"You two, run. Get outside the front gate and wait for me."
"But-" Mark said.
''Do it. If you have to run farther, stay on the road. Whatever you do, stay on it, all the way to Apple Hill." As he spoke the words, his heart thundered. He'd said almost the same thing to his little brother exactly twenty-four years ago.
The kids ran, and John turned his attention back to Sara. Dashwood was entering the chapel, dragging Sara along with him. John ran after him.
He stopped short on the threshold, staring in shock at the spectacle before him. It was almost identical to the dream he'd had the other night. Only the first four pews on each side were filled, and Dashwood was passing them, still holding onto Sara. He rounded the altar and John saw the white-clad figures laid out across it. Glitter-eyed gargoyles lined the edges of the chapel.
The air was thick and cold, and when Dashwood opened his mouth and began speaking something that sounded vaguely like Latin, it became thicker and so cold that it hurt John's lungs.
Dashwood, his knife still at Sara's throat, stepped back from the altar. He came to a halt before the red drapes flanking the reversed crucifix, still reciting the foreign words. The women in the pews began to chant in counterpoint to Dashwood, and above the black altar, the air began to vibrate, like heat waves over desert sand. A sound like roaring wind filled John's ears and the swirling air above the altar, above the human sacrifices, began to darken.
Dashwood's voice rose, and red sparks appeared within the swirling blackness. Suddenly, a nightflyer shrieked, and John looked toward the sound, saw first one, then another gargoyle stretch its wings. More shrieks followed.
Dashwood yelled and jumped forward, and Sara spun away from him, dropping to the floor, then getting to her knees, ready to run. Dashwood barely glanced at her, but turned and yanked the drape.
Minerva and Paul stood there. Minerva moved instantly, the hunting knife in her hand pointed at Dashwood. Paul went straight to the altar, a bible in one hand, holy water in the other. He began chanting in recognizable Latin, and as he did, he shook the vial of water and threw it at the boiling black mass.
A sound louder than a thousand screams nearly burst John's eardrums. He ran up the aisle. Seeing him, Minerva turned from Dashwood and joined Paul at the altar, beginning her own arcane work.
The robed figures in the pews were in confusion without their leaders. Ignoring them, John ran at Dashwood, and the man surprised him by kicking the gun out of his hand. It spun across the floor and Sara grabbed it.
Dashwood punched John in the chest, knocking the air out of him. He dropped to his hands and knees, and before he could get to his feet, Dashwood struck again, delivering a kick to his ribs.
Concentrate! Doggedly, John got to his feet and swung at Dashwood. He missed the first time, but the second swing connected squarely with the doctor's jaw and knocked him backward.
He didn't go down, but came back swinging. John blocked a punch, then connected his fist with Dashwood's abdomen. Air whooshed out of him and Dashwood glared, his eyes fiery pits.
John kept eye contact as they feinted, but he could hear chaos behind him, could feel the chill in his lungs. Dashwood leapt at him, knocked him down. John kneed him in the stomach and they rolled off the chancel. He heard screaming from the pews as they rolled to a stop at the feet of the worshipers.
Dashwood's knee slammed into his groin, and John doubled up on the floor, vaguely aware that the doctor was on his feet Groaning, he got up and ran after him, not stopping when Sara called his name.
Dashwood ran into an anteroom and John followed, his eyes watering and his stomach roiling from the pain in his groin. The doctor was gone, but a door to the outside hung open. John stopped on the threshold for a split second, panting, aware that the air wasn't as cold now, his ears weren't under pressure, and the nightflyers' screeches had died down. Whatever Paul and Minerva were doing was working.
He set off after Dashwood. He could barely see the man in the dark as he fled through the hedges and across the road into the forest.
Dashwood was fast, but John kept up, chasing his dark silhouette between the trees more by sound than by sight. They ran on and on, splashing across the creek, running until the roar of Witch Falls drowned out the sound of Dashwood's footsteps.
Moonlight shot through the thinning trees as they approached the Falls, and John, holding his ribs where Dashwood had kicked him, was able to spot the doctor as be moved up an incline and ran onto the old wooden bridge spanning the top of the Falls.
With a new burst of energy, John made the bridge. "Dashwood!" he yelled. "This gets settled now!"
Dashwood, halfway across the bridge, turned to look at him. "You can't win, Lawson. You're no match for me."
John stalked toward him, wishing he had his gun.
