by Ray Garton
* * * *
The mist eased through the neighborhood, shifting direction now and then. A single swirl moved over the surface of the mist like a small and lazy tornado. It went from the LaBianco house to Sheri MacNeil's, where it disappeared for a little while…
… then across the lawn to the Weylands’ houses…
… and later, to the Parkers…
… from house to house…
… to house…
Chapter 21
Observations
The two remaining reporters and their crews stood watching the white pickup go back and forth, listening to the bizarre warnings coming over the loudspeaker. Finally, Alana Carson, the reporter from KCPM 24 in Chico, left her cameraman and assistant at the car and approached the van with KRCR 7, a Redding channel, painted on the side.
"Does this go on a lot around here?" Alana asked as she approached the young man standing beside the van. He was tall and thin with blond hair, in his late twenties.
"I don't think so," he said. "But then, I'm kind of new to the area. For all I know, people do this a lot here. Do you understand what he's saying?"
"I'm not sure. Do you know who he is? Are you familiar with his church?"
"No. But I'm going to get familiar with it."
"Any idea what woman he's talking about?"
He shook his head, then smiled at her and said, "By the way, I'm Steve Lang."
She introduced herself, shook his hand, then their attention returned to the pickup as it drove by them again, heading north.
"You must cling to all that is good within you," Quillerman said. "Turn to god, turn to your families, use your love for each other to resist whatever temptation this creature puts before you."
Steve said, "He sounds batshit crazy.”
"Most likely," Alana muttered.
"In the book of James, we read, 'But each person is tempted when he is drawn away and enticed by his own desire. Then when the desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin, and sin, when it reaches maturity, produces death."
"But we don't have to be afraid of that temptation," the echoing voice went on, "because Peter has told us that 'the Lord can rescue you and me from -”
The pastor's voice gasped over the loudspeaker and the pickup screeched to a lurching stop because -
– an enormously fat woman in a teal and purple muumuu jogged into the street with surprising speed, her entire body jostling with every step – large, flabby breasts flailing up and down, rolls of fat around her neck and torso flopping – until she stepped directly in front of the pickup.
"Later," Alana said abruptly, waving to her cameraman to come over as Steve and his cameraman approached the pickup, where -
– the fat woman walked to Quillerman's door as he rolled down his window and gave her a broad smile, hoping for the best.
"I don't know what you think you're doing out here, Pastor Quillerman," she said in a nasally voice, "but I wish you'd stop. Somebody's liable to call the police on you for yelling through that thing."
"Hello, Betty," the pastor said pleasantly as he leaned his elbow on the edge of the open window. "I'm glad you came out. I'd like to speak with you about a -"
"What are you doing out here, anyway?" she asked, ignoring him. "I mean, driving up and down the street, talking nonsense through that damned speaker -"
"Excuse me, ma'am," Steve said as he came up behind her holding a microphone. His cameraman, Malcolm, stood behind him, camera operating. "Could I have a word with -"
Betty spun around and aimed her forefinger at Steve like a gun. "You just stay away from me with your microphones and cameras, young man. I'm not answering any of your questions and if you had any decency at all, you'd get out of here. There's been a tragedy in this neighborhood and nobody's in the mood for you bloodthirsty reporters." She spotted Alana heading toward her and pointed the finger at her, saying, "And that goes for you, too! You just stay away from me!" She lowered her arm and, as if they'd already gone, she turned back to Pastor Quillerman.
He was frowning at her, concerned. Her anger surprised him… and so did her pale, sickly appearance. "Are you all right, Betty? You don't look well."
"I'm just fine. It's you I'm worried about, driving up and down out here, talking over that thing about… what were you saying? Something about a… what kind of a demon? Are you serious, Pastor?”
The pickup idled as Quillerman looked into Betty's eyes for a long time, then: "Do you know a woman named Lorelle Dupree?"
"Yes, I thought she was the one you were talking about."
"Why did you think that?"
