Dead Roots (The Analyst)

by Brian Geoffrey Wood

  The crowd was still following them as they entered the house. Heather shut and locked the front door behind them. Pounding started on the doors and walls. Tom saw townsfolk starting to obscure the view from the windows, and he set about closing all of the curtains.

  “This is going south really quickly,” he shouted. He thumbed the safety off. “Any ideas?”

  “Where is Susan?” Heather yelled. “Mr. Bailey, I know you're home.”

  “What the hell is all this racket?” Morgan Bailey's voice came from their left. Tom turned to see Mr. Bailey emerging into the living room from a door next to the stairs. The old man was quaking with rage. The door looked to lead into a basement. But what Tom noticed first was that Mr. Bailey was holding a rifle.

  “We need to speak to Susan, now,” Heather said curtly. “Go get her.”

  “What fresh hell is all this? Coming into my house, shooting off guns? Just leave us in peace.” Bailey brandished his hunting rifle angrily, but wasn't pointing it at anyone, yet. Artie and Keda stood off to the side. Neither of them was armed.

  “Morgan, I told you to bring me Susan, and you're going to do it or I'm going to blast you in half, you geriatric fuck.” Heather pointed her shotgun at the old man.

  Bailey's jaw dropped. He stared into Heather's eyes for a long moment, trying to intimidate her. She took another step towards him.

  “Get her.”

  Bailey spat on the ground.

  “Susan, come downstairs, sweetheart.”

  They waited. Susan Bailey appeared at the top of the stairs, followed by Mrs. Bailey, who had her hands on Susan's shoulders. She looked as weak and defeated as she had before, descending the steps with a futile limp.

  Susan didn't say a word. She stared down at the group, her expression mimicking Heather's look of intensity.

  “There. Are you satisfied?” Morgan shouted. “Will you people leave us in peace now?”

  Tom wasn't sure what to do, or what to say. He stared at Susan. His fingers drummed along the side of his handgun. She stared back into him. Her facial muscles twitched.

  “Morgan, listen to me,” Heather said slowly. “I need you to put down the gun. That girl is not your daughter.”

  “What are you blathering about, you cunt? Of course it's my Susan. Get out of my house.”

  “Morgan... drop the weapon.”

  They stood there for a long moment. Artie was breathing heavily, pinned up against the wall. Keda leaned with his arms folded, his eyes darting between Heather and Mr. Bailey with catlike readiness. He opened his mouth to speak.

  “You need to shoot her,” Keda said flatly. Tom's eyes widened. Heather looked at the Medium with her eyebrow raised in angered disbelief.

  “What?”

  “You need to shoot the thing posing as Susan. It's the only way to prove it.”

  “Are you out of your God damn minds?” Morgan shouted. He raised his rifle and aimed it squarely at Heather. She stared back at him.

  “Even now, Susan isn't reacting,” Keda said in a calm voice. “She is not scared, or angry. She has no way of comprehending this situation, because she has no mind. She is not a real little girl. You are being tricked.”

  Nobody said anything for a long moment. Heather's eyes kept flicking up to Susan and Mrs. Bailey. Tom had his pistol ready.

  Suddenly Mrs. Bailey spoke.

  “Take her,” she said. Her hands fell away from Susan and she took a step back.

  “What?” Morgan yelled. His grip on his rifle loosened.

  “Take her. Do it,” Mrs. Bailey said in a weak voice. “This is not my daughter.”

  The next few seconds were a blur. Heather aimed her riot gun up the stairs towards Susan and fired. Tom saw Mr. Bailey about to shoot and fired at the old man first, clipping him in the thigh. Mr. Bailey stumbled and pulled the trigger, the shot shattering one of the windows.

  As Mr. Bailey fell to his knees, Tom looked up the stairs. The second the buckshot had hit Susan, she transformed. Now her skin was mottled with ugly red and brown protrusions, and her face had been replaced with a featureless gash. A torrent of red and black slime vomited forth, and the thing masquerading as Susan Bailey fell to the ground. It made loud bumps as it rolled down the stairs. Susan Bailey this was not.

