Sweet Dreams

by William W. Johnstone

  When Father Danjou answered his unspoken question, Larry didn’t dare ask how the priest knew what he’d been thinking.

  “With faith,” the priest said. “And lots of it.”

  Bob Vanderhorn screamed, the sound ripping from his throat like the bellow of a wounded cougar. All heads turned in his direction.

  The man appeared to be rooted in one spot. The blood had drained from his face and although his mouth was working, now no sound passed his lips. He lifted one trembling hand and pointed toward the door leading to the dining area of the Lancaster house.

  Chuck stood in the storm-torn and ill-lighted archway. A slight breeze had wormed its way into the house, pushed by the violent winds from the outside. It rustled the flaps of skin hanging from his tortured naked body. The horrible wound between his legs exposed raw, red meat.

  “Chuck?” Bob managed to croak the one-word question.

  Chuck lurched toward the chief deputy. Everyone could see that the tendons in his ankles had been severed, and each wondered how the man was able to stand.

  “Stop, Chuck!” Bob yelled, one hand on the butt of his Colt .44.

  Father Danjou jumped between the dead and the living, a large silver cross in his right hand. “In the name of God I command you to face the Cross and to leave the dead flesh of this, your servant. Leave this man, You Godless demons!”

  Chuck swung one arm and knocked the priest out of his way. Father Danjou crawled to his knees and pressed the cross against the bare flesh of Chuck’s leg.

  The flesh sizzled and hissed like hamburger meat on an open grill. Chuck howled in pain and attempted to jerk his leg free of the burning cross. But the cross had adhered to the flesh and could not be removed.

  Chuck fell heavily and awkwardly to the floor, screaming and pounding his fists, obviously in pain.

  “My bag!” the priest yelled. “Small vials of Holy Water in there. Give one to me. Hurry.”

  Holy Water in his left hand, his right hand firmly attached to the shaft of the cross, Father Danjou switched to Latin for a moment and then poured the Holy Water on Chuck’s head. “Forgive this man, Father, for he did not become what he is willingly. Depart from this man, Demons, and allow the man to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.”

  Chuck’s head began smoking, stinking streams of dark steam rose from his seared flesh. The man began howling, his cries animal-like and agonized. Father Danjou continued to pray, quietly and steadily. Chuck’s thrashings tapered off into sporadic jerks; his howling drifted into low moanings; the steam from his head lightened and became a soft white.

  All present could visibly witness the man’s soul leaving his body. They stood quietly shocked by the sight.

  Father Danjou removed the cross from the man’s leg and stood up. There was a smile on his face. “I have found their weakness,” he announced. “Our God has not forsaken us. He is with us in our hour of need.”

  Wind-driven rain slammed against the house, pushed by a fury that transcended both worlds. Wild lightning licked around the grounds of the Lancaster house, coming very close but never quite touching the old mansion.

  There was no more laughter from the Manitou. This time only angry hissing and words, spoken in a language no one could understand sprang from the depths of the huge home. A foul odor spread through the place.

  Heather screamed as hands grabbed her by the shoulders and attempted to jerk her from the room. She could feel and smell someone’s foul breath on her face and neck. Voyles raced toward the girl only to be struck by an invisible fist and knocked, unconscious, to the floor.

  Vickie jerked the pistol she had taken from the gun cabinet out of her purse. The gun flew from her hand, slapped away by a force she could not see.

  Marc ran to help Heather. He was stopped cold and held in place by some force. The boy struggled futilely against the invisible hands that restrained him.

  No one in the room could help the struggling girl.

  Heather lowered her head and saw a dirty hand on her shoulder. She opened her mouth and bit down hard on her assailant’s hand, tasting the salty flow of blood in her mouth. The man screamed and released her from his grasp.

  It was Matt Bradford. His eyes were ugly, strangely glowing. This is more than the glow of madness, Heather thought. It is the glow of fanaticism. She’d seen such a look on TV, in the eyes of the people who followed that so-called religious leader in Iran.

  She backed away from Matt just as Shep came, snarling and growling, to her side.

