“I don’t think so,” Phillip said, his voice shaking and wet with subdued cries. “I hit him pretty hard, though.”
“I owe you for this, Phil. You saved my life. I owe you, big time.” Henry’s head slipped back onto the carpet as the darkness that was dancing around the corners of his sight converged into light-dispelling darkness. Before he slipped completely into unconsciousness, he used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe his father’s drool off his face.
CHAPTER TWO
There really isn't anyone else who knows my story. It's not that I hadn't the opportunity to tell my tale, it's just I don't think anyone would believe me. Heck, I'm not even sure I believe it all. Plus, I have a feeling if I did tell anyone (or if I ever do tell anyone if I manage to find my way out of the situation you've found me in) that I would be putting them in a very dangerous situation. The last thing I want, or wanted, is to cause anyone harm.
Before we go any further, I should tell you my name. Trevor MacCreary, but people used to call me either Trevor Mac or just Mac. A few people call me Trevor but being called that makes me think my mom is talking to me. You probably never heard of me and, even if it was possible for you to see me, you wouldn’t recognize me. I wasn’t famous for anything though you probably don’t want to mention my name around here, just to be on the safe side. See, I had what you might call a gift and my gift made me very unpopular with some.
There were plenty of good things about my gift and plenty of things which fall deep into the “sucks” column of the balance sheet. But all in all, I’m not going to complain. I think I could have done a lot of good for people which, I had hoped, would have earn me favors when my time was up. The potential of doing good for others was one of the things I’d list on the “doesn’t suck” side of the balance sheet. Probably at or damn near the top. Another good thing about the gift was the potential for me to have made the world a much, much better place. I'm thinking I won’t ever get to test that potential out, though. Not considering where I am now.
I can’t say I liked doing it or that I’m happy about sending them back. It’s just what I was made to do. My gift is my curse, I suppose. When they know they’re beaten, the look in their eyes is pretty horrible. Scared about going back. Terrified, actually.
Anyway, I figure since I’m in the position I’m in, it’s time I let you know about me, what I do, how I do it and where I went wrong and ended up here. Like I said, I haven’t told my story before so I haven’t worked out a simple way to tell it. But I think if I start at the beginning and go from there, you’ll get a good idea of who I am, where I messed up, and how I ended up here with you.
I wasn’t always a sender. I used to be a normal guy trying to make my way through the world. I had my share of good times and bad but, up until I figured out what I was, I have to say I had more good than bad times. It was just a few weeks ago, shortly after I hit my mid-twenties when it all started. I was coming back from a bar in Syracuse, New York where I had just finished playing three or four songs at the bar’s open mic night. I was just cutting my teeth in the “gig playing” world so playing at that bar was a big deal for me. The name of the bar was “Shorty’s.” No matter what happens to me, I know I’ll never forget the name of the place.
One thing I’’ll always remember about the bar is how diverse the crowd was. You’d walk into the place and see doctors, lawyers, politicians, bikers, college kids and the obligatory teenagers who had convincing enough fake ID’s to get past the bouncer. You pick a class of people and sure enough, you’d find them belly to bar in Shorty’s.
Anyway like I said, I played a few songs which may not seem like a big deal since it was open mic night, but I was asked by the owner to keep playing after I played my first song. That didn’t happen too often, as most of the people who play open mic nights aren’t very good at singing, playing guitar or both. I’m not saying I was great at either, but I was good enough to be asked to keep playing. And believe me when I tell you, that was saying something.
Now that I think about it, the last song I played was one I wrote myself. “Roses and Stones” was the name of the song and, without coming off as cocky, it was a pretty damn good song.
Roses and Stones, remind me of you when I am gone.
Roses and Stones, are all I have now that you’re gone.
The problem is when you’re playing an open mic, you really are expected to play songs people know. Something from the Stones, The Who, Van Morrison or, if you’re brave enough, a sorrowful tune from James Taylor. No one in the crowd knew my song so I don’t think the owner was all that pleased I played it. Didn’t matter to me since I was only planning on getting to play one song, the ones that came after were gravy. Grab the brass ring when you can, my dad used to say!
I remember driving home from Syracuse after staying for the rest of the singers to finish. I lived in a very small town to the east of Syracuse, about forty-five minutes away. To say it was cold out that night would be a huge understatement. Had to be twelve below when I started home. I didn’t care, though. I was feeling pretty darn good about my performance, being asked to play more than anyone else and about my chances of getting a paid gig sometime soon. The cold sucked, don’t get me wrong, but it was more a part of the background than it would have been on any other day.
So, by the time I got to driving home, it was past two in the morning. I was a little short on cash so I took the back roads to avoid the tolls on the New York State Thruway. Damn thruway. It was built back in the 1960s or 70’s and the tolls were supposed to last only as long as did the debt the state took out to build the roads. Instead of the tolls going away, the Thruway Authority just kept bumping them up every year or so. I think the tolls would have run me only ninety-five cents but, like I said, I was short on cash.
Real short.
The back roads were okay on most nights: Less traffic and less cops. I may have had a couple of beers so avoiding cops was a bonus on top of saving a buck.
