by D P Lyle
The pinpoint expanded, exploded, as if a supernova and he found himself in a dream world of such intensity that it burned his eyes, scorched his skin into a mass of blisters and black eschars, and seared his lungs with each breath he took. Winds of brilliant colors, some ice cold, some excruciatingly hot, swirled around him. Droplets of blood, carried by the winds, peppered his face and chest, causing his skin to sizzle and pop as if struck by molten metal. The coppery taste of blood mixed with the sour salt of his own panic-driven sweat.
From the chaos, a face appeared, half-human, half-reptile, or perhaps it morphed from one to the other. He couldn’t be sure which.
He recoiled when a beam of light struck a knife blade honed to such sharpness that it sliced the light into thousands of colors, which painted the reptilian man’s face as if he were viewed through a kaleidoscope. Its gaping mouth revealed sharp conical teeth, dominated by long carnivorous canines as the beast rocked back its head in laughter. Its bellows reverberated like thousands of church bells simultaneously ringing in an enclosed bell tower.
He jerked to wakefulness with a sharp whimper. The dream world dissolved and he saw his wife standing over him, nudging his shoulder.
“Walter, are you OK? Look at you. You’re drenched with sweat.”
“Where...wha...Margo?”
“I’m going to call Doctor Roberts, right now.”
“No.” He grabbed her hand. “I’m all right. I was just dreaming.”
“You look sick to me.” She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “You don’t feel feverish, but I’ll get the thermometer.”
“I’m OK.”
She ignored him, went into the bathroom, and returned, shaking the thermometer. “Here.” She slipped it into his mouth beneath his tongue and sat on the bed next to him. After two minutes, she removed it, slipped on her glasses, and stared at the red column in the glass tube. “Well, you don’t have a fever.”
“I told you. There’s nothing wrong that a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
“Are you sure?”
He stared at her, debating what to say. She was more than his wife. She was his friend and partner, the only woman he had ever loved, ever made love to. They had been sweethearts since the sixth grade. Neither held secrets from the other. Ever. But, he couldn’t bring himself to tell her what he feared. How could he? He didn’t even know what was happening. Perhaps everything was simply a crazy dream. Maybe he was sick. Or going insane. And, if his greatest fears were true? What then? Looking into her beautiful face, he knew there was no way to tell her. Not now. Maybe not ever.
“I’m sure,” he said.
“OK. You stay here and I’ll heat up some soup.” She headed toward the kitchen.
Guilt gnawed at him. For not telling Margo the truth. For the dream he didn’t understand but sensed he must somehow be at fault. For sneaking around his own house, cleaning up bloodstains. For dragging blood into his home, their home, in the first place. For not knowing where the blood came from. For what he may have done last night.
Margo returned with a tray and, after he fluffed his pillow and sat up against the headboard, placed it on his lap. Suddenly, he was ravenous. While Margo showered and dressed for bed, he wolfed a bowl of tomato soup, a hunk of sourdough bread, and a dish of orange sherbet.
“Nothing wrong with your appetite,” she said, removing the tray.
“I told you I was OK.” He wanted to tell her, scream to her, that he wasn’t OK. That something was terribly wrong. That he might be losing his mind. That he might be a murderer. But, he said nothing.
“I’m going to watch TV for a little while,” she said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will. Thanks.” He smiled at her and she smiled back before leaving the bedroom. God, he loved her.
After washing his face and brushing his teeth, he took another Xanax and two shots of Scotch. He returned to bed and attempted to read, but fatigue, alcohol, and the Xanax tugged at his eyelids until the paperback sank to his chest and he drifted to sleep.
*
As midnight approached, a storm closed from the north, dragging the temperature into the thirties. A blanket of low clouds preceded the storm’s leading edge, which thundered and flashed above the distant horizon.
Garrett’s Groupies had roasted hot dogs and marshmallows, then huddled near the fire drinking beer and smoking joints until each was comfortably numbed. Wrapped in blankets, they looked like any other group campers, listening to fireside stories.
