"I know you. Don't I? Well, don't I?"
A laugh, thin and screechy: "In a manner of speaking."
"What the hell is this? What's going on here?"
Jason spoke again. "You should feel honored, Jake. You have been summoned here because this night is sacred to the ancient ones."
"Who?"
"An tribe of Native Americans who were once called the Horse People. They are no more, unfortunately."
Jake blinked, not sure if he should laugh or run away. "Is that so. Sacred, you say?"
"Yes, sacred. And you, Jake, will now become an offering. You see, this event had to occur somewhere outside of town for the sake of... delicacy, shall we say. The element of surprise is essential to our plans, yet there are certain initial rituals we are commanded to perform."
"Okay, that's it. Good-fucking-bye, friend," Jake said.
He kept the gun pointed at ugly little Jason Smith and began to back away from the fire. That's when he saw It step from behind a pile of rocks. The boogey-man.
It was huge, shaggy and filthy; so deformed and nightmarish his initial impulse was to laugh. Count 'em folks, he giggled. How many arms? Legs? Can you shoot a thing like that? Hell, I wouldn't know where to start. Like which brain, for Chrissake. Hah-hah. And which heart — does it even have a fuckin' heart?
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Jake thought. This was the cause of that terrible stink. But —
The first blow broke his neck and nearly severed his head from his body. Mercifully, he felt no pain. It broke off his arms, one by one. What happened next was unspeakable.
26
THE VAMPER
Night brought blessed relief, savage appetites and obscene promises. Where there had never been lust, there was suddenly lust beyond measure. The teacher had come, taught and shared until the student ached with impatience, begging to be taken.
It was pointless to resist. Why deny the glory of that sacred, melting moment? The raw explosion of merging together; when hearing sharpened, nostrils flared and sight, smell and sound became one. All creation viewed from a new within: Through dark eyes, shadow eyes. Where blackness meant home and safety. That and much, much more — the pulse of rich, warm blood abounding.
The student woke. Craved, but did not yet comprehend.
Teacher?
It matters not, Jason said.
What matters not?
Any question you may ponder. From this night forward, cease to learn and begin to unlearn. Hear me: Self Is All. Create, from moment to moment, as a god.
It's time?
Yes. Go now. You may hunt alone, or with another of your kind. As you wish.
Should I leave here?
It matters not.
But if I stay —
Hear me: Self Is All. Do both. Choose to be seen, if need be, where your body is expected to lie resting. You are the hunter.
And your word?
I shall keep it. Here is my goodbye present, to welcome you to evil.
And Jason did place the thirst upon his student for all eternity. He caused that thirst to strike deep, be harsh and demanding, grow more unbearable by the second.
Then flew away.
The student left a version of its body behind and slipped quietly into the night, followed the fresh spoor of prey. Instinct lent stealth and cunning. Its movements were barely noticeable; escaping even the wide, orange eyes of an owl perched in the skeletal branches of a nearby tree. Excitement, anticipation. The creature felt reborn.
Thirsty.
There came a faint crackle: Brittle leaves, breaking beneath tiny paws. The hunter crouched and sniffed. The rabbit knew and trembled. Two seconds, frozen solid as a block of ice.
Brush exploded. The tiny animal, screeching high and shrill, made a try for the safety of its warren. It ran hard, hoping to cross the field and reach the jagged rocks beyond.
Suddenly the hunter was not only behind, but also up ahead. Blocking the way, cold eyes glittering. The rabbit howled and cut sharp corners, evasion its only means of defense. It dashed to and fro, never breaking stride, yet somehow wound up facing death no matter where it turned. Dim flare of intelligence: Something was not right. The eyes saw, but the nose did not smell, several of the enemy. Which were false?
Floppy ears twitched and sought information as the little ball of fur continued to race along at top speed, squealing like a baby, and —
Weight, impossible weight.
Arms clutched, squeezed, crushed the helpless animal. Ribs broke, and so did the spirit. It lay still, resigned.
