Devil's Playground

by D P Lyle

Sam shook her head. “You believe everything, don’t you?”

  “No. I believe in the possibility of everything. There’s a difference.”

  “I suppose.”

  "For example, do you believe Garrett could be what he says he is? Satan's chosen disciple?"

  "Of course not."

  "Why not? Seems to me he would be the perfect candidate."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Look at him. A loner, a social outcast. He's been a drinker and a fighter all his life. Two armed robbery raps he did time for. Probably did the two rapes he was accused of. Probably killed that guy in Salt Lake City, too."

  Sam stared at him in disbelief. How did he know this? It wasn't brought out in the trial because Judge Westbrooke excluded it to prevent prejudicing the jury. Besides, Garrett was never tried for the rapes or the murder. Merely charged and released for insufficient evidence. All she could think of to say was, "You're good. Charlie and I never would have know about that stuff if a friend of his, a sheriff in Utah, hadn't heard about the murder of the children and called."

  Nathan smiled and shrugged. "The point is that Garrett is fertile ground. If Satan could control anyone, it would be someone as sociopathic as Garrett. He's mean, antisocial, and appears to have no impulse control. A perfect tool for Satan to use."

  Put that way, it almost made sense. Almost. "I have a hard time buying into this stuff."

  "That's because, Sam Cody, you like things that are black and white. That can be proven. There are many things we don't understand, but that doesn't make them any less true."

  "You would have made a good lawyer," Sam said. "You have a way with words."

  "Would that make me more acceptable than being a reporter?"

  Sam laughed. "Probably not."

  Nathan shared her laugh. "I guess I just can win."

  Nathan paid the bill and they stepped into the cold night air. He walked her to her Jeep, where they kissed. Not a quick, innocent brushing of the lips like before. He pulled her to him and she responded by pressing the length of her body against him, parting her lips, accepting his kiss. It was soft, tender, welcome.

  After their lips parted, they held each other for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. She considered inviting him to follow her home, but decided against it. It had been two years since she had shared her bed and she wasn’t quite ready for that step, yet.

  “I like you, Sam Cody,” Nathan said.

  “You’re not too bad yourself, Mister Klimek.”

  “So, I’m no longer a scum bag tabloid reporter?”

  “You’re still that. I guess I’m just lowering my standards.”

  He laughed. “Well, I’m raising mine. You’re far more intriguing than most women I meet.”

  “That’s sweet.” She kissed his cheek. “But, I’m not as pretty or as flashy as what you’re used to. I’m a simple person and lead a pretty simple life. At least I did.”

  “I like simple.”

  “Are you sure its not just that you’re here. In LA, you probably wouldn’t give me a second look.”

  “Sam, you would stand out anywhere.”

  She was glad the parking lot was dark so he couldn’t see the flush that invaded her cheeks. “You’re just saying that.”

  “No. It’s true. I’d bet you’ve attracted your share of men.”

  “Yeah. But, guys are easy. Just show up, preferably naked, and bring beer. And the beer is optional.”

  He laughed, then gazed upward into the night sky. “Just a minute. I’m creating an image.”

  She playfully punched him in the stomach. “It better be an image of a Budweiser bottle.”

  They laughed, kissed again, and, after making plans for dinner the next night, Sam climbed into her Jeep.

  *

  Betty McCumber jerked to wakefulness. The room was dark except for the reading light clipped to her headboard, which cast a dim halo over her. Initially confused, her senses slowly returned. She had fallen asleep reading again. The Bible lay on her chest. She blinked and pushed her glasses back into place.

  She heard a sound, the scrapping of a shoe, near her, to her right. She turned to look. In the meager light, she caught a glint from the knife blade as it plunged downward, through her open Bible, into her chest. Pain exploded through her. The bed frame and slats cracked like gunfire and collapsed under the force of the attack. The bed fell away, leaving her momentarily suspended in mid-air, before she fell, bouncing on the mattress. She opened her mouth to scream, but managed only a gurgling sound, followed by a river of blood.