"Well, because she's different. She's an artist. They're all different. But she's no demon, and I think you oughtta be ashamed of yourself for saying so."
"Do you know her well?"
She pulled her head back and blinked several times and her lips remained pursed for a long moment before she spoke again. "She comes over now and again. I go see her sometimes. And she's just as nice as -"
"Who's nice?" Ed LaBianco asked, suddenly standing beside his wife.
Betty was startled and stumbled over her words, then said, "Lorelle Dupree. Pastors’ saying she's some kinda demon."
Quillerman turned his gaze to Ed and his frown grew deeper. "Are you feeling all right, Ed?" he asked.
"Oh, I, um -" He rubbed his hand over his long pasty face, smoothing out the deep wrinkles for a moment, wrinkles that hadn't been there when he'd last attended church. " – I guess I haven't been, you know, getting a lot of sleep lately."
"Any particular reason?" Quillerman asked, although he knew the answer.
"That’s not important," Ed muttered, dismissing it with a wave, then rubbing his puffy eyes with a thumb and forefinger. "What brings you over here, Pastor?"
Before Quillerman could respond, Betty said, "He's been driving up and down the street here, spreading some nonsense about Lorelle being a demon, some kind of, oh, I don't know, a vampire, or something."
Ed gave the pastor a tired frown and said, "That doesn't sound very Christian." In contrast to his words, Ed's voice was pleading rather than chastising and his eyes seemed to hold more desperation than protest.
Quillerman said, "Betty, may I have a word with your husband, please?"
"Go right ahead." She folded the slabs of her arms across her breasts with effort.
"I mean alone."
Pastor Quillerman flinched hard at the hatred that flashed in Betty's eyes for a moment. Her upper lip curled a bit, stopping just short of a hateful sneer. Then she turned and headed back toward the house, shouting at the reporters who stood nearby.
"Ed, that's not like her," Quillerman said softly. "That's not like Betty at all."
"Well… we've both been fighting the flu, I think. She's probably just, um… " He averted his eyes as he ran a fingernail along his lower lip. "She's just not feeling well, that’s all.”
Quillerman gave his next words some careful thought before speaking. "Tell me, Ed, how well do you know Lorelle Dupree?"
Ed turned away even further then and became more fidgety, plucking at his face, rubbing his hand again and again over what hair he had left. "She's just a neighbor, you know. Hasn't really been here long enough to -"
"You know what I've been saying is true, don't you, Ed?"
More agitation and nervousness. He cleared his throat several times, looked around without Quillerman's eyes. "Look, Pastor, I just, um, I don't think it's, you know, a good idea for you to be riding up and down the street and -"
"You know it's true, don't you?"
Ed closed his eyes for a long moment, licked his lips, then opened his eyes again and looked straight into Quillerman's. "Look, please, just go, all right? Just go and we won't -"
"I'm here to help you, Ed," Quillerman whispered. "Please, let me help you."
Ed's mouth worked, but nothing came out. He took a deep breath and prepared to speak again, but Quillerman beat him to it.
“She's evil, Ed. She's
evil and you know it. I don't know what she's done to you, but you know, and you know that it's wrong. You know she's twisting you, corrupting you from the inside out, and you know that if you let it go on, you will be lost."
Ed's mouth continued to work, but he didn't speak. Tears glistened in his eyes and his hands shook as he placed them on the edge of the window. "Pastor," he whispered tremulously, "I… I don't… know what's… happening to us."
"To you and Betty?"
He nodded.
Quillerman leaned closer to him. "It's her. Your neighbor. Lorelle Dupree. You know I'm right don't you, Ed?"
"I… yes, I believe so."
"What you need to do now is -"
Something caught his eye. He faced front, peered through the windshield and saw Sheri MacNeil standing on the sidewalk in front of her house up the street. She wore sneakers, sweat pants and a heavy blue terrycloth robe. She stared at the pickup for a long time, took a few reluctant steps into the street, stopped and started again. Finally, she stuffed her hands into the baggy pockets of her robe and headed toward the pickup as Ed LaBianco bowed his head and cried silently, murmuring to himself.