"You Lawsons are easy. Your ancestors were easy. Your father was simple. He came nosing around, and we set him up and blew his brains out. Your grandfather was even easier."
''Go to hell," John spat. He was only a yard from Dashwood now. "You're out of tricks, Doctor. Now it's just you and me, one on one. No magic, no gargoyles, nothing."
Dashwood cocked his head, studied him, then laughed. "Whatever you say."
Dashwood threw himself at him, exactly as John had hoped. He sidestepped neatly, then whirled, throwing his arm around Dashwood's neck from behind, pulling him backward, trying to strangle him.
Dashwood gasped, then kicked John's shin and broke away. John blocked the first punch, took the second on the shoulder, then hit the doctor with an uppercut to the jaw. Dashwood staggered back against the bridge's wooden handrail, and John plowed into him, his hands wrapping around the man's neck.
Suddenly, the bridge creaked and groaned; then they were falling and falling into the water. It seemed to take forever before they hit, and John, on top of Dashwood, felt the shock as the doctor crashed into the sharp rocks at the bottom of the Falls. They bounced and hit another rock, and despite the thunder of the water, John heard Dashwood's spine snap, felt the body bend unnaturally beneath him.
They'd come to a stop, teetering on a rock at the base of the Falls. John squinted through the spray and the dark, saw Dashwood's eyes were open and blank. Blood oozed from his mouth. "Go to hell," he said, and rolled himself off the body and into the deep water. He paddled slowly away from the rocks into the old swimming area, his memories of his last swim here, when he'd dragged his brother's body from the water, dominating his thoughts.
Barely aware of the icy water, he swam by memory to the steep trail that led up to the Mezzanine. He crawled slowly toward the top, his mind reeling. It was over at last, and Mark was alive, Sara, too. As he made the ridge and dragged his body onto the flat ground. he realized he was already lapsing into disbelief, already rationalizing everything that had happened, the way he would on his police report.
"John?"
Sara's voice, far away. "I'm here," he called. Sara, he thought, Sara. She brought new concerns, new feelings, new problems. And he looked forward to them all.
"John?"
He looked up, saw her silhouette on the bridge. "Down here," he called. "Get off the bridge. It's broken."
She screamed. He staggered to his feet, shouting her name. Then he heard the ungodly shriek of a nightflyer.
He looked at the Falls and saw a huge black form rise above the cliff. Batwings, a tail, red eyes. It hovered for an instant, then flew at him, and he remembered how Lucy had transformed when she died. The thing flew at him and he curled into a ball and rolled, hiding his face and stomach. He had no way to fight it.
Talons ripped into his back and teeth tore at his shoulder. After all this, I'm going to die. It was almost funny.
A shot rang out and be felt the wind of a bullet pass near his face. The gargoyle shrieked in his ear, then he heard another shot, and this time the creature screamed, deafening him. Its claws ripped from his flesh as it thrashed away. John rolled and got to his feet. "Sara?" he called.
''John!"
She was no longer on the bridge, but running across the meadow. "John, are you all right?" she asked, throwing herself into his arms.
"I'm fine," he said, trying not to flinch as the gun, still in her hand, hit his shoulder.
"You're hurt." She pulled away.
"Not much," he said. She held out the gun and he stuck it in his waistband again, knowing that putting it in its shoulder holster would hurt like hell. ''How about you?"
"I'm fine," she said. "Thanks to you."
"What happened back there? In the chapel."
"I don't know, really, except that black ball of whatever- it was started to take human form. Then it turned back into a ball and began to fade. It wasn't as cold. Did you notice?"
"I did. Minerva and Paul?"
"John, I followed you out of there, but they seemed to have things under control."
He put his arm around her waist and they stepped back so that the moonlight hit the fallen nightflyer. Its chest had been blown out, and it was hard to see in the dim light, but the blood appeared to have turned black and solidified. The open eyes were no longer red. John toed the body and was surprised to meet solid resistance. He bent and touched it: it was cold and felt like stone.
Taking the gun from his waistband, he backed up, Sara with him. At a safe distance, he aimed and fired; then they approached and saw rock shards where the head had been.
Sara took his hand and squeezed. "So I guess we should go back and shoot all the gargoyles at St. Gruesome's."
''That's probably a good idea."
"Let's go. I left Mark and Kelly waiting at the gate." He hesitated, then faced her and took her other hand. "Sara," he said before he lost his nerve, ''I love you."
