"You will."
Edith cleaned the coffee table. She reminded Gladys of a preying mantis: body hunched over, skinny arms and bony fingers hanging. Her nails rapped and scraped the wood. This must really be an occasion, Gladys thought. Edith is wearing her very best black dress.
Gladys eased her obese body deeper down into the cushions of the old plaid couch. She eyed the bare, spartan living room. By day, all polished oak and patterned lace; gay antiques, rainbow curtains. But at night, with the candles lit, with the Ouija board in place…
Thunder.
Gladys jumped, fluttering her hands. Easy does it, that's only rain. Lord knows we could use a little rain around here. Nothing is going to grow without it.
Edith finished. She sat primly, her wide eyes glittering. "There we are," she said. "All set. Oh, would you like some tea before we begin?"
"I'd love some," Gladys replied, stalling for time. I'm a lonely old woman, she thought. When did I become so lonely, so old? Why am I spending this strange night with another old woman who believes in ghosts? Because there's nothing better to do, I guess. Still, sometimes I feel sorry for the both of us.
They sipped their tea. Flickering forms danced the wallpaper. Edith broke the peace. "Tonight," she intoned, "I believe we should hold a seance."
Wonderful.
"Couldn't we just play cards?"
"Hush," Edith said, taking Gladys by the hand. "Don't be frightened. Spirits are nothing to be afraid of. Not if you understand them and talk to them. They like someone to talk to, just as much as you and I."
More thunder. Rain struck the windowpane like oily bullets. Gladys gulped her tea. "Biscuit?"
"I believe I will."
Gladys watched Edith butter a roll. Her wrinkled face seemed somehow girlish as she prepared to take a bite. I feel strange. What is wrong with me? Things looked funny, blurry. All distorted. Edith chewed her biscuit. One end opened and snarled at Gladys: A yawning, pasty-white mouth drooling butter.
"Oops," Edith giggled, wiping her chin.
"There's a station in Reno that stays on the air until late," Gladys croaked. "It's running a Doris Day movie tonight."
Edith loved Doris Day. Now, there was a temptation to rival buttered biscuits. She smiled. "Then we'll stop early and watch. Is Tony Randall in this one?"
"I think so," Gladys said. She was barely able to disguise her disappointment.
Edith began to clear the table. Gladys sighed and shifted her bulk on the couch. At least she wouldn't have to go home right after being scared. She'd stay and watch the movie, then pretend that the rest of the evening had been a bad dream.
What is so fascinating about terror, anyhow? Why do we stand in line for hours just to see a scary movie, when we know we won't be able to sleep all night because of it? People are odd, Gladys reflected. Including me. Here I am, actually starting to look forward to this.
"I wonder why," she said aloud.
"Why what?" asked Edith. Her figure dim but visible in the doorway: Black on black.
"Nothing. Ready when you are."
Edith moved slowly through the candlelight, like a spider in a corner tracking food.
6
VARGAS
Corridors/Passages/Fugue state:
Anthony Vargas seemed to be floating through tall, thick wooden doors and into a large room full of red furniture and squirming dark. He was present, yet not present. He raised one arm and found he could see right through it, straight on down to the scuffed floor perhaps a yard below his transparent feet.
A rancid odor, a belch of flame. Smoke fingers in a fist, digits fanning out and opening. Jason Smith appeared and stepped down from the massive palm. He addressed Vargas in that many/voice, the one that hurt the ears; bored in and burrowed deep.
"The Night of the Beast is upon us," he crowed. "We who prepare the way have unhinged the dreaded Gate to Hell. Once we have caused a precise number of deaths to occur in sequence, He shall be free!"
Jason began to pace. "Mark me well," he said. "Every human here has been summoned to this place, and each for a sacred reason. There is magnificence, Vargas. Design. Do you understand?"
Fervent grunts, tears of joy.
Jason stole his sight, sealed his vision. Said: "See?" [and Vargas did behold a man, a house, the other man. this and more: that woman, the thing!] and he howled like a wolf as he was given back his eyes.
"I understand. Oh, thank you."
