by Rick Hautala
Looking past Megan, Abby saw two, then three, and then four huge black shapes bounding across the sand, heading straight toward them.
“We have to run. Now,” she said, trying without much success to keep the panic out of her voice.
“How come?”
Megan followed Abby’s gaze down the beach and reacted when she saw the huge, black dogs swiftly closing the distance between them.
“Wha—what are those?”
Abby didn’t reply. Holding Megan’s hand, she started running, all but dragging Megan along behind her.
“Are they after us?” Megan managed to say, gasping.
“Let’s not wait to find out,” Abby replied.
She didn’t have the heart to tell Megan the truth. If she still hadn’t realized she was dead, there was no way Abby could explain the Hell Hounds and why they were hunting for her.
—2—
Slouching in a hard, metal chair, Caroline Ryder squeezed Bob’s hand as they sat side by side in the small, windowless room in the hospital. The bars of fluorescent light hurt her eyes, making her squint as she struggled to hold back her tears. The burning sensation in her eyes and the buzzing in her head were all but intolerable. She was afraid that any moment now she was going to leap to her feet and, screaming, run from the room.
Detective Martin Gray stood a short distance behind them, leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. Caroline was acutely aware of his presence hovering over them like the shadow of doom.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this, Mr. and Mrs. Ryder?” Detective Gray asked. His voice low and hushed, almost the quiet respect of a funeral director.
Holding his body stiffly, his arm around his wife’s shoulders, Bob grunted and nodded. Caroline was wired, knowing she would break down crying if she tried to make even the slightest sound. They both stared up at the blank television monitor mounted on the wall, held in place by a black metal bracket. Suddenly, the screen clicked to life, and they found themselves staring at a tiny figure lying on a shiny metal gurney in the morgue.
Caroline sucked in her breath so sharply it stung her throat like a bee sting. Then she let out a shivering cry and collapsed forward, clasping her head with both hands and rocking back and forth, squeezing … squeezing her head so it wouldn’t explode. Her eyesight blurred, becoming a dazzling array of white and gray spikes as she stared at the tiny, motionless figure. Their daughter looked like she was asleep, but Caroline knew she wasn’t asleep.
How can that be her? … How can that be Megan? … How can that be my baby girl?
She stared unblinking at the motionless figure on the cold, metal platform. Detective Gray had explained that standard procedure was to have people identify the victim using a closed-circuit television rather than putting them next to the body of the deceased, but it seemed almost worse seeing Megan this way. It was more dehumanizing, not less. Caroline was filled with an overwhelming impulse to run, to run down the hall until she found the room.
She had to go to her daughter.
She had to see her and touch her and smell her baby.
… one last time …
But as the grief washed through her, she knew it wouldn’t do any good.
Megan was gone …
Dead and gone.
Forever!
And there was nothing she or her husband or Detective Gray or anyone else could do to bring her back.
All that was left now was to arrange for her funeral and spend the rest of their lives trying as best they could to move past the horror of what had happened. All she could think at this moment, though, was, how could any parent, how could any mother, ever get past the death of a child?
It wasn’t just daunting.
It was impossible.
“Is that your daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Ryder?” Detective Gray asked.
Through her tears, Caroline couldn’t stop staring at the unmoving figure, unable to accept that this really was Megan.
She looked like a doll … a mannequin.
Megan’s eyes were sunken, and there was a horrible, dark bruise on the left side of her head. Her skin, even on the TV monitor, looked unnaturally pale, like antique porcelain that had cracked and broken.
As she stared at her daughter, Caroline could almost convince herself that she could see Megan’s chest rising and falling.
“It is,” Bob said, his voice strangled. Caroline was amazed that he could speak at all. “That’s Megan.”
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” Detective Gray said, but the sudden chill in his voice made Caroline wonder how sorry he really was.
How could he ever understand?
Has he ever gone through anything like this?
Has he ever lost a child or a loved one?
