by Rick Hautala
“Now, the first thing I want you to do” — as the man spoke, he slowly withdrew his hand from behind his back-”is sit right there. Don’t you even think of moving a muscle, all right?”
Henry couldn’t believe what he saw. The man wasn’t holding candles. No, not at all! Only after several seconds did Henry realize what the object was; at first, he was simply entranced by the five flickering points of light. A numbingly cold rush coursed through his body, instantly freezing his muscles, when he saw that the man was holding a black, twisted-looking thing that sure as shit looked like a withered human hand, cut off halfway between the wrist and elbow. A little spur of bone protruded from the bottom, glowing like dull metal; the fingers curled like a claw, and on the tip of the thumb and of each finger, a tongue of flame flickered softly. Each burned with an oily blue core, like the flame of a gas stove.
“Wha — ?” Henry said aloud, even though it took a great effort to move his jaw. “What the ... fuckin’ hell — ?”
The light from the five fingertip candles underlit the intruder’s face, but Henry was damned if he recognized the man, who was holding the hand off to one side so that only half of his face was illuminated. The other half was cast into deep shadow.
“Scratch your head,” the man commanded.
“Huh — ?” Henry said, even as he tried to raise his own hand. He was shocked to discover that he couldn’t budge it-not an inch. It was as if his hand had been Super-glued to his pants. Henry tried harder, but the effort only made sweat break out on his forehead. His whole body shook with a deep, useless tremor. He stopped trying once he realized that he was immobile and that any struggle was useless. Chilling fear rippled through him even as his leg and back muscles seized up.
“What the fuck’d — you do — to me?” Henry wailed, only slightly grateful that he could still move his mouth to speak.
As the man waved the horrible candles in a wide are, the flames made soft little puffing sounds in the draft. He brought the light so close to Henry’s face that he could feel the shimmering waves of heat it gave off. The cloying stench of burning flesh filled Henry’s nose. If he had had control of his neck muscles, he would have turned away and gagged. As it was, his revulsion merely twisted like heavy, black smoke in his mind.
“I have ... control over you,” the man said, lowering his voice to a deep, thundering boom. “It’s that simple.” He turned and walked out the mudroom doorway, returning a moment later with a rusted five-gallon gasoline can in one hand, the flaming human hand in the other.
“What ... are ... you ... “ Henry said. Each word felt as though it were being pried out of his mouth with a crowbar. Strong, frigid hands were squeezing up his jaws, and every effort to move his muscles sent blades of pain slicing through his body.
“You must recognize this,” the man said. To help Henry see, he raised the horrible five-pointed candle to illuminate the can he was holding. “This is a gasoline can.” He gave the can a quick shake and smiled at the heavy sloshing sound it made. “Sounds just about full, too.”
“... I ...” Henry began, but then he gave up the effort of trying to speak as his neck muscles contracted into painfully hard knots.
“I’m just going to open the can,” the man said, “and-oops! I seemed to have spilled a little on the floor here. How clumsy of me!”
Henry’s eyes felt cemented in place, but he tried to force them to move so he could see what this madman was doing. He watched, horrified, as the man splashed more than a little gasoline around on the kitchen floor, right up to Henry’s feet. When the can was empty, the man put it down beside the gas stove.
“Now, then, Henry,” he said in a mockingly smooth voice. “I assume your gas stove has a pilot light. “ He raised one of the burner covers and looked inside. .. Ahh, yes — there it is.” Puffing his cheeks, he blew the pilot flame out. Picking up the other burner cover, he did the same, carefully replacing the covers.
Reaching into his coat pocket, he took out a pack of cigarettes and a Bic butane lighter. Placing them carefully on the kitchen table, within easy reach of Henry if he could have moved his hand, the man pointed up to the wall and said, “You can easily see the clock?”
Unable to speak or nod, Henry simply glared hatred and fear at the man. He tried to consider why this was happening to him, if maybe it was some terrible dream from which he would soon wake up, but more than that, he was wondering how this man was doing this. How was he making it so that Henry couldn’t move a finger, couldn’t even speak? It was almost as if, the instant he had seen the five fingers flickering with blue flame, he had begun to lose his strength and will ... as if he had been hypnotized, somehow.