The hunter, ironically, was now at a loss for what to do. She tried fingernails, sticks, and even the jagged point of a sharp rock before finally chewing the rabbit's neck open with her blunt, cruel teeth.
A ripping sound, a spray of blood. A whimpering, bestial and greedy. Mindless slurping and swallowing as the hunter drank for the very first time.
Once the initial urgency had abated, the hunter sat back on her haunches. She wiped her lips and made a face at the moon. The taste was not at all the way it had been in her dreams. Real blood was thick, flat and sour — pretty awful, in fact. But it was done, and she would drink. That was the price.
Now I can walk the night forever, she thought. I'm a queen. I've got the power of illusion. I can just go on and on for as long as I want to, without even catching a cold. Never getting a sunburn, either — ever again.
I can't get sick anymore, she giggled silently. Not unless I puke the blood.
But the real surprise had been the incredible high of making the kill. Julie Baxter smiled and touched her sticky fingers to her front teeth. Would they eventually grow longer and get sharper, or just stay the same?
It didn't matter.
Julie tugged the last small, fuzzy leg from its socket and examined it. Raw meat was good. It satisfied.
She continued feeding.
27
TWO TREES
Shhhhh…Hear it writhe, hear it grunt and snuffle? It lives beneath the tiny town, and now it is fully awake again after generations of slumber. And all this occurred, too, as the thing called Orunde worked dark magic…
Sheriff Glenn Bates swam in an ocean of sweat, clawed by his nightmare of war. Horrified, but unwilling to part with it; awake, yet still dreaming…
...Gladys the telephone operator sipped white wine with her daffy friend Edith Evans, patiently listening for the fiftieth time to an explanation of how to read Tarot cards…
...Grocer Anthony Martoni moaned in his sleep. The photograph of his wife came to life again. She made love to him, her hips pumping like a young woman's. Martoni wouldn't have known the meaning of the word Succubus if he'd heard it — nor cared, nor chosen to stop the dream…
...Old Louise Polson stared up at the ceiling and searched for a way to recover her lost spiritual faith…
...Fred Langstrom began painting like a lunatic. He worked on through the night with no thought of food, drink or rest…
...Teacher Candace Stone slipped out of bed and walked barefoot down the hall and into the kitchen. She had to get away from Bert, the man who slept beside her, for his sake as much as her own…
...Far from Two Trees, in a national park, Robert Reiss woke up worried about his children. The young minister felt a crushing burden fall upon him. It brought tears to his eyes, anguish to his soul. Something was going sour, piling up everywhere, like poorly stored poison gas just waiting to explode. Robert had a difficult time getting back to sleep, despite a lengthy period of prayer…
...No one who lived in the heart of Two Trees chose that exact moment to step outside. If they had, they might have noticed the slim, ugly little man walking down Main Street in the wind. He had his hands behind his back and he was whistling. Peter saw him, could not help but see him. He sat up straight in his chair at the cabin and skulled Jason, watched him stroll across the fireplace screen like a blurred reflection from a color television set. A tiny man; arrogant, cruel and reeking of evil…Who is that? Where
is he?
The spectre dissolved, but the whistling sound remained a moment longer as if to taunt him. Rourke frowned and shook himself, trying to clear his head.
28
MAGGIE
Maggie heard the keening whistle at Agatha's house, but it seemed tuneless. She assumed it was only the wind. She began to draw a bath, and then sat for a while on the edge of the tub thinking about Peter Rourke. She imagined his face, all kindness and weary intelligence. It was hard to picture him fooling around with drugs. He had such nice auburn hair. Sad eyes, too. Clear yet deep and melancholy.
She wondered: Am I falling in love?
More wind, half-human. Maggie shuddered, left the bathroom and went over to the ancient record player in the den. It was definitely time for some music. She felt a strange bitter cold bite deep into her flesh; the chill of the dead, wafting up from boot hill. She walked through the old house, flicking on the lights, and returned to the bookshelf nearest the record player. Nothing but old 45s.
