by Rain Oxford
The old man sat by the fire with his pipe in his hand, looking at Ann. “I’m glad you came by with your friends, girl. Frankly, I’ve been rather worried about you.”
“You’ve been worried about me? With everything going on around here, and you being all alone, you worry about me.” Ann shook her head, smiling.
Wittakin’s eyebrows shot up with interest and he straightened up in his chair. “Going on? You mean there have been further happenings since you were here last?”
“Some. Nobody knows who’s doing it yet, but Derek and Mike found bodies out at the Jarman’s place. There’s been some more people come up missing, and old lady Sims may have seen something. She had a nervous breakdown or something, and…”
Ann looked around, confused. “Derek, why don’t you tell him about it? You’ve been working with Mike, so you’d know more than the rest of us.”
Wittakin nodded. “I agree with Ann. You probably are more informed than the rest of us, and I would like to hear anything you have to say.”
Derek grimaced and shrugged. “Mike will probably flatten me, but I think it should be talked about. Who knows, we might be able to come up with something that’ll help.” He began slowly, starting from the moment he had found the young boy’s body. Ann made a little shocked sound when he told of the creature that damaged Mike’s hood, and Parker vented a halfhearted snort of disbelief. Wittakin frowned thoughtfully.
He went on, telling them what Mike had told him and how he and Mike had gone from house to house and building to building looking for anything they could find. He ended with the exploration of the Jarman house, of finding the occult paraphernalia in the room above, and of finding the cellar where the bodies had been hidden. He told about the strange feelings he had had, but didn’t mention the hallucination.
By the time he had finished, the fire had reduced itself to coals, and Parker replenished it from the woodbox. No one said anything for a few minutes. Wittakin stared into the fire and fondled the bowl of his pipe.
“It seems simple enough,” Wittakin said, leaning back in his chair. “If you’re willing to accept it.”
Derek didn’t have to ask, but he did anyway. The idea was crazy and insane, but so was the situation. “The supernatural?”
Wittakin smiled at Derek’s tone. “I’m an old man, and I’ve lived long enough to see a lot of strange things. Many of them were difficult to accept, but they were true nevertheless.”
“Surly not this difficult, though,” Ann said.
“Perhaps, but you must examine the evidence. If you will recall the words of the legendary Englishman; ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably, must be the truth.’ Much is obvious, but…”
“My guess is that Mike believed that there’s someone insane behind all of this,” Derek said. Parker nodded agreement. “I don’t think he thinks there’s much connection between that thing we saw and those people being killed. At least he didn’t seem to.”
“Our sheriff is an agnostic man, so I doubt if he would be willing to accept anything removed from daily experience. Unless, of course, there were no alternative. That attitude makes for an excellent police officer, but is lacking in imagination.”
“So what do you think it might be?” Ann asked.
Wittakin sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t know, child. The sheriff may be right and we have an insane killer on our hands, or even some animal using the basement of that old house for its den. Or… an even worse nightmare. Look at the obvious. The boy is found dead, cause unknown. He is taken to the doctor’s. The doctor dies from some form of violent physical attack, and the boy’s body is missing. During this time the Jarmans, probably Richard, is dealing with the occult for reasons unknown, and they also join the ranks of the missing. Which seems to be growing quite quickly.
“Some time later, Derek and Mike inadvertently run into something quite unusual and frightening, which, by the way, is probably the same thing seen by Mrs. Sims. There may be a killer out there, but I feel that any theory we come up with is going to have to include this creature that was seen.”
“You mean it might be something like a vampire or werewolf?” Ann shuddered. “Could something like that really exist?”
“Those are legendary creatures, but there are some responsible people who believe those legends are based on fact, in one form or another. Cannibalism is the reoccurring theme in most cases. We think of ghouls as being grave robbers, but in Asia as well as many other places in the world legend, it is believed that living flesh is preferred. Celtic legends are filled with giants and demons that eat humans, and in Cornwall, England, they even told about a large group of them living in a castle. They took humans, including women and children, there to feast on them. What we have could very well be something like that.
“But where could something like that come from? Unless this creature is the only one of its kind in years, people would know about them. How could they exist without being found?”
“People die all of the time all over the world. A lot of those people disappear without anyone even knowing it, and many disappearances are never explained. Think about it. The world is big, and if these creatures were careful, no one who saw them would live to tell about them. And those who did wouldn’t be believed.”
“Okay, but where could it have come from?”
“Evocation of demons by rituals is an old pastime, though I doubt if many ever worked. But, there are some that probably did. Just suppose, for a moment, that some demons or life forces, call them what you will, were caught in some type of between state. Add the right circumstances, mix in some fanatical would-be wizard, and presto. They find a gateway to this side. Then if they wanted to, they could hijack the nearest human body and do with it what they wished. Who’s to stop them?”
“Possession,” Derek said, nodding. “But in aces. It would be rough work for an exorcist.”
“I think so, seeing that the original inhabitance of the bodies would have been destroyed. They would probably laugh at a crucifix. But even that isn’t the worst.”
“What could be worse?”