  Father Danjou walked up to Matt and looked at the teenager. “Listen to me, son,” the priest said. “I can help you if you’ll only let me.”

  Matt looked at the man. “What the hell are you?” he questioned. “Some kind of drag queen? Bundle your funky ass away from here.”

  Father Danjou shocked everybody by clipping the teenager on the jaw with a solid right cross. The boy hit the floor, stunned.

  “All right, Father,” Heather said.

  Father Danjou rubbed the knuckles of his right hand. “I recall a young Marine who’d been in Nam for a few months telling me his new philosophy. He said from that moment on, his slogan would be: ‘Give me your hearts and minds or I’ll burn your damn hurt down!’ I suppose sometimes one has to get the other fellow’s attention.”

  The force seemed to have left the room. Larry jerked the young man to his feet and clamped a crude set of handcuffs on his wrists. “That ought to keep you out of trouble,” he said.

  The storm had become so intensity people had to raise their voices, nearly shout, to be heard above the howling outside.

  “Come, sister,” Heather heard her brothers’ voices calling her. “Come to us.”

  Maryruth also heard the voices, and she saw the hideously mangled young men before Heather did.

  The wind abruptly ceased, plunging the house into a void of silence.

  Maryruth grabbed the child and held her close, hiding her face from the horror that had just stepped into the room.

  “I won’t look,” the girl said. “Are they dead?”

  “Yes. In one way.”

  “I understand,” the girl said.

  Bob Vanderhorn picked up a vase from a table and hurled it at Steve Thomas. The vase caught the boy in the center of the chest and knocked him down. His brother, Jack rushed toward Bob, the sight of the horrible wound in his stomach almost making Bob sick. A yellowish fluid leaked from the open cavity, a mixture of blood and pus. Dick Voyles intercepted the mangled teenager before he could reach Vanderhorn. He tripped him and sent him sprawling to the floor.

  Neither boy seemed able to rise. Pitiful mewing sounds came from their throats. The muscles in their arms seemed to have turned to jelly. Both youths struggled vainly to rise.

  Father Danjou began praying in a low voice, a fresh vial of Holy Water in his hand.

  The angry hissing of the Manitou joined the rapidly rising winds. The drumming began anew, its heavy evil pulse overriding the violent storm.

  The priest walked to the youths and sprinkled them with Holy Water. As had happened with Chuck, a hissing began on the backs of the boys, and dark steam rose from their burning flesh. The brothers suddenly became so weak they could no longer struggle. For the second time – the final time – they died.

  “They are free,” Danjou said. “It is my belief they both were forgiven for their sins.”

  The rain instantly changed to sleet. Bits of ice pelted the windows and shone large and clear against the background lightning.

  At that moment, Leo and Bud appeared in the doorway of the house. Both men seemed untouched by the storm. A peaceful aura, almost tangible, surrounded the men.

  “It is not yet over.” Bud’s voice sounded odd. “But none of you need my help any longer.”

  They all noticed Bud’s lips were not moving.

  “So it is time for our farewells,” Bud said.

  “You really have to go?” Heather asked.

  “I look forward to it, child,” the old In
dian replied with a smile. “But you all must bear one thing in mind: A Manitou cannot be killed except by another Manitou. No other Manitou has appeared – and none shall.”

  “And that means?” Jerry asked.

  “I can say no more.” Bud held out his hand and Leo shook it. “Good-bye, old friend,” Bud said.

  “Good-bye,” Leo said.

  The forms of the old men began to sparkle, to break up into millions of multicolored molecules. Suddenly, the molecules spun away, one mass streaking to the left, the other to the right.

  Then they were gone.

  “That dispersal brings many questions to my mind,” Father Danjou said, as much to himself as to the others. “If one takes it literally, obviously there are as many Heavens as religions. I would prefer not to believe that.”

  No one spoke as the angry hissing from the Manitou grew louder. They all heard the footsteps of the other visitors entering the mansion from all directions on the ground floor.