''I love you," she said softly, turning her face up toward his.
They brushed their lips together. It was barely a kiss, but it was wonderful just the same.
EPILOGUE
Halloween
"Here he comes," Mark said as a spotlight blinked on deep in the Parker orchard.
"Who's coming?" Sara asked.
''The Headless Horseman," the boy replied. turning to watch the orchard.
Sara jumped as a horse's frenzied whinny shrieked through the loudspeakers, and John put his arm around her, pulling her close as hoofbeats sounded. ''It's just like it was when I was a kid." he told her as the Horseman began his journey toward the crowd gathered outside the cider mill.
She glanced up at him. ''Beats the hell out of last Halloween, doesn't it?"
John smiled. "Sure does."
St Gertrude's was empty now, except perhaps, for a few ghosts. The nuns had vanished by the time he and Sara had returned from Witch Falls, leaving behind a cluster of furious and indignant followers. Paul Pricket had insisted that the girls- both the cultists and the vast majority, who had slept through the night unaware of the events thanks to the tranquilizers in the hot chocolate- should be taken in by Catholic orphanages. They had, he explained, already been under the influence of the Church's "enemies" and needed to experience the "other side." John had agreed and by the middle of the following day, buses had taken all the girls away to start their new lives.
To put it mildly, John had ignored the letter of the law in the matter, but he never regretted his decision. Though he wasn't pleased by the way the Church had covered things up, he knew it was best for the girls, so as sheriff of Moonfall County, he'd done a little sweeping under the rug himself.
He had also been cavalier about legalities in the case of Kelly Reed. She had lived with Minerva for a year now, going to school at Moonfall High- she was in one of Sara's history classes and working at the Gingerbread House. She'd transformed from ugly duckling to swan over the last few months, and Minerva, whatever her age really was, seemed younger and more invigorated under Kelly's influence.
A year ago, John felt he was a prisoner set free, and tonight, watching the horse and its headless rider gallop closer, he felt exactly the same way. His entire adult life had been plagued by fear and guilt until last year, when his memories had returned.
The afternoon of All Soul's Day, he, along with Paul Pricket, Frank Cutter and Caspar Parker, had returned to the deserted abbey and blasted every last gargoyle to Kingdom Come. Most merely shattered. but a few were nightflyers, and their bloodcurdling screeches rent the air before their bodies crumbled.
Now, the Horseman, on his mount, rode to the center of the clearing. The horse reared and whinnied. just as it had twenty five years ago, and with fond sadness, he remembered his brother's excitement.
Mark, eight inches taller than last year, his voice cracking into adulthood. glanced back at him and grinned. ''Cool, huh?" He smiled at Sara. "Next year, we'll bring the squirt. That'll be great."
Sara nodded, unconsciously touching her expanding stomach, her eyes on the Horseman as he charged away into the night. John squeezed her closer as a chill breeze ruffled their hair. "Tired?" he asked, wondering if he'd ever told Mark he'd called his own younger brother "squirt." He decided not to ask.
"Not tired." Sara murmured. "Just thinking. Next Halloween, we'll have another son." She smiled up at him. ''And he'll be safe. And Mark will be safe. And you." Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him.
"Yeah." John barely heard Caspar's traditional good night, liberally laced with warnings about hitchhiking spirits. Last year he'd lost Gus, but he would be the last. Sara was right; Mark and the unborn baby she carried would be free of the curse. "Let's go home," he said, resolving never to take his new life for granted.
The trio walked out to the parking lot, and John opened the pick-up's door for Sara, who awkwardly slid in. Mark squeezed in beside her and John went to the driver's door, but didn't open it. He stared up at the moon, smelled burnt pumpkin and wood smoke and smiled to himself, enjoying the night, musing over the fact that he needed to trade in his pick -up for something roomier. A minivan, maybe.
A shadow passed in front of the moon, and in the distance, something shrieked. Only a hawk, he told himself as he opened the door and slid in. Only a hawk.
Tamara Thorne has collected ghost stories, true and fictional, since she saw her first Twilight Zone as a tot, and continues to this day. In addition to writing novels and stories of the paranormal, she also writes non-fiction and is an active ghost hunter. She makes her home in southern California with her husband and their feline family and when she’s not writing, can be found haunting ghost towns, phantom-filled hotel rooms, and other spooky places. Tamara loves to hear from her readers. Whether you have questions or comments or would like to share your own ghostly experience,
TamaraThorne.com
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