  The branch creature shrunk and shriveled into a small body not unlike a fetus, contorted and covered in deep lesions, lying in a puddle of its own expelled bile.

  “You're under arrest,” Heather shrieked at Mr. Bailey. He had started stumbling down the stairs into the basement. Heather chased down the steps after him. Mrs. Bailey fled upstairs in tears.

  Another window shattered. The yelling outside had grown louder. With the sounds of the gunfire, the pounding on the front door and windows had increased.

  “Start putting up barricades,” Tom instructed. “I'm gonna go make sure Mrs. Bailey is okay.”

  “On it,” Artie said, rolling up his sleeves. He flipped over the coffee table and started pushing it towards the front door.

  Tom ran up the stairs, stepping over the fallen, hideous thing that had replaced Susan Bailey. He put his pistol back in its holster as he ran down the hallway to Susan's room.

  ********

  He knocked.

  “Mrs. Bailey?”

  There was no answer. He pushed the door open. Molly Bailey was there, sitting on the bed and staring into space. There was a strong smell in the room, something like wet wood, or swamp.

  “Mrs. Bailey, it's going to be alright,” Tom said, approaching her slowly. “We'll find your daughter... can you tell us anything that might help?”

  Mrs. Bailey had a book in her lap. She ran her hand across its surface, and looked around the room at something Tom couldn't possibly know. She spoke, her aged voice a pained croak.

  “This was her favorite book,” Mrs. Bailey said simply, before breaking into quiet sobs.

  Tom approached her and knelt down, putting a hand out to rest on her lap reassuringly. Mrs. Bailey offered him the volume. He took it, and regarded the cover. The corners were frayed and the cover blanched from the sun.

  As he read the title, his heart fell into his stomach.

  ********

  Tommy set down the cardboard box full of toys and wiped some sweat off his forehead. He retreated into the shade of the garage.

  The space seemed cluttered despite being strangely empty. There was no station wagon for him to squeeze past to get to the door. He was instead surrounded by tables and makeshift stands. All kinds of things-- a microwave, utensils, books, clothes. He had just finished bringing out the last box of his old toys and setting it in the hot sun, next to the camping equipment.

  A white-haired man in a white polo shirt and khaki shorts strolled up the driveway, bearing an amiable grin. He gave Tommy a wave. Tommy held up a hand over his eyes as he squinted to make out the man's leathery features in the afternoon sun.

  “Nice day for it, huh?” the man declared in a smooth, sharply American accent.

  Tommy nodded noncommittally. The man knelt down and rummaged through the box he'd just placed down.

  “You sure you don't wanna keep some of these?” the man said with a smirk. “Could be collector's items.”

  “Nah,” Tommy responded, stepping closer, keeping his eyes shaded. “I don't want any of it.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Suppose you're that age. Is your mom or dad around? I'd like to take some of this stuff off your hands.”

  “Dad doesn't live here anymore.”

  “Well, is your mom home?”

  “She's taking a shower.”

  The man kept smiling that damn smile. He stood up and made his way around Tommy, to a box full of the books from Tommy’s room.

  “I guess you and me will just have to make a deal, then.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man fingered through the books as if looking through used records. He'd occasionally make an impressed exclamation, like
'Moby Dick!' or 'Edgar Allen Poe!' as if subtly commenting on Tommy's tastes. Tommy shuffled his feet, checking the door behind him every so often to see if mom was done yet.

  “Oh, wooow,” the man said when he pulled out a dog-eared paperback volume. “This is awfully dark for someone your age, don't you think?”

  “No, sir. It's just a book.”

  “Well, how much do you want for it?”

  Tommy was about to answer when he felt a sudden chill run up his spine. A jet of cool, conditioned air came from inside as his mother came into the garage.

  “Are you sure you want to get rid of that one, Tommy?” she asked, kneeling down and putting a hand on his shoulder. Tommy tensed up. He stared straight forward, refusing to make eye contact.

  “Five bucks,” Tommy answered the older man.