I remember I was cruising around eighty when I saw him standing right in the middle of the road about a hundred yards in front of me. He was standing off to the side of a pick up truck on the side of the road. Hood up, steam pouring from the engine. Instead of standing right next to his broken down Dodge and just waving to me, he walked right out in the middle of the damn road. There were two possible outcomes: Either I was going to run my Astro van right over him or I was going to be forced to swerve off the road and into whatever was waiting for me off the side of the road. I didn’t like either of those options so, as quick as I could, I slammed my foot on the break pedal, gripped the steering wheel like I’ve never gripped anything before and waited to see what would happen.
I was scared half out of my mind, but he just stood in the middle of the road, waving his hand really slow and smiling. Son of a bitch just stood in the middle of the road, smiling and waving at me.
It turned out I didn’t hit him and didn’t have to go off-roading. Astro van came to a stop about six inches from his knees. Swear to God he knew I wasn’t gonna hit him, can’t say that for sure but it was just the way he was standing there without a care in the world. Kind of freaked me out but not enough for me to get my ass away from him. He walked over to the passenger’s door, opened it up and stuck his head in and started talking like he was expecting me.
“Wasn’t sure you’d make the stop. Would have been a horrible pop.”
I was pretty pissed and more than a little bit still in shock. “You having some car problems?” I asked, partly because my dad always told me telling someone he’s a fucking moron wasn’t being a good Christian and partly because he scared the crap out of me.
“Old Dodge has seen some better days,” he said as he sat down beside me. I’m not the complaining type but the one thing I hated about my Astro was the driver’s and passenger’s seat were too damn close. Wasn’t bad when the passenger’s seat was taken by a girl, but that didn’t happen all that often. Which meant either the seat was empty or had a du
de sitting in it. And this dude was now about eight inches from my face.
“Guess it’s time to send her on her way.”
“I can drive you up to the Thruway rest stop. There’s a service station there and an access road that connects with this road. Not sure if I can drive up that road but worst case you’d only have to walk a hundred yards or so up to the station.”
“Sure is mighty nice of you,” he said.
I lit up a clove cigarette and extended the pack to my passenger. “No thanks,” he said with an exaggerated wave of his hand. “Lungs aren’t all that good anymore. Breathing in too much shit over the years hasn’t done me no favors.”
The service station was about twenty miles down the road from where I almost made road kill out of him. Turned out to be the longest twenty miles of my life.
The first few miles weren’t all bad. He started talking about his life and his work. Didn’t mention any family or a wife but he did talk about his business quite a bit. I’ve never confirmed his story, but based on what he was telling me, I got the idea he did pretty well for himself.
He went on for a while, telling me stories about some of his jobs, a few of his failures and a couple tales about some people who used to work for him. To tell you the truth, the stories he told weren’t all that interesting. Actually, they were pretty boring. The fact that his stories sucked made the realization that my non-driving foot—that would be my left foot—was tapping along with his words, pretty disturbing. It was like he was speaking in rhythm, and I, being a musician, must have unconsciously picked up on it. I started listening after I noticed my foot tapping and noticed the old man was rhyming all his sentences. This is when it hit me. He was babbling on, never losing rhythm and never missing a rhyming chance, and all I could think of was something my grandmother used to tell me.
“The devil speaks in rhythm and rhyme, always in time, while he’s planning a crime.”
I remember pointing out to my grandmother she was saying that phrase in rhythm and in rhyme and that I was wondering if I should start thinking she was the devil. She wasn’t impressed with me picking up on that little gem.
“You always need to be on guard,” she told me. “You’re special, Trevor and someday, you’ll know just how special you are.”
There I was, foot tapping along in perfect time, and he was just rambling on. I must have gotten that “scared as shit” look on my face and he must have noticed because he stopped talking and just stared at me. Big old fake teeth showing through his dry and cracked lips. I tried to ignore him but ignoring someone staring at you from eight inches away ain’t all that easy.
I was glad my foot stopped tapping but would have traded the tapping for him not staring and smiling at me.
“Something bothering you?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the road and adding a bit more pressure to the gas pedal. I wanted this strange son of a bitch out of my van as soon as possible and was willing to risk dying in a crash to speed up his exit.
“You figuring things out, Trevor?”
He did most of the talking since he sat his saggy ass down in my Astro and I was pretty damn certain I never told him my name.
“How’d you know my name?” I asked, really hoping he’d tell me I had told him (which I was pretty sure I hadn’t) or he read it on some piece of paper that was stuck in the cup holder.
“Come on, Trevor,” he said, moving his face even closer to mine. “You think I don’t know about you, what you do and who you do it to? Trevor, Trevor, Trevor. You and I have some agreements to iron out.”
He kept moving closer to me. By the time his last “Trevor” came out, I could feel his hot breath against my cheek. I know this is going to sound made up, but though I couldn’t smell his breath, it felt like what you’d expect the stink from a rotting dog would feel like against your skin: Hot, acidic and foul.
I don’t mind telling you, I was pretty nervous. Not sure why my grandmother’s words came slamming back to my mind but, there they were. I said, “Why don’t I just pull over here and let you out. I don’t think I’m comfortable driving you anymore.”