  Father Danjou said, “We are going to be badly outnumbered in this. Remember the words found in Ecclesiastes. The Preacher said, ‘There is a time to every purpose under the suns.’ ”

  “A time to kill,” Kowalski said.

  “Yes,” Danjou said.

  Those with weapons drew them as the footsteps approached.

  11

  For some reason the time travelers could not yet fathom, the Manitou began laughing as the adults drew their guns.

  The wind, the rain, the sleet—all abated, leaving an eerie silence.

  The ever-burning lamps and candles in the home grew very bright, fueled by some fresh force.

  And the time travelers—all but one—thought they knew what was behind that force.

  But Father Danjou smiled knowingly.

  Ross and Gayl entered the den first. Even Marc and Heather could tell that the teenagers were insane.

  Captain Larry Rogers did not hesitate. He lifted his long-barreled single-action pistol, jacked the hammer back, and shot Ross in the center of his chest. The boy staggered backward and fell in a bloody heap against a wall.

  “Jesus!” Kowalski said. “I can’t shoot that girl. She’s unarmed.”

  That was all Gayl needed. She howled and leaped at the young trooper, wrapping herself around the man. Her flashing white teeth gnawed at Ski’s throat. Bright red blood gushed from the man, splattering the girl, the floor, and the nearest wall. Gayl rode the trooper on the floor, her teeth tearing at the flesh of his mangled throat.

  Bob Vanderhorn walked to the pair. Knowing they would both die, he placed the muzzle of his .44 against the girl’s head, and pulled the trigger.

  Gayl’s head swelled under the impact of the slug and her brains erupted from the other side of her skull. After that, no one had time to ponder right or wrong. People filled the room. All of them determined to do one thing: Kill those people not committed to the Manitou.

  Dick raised his pistol and shot a boy between the eyes. The slug exited from the back of Glenn’s head, taking with it a fist-size mass of gray matter. Glenn hit the floor without making a sound.

  Larry Rogers stood and watched in horror as the headless wife of Jack Thomas lurched unseeingly toward him. Slowly, he raised his pistol, jacked the hammer back, and put five rounds into the woman’s chest. The slugs knocked the woman down; still, great holes in her chest, she rose to her bare feet and continued toward the trooper.

  Larry stood in numb with shock, not knowing what to do to stop the awful sight lurching toward him. In desperation, he ran to the high windows of the room, ripped down a large velvet drape, and tossed it over the woman; then he tied her into it with the pull cord. The woman lurched about in confusion, banging into walls and knocking over tables. She ran out the front door, a prisoner in velvet. She ran about in the darkness, always on the fringe of the fog-shrouded edge of the time-warp.

  Harry Anderson charged Vickie, a meat cleaver in his hand. He was screaming obscenities at the cop. Vickie raised her short-barreled, .44-caliber Gambler’s Gun and shot the man in the face, the heavy slug entering just below Harvey’s nose and just above the line of his upper lip. The slug blew off the entire left side of his face. He flopped and howled and bubbled on the floor.

  Maryruth sat in a corner of the large room, her arms around Marc and Heather. She did not want the children to see their parents slaughtered. But the sight of Beth and Carla Anderson—the girls had run into the room, leaking blood from their mangled bodies—almost made her faint.

  Father Danjou doused Marc’s sisters with Holy Water. The liquid hit their hideously tortured bodies and angry hissing filled the room as it ate into their flesh. The girls melted into the carpet as the priest prayed for their souls.

  Jerry Baldwin, armed with a double-barreled ten-gauge goose gun, saw Van and Marta running toward Maryruth and the kids. Both teenagers had knives in their hands. Jerry leveled the awesome shotgun and pulled both triggers at once.

  In the closed room, the roar from the twin muzzles were horrendous. Flame shot from the barrels. The recoil almost knocked Jerry off his booted feet.

  His booted feet?

  Jerry looked down. He was once more wearing modern-day shoes. And from the knees down, he was dressed in slacks; the same slacks he’d been wearing before they entered the time warp.

  But no time to ponder that.

  He looked around for Van and Marta. He saw bits and pieces of them splattered all over the far wall of the room. The goose gun, loaded with buckshot, had the same effect on a human body as a Claymore mine.

