“Ah, so that’s where you get your water,” she said. “I wondered if there was a stream nearby, but this is better. Did you build it yourself?”
“No. It was here when I arrived, just as the cabin was. I have maintained them over the years, as I suspect the one who came before me did, and the one who came before her.”
The crone’s eyes seemed to have lost some of their fire. The voice sounded weaker now.
She herself felt invigorated. That soup had done the trick. She hadn’t felt this good in a very long time.
“So you’re to be my replacement,” the old woman said at length.
“What? What do you mean?” she replied, her gaze sliding away from the old woman and back to the soup pot. She knew that she could grab that lid with her bare hand and not get burned, just as the crone had done earlier.
Suddenly, her world tilted again. Understanding flooded into her consciousness.
The old woman gave her a sad smile. “Now you know. I can already feel my powers draining away and pouring into you,” she said with a resigned sigh. “I always wondered how it would be, the transferring of...custodianship. A few more years would have been nice, but it seems the forest believes my usefulness has ended. Not even one such as myself can resist the natural laws of the Mother.”
The female nodded. “Is it terribly lonely here?”
“Yes, but you’ll adjust. It’ll be easier for you than it was for me. You have nothing out there,” the liver-spotted hand gestured outward, “that will tempt you to leave this sanctuary. You’re lucky, in that respect.”
“Yes. I feel safe here.”
“You are safe here. The forest will see to that. And in return for the safety it provides, you will tend to it in all ways: physically, emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually. Humans need trees more than trees need humans, but that doesn’t mean they don’t need us at all...especially the old ones. There is much for you to learn before I’m gone. Shall we begin?”
***
Sixty years later, a young woman stumbled out of the forest and into the clearing. She could hardly believe the sight before her. An old woman sat in a rocking chair in front of a tiny cabin. Something delicious-smelling was boiling in a black pot suspended over a crackling fire.
She remembered an old storybook her father had read to her when she was a little girl. Her brain supplied the word for that big round pot with the delicious-smelling something coming out of it.
Cauldron. It’s a cauldron!
Predators
Gerald Wayne sat in his ’97 Chevy panel van in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart Super Center, chain-smoking Marlboro Reds and thrumming his meaty fingers against the steering wheel’s cracked vinyl cover. He listened to country music on the AM radio and scrutinized every young female in his range of vision. The type he trolled for would appear timid, submissive...weak-looking, although he would be hard-pressed to explain how those characteristics translated into identifiable body language. It was just a gut instinct, really, and since Gerald Wayne wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed (as his mama had told him countless times), he didn’t overthink it. He somehow just knew, as all predators instinctively know, when he had identified his next victim.
She had not shown up yet. A pale yellow moon, three quarters full, hung on a sky of black velvet. The warm Indian-summer temperatures of the past week had ended that morning with the arrival of an arctic cold front, compliments of the Canadian Rockies. When he left his house around six o’clock that evening, he had exited through the back door, noting the mercury level in the Gilbey’s Gin thermometer nailed to a paint-chipped post on his back porch. It marked the temperature at forty-eight degrees, cold for October in this part of Texas. He frowned, cognizant of the adverse effect inclement weather had on his hunting – females didn’t much like the cold, and if it was raining, you might as well forget it. They would rush from their cars to the well-lit stores too quickly to get a read on them. Fortunately, tonight it wasn’t rainy, just chilly. The weather notwithstanding, some primeval intuition whispered to Gerald Wayne that the wait wouldn’t be long.
That luck had held true during his escapades of the past four years: seven women gone missing in three neighboring counties, and no police detective had yet to come pounding on his door. If that wasn’t lucky, he didn’t know what was. He remembered how his fifth victim almost turned the tables on him, though. When he had grabbed her from behind and pressed the chloroform-soaked rag to her face, she went limp after a minute, but it turned out she was just playing possum. When he had removed his hand from her mouth to open the cargo door, she began screaming like a banshee...whatever the hell that was. Quick as lightning, he smashed his fist into her face, knocking her unconscious, then dragged her inside. He had scanned the area for witnesses, but there was no one in sight. At ten o’clock on a Tuesday evening in the Kroger parking lot of Hurst, Texas, a witness-free window had opened right up. Nobody had heard her screams, and nobody saw him stuff the unconscious body into the back of the van. Mama had always said he was a lucky son-of-a-bitch, and he knew it was true.