“The possibility that they could switch bodies at will. In other words, if you were attacked, they could kill you and take over your body.”
“That would make them just about impossible to get rid of, wouldn’t it? If you got close enough to do anything…”
“I’m afraid so. Even if you could, what would you do? It would probably take something from the occult to fight them. None of us are qualified in that respect, I’m afraid.”
Parker shook his head, sighing. “Aren’t you getting a little carried away with all this? You’re acting like a bunch of kids around a campfire, talking about monsters and ghosts and walking dead men. The whole idea is just crazy, and you sit here talking like it’s gospel. You don’t have any proof about anything of the sort.”
“Parker, you’re getting old and stubborn,” Wittakin said sadly. “Ann, would you bring Derek a pencil and tablet from my desk?” Ann got them and brought them to Derek, looking puzzled. He took them and looked questioningly at Wittakin.
“Derek, how good are you at drawing?”
“I’m no artist, but I guess I do alright. Why?”
“Do you think you could draw the creature that you and Mike saw? It doesn’t have to be great, just enough to give us some idea of what it was.”
“I suppose I can try. No guarantees, though.”
Ann watched over Derek’s shoulder as he drew, her head close to his. After several minutes of watching, she sat back on the couch. She didn’t say anything, but she was visibly paler. When he was done, Derek handed the drawing to Wittakin.
Wittakin looked at the drawing for a long moment. There was no expression of surprise or disappointed on his face. “This is pretty much what you saw, then?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I think you underrate yourself as an artist.” Wittakin passed the drawing to Parker.
&n
bsp; Parker’s eyes widened slowly as he took in the details of the drawing, and he shook his head in disbelief. He coughed and cleared his throat. “This is that thing you and Mike saw?”
“I wish I could say it was just a joke, but I can’t. That’s what we saw.”
“Jesus. That’s nothing God ever made.”
“Have you ever heard of Nephilim, Parker?” Wittakin asked.
“No. It sounds like a disease. What is it?”
“They. There were the ‘mighty ones who were of old, men of fame.’ It’s from Genesis. They were the unauthorized hybrids born of mortal women and sired by disobedient angels or spirits in defiance of God. It’s possible that much of our mythology comes from the Nephilim. Can you believe that?”
“That’s from the Bible?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus,” Parker looked sick. “Oh sweet Jesus. If there’s something like that out there, what the hell are we in for?”
“That’s just what we need to…” Wittakin’s eyes locked on Derek’s face. It was drained of color, grey, and beads of perspiration clung to his forehead. “Derek? Ann, something’s wrong with Derek.”
Ann looked at Derek and gasped. She touched his arm, then grasped it in her hands. His muscles were locked in place, hard and stiff. “Derek? Oh please…” She looked pleadingly at the two men. “What’s the matter with him? We’ve got to do something to help him!”
Derek didn’t hear them. Even if they had known what was wrong, there was no way they could have reached him, because he wasn’t there. He was in another time and place, one filled with fighting and dying, where he stood in the middle of it all. Drenched with the blood of his enemies as well as his own, he led and fought through it all as he felt a growing helplessness and frustration.
In front of him a man fought alone and unarmed, his face a mask of desperation, a face that he knew. The man suddenly stopped his vain struggles and reached his arm out toward him, pleading for help, but there was none; he died, his body torn to pieces.
Desolation and horror.
That desolation and horror stayed in his mind as the grayness shifted and reformed with color and took on new shapes, the screaming dying down to a concerned murmur. Faces near his, faces that wanted to help but didn’t know how.
“What’s the matter with him?” Ann’s voice, worried, soft and far away.
“It could be a seizure or convulsion, but I don’t think so. Some type of trance, I would say,” Wittakin said. “Have either of you seen any sign of this before? Derek, can you hear me?”
“Mmmmm.” Derek opened his eyes and sat up weakly, looking embarrassed. “I can hear you. Damn. Making a fool of myself.”
“Nothing of the sort, but you had us worried. You seemed to be in some sort of trance. Do you have a history of anything like that?”
“No,” Derek sighed, shaking his head. “Not until recently, anyway. It’s happened two or three times in the last week, I guess.”
“Do you remember anything about them, or what causes them?”
“I don’t know what causes them, but I seem to remember… fighting. I’m always fighting, and I think I’m wounded…” Derek leaned his head against the back of the couch, staring toward the ceiling. “I don’t know. Sometimes it seems as if I see creatures like the one I drew, and I’m fighting them.”
“I am not a trained psychologist,” Wittakin said. “But I can see where someone could be affected in somewhat that manner. Tell me, do you ever recognize anyone in these ‘dreams’?”
“Sometime I seem to.” Derek lowered his eyebrows in thought for a moment, then suddenly sat up, his body going tense. “Mike!”
“Mike what?” Ann asked.
“In that… dream, or whatever. I think Mike was there and he needed my help, but I couldn’t do anything.”
The four of them sat in confused silence, looking at each other as Derek’s words soaked in. A tension filled the room, until Wittakin asked the question that was forming in all of their minds at the same time. “Do you think Mike might be in trouble?”