  Again and again, the blade slammed into her chest and abdomen, then viciously swiped across her throat. She gasped in horror as a fountain of hot, sticky blood pulsed from her neck and cascaded over her face and chest. She clutched her Bible to her as if it might protect her from the onslaught. Her vision dimmed, her senses dulled, until the light faded and the pain receded.

  *

  While driving home, she attempted to sort through her feelings about Nathan. She was surprised that she no longer cared that his job sucked. But, in a world with Richard Earl Garrett and Reverend Billy, Nathan seemed an oasis of sanity and normalcy. What the hell, go with it, she told herself. He made her feel good, better than she had in years, and that was what she needed most right now.

  But, when she pulled into her driveway, the warm, comfortable feeling gave way to an unsettling sensation. Apprehension. Anxiety. Fear. Those, and a feeling of being watched, studied. She sat for a moment, staring at her house. Small, gray, white-shuttered, in need of painting, it felt alien. No longer hers. As if someone had displaced her as owner. As if she were the intruder.

  The sensation had first arisen that morning, but she attributed it to stress, fatigue, lack of sleep, and, of course, her dream. Even after she showered and dressed, she had felt naked and exposed. Now, those feelings were even stronger.

  Goddamn Garrett.

  Her one place of refuge, her only sanctuary from the chaos that had consumed her life, and it had been breached. Even if only in her dreams, Garrett had violated her home, her mind, and her body. His residue remained, thick and palpable. If she couldn’t hide from the world, and from Garrett, here, where could she?

  She considered backing from the drive and leaving. To where? Her office? Nathan’s motel? Exasperated with herself for manufacturing these feelings, she stepped from her Jeep.

  Yet, when she slipped her key into the front door lock, the sensations surged to new heights. She hesitated, unable to turn the key. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong. Every instinct warned her.

  Was he here? Waiting for her return? Who was it? Who would do Garrett’s bidding? Where would he be lurking?

  Her mind ran through possible hiding places. Too many. Closets, curtains, furniture, dark corners supplied more places for concealment that she could possibly cover by herself, with only her service revolver.

  She carefully twisted the key, releasing the lock with a soft click. Easing the door open with one hand, the other pulled her .357 from its holster. As the door swung open, she half expected to see the reptilian creature of her dreams leap toward her. Nothing. Only thick darkness.

  The entryway table lamp, which was on a timer and should have been on, was out. The intruder? Bulb? Fuse? She leveled her weapon, pointing it into the darkness ahead of her. She reached beneath the lamp’s shade and twisted the knob. Nothing.

  Maybe the power was out? No, the street lamp at the corner had been on when she drove by. Maybe Scooter had knocked the plug loose. It wouldn’t be the first time. She knelt, keeping her eyes and her gun aimed toward the living room, found the cord and followed it to the wall. The plug was firmly in place.

  She stood and eased forward.

  “I’m armed,” she shouted. Her voice echoed in the dark room. “I’m armed,“ she repeated.

  She sensed movement, ahead, to her right. She spun, leveling her gun, her finger caressing the trigger. Her heart revved to a gallop.

&
nbsp; The sound leaped at her from the darkness. A loud twanging that was unearthly in its tone. She squeezed off two rounds. The flash-boom blinded and deafened her, but just before her vision faded to multicolored balls of phantom light, the muzzle flash locked an image in her in her brain. The ceramic planter on top of her piano exploded and Scooter jumped from the keyboard, reproducing the twanging.

  “Damn it, Sam,” she said to herself.

  She stepped along the wall to her right and swiped her hand upwards, flipping the wall switch. The ceiling light sprang to life. Smoke and dust filled the air. A six-inch hole stared at her from the wall above the piano. Dirt and pieces of shattered ceramic coated the old Baldwin. Scooter peered around the door from the dining room, his eyes like two full moons.

  “You scared the shit out of me,” she said to the cat.

  He gave her a look that said, “You? You’re not the one that got shot at.”

  After searching each room, closet, corner, and beneath each bed, she cleaned up the mess. Then, she fed Scooter, who forgave her as soon as the food hit the bowl, showered, slipped on an oversized tee shirt, and crawled into bed. As she snuggled beneath her comforter, Scooter began his purring and bathing routine on the pillow next to her. She stroked his fur, wishing they could trade places. She also wished Nathan was there. She needed comforting.

