Evil Never Dies

by Mick Ridgewell

  "Anyone who knows me knows I am anything but senile."

  "And still they give me mistrusting looks."

  Patricia picked the phone up from the cradle and pushed a speed dial number. "Dr. Mark," she said into the phone. "Patricia Owens. I am quite fine, I assure you. Yes, I agree with you, I do need some help out here. Yes, I do have somebody in mind. You have already met him. I am sure you are, but I know who is best. Yes, yes, if I feel the need for a trained medical person, I will depend on you to recommend someone. For now, Mr. Millhouse is the person I need. He will be retrieving his belongings today, and he will stay here until I contact you. Thank you, doctor. Yes, good-bye."

  "Do you think that is all it takes?" Roland asked.

  "I can't say that you will not get odd glances, but I guarantee you will not run into any problems."

  "Don't mess with Patricia Owens," Roland said, holding his glass up in a mock toast.

  She winked but said nothing.

  "Shall we continue then?" Roland said.

  "Let's get comfortable first. The parlor is about right, I think."

  It took Roland about ten minutes to get her settled in her best chair, fetch the journal from the porch, and bring a tray adorned with iced tea and glasses from the kitchen.

  "Good?" he asked.

  Patricia nodded and began.

  "Bernhard refused to leave until we found him. The 'old one,' he kept calling him. It was a man, or at least at some point in its past, it was a man.

  "Some think it had to be Malachi Adams. Nobody could dispute that, or prove it. It was too fantastic for me to believe back then. I do believe it now."

  "Did you find him?"

  "We tore that house apart. He wasn't in it. Bernhard refused to give up. By the time we finished with the house, it was almost dusk. He insisted we search the buildings.

  "'That won't be necessary,' someone yelled.

  "He tossed his torch into the barn. It went up like it was doused in kerosene. Moments later there came a scream like nothing this world has ever produced.

  "Every one of us cringed, covering our ears. We pushed in toward each other, like herd animals do when a predator is near.

  "They came right out of the flames. By this time it was past end of day. Not completely dark, but the sky had gone purple, and the trees were just shadows against the purple horizon in the west.

  "In the near dark, the things were grotesque. White flames throughout, with that black smoke spewing from deep inside the fire. They ran all about us. The heat, even from several yards away burned my skin. A couple of them passed close by before succumbing to the flames, and I thought I might pass out from the heat.

  "When the last of them fell to the ground in lifeless smoldering silence, it showed itself. The old one I mean. No one saw where it came from. It was like magic the way it appeared before us. All the bravado left even the most aggressive men in our group.

  "In a flurry of motion that demon grabbed a young man named Sean O'Flannigan from behind. With a thrust of his talon-like hand, he plunged his fingers into Sean's chest and pulled out his heart.

  "I knew then that we had stayed too long. We should have retreated to town, and returned in the morning to finish them."

  "They would most likely have changed hiding places," Roland said.

  "I'm sure that is what Bernhard thought too.

  "It picked Sean up like a sack of grain and began to swing him back and forth. He used the poor man's body as a club, beating his way through the crowd.

  "Bernhard lit one of his fire bottles, but that thing threw Sean's corpse at him. The bottle was knocked out of Bernhard's hand, crashing to the ground at the feet of Philip Lambert. Philip's clothes caught fire, and he screamed. Oh, how he screamed. Somebody tackled him and snuffed the flames by log-rolling him across the ground.

  "He recovered from those burns. The scars were hell to look at, but at least he lived.

  "While our attention shifted to Philip, the monster seized the Chabot twins. Those boys were just sixteen, but as big as their daddy. The noise it made, when that demon crashed their skulls together. The heads exploded, blood and brains just sprayed out in all directions.

  "Jean Chabot ran at the thing, determined to kill it for what it had done to his boys. That was good news for Bernhard. Jean Chabot only had the attention of the old one for a moment, but that was enough. Bernhard ignited another of his fire bottles, and this time it found the mark.