Tommy Dorsey, Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra. How stimulating. Her fingers raced through the dust to nab a cover that had caught her eye. How bizarre, Agatha.
Maggie giggled, blinked and looked again. Wow, she thought, this is a whole lot more than something to pass the time. It was songs from an album produced by Peter Rourke: "SOUR CANDY." She'd heard the hit single but knew little else about the group. Rourke must have sent it. She supposed he'd had an acetate, or old-fashioned disc, made as a present to Agatha.
If Maggie had made a wish just moments ago, it wouldn't have been for much more: A kick-ass record, a quiet night and a chance to peek inside an attractive man's head. She put the record on the turntable, her eyes dancing. This would be fun. Perhaps she'd learn something about Peter from his work in the studio.
Her bath was ready. The aggressive opening vamp to the long version of "Devil's Reign" was in full swing as Maggie dropped her robe and slid down into the tub.
Odd. The music now seemed violent, not at all like the person she knew as Peter Rourke. It sucked her in and blurred reality. Her skin broke out in little furry bumps.
"6-6-6 hundred years of pain
First the thunder and the lightnin'
Then the Devil's Reign..."
The piece terrified her. Maggie felt as if she'd entered the mind of a borderline psychopath. A man was slowly losing control of his sanity. The verses had never seemed this intense before, so drenched with morbid humor. She almost laughed.
The water had turned cold. Maggie sighed and rubbed her arms. She added more hot water to the bath and settled back with her eyes closed. Dumb, she scolded herself. Go for a walk in a graveyard, come home alone to a house that's still strange to you and then listen to an album like that? Dumb!
Peter was good. Too good. Maggie figured she'd best think about something else.
She scrubbed herself. The music was still blasting in the living room. The machine must have played one side of the record a dozen times by now, she thought. But I don't remember hearing a note after that first song.
Maggie stepped out of the tub and dried herself with a large green towel. She began to brush her hair.
A long look out the window. These nights were too damn weird for her taste. Nothing moved. Nothing dared. It seemed so cold and empty, so... dead. She wished she could hold a man. She felt a wave of shame pass over her. She remembered the endless discussions with her therapist about the molestation. That it was never the fault of the child. That the adult was always to blame, but often the poor kid carried the burden for a lifetime. She soothed herself.
Off with the record player and most of the lights. Maggie jumped into bed like a cranky little girl. She turned over on her side, finally feeling warm and safe, and dropped into a deep sleep.
Hours? Minutes? Maggie opened her eyes, blind in the eerie black, her pulse racing. Something is in the house. [go back to sleep, you're dreaming] No. Something is in the house. [agatha?] Something. No. Stop this — it's childish. The door is locked. Hardly anyone lives here, much less stops here. No one is in this house.
Click.
Maggie slipped out of bed onto her knees and pressed her back against the bedroom wall. She peered up over the edge of Agatha's thick quilt at the dark nothingness.
She thought she heard a whisper of fabric. The door, sliding over the worn carpet? Opening? Oh God, it's opening!
Hinges whined and the latch clicked. The door closed behind something cautious, silent. Had Maggie not already been awake and frightened half out of her wits, she might have slept right through it.
She imagined that strange man Tony waiting in the hall with an ax. She saw Glenn Bates, the big sheriff, and fancied she could smell bourbon on his breath. She wondered which one had come to rape her…or worse. Not without a fight then, goddamn it. Not this time.
Maggie crawled to the foot of the bed, trying to decide if she could make it to the kitchen. She kept her sanity, but felt four years old and lost. She inched forward on her knees and elbows, fighting to control her panic. Paused in the doorway, listening.
Something was near the living room sofa. Maggie slid into the kitchen, amazed to find herself wishing that she'd worn more clothing to bed. She hated the idea of her body being found in panties.
A metallic sound she didn't recognize. A knife? A gun?