"Pastor Quillerman?" Sheri asked, looking over Ed's shoulder. She was a tall woman, very pretty with short blonde hair. "Pastor, what're you doing?"
"Haven't you been listening?"
She nodded. "So has Chris. He's…scared. And I don't think you should be – I mean, maybe you shouldn't – it's not a good idea to -"
"Are you scared, too, Sheri?" he asked.
She stood very still for a while, then nodded slowly.
Quillerman was relieved and surprised to have gotten through to anyone so soon. But these were people he knew, people from his church. What about the others in the neighborhood who did not know him, who would think he was crazy and how, under the influence of the creature that called itself Lorelle Dupree, might react violently to his efforts?
He turned to Ed and Sheri and began speaking to them quietly as -
– the reporters watched.
Alana leaned toward Steve and said, "They look like they know him."
Steve said, "Worse yet, they look like they're taking him seriously."
They watched for a while until the blonde woman turned from the pickup, folded her arms against the cold and headed back up the street. Alana and Steve followed her without hesitation, flanked by their cameramen. They shouted at her simultaneously, Steve saying, "Excuse me, miss, could I ask you a few questions?" while Alana called, "Miss, what can you tell us about Pastor Quillerman? What connection does he have to the Garrys? Miss?"
The woman lifted a hand to hold them back and shouted over her shoulder, "Not right now, please, I don't want to talk." Then she went back into her house, where a small pale face peered out the front window, tiny hands pressed against the pane.
Alana and Steve and the two cameramen were left standing in the middle of Deerfield. Before they could turn back, the shrill, tangy voice of the fat woman in the Muumuu sounded again and they spun around to see her jogging down her front walk toward her husband.
Alana patted her cameraman's arm and said, "Get this, get this."
"But there's nothing happening," he said.
Alana and Steve went around the pickup and back up on the sidewalk where Malcolm and Will taped the fat woman as she pushed her husband aside and said, "Well? Are you gonna stop this nonsense, or not?"
Her husband put a hand on her shoulder and quietly spoke to her, but she pushed him away angrily, put her fists to her enormous hips and leaned into the window, pushing her face close to Pastor Quillerman's. "People are gonna start calling the police, you know! People don't like to hear this kinda crap spouted at their front door!"
Her husband stepped forward again, took her arm and said, "Listen to me, Betty, he's -"
"Get away from me and let me speak!"
In a voice that contradicted his meek appearance, he shouted, "Dammit, Betty, you know he's right."
She stared at him in shock, her jaw slack, arms limp at her sides. Finally: "What did you say?"
"He's right. We both know he's right."
Neither of them moved for a long moment. The vapors of their breaths mingled in a small cloud before their faces.
"Why don't the two of you go inside and talk about this," Pastor Quillerman said softly? When they turned to him, he smiled and nodded encouragingly. "Please, go inside. We'll get together later."
"Thank you," the man said, then took his wife's hand. They turned and did as the pastor had said, ignoring Alana and Steve and the cameras as they passed. The man looked almost sick with sadness, while the woman seemed barely able to hold in her anger.
The reporters dove toward the pickup and Quiller man's open window, but he was already rolling it up. He put the pickup into gear and drove away slowly, his voice sounding over the loudspeaker once again.
"Dammit," Steve muttered, looking at his watch. "We're gonna have to go. We've got a deadline."
"You're leaving?" Alana asked, surprised.
"I think the only story here has already been reported," he said, nodding toward the Garry house.
"Weren't you listening? Those people actually believed him. They think their neighbor is a demon."
Steve grinned. "Gullible people aren’t exactly news. This town’s got more churches than gas stations.” He turned to Malcolm and said, "We've a gotta get going." Then to Alana: "Nice meeting you." They went to their van.
“Let's stick around a while, Will," Alana said. "I’ve got a feeling this is gonna get weird.”
She was right.