  "The air all around us seemed to be sucked into the flames making a hollow 'whoosh.' Jean Chabot had gotten too close, and the white flames all but consumed him. The foulest black smoke rose from the old one.

  "It didn't scream like the others. It growled like a rabid dog. It turned in circles, and I was sure it was studying our faces so it could get revenge. Then it leaped into the air and landed in the well.

  "We just stood there, in disbelief, watching the black smoke rise up from the mouth of that well. I could feel myself shaking in Bernhard's arms.

  "'Is that it?' somebody asked.

  "'I think it might be,' Bernhard said. 'I think it just might be.'

  "'Amen,' someone hollered."

  Chapter 65

  Patricia closed her eyes and tipped her head up toward the sky as though looking to heaven for divine help. Roland sat in silence, waiting for her to continue.

  When she opened her eyes, he said, "That wasn't it, was it?"

  "If only it were," she said, barely above a whisper.

  "Black smoke spewed from the mouth of that well as though the earth was vomiting out the vilest of substances. The white flames illuminated the smoke giving it a ghastly look. The worst, though, was the smell. I can't say that it smelled like this or that. I have not smelled anything before or since with the foulness of that smoke."

  Patricia covered her face with her left hand and winced. The memory of that night was so dreadful, Roland had no doubt that Patricia could actually smell the stench of that night all over again.

  "Bernhard insisted we cover the well. He was sure the thing died, but Bernhard lived on the side of caution," she continued.

  "He walked right over to the edge and peered in. A few of the other men shimmied up beside him, craning to look in, but not getting close enough to see anything.

  "That big rock, the one covering the well," Patricia said, looking at Roland.

  "You know the one I mean."

  He nodded without saying a word.

  "It's the same rock that covered the well when Malachi Adams was interred in that well.

  "'Let's move that rock over the hole,' Bernhard shouted to everyone.

  "I think the thing down there heard him," Patricia said. "No sooner had the last syllable escaped his lips, when up from the darkness and smoke it came. Still burning that white-hot flame, and billowing that awful black smoke. A cacophony of screams filled the night as that thing grabbed Bernhard, and pulled him down into the well with him."

  Her voice quivered as she spoke. Patricia didn't know Bernhard long, but it was clear that she loved him deeply. Not the way a woman would love her husband. More like a very dear uncle. Roland reached over and held her hand until she was ready to continue.

  "It took two big strong men to stop me from running to the well. I yelled at them, 'He needs help!' but nobody would go near the well after that. And who could blame them?"

  "They were afraid," Roland said.

  Patricia nodded and said, "We were all terrified. The fear of suffering the same fate as Bernhard took over everyone who witnessed that last desperate act of vengeance. There was no more talk. The men used hand signals to communicate. They retrieved a team of horses and fashioned levers from iron bars, and before another hour passed, that well had been sealed with a rock no creature, no matter how supernatural, could lift."

  "Jesus," Roland said under his breath.

  Patricia opened her journal. Roland was forever amazed at how she seemed to be able to produce the thing out of thin air. He remembered it being
on the porch. He remembered it being in the kitchen. Now, here it was, ready for her.

  Patricia's Journal—Thursday, August 1, 1912

  Kings Shore is like a ghost town. So many lost. Mother and Father. Auntie and Bernhard. At night, as I lay in the dark in this empty house, I can't breathe. I may never sleep again.

  "Do you know what, Roland?" she said with cheer in her voice.

  "What?"

  "I think, tonight I will sleep just fine."

  Chapter 66

  Patricia Owens slept. She slumbered the peaceful sleep of an infant. Roland slept in the study with her journal in his lap. The bright morning sun woke him after 7:00 a.m. He woke confused and delirious, unsure where he was or why he was there.

  After a moment of taking in the room, when his mind woke enough to reason, Roland Millhouse grew anxious. The warm sweat on his skin suddenly chilled as a wave of nervous perspiration soaked his clothes.