How can he possibly know what Bob and I are feeling?
No, this was just some phony, rote expression of sympathy that the detective adopted as part of his job. He couldn’t do what he did and allow himself to really feel anything like what she was going through right now.
Caroline experienced a sudden rush of anger directed at the detective, as if somehow he was responsible for Megan’s death. When Bob touched her to pull her closer, she reacted and pulled violently away from him, coiled and ready to lash out.
“We ought to leave now, hon,” Bob said, his gaze cast down at the floor as he shook his head sadly from side to side. He raised his hand to his face and wiped the tears away from his eyes.
Caroline doubted her legs would hold her as she stood up, gripping her husband’s arm for support. The backs of her knees bumped against the chair, pushing it back so it made a loud scraping sound on the tile floor. The noise hit her nerves like a drill.
“Can I … can I go to her?” she asked in a shattered voice. “Can I see my baby?”
She hated the desperation in her voice, but she had to see and touch Megan one last time.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea right now,” Detective Gray said simply.
Caroline stared at him, her mouth agape, too numb to think or say anything. A hollow feeling of utter loss and grief filled her body like the cold vacuum of space.
She knew that feeling would never go away.
—3—
“Keep running,” Abby shouted to be heard over the wind and waves. “And whatever you do, don’t look back.”
Holding tightly onto Megan’s hand, they flew across the sandy beach as the mournful howling of the dogs behind them grew steadily louder. Their only hope was to get back to the Old Settlers’ Cemetery. For some reason, the Hell Hounds and their master never dared to enter it, perhaps because it was consecrated ground.
If she had been on her own, Abby was sure she could have easily outdistanced the Hell Hounds; but Megan couldn’t move as fast as she could. Having only one sneaker slowed them down all the more.
The baying of the Hell Hounds rose steadily louder as they quickly closed the distance. Abby and Megan cut across the beach, heading for the bluff that overlooked the ocean, but Megan kept stumbling and falling, wasting precious time. Abby dragged her for much of the way. After crossing the sand, they started up the narrow dirt path that snaked the grassy ridge to the cemetery. The Hell Hounds were less than a hundred feet behind them when Abby saw the wooden cemetery gate up ahead. She could imagine the heat from the Hell Hounds’ fiery red eyes burning into her back, and she could smell the stinking foam that slobbered from their gaping, snapping mouths. When she chanced a glance behind her, the Hell Hounds’ fangs flashed like silver daggers in the preternatural glow of the evening. All too easily, Abby could imagine those teeth ripping into her, bringing her down, and shredding her soul, if not her flesh.
“Can—you—make—it?” Abby gasped as they struggled through the thigh-high beach grass and up the rock-strewn slope. Megan kept tripping and stumbling as loose shale slipped out from beneath her bare foot. Several times, she almost tumbled to the beach below.
Megan seemed to be tiring fast, b
ut Abby knew that was only because she still thought she was alive. Once she realized she was dead, she would find that she couldn’t get exhausted the way she had back then.
For now, though, Abby’s only thought was that they had to avoid these dogs—these demons—and the evil man who she knew was not far behind.
When they were almost to the cemetery gate, Abby glanced down at the beach. Her chest went cold when she saw, far down the beach but moving as swiftly as a raven in their direction, a tall, gaunt man wearing a wide-brimmed hat that was weather-stained a deep, dull gray. The brim shaded his face, which was pale and heavily lined. Instead of a heavy cloak, like the Reapers, he wore a long, black swallow-tailed coat, dark loose-fitting trousers, and knee-high, black riding boots. His eyes glowed beneath the brim of his hat, and his mouth was fixed with a thin, grim smile as he strode purposefully across the sand in Abby’s direction.
Abby gripped Megan’s hand all the tighter as she watched the man quickly close the distance between them. The baying hounds were scrambling up the bluff behind them, finding it difficult to gain purchase on the loose rocks. They snapped and yelped at each other in their fury to be the first to catch their prey.