  “Is that all? This is worth a lot more.”

  “Yeah,” Tommy's mother agreed. “It's worth a lot more. Don't sell that one, your father gave it to you. For your birthday.”

  “Five bucks,” Tommy repeated. His hands clenched into fists. He started taking slow, deliberate breaths.

  “That one is not for sale,” Tommy's mother said in a stern voice.

  “Well, if you're sure, hang on just a moment here...” The man reached into his pocket to dig out his wallet.

  Tommy felt the fingernails on his shoulders dig into his skin. He shut his eyes tightly while he waited for the man to get his money. Tommy felt himself being shaken gently.

  “It's not for sale,” Tommy's mother repeated. “It's not for sale. Keep it. It's too special.”

  “Here you go, son,” said the man. Tommy opened his eyes and stared straight ahead. He reached out and snatched the bill, then stuffed it in his pocket. “Pleasure doing business. I'll come back a little later when your mom's here, huh?”

  “Sure,” Tommy said. He felt the grip on his shoulders loosen.

  A haggard breath hit the back of his neck, making the hairs stand up as he watched the man leave.

  “Disappointed,” he heard his mother croak.

  Tommy couldn't help himself any longer. His eyes darted to the left. It was for only an instant, and in his peripherals, but he caught sight of the dead, pupil-less eyes that glared at him from his mother's upside-down face. His chest went cold. The face disappeared silently, as if simply cut from the frame of his vision. It left no trace and made no mention of its exit.

  Tommy did not leave the corner of the garage for an hour. After the first fifteen minutes his mother arrived and tried to console him, but he tearfully screamed at her to leave him alone.

  ********

  “Artie,” Tom shouted as he thundered down the stairs. “Take Keda upstairs and get ready to do an exorcism.”

  “What? Tom, there's like fifty of those people out there. The whole town's gone apeshit.”

  “I know. Look,” Tom said, raising the book for Artie to see.

  “What is that?”

  “This is At the Mountains of Madness,” Tom said. “This is my copy of At the Mountains of Madness. I sold this book at a garage sale before we moved away from Riverbank.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Artie, listen to me. This book-- this used to belong to me. I sold it at a garage sale and it somehow wound up here, in Orchard. This is the vessel. Akebara—it’s inhabiting this book.”

  “How do you-- what? That's great that you figured something out, but we're kind of busy here!”

  “Artie, if we exorcise this book, the people out there will stop,” Keda explained as he pushed a grandfather clock up against one of the windows. “Don't you get it? Akebara has rooted here and taken these people. They serve it, now. They're being controlled-- they're all branches and leaves.”

  “Arrgh. If I get torn limb from limb by a bunch of rednecks, your next case is gonna be clearing me out of your closet!”

  “The trouble is, I cannot do an exorcism under these conditions,” Keda added mechanically.

  “Don't tell me that,” Tom said with an irritated groan.

  “I don't have any tools, I don't know exactly what this thing is-- I don't know how to deal with it. I will need a good few days of observation before I can properly prepare for an exorcism and a banishing ritual.”

  “So what the fuck do we do, then?”

  Keda pushed hard on the big clock to check its sturdiness. “I can lock the entity at best-- numb its power. Cage it. Its influence on the world and people around it will be limited to the most basic vicinity. However, given the nature of this entity-- a tree-- it's likely you're still going to deal with a very formidable creature.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everything about this place is telling me that Akebara is incredibly close. You are facing your demon before the day is done, Tom-- perhaps even before the sun sets. It is here. Make no mistake.”

  “We're getting off track,” Artie shouted from the kitchen as he shoved the refrigerator in front of the back door. “Just-- Tom, Keda, somebody tell me what the course of action here is. I want a plan.”

  “Okay,” Keda said simply. “I can start applying a locking charm to this... book. This vessel. That should subdue the townspeople and give us time to get it to a safe place for an exorcism. Where is Heather?”

  “She went after Bailey,” Tom answered. “Come to think of it... what's taking her so long?”