  The room stank of blood, death, urine, and excrement. Nervous sweat added a sharp, tang to the stench.

  Jack Thomas ran toward Jerry, screaming out his rage and madness. Jerry reversed the shotgun and swung the stock at the man’s head. He misjudged and hit Thomas in the throat. The heavy stock ruptured Jack’s larynx, sealing off all oxygen to his brain. Jack convulsed on the floor, a horrible choking sound erupting from his ruined throat.

  As she grasped Marc and Heather more tightly, holding the kids close to her, Maryruth noticed their manner of dress had begun to change. From their feet to their knees, they were wearing what they’d had on when they’d entered the time-warp.

  “Voyles!” Maryruth yelled. “Look out!”

  Dick turned just in time to avoid taking a slug through the center of his chest. The small-caliber bullet hit him in the upper arm, evoking a grunt of pain from the big highway cop. He leveled his pistol and shot Beth in the stomach just as Bob Vanderhorn fired, his slug hitting Judy in the small of the back and severing her spine. The girls fell to the floor, dead and dying.

  Claire suddenly stepped into the room, her stone knife in her hand, a savage expression on her face.

  “My God!” Bob said. “That’s the schoolteacher, Claire Bolling . . . I think.”

  Captain Rogers shot the woman in the neck, almost tearing her head from her shoulders. He failed to see Scott run into the room, his flapping skin giving him the appearance of a large ugly bird attempting takeoff.

  Scott grabbed the captain by the neck, the strength in his hands supernatural.

  Father Danjou hurled a vial of Holy Water at the tortured man. The water hissed and bubbled when it struck his flesh. Immediately, he released Larry and ran about the room, screaming in anguish. A flap of skin caught on the corner of a coffee table and peeled off one side of the man exposing raw meat from shoulder to ankle.

  As Scott ran past Jerry, the doctor once more swung the long shotgun, the stock hitting the man flush in the face. Blood and mucus gushed from Scott’s ruined face; the whiteness of jawbone was exposed. Jerry hit him again, smashing the man’s skull, the crushing sound sickening in the near silence of this death house. Scott fell to the floor, dying for the second time in his young life.

  The house and the grounds surrounding it became strangely silent.

  “It’s over,” Larry said, rubbing his sore throat.

  “Not quite” Father Danjou said. He looked down at h
is monk’s robe. From the waist down he was wearing black trousers.

  Everyone in the room was oddly dressed; part of their attire was of the 1880s, the remainder that of the 1980s.

  “There is still the Manitou,” Janet said.

  They all sensed more than felt the initial upheaval of protest. A low rumble was accompanied by a faint trembling of the earth.

  “What the hell? . . .” Bob muttered.

  On the side of the house that faced the small levee along the Mississippi River, the ground fog and mist that had covered the estate grounds was suddenly sucked into the earth, leaving a clear path about fifteen feet wide and several hundred yards long.

  Sanjaman, the Manitou, was clearly visible in the center of the dark patch, starkly outlined against the whiteness of the fog around it.

  He stood, calmly facing those in the house who were watching him. His smile was ugly but, somehow, strangely mocking. He stood naked and alone, all those who had served him, dead.

  All but one.

  “I will not die,” his voice rumbled to the time-travelers. “No mortal can kill me, and neither can your God. For we do not recognize each other. He has, for some reason I do not yet understand, intervened in this matter. But I will return, and you will pay for your interference. I promise you an agony ten thousand times more intense than the pits of your Hell. Sanjaman promises. You will all pay.”

  He began laughing as the earth opened beneath his bare feet. Sanjaman raised his clenched fists high above his head as a yawning fissure swallowed the ancient God.

  The house trembled and rocked on its foundations. The people inside were flung about by the small earthquake which did its work and then settled down, the plates deep inside the earth once more stable.

  They all heard Sanjaman screaming his rage at them as the cleft closed.

  And the headless apparition that had been Rosanna stepped out of the time-warp, back into the 1980s.

  12