“Halt where you are!” the man shouted, cupping his hands to his mouth. His voice resounded from the rocky cliff like a gunshot. “Stop in the name of the Lord!”
Abby couldn’t help but freeze. She had heard that voice so often when she was alive that, even now, after a hundred years, it had the power to terrify her. Squeezing Megan’s hand tightly, she turned and faced the man. Even at this distance, she could see his pale, skeletal face and the cold deadness in his eyes.
“Who’s he?” Megan whispered in a frightened voice.
Abby was rigid with fear. The cemetery wall—her only refuge—was less than fifty feet behind her, but she couldn’t … she didn’t dare turn her back on this man and make a run for it.
“I don’t like him,” Megan said. “He’s kinda creepy. What does he want?”
“He wants me,” Abby said, but then her voice failed her. She squared her shoulders and, trying hard to sound brave but knowing she failed miserably, added, “That’s Reverend Wheeler. My dead uncle.”
Abby
There’s one Reaper who’s different from all the others. I don’t know his name. I don’t know if Reapers even have names. But this one seems … different, somehow. He’s never spoken to me, not once, but it seems like he’s always somewhere nearby, watching over me … especially when I’m in any kind of danger.
If he asked, I’d let him take me away, but he won’t … at least not yet. I’m not sure why. I’ve asked him—even begged him to take me to the Other Side … even if it’s into the shadows, but he never answers me.
He doesn’t talk.
He doesn’t look like the other Reapers, either. He wears a long black cloak like they do, but instead of a hood or cowl over his head, he wears a dark, wide-brimmed hat, what used to be called a “slouch hat.” I don’t know if they still call them that. I’ve never seen his face because he keeps it hidden behind a veil of black silk that hangs down from the inside rim of his hat. Just once, I’d like to see his face.
More times than I can remember, I’ve seen this Reaper guide a wandering soul into the Light. I’ve never seen him take anyone into the shadows, so I think he’s a “good” Reaper, if there is such a thing. Still, he frightens me sometimes because I get this feeling he’s always watching me …
I really don’t understand why he won’t take me away.
Whatever his reasons, he doesn’t. He simply shakes his head from side to side, and sighs so heavily it stirs the black silk that covers his face. The silk ripples like deep, dark water. And then he walks away from me.
He’s never gone for long, though. Whenever the mockingbird sings and I awaken, I sense his presence even though I don’t see him right away. I guess you could think of him as my Guardian Angel, if such a thing is possible in the Dead Lands.
There are many dangers here, no doubt.
More than you can imagine.
I’ll tell you about some of them later, but I don’t want to frighten you. Believe me, it’s nice to have a Guardian Angel even if I have no idea who he is or what he looks like, and even if he never speaks with me.
I hope … someday … he will.
Chapter 3
Pursued
—1—
“You’ll do exactly as I say, young lady!”
Reverend Wheeler’s voice boomed like cannon shot above the slow grinding wash of the surf on the rocks and sand. Beneath the brim of his wide hat, his eyes flickered with a dull, dead glow as he stared up at Abby and Megan on the bluff above him.
Abby felt compelled to shout back at him, but her voice failed her. She wanted to tell him to leave her alone. After all this time in the Dead Lands, he no longer had any say over her.
“I’m still your legal guardian, Abigail Cummings, and I grow weary of this fruitless chase.” Reverend Wheeler subtly shifted his eyes to his right, and when Abby looked in that direction, she saw that one of the Hell Hounds was moving slowly, stealthily up the hillside toward her. It was crawling on its belly, hunching and pulling itself over the shale and through the thick brush.
Where are the other Hell Hounds? Abby wondered with a sudden rush of panic. They always traveled in a pack. If one of them was moving off to her left, then the other one must be …
Abby shifted her gaze to her right.