“It’s just about eleven-fifteen,” the man said. “In another fifteen minutes, it’ll be time for Johnny Carson. Do you like to watch Johnny Carson?”
Henry, of course, couldn’t respond. His vision had begun to swim as tears filled his eyes.
“There, there,” the man cooed. “Don’t cry! You’re a grown man, and grown men don’t cry. Besides, if you cry, you won’t be able to see what time it is, now, will you? Do you know what I want you to do, Henry?”
From deep inside his chest, somehow, Henry made a soft gagging sound .
“Oh, I see,” the man said. “You want to know what’s going on. Well, I suppose, since you’ll be dead soon, there’s no harm in telling you. You see, Henry, you pissed me off.” The man jabbed him in the chest with his pointed finger. Surprisingly, Henry didn’t feel a thing. “Do you want to know how you pissed me off?”
He leaned so close to Henry’s face that Henry could feel the warm wash of his breath over his numbed skin. The five points of light danced in the watery spheres of his eyes, waving in and out, leaving long tracers, like comet tails.
“Well — I’ll tell you how. You and your half-assed mutt ... What did you say his name was? Murf? Well, don’t you worry about Murf any more. He’s beyond your — or anyone’s — help now. But you know, Henry, you really pissed me off when you reported finding that body out there in the woods. You know ... Barney Fraser? Well, that created for me” — the man glanced over at the stove for a second —”some problems. Now, you don’t know me, but I’m the kind of man who, when I meet up with an obstacle or a problem, I don’t waste my time worrying or fussing over it. No, I do something about it. And tonight, I’m going to do something about you!”
The strangling sound inside Henry’s chest got a bit louder. The man shook his head and clicked his tongue. “My, you are putting up quite a struggle, but it won’t do you any good. You see, you won’t be able to move until you do what I tell you you’re going to do. Do you understand?”
Tears were running freely down Henry’s cheeks, now, as much for Murf as for himself.
“You see, Henry,” the man said, waving the hand with the burning fingertips in front of Henry’s face, “this gives me power over weak minds such as yours. Control! All I want from you is a simple thing. I just want you to sit here and watch the clock. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? I think even someone as stone stupid as you will be able to remember that. And when it’s eleven-thirty, time for Johnny Carson, I want you to take a cigarette and light it. Easy enough? It doesn’t matter if you don’t smoke. You will ... oh, yes — you will smoke!” He laughed, deep and hollow.
The man moved back over to the stove and, holding the flaming hand well away, twisted all four burner knobs to ON. The kitchen instantly filled with the hissing sound of gas as it poured, unlit, through the gas line and into the kitchen.
The man wrinkled his nose at the smell. “Remember, now, Henry. Don’t disappoint me,” he said as he went quickly to the door. “Keep your eyes on the clock, and in fifteen minutes, sit back, relax ... light up and have a smoke. “
With that, the man, still carrying his five points of light, snapped on the overhead light in the kitchen and ducked out of the house, slamming the kitchen door shut behind him. Henry was left squinting in the suddenly bright kitchen as the sickening
smell of gas got stronger and stronger.
As much as Henry tried to fight the icy grip that held his body captive, he couldn’t take his eyes away from the sweeping red second hand and the slow progression of the minute hand as it moved steadily downward. Sweat stood out like dew on his forehead and cheeks, and spidery lines of moisture ran from his armpits down his sides to his belt. But he couldn’t muster even the slightest movement of his muscles. His mind was raging, roaring, commanding himself to look away, not to watch the clock, and not to think about what he had been told to do! He knew he could resist. It was impossible that this man — whoever the fuck he was! — could have any kind of control over him. It was simply impossible!