  As if in response, Tom heard a shrill scream come from the basement. A jolt of panic ran through him. He whipped around to face the source: the door to the darkened cellar.

  “Go,” Artie barked. “We'll be fine. Go.”

  Tom set off down the stairs, counting himself lucky he didn't trip in his hurry.

  11

  “The Mouth”

  Tom couldn't find a light switch. Heather was screaming somewhere in the darkness.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said to himself. He pulled out his lighter and tried to see by the glow of the tiny flame. “Heather, I'm here. Are you okay?”

  Cast in shadow, he saw that the basement was a small concrete room, barren but for some wooden load-bearing struts and cardboard boxes. He saw Heather's form wrestling in the dark, barely standing, but holding her ground against an assailant he couldn't make out.

  “Tom, it's got me.”

  His lighter flickered and almost went out. He took several careful steps towards Heather, trying to get close enough to see what had her.

  A hand appeared from behind and wrapped around her throat. Bailey, Tom thought, but immediately realized he had jumped to conclusions. Another hand was gripped under her armpit, another around her ankle. Another one appeared to pull her by the hair. Her head whipped back, her face locked in an anguished scream. Her booted feet scraped across the floor. She dug her fingernails into the concrete, to little avail.

  “Tom!”

  Tom snapped himself out of his entranced staring. He dropped his lighter and grabbed Heather around the waist, trying to pull her free, using the heavy handle of his wood ax for leverage. Grunting with effort, he tried to pry the hand from her throat.

  “I can't... there's too many…”

  “Tom,” Heather screamed. A light flashed repeatedly in the dark. She was beating her heavy flashlight against one of the hands that gripped her, involuntarily switching the lamp on and off. One came free, replaced in seconds by another.

  Tom felt a hand grab his shirt. He released Heather and tried to pry it off with his free hand, struggling to make out details.

  “Tom, I can't hold on—Tom, help…”

  Tom could barely choke out a response. The hand that had grabbed him receded into the blackness. He heard a metallic clang, saw the beam of Heather's flashlight cut through the room as it fell. She screamed hoarsely. Tom picked up the flashlight and shone it towards her, in time to see her lose her balance and be dragged across the floor.

  There was a large, round hole in the concrete wall, as if a giant worm had tunneled through. Angry red roots lined the opening, str
etched out along the walls and floor, and reaching the ceiling, like a web. Tom could see them pulsing in the beam of the flashlight. They looked wet, and organic. He surmised that if he were to cut one with his ax, it would bleed.

  Heather was still screaming for help as she disappeared, dragged by the strength of Akebara's hands.

  “Heather!”

  “Help me!”

  Tom saw no choice but to follow. He ducked his head, stumbling into the hole with flashlight in one hand and ax in the other.

  ********

  The floor was spongy, and he guessed damp. The thick roots lined every surface, making walking difficult. He couldn't place the smell. It was somewhere between deceased flesh and wet mud.

  “Heather, grab onto something.”

  “I can't,” Heather screamed from some distance in front of him. The light beam bobbed up and down, illuminating her twisted face. Her throat had to be raw by now, her screams coming scratched and hoarse from her throat. Her hands tried to grip one of the roots surrounding them, but they were slippery, her palms coated as if with thick red mud. Every time her fingers gained purchase, a scabbed hand would wrap around her fingers and pry them free.

  Tom lost track of how long he'd been chasing her. He'd expected to feel something grabbing at his ankles or arms, but nothing came. He pushed himself harder, but the faster he ran after her, the quicker she was dragged. There was no catching up. He could do nothing but watch her scream, run after her, and hope that they came to the end of this tunnel soon, or that he thought of something before they reached whatever was waiting for them. He forced down the urge to vomit from exertion.

  Tom saw what looked like light peeking out at the end of the tunnel. The end was in sight. He plodded onwards, his feet starting to get sore, legs crying out for rest. The vein-like roots all around him throbbed and sighed so loudly it may as well have been the roar of a plane.

  “Be one with me,” a voice suddenly boomed. He looked around for its source, but knew he wouldn't find one. It was almost as if the voice spoke into his mind.