Chapter 22
The Mist
George and Robby Pritchard stood at their living room window watching Pastor Quiller man's pickup drive back and forth. Jen was seated in her dad's recliner behind them. She'd served them some stew earlier and the bowls were still on the coffee table. None of them had spoken for a while.
They'd watched Mr. and Mrs. LaBianco and then Sheri MacNeil approach the pickup, and they'd watched the reporters standing by, waiting patiently for a few crumbs. Occasionally they heard the voices of people shouting at Pastor Quillerman from their porches. They called him foul names and told him to keep his opinions and his religion to himself. But Quillerman ignored them and continued to warning of the danger they were in, appealing to the goodness in them, the goodness not yet stolen away by their new neighbor.
Across the street and one house to the north, Mr. and Mrs. Weyland came out to the sidewalk, both wearing bathrobes. Mrs. Weyland had carried a stained brown paper bag and her husband a plastic green garbage bag. When Pastor Quillerman drove by, they reached into their bags and began to throw garbage at him – cans, cartons, boxes and old slimy fruits and vegetables that made a thick wet mess on the pickup's hood and windshield. As they threw garbage, they shouted at him to go away before they shot out his tires and removed him bodily from the neighborhood themselves. Pastor Quillerman spoke to them calmly through the loudspeaker, imploring them to take a look at themselves, to think about what they were doing and why, and to think about what kind of people they'd been just a few days ago, before they'd met their new neighbor.
And through it all, the odd mist had remained.
Once things had calmed down a little and the only action outside was Pastor Quillerman's slow and monotonous trips up and down the street, Robby paid close attention to the mist. It moved slowly, sometimes changing direction abruptly, and occasionally a smoky tendril or two of the mist would rise fluidly above the restless surface, reminding Robby of Lorelle standing naked outside the glass door while the mist crawled up her body. He closed his eyes a moment and gave his head a couple of hard shakes. He didn't want to think of her.
The afternoon darkened with the approach of evening. The streetlights on Deerfield came on as the clouds went from murky gray to a mottled charcoal. Quillerman turned on the pickup's headlights and their beams gave an even eerier quality to the mist. Robby watched as it moved with what almost app
eared to be a life of its own… a purpose. His eyes scanned the mist from left to right until he spotted something strange at the base of a power pole on the opposite side of the street between the LaBianco house and the Parkers’. Robby squinted and leaned forward a bit, not quite sure of what he was seeing. A tentacle of mist seemed to be winding its way slowly up the pole.
Robby reached over, tapped his George’s arm and said, "Dad? You ever seen mist do anything like this before?"
George looked out the window with heavy, preoccupied eyes. "Not around here," he drawled flatly.
"Isn't it kinda weird?"
"I don't know," he shrugged. "Not really."
"I mean that." Robby pointed at the power pole.
The mist, winding steadily up the pole like a snake, had nearly reached the top. Once it did, it moved quickly and engulfed the gray-metal transformer in a small cloud.
George said, "What in the hell is -"
Before he finished his sentence, there was an explosion of sparks that rained down on the ground and -
– the streetlights went dark at the same moment that -
– the light behind every window on Deerfield went out and -
– the Pritchard house became dark and the refrigerator’s hum fell silent and -
– the mist that had climbed up the power pole dissolved quickly as the sparks that fell down around it hit the ground and bounced and rolled like glowing marbles.
"What the hell was that?" Jen asked, her voice weak and panicky.
"I-I'm not sure," George said, putting a hand on her shoulder, "but why don't you go get the flashlights out of the tool drawer in the kitchen."
She nodded and left the room. George moved to a phone, put the receiver to his ear a moment, then replaced it, saying, "Dead."
Robby watched the reporter outside. She'd been sitting on the hood of her car with the cameraman standing beside her when the transformer exploded. She had fallen from the car and landed in a protective crouch while the man had spun around, leaned through the car's open window and grabbed his camera. But Robby knew they hadn't seen the mist climbing that power pole as he had.
