Sandman

by William W. Johnstone

  And they hated each other.

  “Come morning,” Mark said, “Jenny and Paul will be screaming insults across the hall. But in this case, I’ll take Paul’s side. Jenny is one spoiled little girl.”

  “Between you and me, I agree.” Connie smiled.

  They got in the car and drove back home.

  * * *

  In the hospital, Dottie Cauldman was brushing Jenny’s hair. “Just relax, baby,” she said. “Close your eyes. The sandman is on the way.”

  He sure was.

  “He’ll be here in just a minute, Jenny.”

  Give or take an hour or so.

  “He’s bringing you a present.”

  Uh-huh.

  “It’s something nice.”

  Well . . . ?

  “And when the sandman comes, everything will be all right, you’ll see.”

  Doubtful.

  Across the hall, Paul was wide awake.

  He had spat out the pill, and faked sleep.

  His eyes were open, and a light shone from them. A very unnatural light.

  “Loudmouthed little slut,” Paul whispered, looking toward the room across the hall. “More than your leg will be hurt come morning.”

  A shadow moved in the darkened depths of the hospital room. From the wavy lines of the murk, a voice whispered, “Hey, little mon. You quite the actor, you know?”

  Paul grinned. “Yes, I know.”

  “I tought your sister was gonna be de fust to die?”

  “She was, but I changed my mind. After serious thought, I realized her death would draw too much attention to me.”

  “You good boy. Smart lak me. Now what’s your plan, my mon?”

  “Now we have some fun.”

  “I lak your fun, Paul. We gonna have lots of fun, you and me and Nicole.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You know who you is now, don’ you, Paul?” the shadows whispered the question.

  “Yes. But why?”

  A dark mist moved out of the shadows to hover close to the bed, invisible to anyone who might glance into the room. “Why? Why you his son? You been his son for centuries. You his natural son. You comes back when he sends you back. Me and Nicole now, we his, well, sort of adopted children.”

  “And if I had not met you on the beach?”

  “Way you was goin’, your parents woulda pro’bly put you in some crazy house.”

  “Yes. I see. But after we have our fun, that might not be a bad idea. You see what I’m getting at?”

  “Yeah. You smart boy. I lak dat. But I wonder if you knows de shape you is in ain’t yours?”

  “I suspected as much.”

  “Look at dis.” The voice, low and menacing, was filled with yet-unseen horror.

  Paul cut his eyes and smiled, enjoying the sights that filled the room.

  From out of the mist, a wavy creature slowly took form; it was grotesque, hideous. Its eyes were huge and slanted, its nose was but two dripping holes. Scales covered the upper part of its face, baggy skin, gray and mottled, the lower half. Its teeth were long and needle sharp, but stained yellow and green by filth and scum. And its tongue, forked and long, slithered in and out of a near lipless mouth, blood red and dripping stinking drool.

  Paul stared at the creature.

  “Who is that? Is that me?”

  “In a way. It’s your twin brudder, boy.”

  Paul grinned. “Hi, brother! You want to join the party?”

  The living counterpart of Paul’s evil smiled grotesquely.

  The misty shape that was Mantine shuddered. He had never encountered such evil as the devil-child that lay on the bed before him. If the dead could be frightened, Mantine was experiencing that sensation.

  He stared at Paul, knowing that this was the true child of the Dark One, and he, or It, must be guided and protected for a time.

  “I wish to review my past,” Paul said. It was not phrased as a request; it was an order.

  Paul’s brother slipped back into the darkness of the room.

  “As you wish, Little Master. Look at dis.”

  It was, to Paul, like looking at a TV screen; but more than that. He experienced the sensation of going through the screen of life and death, of becoming a feeling part of it.

  And he knew he was in a part of Hell.

  Burning flesh and wailing humans, naked and torn and bloody; and eternal flesh-bubbling. Men and women bound and chained in the most impossible of positions. Sodomy and incest, and worlds upon worlds of depravity; inhuman sexual acts that defied description.