The hillside was deep in shadow, and she knew that side of the hill was steep, probably too steep for any creature to climb. Then again, these weren’t just any dogs. She was convinced these Hell Hounds really originated in the depths of Hell. The fact that they traveled with Reverend Wheeler indicated how evil they really were because her uncle, in spite of having been a minister when alive, now served a different and far darker Master.
The sound of a twig snapping behind her drew her attention. She wheeled around in time to see another Hell Hound moving to position itself between her and the cemetery gate. With a sudden scream, Abby clutched Megan’s wrist and started running toward the safety of the cemetery.
“Stop right now, child!” Reverend Wheeler shouted. “Stop and come to me! … I demand that you obey me!”
The Reverend’s voice clapped like thunder in the air, but Abby ignored him as she ran for all she was worth toward the gate, hoping, praying she would make it before the Hell Hounds intercepted her. If they ever caught her, she was afraid they and the Reverend would drag both her and Megan down to Hell.
Would they destroy us both?
How could she be hurt?
She was already dead.
How bad could it be?
In all her time in the Dead Lands, she had never experienced pain or pleasure, at least not as she remembered them from life. Then again, a Reaper or a Hell Hound had never caught her. From the screams she’d heard when people disappeared into the shadows, she had no doubt that pain beyond anything she could possibly imagine awaited her there.
“I lost my patience with you long ago, child!”
Reverend Wheeler was shouting, but his voice was barely audible as Abby and Megan ran. The Hell Hound that had been climbing the cliffs to the right suddenly leaped forward, uttering a ferocious growl. As it closed the distance between them, Abby saw its gnashing jaws opening and shutting in anticipation of clamping its fangs down on her. An instant before it caught her, though, Abby and Megan burst through the cemetery gate. Wheeling around, Abby slammed the wooden gate shut behind her.
The Hell Hound was moving too fast to stop its charge in time. It slammed into the gate hard enough to splinter the wood, but the impact knocked it back onto its haunches. It howled in pain and fury as it scrambled to its feet and then stood there, only inches from the cemetery wall, growling and glaring at Abby and Megan. Its eyes flickered with the flames of Hell.
Even though the creature didn’t enter the cemetery—it couldn’t—Abby didn’t feel totally safe. A m
oment later, Reverend Wheeler appeared at the crest of the hill.
“Well, well, well, my child,” he said, shaking his head from side to side as though deeply saddened. When he spoke, his thin lips peeled back, exposing narrow, sharp teeth that looked like they had been purposely filed to fine points. “Do you really think I can’t come in there and take you if I wanted to?”
“You just try it, then,” Abby said, surprising herself with her sudden courage to confront her former guardian.
Reverend Wheeler lowered his head so the brim of his hat shielded his eyes. The wind blowing across the grass and through the trees hissed like a coiled serpent. He snapped his fingers, and the Hell Hounds all came to him and crowded around his legs, whimpering and panting. Their mouths dripped blood-red foam that sizzled when it hit the ground.
“Perhaps now is not the right time after all,” Reverend Wheeler said. Nodding his head slowly up and down, he stroked his chin as though deep in thought. “Perhaps it’s best to make you wait and wonder … and worry about exactly when I will come to claim you.”
“You don’t have any power over me, Uncle,” Abby said. “Not anymore.”
She glanced at Megan, who was cowering behind her, her small hands clinging to the folds of Abby’s dress.
For a long time, Abby and the Reverend simply stared at each other, neither one speaking or moving. Then, without another word, Reverend Wheeler turned on his heel and strode away, disappearing over the edge of the slope that led down to the beach. Abby watched him as he walked across the sand until he was lost to sight in the gathering darkness.
“Damn! That guy’s one helluva hard ass,” Megan said in an attempt at bravado.
Abby frowned and said, “Everyone talks like that these days, don’t they?”
“Like how?”
“Swearing,” Abby said. “When I was growing up, we’d get punished for talking like that.”
“Well, you gotta admit, he is a hard ass.”