But finally, Henry saw that the minute hand was pointing straight down. He felt a warm rush of release in his left hand. His entire arm tingled with burning pins and needles as he flexed the fingers. Totally against his will, he reached for the cigarette pack the man had left on the table, shook out a cigarette, and placed it in the comer of his mouth. His fingers were trembling violently as he grasped the cigarette lighter, put his thumb on the flint striker wheel, and snapped it once, hard.
Henry never heard the scratching sound the lighter made; it was lost in a single, mind-numbing roar, like a cannon going off inside his head. The kitchen and the entire house exploded as the gas-filled house ignited. The gasoline the man had sprinkled on the floor burst into flames, and burning wood, glass, and household items blasted outward. Henry was already dead by the time his body, clothes engulfed in flames, slammed into the kitchen wall. Within seconds, the house was a raging inferno.
NINE
Jonathan’s Hand
1.
Elizabeth’s parents woke up with the blast of the fire hom, and they along with several other people from the neighborhood joined together and watched as the firemen fought the flames. Henry’s old house went up fast, filling the night with loud, crackling sounds and hammering heat. By the time dawn approached, blending the eastern sky from black to sooty gray, the fire was pretty much out. The charred remains of Henry’s body were found in the smoldering ruins, and Elizabeth and Frank watched as the ambulance crew covered what was left of him, placed it on a stretcher and then in the vehicle, and drove away.
The firemen continued to spray water on the embers as investigators began to pick through the ashes. Onlookers were already saying how the fire must have been caused by a gas explosion to flatten the house as it had. Elizabeth and Frank also heard several people say that the fire seemed suspicious, since Henry Bishop would never have been so foolish as to blow himself up like that. Some people conjectured that Henry had been the one to discover the body of Barney Fraser, and wondered aloud if the two events were connected somehow. Elizabeth’s own suspicions deepened when Frank pointed out that Detective Harris had been on the scene throughout the night.
Around seven o’clock, exhausted from the events of the night, Frank drove Elizabeth home. She watched from the front porch as he drove away, strong in her determination never to date him again. With sunlight streaming in her window, she finally got to bed, but sleep didn’t come easily. Other thoughts besides Henry’s horrible death plagued her, keeping sleep at arm’s length, and when she finally drifted off to sleep, it was thin and disturbed.
Elizabeth began having vivid, erotic dreams that replayed her and Frank’s lovemaking on the beach at Bristol Pond, but as they made love again in her sleep, a raging fire was consuming the forest all around Bristol Pond. The dream-night was filled with the thundering roar of flames that slashed like flashing blades against the starry sky, hammering heat making Elizabeth’s dream body feel as though her flesh were burning. Clearly, it was Frank she was making love to in her dreams, but at one point, the features of Frank’s face subtly melted into those of an older man — the rotting, gray-fleshed face of her Uncle Jonathan. She woke up screaming, her body slick with sweat.
For Frank, staying up all night hadn’t been as tough as it had been for Elizabeth; he was used to working all night and then going to sleep early in the morning. But today was different: after such a great time with Elizabeth, the spectre of Henry Bishop’s horrible death — the death of someone he knew and liked — affected him deeply. Worse, Frank couldn’t stop thinking about what he had overheard at the fire ... like the possibility of a connection between Henry’s death and his discovery of Fraser’s body. Unable to sleep, Frank considered calling Elizabeth, but was still tormented by the things he had said — and felt he shouldn’t have said — to her the night before. He had no regrets about what they had done. It was just that when he opened his mouth and tried to explain himself to her, he always seemed to get so flustered’ Their conversation in his car outside her house just before the town fire horn had sounded bothered him the most. He wanted to tell her now that he had never intended to use her for sex or to get information about her husband or for anything else; he wanted to tell her everything before what they had — and what he hoped they would have — slipped away ... forever.
He knew he had told Elizabeth a “little white lie” when he said he was off the case as soon as the detectives had arrived at the cemetery that night. Certainly, he couldn’t investigate it officially ... but because he was unofficially checking into the backgrounds of Douglas Myers as well as Roland Graydon, telling her he “wasn’t involved” was enough of a lie to make him feel a bit uncomfortable. He was angry at himself for even hinting to her that he was concerned for her safety, but the truth was, he was absolutely convinced that the person who had dug up and mutilated her uncle’s body had done this specifically to attack her.