Despite the cold and the approaching storm, Penelope shed her blanket and coat and prepared for the night’s ritual. The group closed ranks into a semi-circle near the fire, while Penelope passed among them, pouring red wine from a large bottle into the small paper cups each member held as if it were a silver chalice. After filling their cups, she stepped upon a four-foot ledge from which she would conduct the ceremony.
Penelope stood quietly, looking down on the group seated across the flames from her. Her ankle length, gauzy black dress adhered to her lithe body as the desert wind caressed her. The flickering glow of the campfire licked at her, creating and dissolving shadows in the curves and recesses of her form and gilding the silver inverted pentagram that hung from her neck. She held the group spellbound with the power of her words and the raw sensuality of her visage.
“Hail, Satan,” she chanted.
“Hail, Satan,” the group responded in unison, then downed the wine in a single gulp. They tossed the cups into the fire, which blushed brighter as it consumed the paraffin-coated paper, painting the faces of the faithful a warm cherry red.
Penelope spread her arms and spoke to the darkness that surrounded the pocket of light created by the fire. “In the name of Satan, the Prince of the Underworld, I beseech the forces of darkness to throw open the gates of Hell so your children may enter. Come forth my Prince and make your presence known.”
The wind surged, swirling her hair around her face and pressing the gown against her, over her hardened nipples, between her thighs, until she appeared as a nude sculpted of black marble. The flame washed faces stared up at her, transfixed by her haunting beauty, overwhelmed by the power of Satan embodied in her form.
“He is here,” one of the girls shouted.
“He is with us,” chimed another.
Penelope knelt and picked up a silver knife that lay near her feet. Standing, she held it above her head, the thick curved blade shimmering in the fire’s glow.
“Hail to Lucifer, Master of Darkness.”
The others stood and repeated, “Hail to Lucifer.”
Using the point of the knife, Penelope pricked her finger, then held it before her until a drop of blood fell into the fire, sizzling as the flames consumed it.
“It is with the blood of Lucifer that we cleanse our souls and enter the nether world.”
Penelope stepped down from the rock, gathering the others around her. She touched the point of the knife to her wound and applied a smear of blood to Melissa’s forehead. She repeated this ritual until each had been anointed, then returned to her place above them.
Holding the knife, she extended her arm over them. “Lucifer, impart to us your wisdom. Show us the path to your domain.” She closed her eyes, spread her arms wide, and bowed her head. Her voice became low, guttural.
“Come as a reaper and you will attain the riches of the nether world.”
“Hail, Lucifer,” they chanted.
“Strive ever for souls, for the Domain of Lucifer is forever.”
“Hail, Lucifer.”
“Love nothing so strongly that you cannot watch it die.”
“Hail, Lucifer.”
“All that is worthy is built on a bed of sorrow and pain.”
“Hail, Lucifer, Prince of Darkness.”
The group began a slow rhythmic dance, body writhing against body, hands exploring, caressing, clothes falling away. Moans and soft murmurs filled the night air as the first droplets of rain reached them.
Melissa mounted the rock where Penelope stood and knelt before her, wrapping her arms around the taller girl’s legs, sliding her cheek over her abdomen. Penelope held the girl’s head against her as her hips began an involuntary sensual sway.
She gazed over her followers, watching as they grouped in twos and threes and fours and climbed into the vans or one of the tents they had set-up earlier, seeking shelter from the rain, comforting and pleasing one another. She felt a deep sense of belonging, of brotherhood and sisterhood.
More than that, she felt needed. They depended on her for guidance, strength, and hope; she received courage and purpose in return. She had become the mother she never had. Despite the cold wind that lashed at her, she felt an internal warmth as if the fire before her had taken residence within her soul. She truly loved them, and they her.
Penelope slid her hand beneath the Melissa’s chin and raised her to her feet, their lips touching, tentatively, then bolder. They locked in an embrace, pressing, sliding their bodies together, peeling away clothing. The rain intensified and the cold wind knifed into them. Stripped bare, the two girls jumped from their perch and slipped into one of the tents, their bodies immediately intertwining.
