration began at the back of his neck. The kind of thing that happened when something was wrong that he couldn’t quite pinpoint—such as when enough separate, seemingly insignificant events converged to create a single, remarkable one.
But what?
He stood in line for ten minutes, barely containing his impatience, his discomfort exacerbated by a squalling child in the arms of an utterly oblivious woman in front of him. One more reminder to thank God that he and the lunatic Megan had never considered having children.
When he had finally finished with the store and returned to his car, he found himself inexplicably dwelling on the old man’s inability to make his way to U.S. 250—a procedure that required a single right turn onto 201, which was reasonably well-marked, and staying on it for a quarter hour. On a whim, rather than returning directly to Lynette’s, he headed toward the highway instead. When he came to the turn, there was the sign, plain as day, identifying the road as West Virginia Highway 201. Hardly perplexing so far.
Just for good measure, he turned right, away from town—the way he had come in other day. Unsure why any of this particularly mattered to him, he took special note of the intersections he passed, none of which seemed problematic. The old man had just gotten confused; nothing difficult to understand about that, either. Still, he drove for another five miles before deciding to turn back toward Lynette’s; she would be waiting for her groceries and probably already wondering what was keeping him.
Seeing an opening on the right where he could turn around, he pulled in and found himself face to face with The Chicken House. Though it was almost the dinner hour, there was only a single car parked in the lot. Well, maybe those yellow corn-fed birds weren’t all they were cracked up to be. As he swung around and started to pull back out onto the highway, he looked left, looked right…and kept looking, suddenly doubting his eyesight.
His fingers tightened on the wheel as an electric thrill of terror and disbelief arced down his spine. Where moments ago a long, curving stretch of highway had descended into a thickly wooded vale, now a vast open space had opened in the earth, filled with pale, slowly swirling mist, tendrils of which began to worm slowly up the road like the questing arms of a monstrous sea anemone.
Beyond the great miasma, something very tall and very dark rose into the sky, but he could not make out any details through the ghostly veil. One trembling hand reached for the door handle, found it, and tugged; his body weight forced the door open, and he slid out of the seat, clutching the doorframe in case his knees gave way beneath him.
When he swiveled his head to peer back at the fog-choked emptiness, it had vanished.
Highway 201 had reappeared, snaking into a valley of oaks and hickories as it had for countless years. No trace of mist crept along the road, and only a distant, tree-crowned mountaintop rose above the landscape like an ancient, green-robed monarch.
He took a few halting steps onto the cracked asphalt of the highway and stood there, dumbfounded, heedless of any vehicles that might bear down on him, thinking he now knew why young Zack Baird’s eyes had been frozen wide with shock.
After a full five minutes of nothing happening, he began to breathe a little easier. But in that time, not one car had passed in either direction.
The lost old man. The grocery checkers who had not shown up for work. Debra swearing she had seen a building that could not possibly exist.
It was one thing to doubt his own perceptions. It was another to know that others had borne witness to something incredible, even if they did not realize it.
As surely as he was standing here, that something had killed his nephew and driven another young boy out of his mind.
This had to be a hell of a lot bigger than the Barrows.
He turned and walked back toward the Chicken House, bypassed his car, and pushed his way in through the glass front door of the little building. It was hot inside, and the odor of grease hung like a dirty fog in the air. The half-dozen tables were all empty, and no one stood behind the counter.
“Hello! Anyone here?”
After a moment, an elderly man wearing a white apron ambled out to the register, the eyes behind his thick glasses not on Copeland but on the window.
“Sorry,” the old fellow rasped. “Didn’t want to stand out front, not the way things are going around here.”
Copeland leaned close to the man’s face. “What do you mean by that?”
The man pointed out the window. “That fog that keeps coming around every so often. When it does, the road goes dead for a pretty good while. You the first person to come round in ’bout an hour or so.”
“When did it start?”
“Late this morning. At first, I thought it was just some weather. Then I saw them trees didn’t seem to be where they was supposed to be anymore. That, sir, just ain’t right. And then my help didn’t show up, which got me a bit worried.”
“Have you seen anyone drive in or out of that fog?”
“A few went in earlier today. Then it’s like they just not there anymore. And not one thing’s come out. Mind you, it ain’t always there. But it seems to be happening more often now than at first.”
“Have you called anyone? The sheriff? Family?”
“Can’t. The phone’s out.”
Copeland started to reach for his cell, but then he remembered that, since there was no service out here, he hadn’t bothered to bring it with him. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said softly, turning to peer out the window at the road. “But I think it might be better if you closed up and went home.”
“Thought of that too, ’cept I live down down yonder,” he said, pointing southward, “and I ain’t much liking the idea of heading straight into something I don’t know nothing about.”
“Why don’t you head back into town? I don’t think I’d stay here if I were you.”
“Don’t know where I’d go.”
“Maybe the sheriff’s office for starters?” he said, painfully aware that Mr. Grayson would be about as receptive as a brick to such an outrageous story. Who could blame him? Regardless, this had to be turned over to some authority, and around here, Sheriff Grayson was it. “At best, this road’s got to be closed.”
“That where you going?”
He thought for a minute. Sheriff Grayson would have a harder time discounting the statements of two witnesses than one, but having earned the sheriff’s disdain during their previous encounter, he doubted his chances of making a convincing case. No…there was a better way. He knew a few influential people in Washington who trusted his judgment, and they were in strategic positions to get things moving officially—as if he had any idea of what to get mo
ving.
“No,” he said at last. “I know some government people who will want to hear what I have to tell them.”
The old man seemed to consider the idea for a time. Then he opened the register, took out the cash drawer, turned, and disappeared into the back. When he finally reappeared, he said, “Okay, I’m officially closed.”
“What’s your name?” Copeland asked as they headed out to the parking lot.
“Billy Hart,” the man said, pausing to lock the door behind him. “Been running this place for the last twenty-some years, and I ain’t never seen anything so peculiar in all my life.”
“I don’t imagine anyone has,” Copeland said softly. “Russ Copeland. Pleased to meet you.”
“You’re not local.”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, good luck, Mr. Copeland. Hope you can get through to your people.”
“Yeah. So do I.”
As he got behind the wheel, Copeland’s hands trembled, his mind’s eye fixed on that misty chasm, which had appeared where every logical circuit in his brain assured him none could exist. It was too absurd to accept. Still, he wasn’t ready to write off his own sanity quite yet. Something in the air, maybe; a chemical or biological agent capable of inducing hallucinations.
What other explanation could there be?
But Rodney had not been killed by any hallucination.
As he turned north on the highway, he kept his eye on the rearview mirror, half dreading, half hoping to actually witness a transition, something that might offer a clue as to what was really happening.
His gut told him he needed to get back to Lynette.
When they reached the business district, having encountered no other traffic, Hart turned off toward the sheriff’s office, and Copeland continued on to Lynette’s house, more than recklessly disregarding the 25 mile per hour speed limit. Strange old bird, he thought; Hart seemed to take what he had seen in stride, despite being so close to the event. He might actually make the more credible witness, since he seemed lucid enough and was probably less prone to impatience with a Doubting Thomas, which the sheriff was bound to be.