Maggie let her fingers feel their way along the front of the cabinet near the sink until she found the correct drawer. She slid it open, groping with her right hand. Her fingers closed around the handle of a huge meat cleaver. Now, at least, she could put up some kind of fight.
The cleaver made a slight clattering sound as she removed it from its resting place. Someone responded in the living room by shifting position. Maggie listened again. There... Feet across the carpet. Bare feet? Yes. Socks, no shoes. Being quiet on purpose.
She retreated to the back door and located the lock. Maggie paused. Whoever was in the other room had heard her by now, knew she was up and moving around, yet appeared content to hold back. What if there was a second man outside? She imagined a crashing, pell-mell, half-nude flight into the gloom; rocks cutting her feet, brush whipping her flesh to ribbons. Then, perhaps, two arms reaching out to snare her.
She'd keep her back to the wall and wait.
Maggie suddenly felt calm. She knew she had probably gone into shock, but she was grateful for any kind of release from the crawling horror. She tried to envision the large cleaver hacking into a human body. How would it feel? Could she do it? Yes, she thought, I can do it. Just like chopping up a steak. It's only meat. You come at me and you're dead, motherfucker.
[what if it's not flesh?]
Stop that!
Goosebumps: What if some rotting thing had followed her home from the graveyard? A being all twisted and stinking and filthy, right out of her nightmares? Maggie's mind struggled for balance. It's just association, she told herself, that's all. You heard that song and now your imagination is feeding pictures back at you. It had to pick a lock and turn the door knob. That's solid enough.
CRASH!
Something sailed into the kitchen, bounced off the icebox and struck the floor. Maggie stifled a shriek. No! Don't let it know where you are, that's what it wants. Be still.
The object rolled over and came to rest at her feet. Maggie jumped and banged her head against the door. She reached for it, then jerked her hand away. She made herself try again, but she was too afraid to touch it. She kicked out with her foot. The thing hopped away. It sounded as if it had landed on the little orange throw rug near the sink.
Her calm began to dissolve, terror returned. Our Father, Who art in Heaven... What if it was Peter? What if he really was a maniac, and he'd come to...
Maggie began to whimper. That's when she heard the footsteps crossing the carpet, moving in her direction.
Someone turned on the lights.
Half blind and dazed, Maggie could only focus on the barrel of the gun. It was pointed at her head. It seemed huge, as empt
y as the mouth of a killer shark. Then she saw the outline of a man, his body in perfect shooting stance, both hands clasping the pistol, arms extended, feet slightly apart. She threw the meat cleaver in his direction, but he stepped aside with ease. Broken, Maggie fell apart. She began to cry.
The man lowered his gun.
Maggie suddenly took it all in. The object by the sink, the thing that had struck her foot, was a tennis shoe. The man in the doorway was speaking, walking towards her. Apologizing.
It was Michael.
"Jesus, sis," he gasped. "I'm sorry. I was scared shitless!"
It took fifteen minutes for Maggie to complete her first rational sentence, a well-constructed string of insults and curses directed at her beloved brother.
While outside, in the night: Vargas slapped the grass with his palm in rage and frustration. He silently melted away to become a different kind of dark.
Some other time, bitch…
29
SPATS
That same, wicked night…
The curious snake slithered out from beneath a flat rock to observe the huge life form slumbering nearby. Spats Rafferty pursed his lips to dislodge an insect. He rolled over and slept again. He was not aware that it was still night, or that he was lying only a few feet from the path leading to the cemetery.
Later, Spats woke up and brushed the clinging sand from his creased, bronzed face. He located his bottle of wine and drained it. The sun had fallen deep into the mountains, and it was pitch black. The moon was hiding behind a thick blanket of storm clouds. Spats cowered. He did not like to be alone late at night, especially sober.
When he groped around, his knuckles rapped the picket fence behind him. Jesus, the graveyard! His hackles rose and he jumped to his feet. Far in the distance a lone coyote started howling.
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