“Yes. I don’t know why, but I think so.”
“Did he say where he was going after he left you at the hotel?”
“Back to his office. He was going to try to figure out what he should do.”
“I think it would be a good idea to find him. Let’s hope we’re being silly and he’s in his office having a beer right now.”
* * *
It hadn’t taken Mike very long to formulate his plan. It was more or less complete by the time Derek had begun telling all he knew at Wittakin’s house. Something or someone was using the basement of the Jarmans’ house. Whether it was being used as a burial, or feeding place, or some kind of lair. Mike didn’t know, but he was going to find out.
The plan was simple enough; he and Derek would set up a booby-trapped camera at the doorway to the basement. They would park the Scout at the edge of the yard facing the front of the house, and both of them, armed to the teeth, would wait in the Scout and watch. Whatever it was would have to come or go sooner or later, and they would be there to see. And anything they didn’t, the camera would. Then at least they would know who or what it was they were after.
His camera was in the back room where he slept. He got that and a handful of coat hangers from the closet and placed them on his desk. He checked the film in the camera, reading the number on the paper tab. Six left, if the film was still good.
The camera was a Polaroid Land camera, an old one with movable bellows, but it worked perfect. He tried it with the flash, aiming at the far wall, and waited for the film to develop. It gave a perfect picture of the far wall, he saw with relief, the film was still good.
Next he straightened one of the coat hangers, then began bending it in different shapes to fit the body of the camera. The first didn’t work, and neither did the second; but the third worked better than he had hoped. It hooked under the base of the camera, across the back, and over the top, just touching the release button. The thick wire had just enough slack so that it would depress the button if it was gently pulled forward. Half of his booby-trap was done.
He rummaged in the top drawer of his desk until he found a small spool of tough string. Bracing the camera through the back of his desk chair, he tied one end of the string to the top part of the coat hanger. He stuck a new bulb in the flash unit and reset the shutter, then played out the line of string until he was about ten feet away. With crossed fingers, he gave the string a gentle tug.
The flash worked; everything seemed to be okay. He waited impatiently for the sixty seconds it took for the film to develop, and when it finally had, he tore off the negative from the print. It had also worked. The print showed a tired looking sheriff holding a piece of string in one hand.
So far so good.
He snatched a candle from the overhead shelf that ran across one side of the room, sat it on his desk, and lit it. He held the bottom of his ashtray just above the flame, letting it gather soot, then spent the next ten minutes rubbing that soot into the string. When he was done he had black hands, a smudged face, and twenty feet of fairly black string.
Now he needed something to put everything in. There wasn’t much; the drawers from his files or desk were too heavy, and there were no cardboard boxes. He looked at the wastebasket, hesitated, then shrugged; what the hell. He could clean up anytime. He needed something now. He up ended it, dumping the content on the floor.
He pulled a half a dozen thumbtacks from the bulletin board and dropped them into the basket, then added the string, a flash light, a pair of pliers and the rest of the coat hangers. On top of these, he gently placed the Polaroid and extra flashbulbs. He covered everything with a nylon windbreaker to keep out the rain.
Glancing around the room, he made sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, then unlocked the gun cabinet and removed the two shotguns. They were both twelve-gauge Remingtons, and would be very deadly at close range. He stuffed a box of shells into his jacket pocket, sweeping
the room with his eyes once more. There was nothing else he could think of that he might need. With the two shotguns under one arm, he lifted the wastebasket and carried everything out to the Scout.
He had gone to the hotel and was just starting up the stairs when Mrs. Jameson came into the lobby.
“Evening. Up kind of late aren’t you, Mrs. Jameson?”
“A little, I guess. I’ve tried, but I can’t get to sleep anymore with everything that’s going on.”
“Came to see Derek. He in his room?”
“No, Mike, he isn’t.”
“Oh,” Shit! “Do you know where he is? I need his help for something.”
“I don’t know. Ann wanted to see him and said she’d be over at Jeff’s store, so he could be there. Do you want me to tell him you want to see him if he comes back in?”
“Well… no, no need to. I don’t want to keep you up. I’ll go over there and try to find him. Thank you.”
A light was on in the back of Parker’s store, and Mike breathed a small sigh of relief. He began to worry again when no one answered his pounding, so he let himself in. Both the store and the back room were empty. He walked back out to the Scout, spreading a few choice words around the store as he left.
Mike slumped behind the wheel of the Scout and lit a cigarette. Now that he had a plan of action, he wanted to go ahead with it, get it done as soon as possible. Waiting would probably lesson their chances; whatever they were after might already be alerted.
He could see the main street of the town through the wet windshield. He glanced at his watch. Ten forty-seven. The lights were on in his office and at the hotel, but the diner, Sam’s bar, Ernie’s station, and the rest of the buildings were dark. Even for such a little town, it seemed too early to be so closed down. People didn’t have to know the details about what was going on to be scared. Some of them were missing or dead, and no one was particularly anxious for them, or their families to be next. So, no one was going to be wandering around anywhere when they could be home, hidden and safe.