  He knew the why of it. The lives they’d lived on earth, actual or wished, they were forced to endure forever.

  Paul licked his dry lips, loving every scene revealed through the eons, wavering painfully out of the mist of past life.

  He saw humans caught in cruel animal traps, misshapen furry forms forever skinning them alive.

  He witnessed naked men fighting to the death in round bloody pits, only to rise again and again, to fight and die over and over, forever.

  Paul laughed, loving each scene.

  And he watched himself, walking through the timeless, silently screaming horror. He was not in his earth-form, but he knew he was looking at himself. There was a tall and not-quite-visible shape by his side as he walked.

  Paul tried to get a better look at the shape. But its form kept shifting and altering, making a clear image impossible.

  Time shifted for Paul, spinning him backward over centuries, always with that dark shape close by him. Scenes of torture and rape and ugliness were seared into his brain. He had never, in his present life, imagined that human beings could be treated so and still manage to stay alive.

  Forever.

  So much, so quickly, was being returned to his brain, his very receptive brain, that it all soon became quite mundane to him.

  And Paul accepted what he was and what he had been for countless ages.

  He watched his birth.

  Watched himself and his brother tear from the womb, change shapes, alternate back and forth.

  Then he realized the danger of it all.

  “One cannot live without the other,” he declared softly.

  “True and not true,” Mantine said mysteriously.

  “So I am what I am. But wouldn’t it have been much easier just to tell me?”

  “Dat ain’t de way it’s done, Master. De fodder has lots of children. But most of dem can’t handle what dey sees. I been waitin’ a long, long time for you, Master. A long time.”

  “Well, you’ve found me. Or I’ve found you. Or we have found each other.”

  “True.”

  “Now what?”

  “You got a blank book, mon. De pages needs to be filled up.”

  “I have a free hand.”

  “True.”

  “But I am not immortal?”

  “Not yets.”

  “I can be killed?”

  “Not in no permanent way.”

  “Explain.”

  “He is your fodder. He can send you back if he choose to do so. He has sent you back to do his will.”

  “Ah! I might not come back in this shape.”

  “Dat’s true.”

  “We’ll have fun. Starting now, Nicole.”

  She laughed softly as she stepped out of the mist and walked to Paul’s side. Her fingers found him; he felt the rush of cool air on his skin.

  Nicole bent her head.

  Paul began to scream silently as the dark mouth opened and consumed him.

  FOUR

  “Her mind is gone,” Dr. Clineman announced to those gathered around the bed of Jenny Cauldman. The child had been strapped down to keep her from flinging herself onto the tiled floor.

  Mrs. Cauldman, too, had been hospitalized, knocked out with a strong sedative.

  Jenny just vaguely resembled the girl she had been a few hours before.

  “Her hair is gray and old and brittle,” Dr. Mary Fletcher observed. “She is nine years o
ld going on a hundred and nine.”

  Jenny’s face was lined and wrinkled, simianlike.

  The child was now an old woman.

  “That is impossible!” Dr. Thomas blurted out, pointing to the creature that, a short time before, had been so young.

  “She was raped,” Clineman informed the already shocked gathering.

  “Raped!” Mary Fletcher said. “In this hospital? In that condition?”

  “Possibly before her . . . change,” Clineman said softly.

  “Could the rape have brought on the aging?” Thomas tossed out the question to anyone.

  Clineman picked up on it. “I have no idea. I am not even certain this . . . creature is Jenny Cauldman. I’ve ordered tests run.”

  “Her mother is certain it’s Jenny.”

  Clineman sighed in resignation. What he was seeing was impossible. But there it was.

  Hideous.

  Mind-boggling.

  There was a knock on the closed door.

  “Come in,” Clineman responded.

  The chief of police entered, dressed in plain clothes, his Western hat in his hands. He looked at the young/old person strapped down on the bed.