"Kill only the men I have ordered you to kill, no others. And when this is done, leave immediately. Come directly back to me."
Assent.
"Go now."
Vargas could feel himself returning to his body. The tiny warlock pointed a crooked, dirty finger at his vanishing form.
"Vargas... Do not fail. The penalty would be unspeakable."
Jason kept his mind locked, his concentration fixed. He heightened the intensity, and the evil net tightened. More humans strangled spiritually; felt primordial, unspeakable terror rise up like ripe sewage and begin to seep through their consciousness…and sensed the presence of death.
7
THE POLSONS
Hi Polson flushed the toilet, checked the bathroom cabinets one last time and turned out the lights. He cursed the turbulent storm raging outside the hotel, a threat he and Louise would have to pass through in order to reach safety. Their suitcases and boxes were already in the pickup, strapped down with clothesline, and the gas tank was full. Hi walked into the naked living room.
"Hurry," Louise said. She was white with fear, her fingers continuously tapping the rubber wheels of her chair. Hi pushed her through the door. He gently guided her down the steps, through the lobby, and out into the night. The elements had gone mad.
After a few false starts, Hiram was able to maneuver Louise onto the specially designed electric lift below the passenger door. He ran around to the driver's side, started the truck and pressed the lever. Louise drifted up from the murky black. Hi pulled her body onto the front seat, returned to fold the chair, then slammed and locked the door. They drove away from the hotel they had owned for more than forty years.
Hi could barely see ten feet in front of the vehicle. Dust swirled, scratched and scraped the paint. Wind buffeted the pickup to and fro. He gripped the wheel tightly, swearing, fighting to maintain control. Louise began to read her Bible aloud by flashlight.
Louise and Hiram Polson left Two Trees behind them. They were heading north. Abruptly, the weather cleared. Open highway stretched out before them, beckoning. Hiram breathed a sigh of relief.
The engine started to whine. It was straining, like the truck had been chained to the town. Hi floored the gas pedal. Some invisible force was tugging at them from behind, refusing to let go. Louise continued to pray.
They broke free and sped away.
Louise thanked God, but Hiram knew that the engine was now badly overheated. Perhaps a broken hose, or a crack in the radiator. He had an uneasy feeling they were being toyed with. He slowed, wondering silently how long they had before the loss of water would force him to stop and allow things to cool down.
Steam, hissing. Clattering and clanging.
Hi pulled over. He was sweating, growing anxious. "We'll have to wait here for a minute," he said.
Hiram couldn't help himself. He began flicking the headlights on and off every few minutes, just to have a reassuring look around. Before too long he realized that he might be weakening the battery, so he and Louise sat quietly in the eerie dark, not even daring to whisper. Hours and days crept by. It was pure torture. Finally, they could wait no longer.
Hi started the engine and turned on the lights.
Louise screamed. Hi joined her.
A squirming brown carpet now covered the road and stretched in every direction. It surrounded the truck, constantly in motion. Something landed on the roof and bounced off again. Small, tan rocks began sliding down the windshield. They crawled across the hood as if searching for a way inside.
Tarantulas. Thousands of them.
Hi shrank back in disgust and disbelief. Arachnids often came out onto the scorched blacktop after nightfall seeking warmth, but he had never heard of a horror such as this. The bastards were everywhere — mandibles clacking, furry legs clutching for purchase.
They were attacking the pickup, an entire army of them. He shifted into drive and moved forward.
The crunching sounds were sickening.
The crazed, suicidal tarantulas gradually managed to work their way up and into the body of the vehicle in numbers sufficient to jam the belts. Hiram heard his truck sputter and whimper. It ground to a halt again. More and more of the hairy insects propelled themselves at the vehicle with all of their might. Soon the racket was deafening; every window covered with writhing legs and fat, round bodies.
All things considered, Hiram Polson comported himself rather well. He kept it all together, despite his gibbering fear; that intense revulsion he'd carried his entire life, for bugs. Until something bit his leg. Hi shrieked, kicked and squashed the maddened thing against the floor mat.