  He had only risen before Patricia once in all the visits he'd had in this house. He took the stairs three at a time, tripping over the last and sprawling headlong to the floor. The threadbare rug running the length of the hall left carpet-burned skid marks on his hands and knees.

  Ignoring the pain, Roland sprang to his feet and sprinted the length of the hall to Patricia's door. The door was closed. His socked feet skidded across the rug. He had to brace his hands on the doorframe to stop from crashing face first into the solid oak panels. The impact on his already injured hands sent another jolt of searing heat into his flesh.

  Now standing in front of the door, he stood too terrified to enter. He looked at the knob, and when he thought about reaching for it the pain in his hands finally registered in his brain. He held them in front of his face. From his wrists to his fingertips, the skin on Roland's hands was pink. Tiny drops of blood no bigger than the head of a pin dotted the base of his wrist.

  He stared, transfixed, at the small drops for a moment. The blood looked so dark, almost black. The dim light in the hall gave the blood the appearance of crude oil. That is what he told himself, it was the light, not the evil.

  Instead of letting himself in, Roland tapped gently on the door. She did not answer. He rapped a bit harder. Still no reply.

  "Patricia?" he whispered through the wood. "Patricia," he called louder still.

  After yelling her name several times, Roland let himself into her room. He knew without having to check her pulse, but he tried anyway. Roland placed his middle and index fingers on her neck. He shuddered at the feel of her cold flesh. He moved his fingers up and down, left and right. He tried to find a pulse in her wrist. He put his ear in front of her face, listening for a breath.

  He sat next to her on the bed and picked up her cold hand in both of his.

  "Good for you," Roland said, looking at her aged face.

  He thought that today, Patricia Owens looked every bit of her 120 years. He also thought her face held the look of complete serenity. He imagined that Patricia knew the moment her heart beat for the last time, and she smiled with that knowledge. With the thought that she would be joining her beloved parents and her auntie, she smiled. Maybe she would even meet up with Bernhard and her long-lost fiancé.

  A tear breached the lower lid of his left eye, and he wiped it with the back of his hand. The thought of not ever talking to this woman who he just now realized he dearly loved, left him empty.

  Chapter 67

  Roland sat in the Huron Room of the MacDonald Funeral Home in Kings Shore. He sat alone in one of the seats normally reserved for immediate family. Patricia Owens had no immediate family. As far as anybody in Kings Shore knew, she had no family at all.

  It was ever so much more amazing then, that aside from those seats normally reserved for immediate family, the Huron Room had not a single empty chair. At the back and at both sides of the room, men dressed in dark suits lined the walls.

  When the Prime Minister entered with his entourage, few people other than the media took notice. Every person there looked to the front. Few had known Patricia, really known her. They all knew of her, however, and what she meant to the town.

  The Prime Minister walked to the front of the room and stood before the podium.

  "You all knew Miss Owens better than I. I have read so many wonderful things about this grand lady on my way here from Ottawa. She was, until her passing, the world's most senior citizen. She meant a great deal to this area, and to the country. I know she will be missed."

  When the Prime Minister and his wife sat next to Roland, he gave them both a nod of recognition, then returned his gaze to the floor. He couldn't stand to look at the closed coffin containing the remains of his dear friend.

  Roland took little notice of the pastor when he stepped up to the lectern. He may have been touched by the heartfelt words delivered with the smooth consoling voice of a grieving friend. He might have been if he had stayed in the room. Roland had closed his eyes and went to a place he didn't know existed. A quiet place, where it was okay to be sad, and nobody expected you to be strong. He consoled himself, thinking it was the same place she went all those times when the mood got too dark.

  Roland stayed in that place until he heard his name. He expected to be called on, but the suddenness of hearing his own name gave him a start. He looked into the minister's eyes. Pastor Beaton was an old man, with white hair and a stooped posture. His black suit had none of the sleekness of Roland's clothes. He gave Roland a grin, meant to put him at ease.