Chapter 14
Despite his fatigue and the sedating effects of the alcohol and Xanax, Walter Limpke slept poorly, never attaining the deep, restful world of REM sleep. Each time he ascended into wakefulness, he hesitantly surveyed the dark room, searching for any sign that last night’s dream had returned. His eyes probed the corners and shadows for even the slightest glimmer of color.
Once he slipped from his bed, being careful not to disturb Margo, and explored the dark recesses of the room, the closet, and the adjacent bathroom. Finding nothing, he eased back beneath the covers, praying that his afternoon dream would not return, that the events of last night had been a nightmare rather than reality or insanity. He prayed that when he woke the next morning his world would once again be normal, mundane. He prayed, but just after midnight when he lurched into wakefulness, surrounded by the same brilliant colors as before, he knew it was not to be.
He sat up in bed, vowing not to succumb to the compulsion that drug him from his bed, into his closet. He screamed at himself not to put on his clothes, his boots, but found himself dressed, boots on.
No! Make it stop. Please, God, make it stop.
As he backed from his driveway, he begged his foot to stomp the brake, but his foot would not respond. When he left his neighborhood and pointed his car toward town, he willed his hands to turn the wheel, off the road, into a ditch, a tree, anywhere but where he was going. His hands ignored his pleas.
Walter Limpke was losing control of his actions, his will, his sanity.
His inner voice diminished to a whimper.
Please. No more.
He felt as though he were drowning in a Technicolor sea of madness. He could not fight the current nor reach the shore where sanity and control awaited. He sank deeper into the eddies of the dream that controlled his actions and pulled him toward the oblivion he knew awaited.
He returned to the post office and, as on the previous night, retrieved the plastic bag from behind the air conditioner compressor. He headed north out of town, then left onto a rutted muddy road. A half mile later, he pulled off the road into the desert, parked, and continued on foot, oblivious to the rain that soaked his clothing.
He ascended a gentle rise and a doublewide trailer, which emitted a brilliant ruby light, a pulsing beacon that stung his eyes, came into view. Who lived here? He knew, but could not remember. Part of his brain recognized the structure, but he could not pull that recognition into clear focus.
He wanted to go home, back to bed, back to Margo, but the rhythmic beacon held him. He removed the object from the plastic bag and slogged down the slope toward the trailer.
*
Richard Earl Garrett sat cross-legged on his bunk, deep in meditation. He found that as his weeks of incarceration passed, he spent more and more hours each day in this trance-like state, which offered him his only respite from the four-walled boredom of his cell. He would will his body to relax, his breathing to adopt a slow, steady rhythm, and his mind to block all external stimuli and open itself to its own internal milieu, allowing him to escape the world around him and enter the other world, his world. Through this, he could soar with his mentor, strengthen their union, expand his own powers, and bring himself ever closer to Satan’s pantheon.
Tonight, after Thelma had delivered his evening meal of chicken, potatoes, green beans, and iced tea, he had napped for two hours, then begun his nightly reverie. At midnight, the rain came, cooling the night air. He slipped on his cardigan sweater and wrapped his blanket around his waist and legs. He flicked off the goose-necked reading lamp on the small table beside his bunk. Darkness closed around him. Warm and comfortable, he quickly entered his meditative state, leaving the world behind.
The approaching storm rumbled across the desert toward Mercer’s Corner, but he heard little of its bellowing. Distant lightning occasionally flickered on the walls around him, but he hardly noticed. The rain pounded the jail’s roof with a hallow drumming, which increased in intensity as the downpour strengthened. Garrett pushed this intrusion to the back of his mind. Instead, he soared high above the storm, far from the rain washed Earth.