"Spiders! Jesus Christ, spiders!"
Frantic, he began trying to close the air vents. It was impossible. Yet, they were all jammed — open. Louise was crying, praying for salvation, but she knew in her heart it was hopeless. So did her husband. The unthinkable had happened. His worst phobia had come to torment him, and Louise could do nothing to assist.
They fought for as long as they could. Hiram killed many of the invaders. But the relentless horde just kept on coming, wave after terrible wave.
Screaming, crying. Snapping... Bleeding.
Mercifully, Hiram suffered a massive coronary. He groaned, clutched his chest and dropped into a deep state of shock. Tarantulas covered him in moments, chewing and squeaking. Louise looked away from the terrible sight. It was her turn. She saw her first husband, William, standing in the glare of the headlights. He was grinning, motioning for her to join him. He spoke, the words hissing past rotting teeth.
"Come touch me, Louise. Touch me."
No, she thought. You will not have us. Not Hiram, not me. Never.
Louise brushed a spider from the cover of her Bible. She closed her eyes, whispered one final prayer...And opened the door.
8
JASON
He stood on the railroad trestle, directly above the skull and cross-bones Rourke had painted as a boy. He raised his stubby arms, laughing. A snarl of yellowed teeth, some guttural words in an inhuman language. He took a rusty nail and scrawled symbols on his bloodied skin. The sky roared approval. The weather answered his command. Hot needles of rain poured down from the bleak, grey sky. So I'm mad, am I? Hahahhuaaahahahuha!
"Lord of Flies," Jason cried, "I consecrate this ground unto thee! They are prepared for thy coming. I have made thee welcome!"
Thunder rumbled.
He looked down. The dim street lamps showed pulsating jets of water and whirling dust devils, tiny tornadoes skipping down the street. Sage crackled with electricity and smacked into houses. Tall trees bent, groaning under pressure.
A snap, like ribs breaking. Lightning flashed and left a huge, ragged scar on God's belly. Two Trees blinked black, then white. The town went patchy amber: Sticks in a dying fire. Lights flickered and power returned. Jason crowed like a bantam rooster. So I'm mad, am I? Well, look and see what madness has achieved!
"Lord of Flies," he called. "Come to the feast. Walk among your children! The pattern is nearly complete!"
9
VARGAS & CHALMERS
Storm raging, blood demanding blood.
The assassin drove a block with the lights off, then parked and got out of his car. He felt eager, excited. He wondered if he'd be able to restrain his lust when it came time to take her. Naturally it was a privilege just to be of service, to perform any task for The Beast, but this assignment was special. He'd been promised a reward for his efforts.
"When your work is through," Jason had said, "then you shall own the girl, Maggie Moore. You may do whatever you like with her. To her."
[the thing]
It had only been a few days, yet it seemed like an eternity since Vargas had been permitted to please himself. He had howled when Jason first revealed that lush young body — showed him the taut curves, pink flesh and strong legs; exposed every detail of her most sensitive and private places. The sight had driven Vargas wild, maddened him with a desire to do sexual violence. Maggie set his loins ablaze with twisted fantasy. He'd wanted her for a long time, and now he would have her. He would take things easy, too. Go slower than he'd ever gone before. Make it last.
Vargas walked down the dark, empty street, gravel crunching beneath his shoes. There were only a handful of functional street lamps; he easily avoided them. The storm was approaching rapidly. Right above us pretty soon, he thought. Lots of noise, lots of cover. Good: In and out, clean as a whistle, with no hassle. Wham, bam.
And after the fucking songwriter and his buddy…Maggie, the woman.
He stopped by the darkened casino. A disquieting feeling swept over him. This town was weird. There were so few lights on. Empty houses, no people on the sidewalks, and it wasn't even all that late.
[night of the beast]
Vargas shook his head. He tried to clear his mind. He had to do exactly as he'd been instructed, and make no mistakes. Jason had demanded flawless execution. Execution. Funny choice of words.
He slipped on the pavement. There was a large crack in the cement, possibly decades old, that no one had bothered to repair.