  Why she was drawn to Nathan, she couldn’t fathom. She had always preferred the rugged, outdoor type. Blue jeans, boots, two days growth. Nathan was none of these. He was softer, quieter, well dressed, no rough edges. Maybe the time had come to expand her horizons.

  Her thoughts bounced between Nathan, Garrett, Connie Beeson, Reverend Billy, and Walter Limpke until fatigue embraced her and pulled her into a deep sleep, which felt as if she were floating on billows of inky satin.

  At first, it felt warm and velvety soft and she welcomed its comforting. Then, a cool current of air washed over her and she sensed she was not alone. Something was there with her. Something lurking in the blackness. Something vile.

  She detected a movement out of the corner of her eye. When she turned her head to look, she glimpsed a shadowy form that melted into the darkness. Where did it go? She looked first one way and then the other, searching, willing her eyes to penetrate the impenetrable. A small crimson speck, far away, faint, captured her gaze. It grew in intensity. She froze.

  Don’t move, she told herself. Inside, she trembled, but she forced herself to remain motionless, not even a quiver to her lips. Lying, seemingly supported by nothing but black gossamer, she felt completely vulnerable. She wanted to stand, to run, to hide, but knew that if it sensed her presence she would never get away. She breathed slowly, shallowly, willing her chest not to move, begging her pounding heart to be silent. The red speck bored painfully into her eyes, but she would not blink or divert her gaze for fear that even the slightest movement would attract the predator.

  Suddenly, the speck exploded, releasing clouds of red and orange and yellow and violet and every imaginable color. They tumbled and leapfrogged one another as they raced toward her. They billowed and churned, absorbing the blackness, rising high above her. She braced herself.

  The onrushing inferno slammed into her like a desert dust storm, lifting her, tossing her like Dorothy in a Kansas twister. Her skin felt as if it were on fire, blistering, bubbling. A scream arose within her, but died before it could escape.

  The clouds morphed into long ribbons, which spun around her, faster and faster, a dizzying dance. Her stomach knotted as her eyes attempted to capture one of the colors, any color, anything to anchor her. A vertiginous wave of nausea swept over her.

  As suddenly as they had appeared, the colors evaporated, leaving her in cave-like darkness once again. She found herself standing on solid ground, but the instantaneous change from brilliant light to pitch black nothingness disoriented her further. She staggered to her left, nearly falling, but with great effort maintained her balance.

  She stood knee deep in some icy liquid that chilled her to the core. She shivered with such force her teeth clattered, echoing in her head. Then, she heard voices. Soft, far away. Murmuring, then laughing, then crying, finally screaming. Screams that could only arise from pain and a deep visceral fear.

  She turned, one way, then the other, trying to locate their origin. They seemed to come from everywhere.

  "Help us. Please help us," the voices begged.

  Her heart stopped, a wave of dizziness swept over her. The children. The voices were from the children. "Oh, God," she cried. "Where are you?" She staggered forward, dragging her feet through the thick, cold liquid. "I can't see you."

  "It hurts. Make him stop. Please, help us," the voices cried.

  Tears burned her cheeks as if they were acid. She rushed forward, arms sweeping through the black ether before her, finding nothing solid to grasp. The voices fell away and faded, leaving behind a painful silence.

  Then, she felt it. Scaly, slimy, brushing her leg, moving away through the inky liquid.

  Panic swelled within her like never before, squeezing her chest and throat in its vice-like grip. This is not the time for stealth, she told herself. She ran, or at least tried to, willing, begging her legs to move. She forced her feet forward through the now thigh-deep liquid. Where did the fluid come from? What was it? It seemed alive, clutching at her, refusing to let her flee. Her panic rose further as the oily liquid thickened second by second. She must keep moving or surely it would gel completely, locking her in its grip.

  With a surge like an ocean swell, the sticky fluid rose to her waist, her chest, dragging her downward. She struggled to remain upright, but its weight collapsed her knees. She fell, twisting, turning, and sank into its depths, swallowed completely. The licorice gelatin pressed down on her like a black smith’s anvil. Her heart pounded as if attempting to propel her forward to safety. Her lungs searched for air where there was none.