Harris’s words rang in his memory: “You should never ass-u-me anything!”
That afternoon, Frank made a quick detour past Hardy’s Hardware, slowing down just enough so that he could see through the glass front door whether Elizabeth was at the cash register, but she wasn’t, so he drove on.
If Elizabeth really was in any kind of danger, he would warn her once he had some hard evidence, whether Detective Harris was willing to help or not!
2.
He took three steps back from his handiwork. The ritual had been performed according to the ancient custom. The illumination from the flames cast an eerie glow. By using the power of the relic, contact had been made. He would receive the information he desired. Oily smoke and mist resolved into a figure which began to speak ...
3.
The sun was low in the sky as Frank and Norton drove the cruiser out past what was left of Henry Bishop’s house. The area was blocked off, and the firemen and investigators were still sifting through the ashes for evidence of what had caused the fire. Like a finger pointing at the sky, the chimney stuck up through the ruins.
“So, did you get to slam some ham last night?” Norton asked.
Frank shifted his gaze to his partner, hoping his expression communicated his disgust.
Apparently Norton read it as confusion, because he added with a nudge and a wink, “You know — with Elizabeth Myers ... last night. Did you screw her?”
“I don’t see where that’s any of your Goddamned business,” Frank replied, barely able to control his anger. He stepped down hard on the accelerator and sped past the scene of the fire. “And anyway, how the fuck did you even know I took her out last night?”
Norton shrugged. “Someone — I forget who — mentioned they saw the two of you at the fire at Bishop’s house last night. Damn!” He looked over his shoulder as they pulled away and added, almost wistfully, “Wish I’d been here to see it go up.”
“Who?” Frank snarled, slamming on the brakes and making the car swing heavily to one side as the tires left twin, black strips on the asphalt. Trembling with rage, he turned and faced Norton. “Who happened to mention it?”
“I ... I can’t remember,” Norton stammered, once he realized this wasn’t a casual locker-room discussion. “It was — I dunno, either Ed or Chuck. One of ‘em said you were out there with her and you looked kinda ... kinda tight, you kn
ow?”
“I’ll tell you one thing, pardner,” Frank said, jabbing Norton in the chest with his pointed forefinger. “If you or anyone else thinks it’s their business to go talking about what I do or who I’m with off-duty, they’re gonna be bleeding-ass sorry. You think you can remember that?”
“Hey! Come on! Lighten up, will yah?” Norton sputtered. He forced a chuckle entirely devoid of humor. “I was just kidding, for Christ’s sake! I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You damned well better not!” Frank said. He popped the gear shift and stepped on the gas. The cruiser roared to life, leaving behind close to twenty feet of rubber on the road and a thin haze of bad-smelling blue smoke that rose up like ground fog. Frank nervously chewed the inside of his cheek, trying not to imagine how great it would have felt to pound the living shit out of Norton right there on the spot!
Throughout the late afternoon and early evening, there was a marked absence of the usual bantering conversation between Frank and Norton as they cruised around town. They responded to several calls, all of them minor, and the hours passed by slowly until around eleven 0’ clock, when they drove past Oak Grove Cemetery for the fourth time that shift. Because of what had happened out there recently, they had been asked to keep a close eye on the place for anything that looked suspicious.
“What the fuck do you expect to see, anyway?” Norton asked when Frank slowed the cruiser down to about five miles per hour. The hours of no conversation beyond what was required while they worked had made Norton nervous. He sounded tired and irritated — or else scared, Frank thought, maybe from remembering the discovery they had made up there not so long ago.
Frank didn’t bother to look at him, and kept his eyes scanning the gently rising slope and the fringe of woods beyond. Soft moonlight gave the landscape a cold, white glow, as if it were skimmed with frosting. Since the night of that discovery. the cemetery gates had been locked, but Frank knew that wouldn’t stop anyone who was determined enough to cause trouble.