A ghost town... [the thing] This was like that time, years ago, when he had trailed the stunning teenage girl through a crowded amusement park. Vargas smiled. He had been so inexperienced, so clumsy. He'd killed only once before that day, taken his first sweet princess. This girl would be the second. He'd been so tense and nervous he'd nearly lost her in the teeming throng of tourists. But churning need and red urges had directed him somehow, and he had finally managed to isolate her.
There, in the ghost town.
It had been a mother of an orgasm, perfectly built, arriving just as he'd yanked hard on the wire around her dainty neck. The body had remained undiscovered for more than a week, until the park finally investigated numerous complaints of a stench coming from somewhere in the saloon.
Vargas felt his hair stiffen with static. The downpour would most likely begin within minutes. He walked on, choosing the stability of the street over the crumbling sidewalk. He was searching for the hotel, for Chalmers.
There.
The lobby was deserted, with only one desk lamp burning. Vargas crossed the threadbare carpet, avoided a huge potted cactus and moved gracefully up the stairs. He found the right number and knocked.
The door opened. Inside, Chalmers lowered his pistol with a stoned, lazy smile. Vargas entered the room. He motioned for Chalmers to leave the lights low.
"He still here?"
Chalmers nodded and replaced the gun in his belt. "We got him, Tony. You say the word, he's dead meat."
Vargas closed the door. "Don't be an idiot," he snarled. "We haven't got him until he's buried. This is important, Chalmers. Very. Whatever you do, don't get cocky."
They walked over to the window and looked out. A reading lamp was glowing in the Sheriff's office, burning slim laser yardsticks through the slats of his closed wooden blinds. But that building stood alone, off in a long row of dark, abandoned houses. Only a few other lights were on, and those more than halfway down the block and to the south. The town seemed deserted.
Chalmers grinned. "The fucking town is a morgue," he said. "It's all perfect."
Vargas grunted and studied the terrain.
"Well, ain't it?"
"Sure. Perfect."
Vargas spun and grabbed Chalmers by the neck. He twisted the collar of the bigger man's shirt. His grip was powerful. "Damn it," he whispered, "I got to get this through to you. We don't know a thing about these dudes, man. They might be good, maybe even r
eal good. So don't underestimate them. If you do you'll make me nervous, and I'll end up all pissed off."
He let go. Chalmers, face white with fear, backed away.
"Sure, I get you, Tony. You made your point."
"Fine."
Vargas stared outside, at the night, as if he had nothing but time on his hands. He considered the options. Chalmers cleared his throat, spoke gently. "How long you wanna wait?"
"I already know all about the house," Vargas replied. "I've been inside. Let me fill you in, and then we'll put our ears back and go get him."
10
GLADYS & EDITH
The lights went out. Gladys gasped and clutched her immense chest. The gloom made her feel trapped. She would have sworn in court that the walls were starting to move closer together.
"Oh, damn!" Edith spat.
They sat in the darkness, waiting.
Gladys found it difficult to speak. Her mouth was dry, her body damp. "I'm awful scared," she said. She wheezed and swallowed: Taste, and points of pain, like thumbtacks.
"There's nothing to be frightened of, dear," ventured Edith. The tremor in her voice gave her away. She could feel it too, dense and sticky — something unholy, penetrating and sniffing the air.
The lights returned to normal. Gladys didn't. "I don't want to do this anymore," she said. "Let's just watch the movie."
Edith's face darkened. "We can't stop now! We haven't learned what's going to happen yet. How about a compromise. We'll have more tea, first."
"That's not a compromise," Gladys whispered. "That's you getting your way. Listen, I mean it. I don't think I can go on."
Edith got up. She lurched off into the kitchen to boil water. "That's nonsense, Gladys. Have courage. Why, I even heard a spirit speaking to me."
Gladys sat back on the couch.
Everything seemed so distorted. She began to lecture herself: Gladys, you're just losing track of what's real, that's all. Calm down. Stop taking this seriously. It's just power lines blowing in the wind. There's no sense in losing your head over a simple thing like that, now, is there? Certainly not.
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