  A dark shadow, even blacker than the inky gel that bound her, slid by above her. It turned in a tight circle like a vulture eying carrion. With each pass, the shadow grew larger, more threatening.

  Then, with an ear splitting screech, the beast exploded through the liquid surface above her and descended, clutching her with its hook-like claws. Its face hovered just above hers. Eyes, which could have come from nowhere but Hell, emitted flashes of red light. Stained, conical teeth filled its gaping mouth. Its breath spewed out in purple vortices, carrying with it the stench of death and putrid flesh.

  Sam recognized the beast immediately. Snakeman. Exactly like her earlier dream. Exactly as the children had depicted him. Again, a scream arose but stuck in her throat like wet sand.

  The creature spoke. “Hello, Samantha.” The words tumbled out in a purple mist.

  She heard her own voice. It sounded far away, hollow. “Who are you?”

  “Don’t you know, Samantha?”

  The voice was Garrett’s. No mistake. She pushed against him, but his claws dug into her back, locking her in his embrace. “What do you want?”

  “You.”

  “Why?”

  “I need you.” The purple vapors that rolled out with each word snaked around her head.

  “No,” she screamed and this time it emerged, slicing through the black ether like a razor.

  The Garrett/Snakeman’s teeth raked across her chest and neck and its jowls closed over her face. She felt smothered as its putrid breath flowed into her nostrils, her lungs. She tried to jerk away, but could not escape his grip. A thick, rapacious tongue slathered her face, her lips, before forcing its way between, violating her. She clamped her teeth together, but could not prevent its insistent probing.

  Scaly hind legs insinuated themselves between her thighs. She struggled to escape its domination, but could not. The thick, coarse legs were too powerful and forced hers further apart. She felt its forked penis lap against her, searching, finding. She attempted to scream, but the massive tongue choked her cry.

  The probing penis slipped between her
outer lips, sending electric shocks through her. On it pressed as wave after wave of electricity coursed through her. She arched her back, rolled her hips, attempting to escape, but the beast matched her movements, driving into her.

  She found herself powerless to move, to resist. A warmth arose deep within her belly. She fought against the sensation, but the more she willed herself to ignore it, to defy it, the stronger it became. Liquid heat flowed through and around her as a cataclysmic series of orgasms shook her.

  Then, the tongue recoiled from her so suddenly that it sucked what air remained in her lungs in its wake. The beast threw back its head and laughed, a deep guttural bellowing that ended in a low hiss. Its eyes flashed and shards of ruby light exploded from them. Its face dissolved into a swirl of color that expanded, contracted, protruded like a psychedelic amoeba. The hues melted, dripped, enfolded on themselves, then snapped into crystalline clarity. The face of Richard Earl Garrett appeared before her.

  "You are the one, Samantha," he said.

  She tried to push him away, her palms flattened against his scaly chest.

  “Come to me, Samantha,” he whispered.

  “No,” she screamed. “Never.”

  He smiled. “But, you will.”

  Then, the beast released her, faded away, and once again she plunged into deep velvety darkness. She glimpsed a mote of light, shimmering above her. Somehow she sensed it represented salvation. She twisted and kicked toward it, clawing at the liquid, pulling herself upward. The silvery light rippled and grew in intensity as she drew near.

  Sam swam out of the dream and broke into consciousness, dripping with sweat, terror squeezing her hammering heart. Chilled to her soul, she retrieved the comforter from the floor and pulled it over her. Before curling beneath its welcoming softness, she looked down, expecting to see blood. There was none. She settled beneath the covers, shivering, searching for warmth.

  Chapter 31

  When Charlie Walker pulled to the curb in front of Betty McCumber’s house, his watch read 6:30 am. Ted Blankenship sat on the front steps, crying, holding his basketball letter-jacket tightly around him. A sixteen year old sophomore, he was a rising star on the high school basketball team and the neighborhood paperboy. His bicycle lay on the sidewalk next to a canvas bag stuffed with rolled newspapers. The first light of morning tinted the Eastern horizon a soft orange.