“You think you can get rid of me that easy? Wait a minute. You don’t know, do you?”
“Don’t know what?” I fired back. I was getting pissed at him and stopped caring about being a nice Christian. I wanted the fucker out and was going to find a way, no matter what it took.
“Why, you little cocksucker,” he said. “That explains a whole hell of a lot. You don’t know yet.”
I hit the brakes hard, sending his face slamming against the power dial of the radio. His head hit pretty hard, hard enough to knock his hat off his head along with his toupee. I wasn’t worried I might have killed him but knew a knock to the head like the one I just caused him could cause some serious damage. I’m not a violent guy, at least I wasn’t back then, so by the time I got control of the car and pulled it over to the side of the road, I wasn’t as scared as I was nervous about his head being busted up.
“Hey look,” I said after the Astro van was in park, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I think we’d both be better off if you just get out here. I’ll call a tow for you so you won’t have to stay outside in the cold too long.”
He got back to smiling, but, this time, he wasn’t smiling at me. He held that twisted smile as he reached up on the dashboard, grabbed his toupee and hat, placed them back where they belonged, then opened the door.
“You aren’t worth the risk, Trevor. Not yet, anyway. You ain’t the only one in this world you know, so don’t go thinking you’re special. You’ll figure it out soon enough, unless I can figure it out first. But like I said, we have some arrangements to work out, so I’ll be paying you a visit sometime soon.”
He got out without saying another word. He just shut the door and started walking back towards his broken down truck. I watched him from the sideview mirror but he disappeared into the darkness after only a few seconds. I put the van into drive, put my blinker on and headed back towards home.
I will admit to being very shaken from the whole encounter. I believe I drove for fifteen minutes before pulling over and walking around outside, partially to clear my head, but mainly so the frigid air would stop the burning sensation on the side of my face where his dragon breath had been cooking my skin.
After I gathered my wits, I got back in the warm van and finished the drive to my apartment. I finally got home, then sat in the van for maybe fifteen minutes trying to calm down. When I opened the door and the dome light came on, I noticed it. I saw it on the passenger’s seat. His seat.
CHAPTER THREE
It wasn’t anything I hadn’t seen a thousand times before. In fact, when I was younger, I used to have a collection of about five hundred of them. It was a pale colored feather, about five inches long and looked like it was recently plucked from whatever kind of bird flies around with five inch, pale colored feathers. Still, seeing the feather sitting on the passenger’s seat gave me a real bad feeling. Not about feathers but about where it came from and what it could have meant.
I started thinking the old man was weird enough that maybe he carried feathers around in his back pocket and this one just happened to fall out when his face was being slammed against my dashboard. Since I was pretty damn certain he hadn’t farted it out, I settled on believing the feather was an accidental drop off.
Turns out I was very, very wrong, but I’ll get to that later on. What’s important for you to understand is seeing that feather stressed my already over-stressed nerves. I kept asking myself what the old man meant by me not figuring something out yet and what the hell “arrangements” did he think we had to make? After sitting in my van for those twenty minutes, I noticed my body was shaking from the cold. Weird how you don’t notice things you normally would when your mind is trekking down paths it isn’t used to treading.
I live alone so I wasn’t concerned about waking up anyone as I trudged up my apartment staircase, banging the narrow walls with my guitar case and, I gu
ess, intentionally making more noise than I normally would have. I knew I dropped the old man off a bunch of very cold miles ago and there was no way he would have been able to get into my apartment before me. But, I was sitting in my driveway for quite a while and, hell, who knows what that creep was capable of.
Turns out, the only thing my extra noise making did was to wake up my cat, Al. He met me at the door and was quick to display his dissatisfaction over being awoken so late. Al didn’t scratch me but did what cats do when they’re pissed off: He turned his tail and walked back into the bedroom.
Cats are like that, I guess. They care about their owners just enough to come out to see them but don’t feel compelled to get all goofy, start jumping up and down and demand they stick their tongue up your nose like a dog.
I put my guitar in the guest room I converted to a small recording studio, made a quick pass through the kitchen, living room and bathroom just to make sure it was just me and Al in the apartment, then headed into my bedroom. And that’s when I almost pooped in my pants.
Al was all curled up on his pillow (continuing his decision to ignore me) and next to him, on the other pillow, was the feather. The same damn feather I knew I left sitting in my van was now sitting all pretty as a picture on my pillow. I quickly turned around, ran down the stairs and out to my van. I didn’t bring the car keys but the sodium arc streetlamp across the road gave me just enough light to verify my suspicions: The feather was gone from the passenger’s seat and I was absolutely certain that I left the damn thing where I found it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Phillip lay flat on his back. The rocky ground beneath offered no comfort, warmth or even the promise of steady support. The ground beneath him was simply there because it had no other place to be. As he lay, too terrified to move or to reveal his return to consciousness, Phillip Holstein could feel only two emotions: Fear and hatred. His fear was targeted at whomever or whatever had left him in the pile of mangled pain he was in and his hatred was desperately seeking a target. A place to call home.
The Demon Senders Page 2