Suddenly, a heavy flash-boom shook the cell as if the storm had leaped across the desert and descended upon him with all its fury, yanking him from his trance. The walls shimmered with the silvery white reflection of the lightning and the building trembled as if the Earth’s bowels were rumbling in protest. The crisp smell of ozone penetrated his nostrils and large balls of red and orange danced before his eyes as the cell once again plunged into darkness. A darkness deeper than before.
“No,” he cried out.
The timing of the lightening blast could not have been worse. Just as he reached the fulfillment of his meditative journey, the moment of triumph, of glory, of oneness, the storm seized him, tore him from his station, and dropped him here. He threw off his blanket and paced the cell, fuming at the storm, which he was sure God had sent to thwart him, to thwart Lucifer.
The drumming of the rain, God’s rain, on the roof and the buffeting of the wind, God’s wind, against the building infuriated him.
“Rave on, Old Man,” he shouted to the God he could not see. “Your cold breath and your tears will not stop me or my master.”
He pushed open the small window and peered through the bars into the night air. Wind driven rain pelted his face.
“Did you hear me?” he screamed. “We will triumph. We will show the world how truly impotent you are.”
Another flash of lightning cracked across the sky, silvering the rain, strobing across his face. He jumped with a sharp intake of breath and reflexly stepped back from the window.
Anger surged within him. Anger at God, at himself.
Who was the weak one? He could rant at God, mock his power, but with the mere flick of a lightning bolt, God could send him cowering. His anger turned to rage, which in turn emboldened him. He grasped the bars and pushed his face between two of them. The cold rain stung his face.
“I do not fear you,” he screeched.
Again, lightning flashed, farther away, followed by a soft rumble as if God had retreated from the battle. He waited. Another flash, weaker, more distant.
He pulled the window closed, wiped the rain from his face with a towel, and returned to his bunk, pulling the blanket around him. He considered returning to his meditation, to his Prince, to his moment of consummation, but knew it would be fruitless. Too late. The damage was done; the moment lost, forever.
*
A blinding flash of lightning and a cymbal crash of thunder dropped Walter Limpke from his Technicolor dream into a nightmare. A nightmare far beyond his most visceral fears.
He had feared he was losing his mind, but now he was certain that he had. No other explanation was possible. The wildly colo
red world of the past two nights, his blood smeared clothes and hands, his visions of Miriam Hargrove paled when compared to the scene before him.
He recoiled, stepping back, and tripped over the buckled carpet. He fell, landing on his butt with a heavy thud.
Where was he? He scanned the dark room. An aluminum framed window to his right, a flimsy aluminum door, standing open, to his left, and a stained and gritty yellow carpet beneath him. Ahead on his right were a small sink and refrigerator and wooden overhead cabinets. A mobile home? He was in a mobile home. Whose? Where? Why?
He felt moisture beneath his left hand, soaking through the seat of his pants. The rain pounded the steps outside the open door. At first, he thought the wet carpet must be rain soaked, but when he looked at his hand, even in the darkness, he could see the dark stains of blood.
Fear slipped into him like a finely honed knife.
A bolt of lightning, its simultaneous clap of thunder as palpable as it was audible, flitted along the ground outside the door, illuminating the interior. The body, which hung by its ankles before him, danced in the strobing light as if it were an inverted marionette controlled by some monstrous hand.
He scrambled backwards, propelling himself with the heels of his boots, until he collided with a table that sat against the wall. His heart matched the hammering of the rain, both echoing in his head. Sweat poured from every pore and a bitter, sour acid burned his throat.
He pulled himself to his feet, clutching the table for support. A wave of dizziness and nausea washed over him and his stomach ground into a knot.
Again, lightning rippled across the sky, bathing the room with its flickering light. The body repeated its macabre dance.
He approached cautiously, half expecting the corpse to spring to life and lunge at him. The blood soaked carpet made squishing noises with each step.
He was close to the body, very close. He could see the throat had been sliced, exposing the cartilage of the windpipe, and the chest had been ripped open. A dark cavity stared at him. Where was the heart? He remembered enough high school biology to know that the heart should be where the gaping wound was.