  “Good Jesus Christ!” he whispered. “What in the name of God is that?”

  “Nine-year-old Jenny Cauldman,” Dr. Thomas informed him.

  “The rape victim I called you about,” Clineman added.

  Mike Bambridge found a chair in the crowded room, and sat down.

  Jenny babbled and slobbered and feebly fought the leather restraints.

  Mike opened his mouth to speak—several times. Nothing came out. He had personally seen to the skateboard accident, had worked with the EMTs on placing Jenny in the ambulance.

  He stared at the creature on the bed.

  Finally he found his voice. “That is not Jenny Cauldman.”

  “I’m afraid it is, Chief.” Clineman hated to admit it. To himself and to the others. “And I think you will agree that news of this ... development should not leak out. Not until we can pinpoint what happened, what caused this ... tragedy. If we ever do,” he added grimly.

  Mike stood up. He did not want to look at the thing on the bed. He forced himself to do it. “I’ll need a rape kit completed.”

  “I’ll see to that,” Dr. Fletcher said.

  Mike looked at her nametag, among other things. Mary B. Fletcher. He wondered what the B stood for.

  The doctor looked at the cop. An attractive man, she thought. Sort of hard around the eyes, but—she finally found the word—dependable-looking.

  “Thank you, Dr. Fletcher. And I certainly agree with Dr. Clineman about keeping a lid on this thing.” He reluctantly took his eyes from Mary and clamped them on Clineman. “We’ll get to the rape in a minute. But what caused this?” He pointed at the slobbering figure on the bed.

  “I honestly don’t know, Chief.”

  “Some sort of reaction to a drug, maybe?”

  The doctors, all of them, smiled tolerantly, and then Clineman said, “No, Chief.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She’s been in here twice before this. Both times for minor injuries. Each time she received the same pain medication. She received that medication yesterday, and once last night. It is commonly called aspirin.”

  “No other drugs at all?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there goes that layman’s theory.” He looked at Jenny. “I have to touch all bases.”

  “I understand, Chief.”

  Mike nodded. “No one heard her cry out last night?”

  “No one reported anything unusual. I’ve had a list made of all personnel on duty last night. It’s ready for you.”

  “Thank you. I want the semen checked and stored—in case our rapist strikes again.”

  “Of course.”

  “When was the last time she was checked?”

  “The floor nurse checked on her at four this morning. That’s when she found her in her . . . present condition. The girl was unable to speak for about an hour, according to the nurse. I got here at about five-thirty. By that time, the resident had found the stained sheets. We called you about six.”

  “And nobody has reported hearing anything unusual?”

  “No.”

  “Odd. That look on the girl’s . . . the person’s face. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It looks like, well, she was scared out of her wits, and her expression has been frozen that way.”

  “It does look that way, Chief.”

  “Did you save the sheets?”

  “Oh, yes. And the sand and what we found on the bottom sheet. They appear to be some sort of scales.”

  “Sand? And . . . what?”

  “Scales. They look like reptile scales. But of course, that’s nonsense.”

  “You saved the sand and the scales?”

  “In the ME’s office, Chief.”

  “Sand and scales,” Mike muttered. “Weird.” He looked at Jenny, thinking that the changes in her were even weirder! He lifted his eyes to Clineman. “When may I speak with the girl, Doctor?”

  “Whenever God decides, Chief. Right now, Jenny Cauldman is a babbling idiot!”

  * * *

  Mike sat in his office and studied the report from the county medical examiner’s office.

  The semen was neither human nor animal.

  The scales did not match those of any known creature, living or extinct.

  Mike leaned back in his chair and took another sip of coffee.

  The ME had to be mistaken. Somebody had screwed up in the lab; that was all.

  He turned off his lamp and went home.

  * * *

  Jenny’s mother died during the night. She got up from her bed, ran naked, screaming, down the corridor, howling that a demon from hell was after her. Then she took a header right out of the third-floor window.