***
“You’re not going to the store tonight, are you honey? It’s so cold out,” Megan’s boyfriend said from the laundry room. He pulled t-shirts and jeans out of the dryer, folded them, and placed them in a basket. A small frown of worry creased his forehead. He didn’t like it when she left the safety of their apartment at night – there were just too many nut-jobs out there. Megan was gorgeous; she got noticed wherever they went. Sometimes he wished she weren’t so striking. Attention is not always desirable, especially when it comes from the wrong people.
“I won’t be long, David. I promise,” she replied, her shapely lips curled into what he called her Mona Lisa smile. It was irresistible.
She pecked him on the cheek as she walked from the kitchen and through the living room to the front door, shrugging into her heavy wool coat. He followed her to the door and watched her back the Volkswagen Beetle out of its covered parking spot. He thought for the millionth time how lucky he was to have snagged such an amazing girl – smart, strong, confident, and a knock-out to boot. He must have done something very right in a previous life.
***
Gerald Wayne glanced down at his scratched Timex. It was getting late and he was thinking about calling it a night, when he noticed the headlights of a small car pull into the Wal-Mart parking lot.
“What do we have here? Looks like a bitch-mobile,” he said to himself. “Maybe ol’ Gerald Wayne’s luck hasn’t run out after all.” He had figured out some time ago that when it came to VW Beetles, women owners outnumbered men by a margin of eight to one. So he always made a point of looking for that particular vehicle when he was trolling; it had paid off before.
A female figure emerged. She clutched at her dark coat with hands devoid of gloves. She paused by her car, frowning at the distance to the lighted storefront. She looked unsure of herself, although he could not have articulated what details made her seem so. All he knew was, he had found his quarry. He opened the Chevy door, taking care to be quiet. (The hinges of the driver’s door received frequent lubrication for that reason.) He stood in the shadows, knowing that in his dark clothes he would be almost invisible. As she walked in his direction, he watched, fingering the plastic bag which contained the chloroform rag, making sure the zip-lock seal was open and ready for business.
Just a few more steps. Don’t get in a hurry and jump the gun. You don’t want to scare her off before she gets close enough. Wait for it...wait for it. NOW!
He lunged for the young woman just as she got to the rear of the van, grabbing her from behind and forcing the cloth against her mouth and nose. She struggled weakly for a few moments and then went limp...right on schedule. He opened the cargo door and dumped her slack body into the back. He slammed the doors shut, scanning the area for any witnesses. Not a soul in sight. The Gerald Wayne luck had come through again.
No creatures were stirring, not even a mouse...
He launched his bulky frame into the driver’s seat and rammed the transmission into reverse, turning on the headlights as he steered out onto the main road. From here it was a short drive to his secret place – the one where he took all his lady friends.
Fifteen minutes later the Chevy pulled off a dirt road into a secluded wooded area. Gerald Wayne mentally congratulated himself on having found such a perfect location. The unimproved acreage was owned by the airport, but for now it was his private playground, and he intended to enjoy it until the airport decided to do something with it.
He parked in a clearing where the weeds had been trampled down, pressed the button for the ceiling light, and unbuckled his seatbelt. His beer belly made it difficult to slide out from behind the wheel, and he grunted a bit with the effort. As he lumbered towards the cargo hold, a snail-trail of saliva snaked down his chin.
This was his favorite part. Opening the cargo doors was just like unwrapping presents on Christmas morning.
“Oh my, lookee here. Ol’ Gerald Wayne caught himself a bee-yoo-TEE! I’m gonna take it slow with you, darlin. We gonna have ourselves a GOOD time.” He closed the doors behind him.
“You may change your definition of ‘good’ after this evening is over, my corpulent friend.” The girl spoke in a rich, low drawl. The fine timbre of her voice went unnoticed by Gerald Wayne who couldn’t appreciate the more subtle aspects of beauty. She opened her eyes and smiled a soft, mysterious smile.
“Well now, look who’s up! I didn’t expect you to come around so quick, darlin. That’s okay though. Sometimes I like it when they fight me a little.” His grin was wider now, allowing more saliva to dribble out of the fleshy mouth.
“So you like it rough, huh? This will be the highlight of your life then, odious one, but I’m afraid you may have gotten more than you bargained for.”
Gerald Wayne blinked stupidly, confused as much by her calm demeanor as her verbiage.