  Roland stood and walked to the front of the room. The pastor greeted him with a hug, then left Roland on his own in front of a congregation he did not know. He looked at the Prime Minister and his wife. He scanned the rest of the room. He saw many familiar faces, none he knew well, but faces he could recall from his time in town.

  "Patricia," he began. "Miss Owens asked me to say a few words. Many of you will recognize me as the news guy who has been up at Miss Owens' place. I came here to say happy birthday to an old woman, take a few pictures and go back to Toronto. But once I met Patricia Owens, once she began to tell me her story, I could not leave until I heard the whole thing. And what a story this grand lady could tell."

  "Here, here!" someone called out.

  Roland placed Patricia's journal on the lectern. He gently opened the book to a page marked by her ribbon. With the same care and affection he'd seen her use many times, Roland smoothed the page. Many in the front rows may have thought his gesture looked more like a caress than simply smoothing the page.

  Roland read:

  Patricia's Journal—Sunday, September 1, 1912

  I have been so alone here without Mother and Daddy. I miss Auntie and even Bernhard. So many have been taken that I could easily give up and let death take me. I shan't do that. Kings Shore needs everyone to work as one to recover from this ordeal. We shall overcome.

  Roland paused, looking over his shoulder at the casket. "That was the last thing she wrote in this journal. She has many others, but this journal tells us so much about not only Patricia Owens, but about all of you."

  Roland closed the journal, picked it up and walked from the room.

  Chapter 68

  Roland sat on the front porch of the old house looking out toward the road. His things were packed. His bag was stowed in the trunk of the Bimmer. He had his story; now he could go back to Toronto, grovel at the feet of the network brass and hope they let him come back. He was due the time off, but the way he left was definitely not protocol.

  He sipped from his glass. The last batch of lemonade Patricia would ever make. She made the best lemonade, and Roland wasn't leaving until he finished the pitcher. He would not let one of her last acts be wasted.

  Scuba snuck up on him while he stared into the distance. The cat leaped up on Roland's lap and curled into a ball. Roland tensed a bit at first, then unconsciously stroked the cat's fur.

  "What are you going to do now, Scuba, old boy?"

  Almost like the cat knew he was being addressed, Scuba began to pur
r.

  "Exactly right," Roland said. "Exactly right."

  Just then a black Lincoln Town Car kicked up a cloud of dust making its way up to the front of the old mansion. When the dust settled, Roland recognized James Renier, Patricia's attorney.

  "Mr. Millhouse," James said as he stepped up to the front step.

  "I'll be leaving in a few minutes," Roland said, still stroking Scuba's head.

  "Is that Patricia's lemonade?" James asked.

  Roland tipped his glass toward the sky as if to toast his departed host.

  "Mind if I have a glass?" James asked.

  Roland surprised himself when he looked to the tray and saw a second glass next to the pitcher. He was so used to setting out a tray for two he must have done so this one last time. He filled the glass and handed it to James.

  "I wanted to talk to you after the funeral," James said, "but you scurried out of there so quick, I didn't get the chance."

  Roland shrugged but remained silent. Scuba's purring and the trees rustling in the breeze were the only sounds.

  "Patricia summoned me out here shortly after you arrived in town," James continued. "She asked me to change her final will. I tried to talk her out of it, but…"

  "Nobody could talk her out of anything," Roland finished.

  James nodded. "Well anyway, she left a parcel of land to you."

  Roland's gaze was drawn from the distant sky to the lawyer's eyes. "Land?"

  "It's an abandoned farm just up the road, near the cemetery. It's about fifty acres of unused bush with the ruins of an old farm."

  "I know the place," Roland said.

  "Are you feeling okay, Mr. Millhouse?"

  Roland's eyes had opened unnaturally wide and bulged from his face. His whole body went rigid. Scuba hissed and jumped from Roland's lap to the porch railing.