  Dr. Clineman asked the ME to check whether she’d been raped.

  She had.

  The semen was checked.

  It matched the semen found in her daughter.

  Her bed was checked.

  Sand and scales.

  Dottie Cauldman had taken her dive at three in the morning. At three-thirty, a gritty-eyed Mike Bambridge was sipping coffee out of a paper cup and trying to wake up as he stood in the parking lot of Tepehuanes General, watching Dottie being scraped and peeled off the hood of a Porsche.

  The chief had not yet been told about the sand and the scales.

  “Chief?” a detective called to him.

  Mike walked over to the blood- and brain-splattered car. “What’ve you got?”

  The detective shone his light onto Dottie’s head.

  The hair was flecked with sand and bits of scale.

  * * *

  There was no way to sit on this story. The double rape made the front pages for a couple of days, but there was no mention of sand or scales. Mike and the doctors sat on that bit of evidence. Public interest waned after a couple of days, and the story faded out.

  Every male who’d been in the hospital at the times of the rapes was given a PSE test by the best psychological stress evaluator operator in the state.

  Naturally, they all passed.

  No one had thought to give Paul Kelly the test. He was only eight years old.

  There were no reports of strangers in the hospital on either night. Mike didn’t think he’d find anything of substance there, for the hospital security was very good. Anyone coming in after nine had to log in and out.

  Everybody already there was checked out.

  Besides, what the hell were they looking for? Somebody who had scaly skin covered with sand?

  Mike Bambridge and his people had hit a stone wall.

  * * *

  Leo picked up Stanford at the airport in Phoenix and they checked into a motel at the edge of town, on the highway to Tepehuanes. Leo had been in town for several days, so he brought the inspector up to date.

  “The houngan has been busy, hasn
’t he?” Stanford remarked.

  “The who?”

  “Houngan. Means a voodoo priest.” He smiled at the pained expression on Leo’s face. “Don’t make light of it, Leo. Mantine is very, very good. But actually, houngan is a misnomer. A houngan deals mostly in white magic. Good magic. Mantine is a devil. He was a master of the black arts long before such things were really known except to a small group in Haiti and the Congo. And he is even more powerful now than he was when alive.”

  Leo sighed. He didn’t want to ask, but he knew he had to. “Why is that?”

  “Because he’s been on the other side of light for so long. On the Dark Side. He’s been learning at the cloven hooves of Satan.”

  Leo lit up before answering. “You still haven’t convinced me, Stanford.”

  “I won’t, Leo. But Mantine will. Believe me. He’s found a devil-child in Paul. Bet on it.”

  “A devil-child?”

  “Yes. According to legend, Mantine has been looking for a true Devil’s offspring. Actually the flesh and blood of Satan. The child is always marked. Left arm, very high up, near the point of the shoulder. Did you ever see Paul without his shirt on, Leo?”

  “Come to think of it, no.”

  “Neither did I. And I asked people up and down the beach whether the boy ever swam. He didn’t. And he never once took off his shirt. Several bathers noticed. They’d thought it was odd.”

  “Maybe he has a skin condition?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You want us to march up to Chief Bambridge armed only with rumors and legends about hoodoo and sand people?”

  The inspector smiled. “It’s far too early for anything like that. He’d probably have us committed. No, I have a better plan. We might use a child, or several children—”

  Leo narrowed his eyes at that. “Ah, Stanford, if you walk up to some nine- or ten-year-old kid, a total stranger, and suggest the child spy for you, his parents are gonna flip out, call the cops, and have you arrested—if the father doesn’t shoot you on the spot.”

  “Leo, I wasn’t going to be that obvious about it.”

  “Fooling with juveniles is risky, even for cops. Most cops don’t like to mess with kids.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Very, man.”

  Stanford was exasperated. “For God’s sake, Leo! I have no intention of abusing the children.”

  “I know that, and you know that. The cops don’t. Not a good plan, Stanford; not unless you approach the parents first.”