The young woman sprang so quickly that he only saw a blur of motion. The next moment, his throat was in the vice grip of a delicate but impossibly powerful hand; his windpipe was being crushed. Although his brain struggled with the absurd reality – this fragile, weak female strangling him with one tiny hand – an adrenaline-charged fight-or-flight response took over. He grabbed at the slender wrist, thinking to pry it away easily; he was surely twice as strong as the girl. Yet the vice grip didn’t budge. Just before he lost consciousness, she smiled her strange smile, loosened her hold, and tossed his body against the cargo doors. They opened from the impact. Gerald Wayne rolled out of the van, landing on the ground with a solid, painful thud. Disbelief now mingled with terror. He tried to push himself up, then howled in pain. His hand been broken in the fall.
Megan sprang from the vehicle. Cold moonlight shone on her face, transforming her eyes into mirrored orbs – the eye shine of nocturnal creatures. The mysterious smile broadened as she gazed down at the man on the ground.
“Don’t come near me! Get away from me! What the hell ARE you?” he squealed, scrambling away crab-like on two legs and one arm, his broken hand held protectively against his belly.
“I’m just a helpless female, right? A timid little church mouse. Isn’t that what you thought when you saw me in the parking lot? Just a weak little rabbit waiting to be caught by a big, bad wolf. You know why you thought that? Because that’s what I wanted you to think.”
“Please, just leave me alone. I won’t hurt anyone anymore. I promise.”
“I can’t do that, you abhorrent, gelatinous worm. I’m not into the catch-and-release business. Never understood the appeal.” She smiled that strange smile again, but this time the perfect, white teeth were pointed, and there seemed to be more now – more than should fit in that pretty mouth.
She pounced.
If anyone had been within earshot, they would have heard Gerald Wayne’s screams for a full twenty minutes before they ended abruptly. But as luck would have it, no one in the vicinity was out on this chilly October night.
A witness-free window had opened right up.
A Good Host
A figure emerged from the front door of an elegant brownstone located in the Upper West Side. That’s not to say it opened the door and walked out; rather it glided through the solid wood, then appeared on the other side. It advanced down the flagstone steps, not actually stepping but giving the appearance of that motion, then continued down the sidewalk to a tree-lined residential street. It was a lovely October night, crisp and cool but not yet cold. Neighbors had placed pumpkins and scarecrows on porches or beside oak trees, which blazed with fall color during the daylight hours, but now looked like sepia photos.
The entity approached a streetlamp that cast a precise circle of brightness onto the pavement below. The figure sidestepped its perimeter, careful to avoid connecting with the luminosity. It didn’t care for the light, although it wasn’t concerned about being seen; someone glancing out a curtained window wouldn’t necessarily notice anything amiss. It avoided the light because it found the cheerfulness of it quite disagreeable.
If one did happen to glance with a discerning eye out that window at the right moment, one might see something resembling a human shadow – a three-dimensional and upright one rather than flattened and supine. Upon closer inspection, some features might become visible. If so, they would appear quite disturbing. There would be a constant shifting of the face; the two roundish things at the top could be eyes, even though they seemed to glow red one moment then silver the next. That curved silhouette near the bottom of the ‘face’ might be a mouth, but might be something else entirely.
If one were to move even closer to get a better look, it wouldn’t help. Humans cannot see these beings with any clarity, at least not in the dimension where most of humanity resides. If a person were somehow able to travel to the creature’s home (it has happened before but is generally considered undesirable to do so), he or she would see a monstrosity. Demons are not attractive creatures, even to each other. They don’t smell very good either. Some are intelligent, others not so much. A few are nastier even than the majority of their nasty brethren. Of course, the very nature of the species is evil, and they exist exclusively for the purpose of inflicting misery upon the human race – that’s their job. But some do it with more relish and finesse than others. Some have true passion for their work, devising devilishly clever methods for accomplishing their prime directive.
The demon strolling about on the night-washed residential street was one of those types.
Having avoided the streetlamp’s radiance, it meandered on for another block, casually noting the house numbers while thinking wicked thoughts. It must have been distracted, because it didn’t see the other shadowy figure that had emerged from the house across the street and was now leaning (in a manner of speaking) against a mailbox, waiting to be noticed.
“Clarence, you decrepit fiend! Are you too puffed up with your own self-importance to say hello to an old friend?”
Startled out of its reverie, the first demon observed a second demon leaning (well, sort of) against a mailbox.
“Stanley! You’re a sight for sore eyes. How the heck are you, old chum?” The first demon glided across the street wearing an expression of tepid pleasure.
“Couldn’t be better if I were Lucifer himself,” Stanley replied with a self-satisfied smile. “Just finished one of the most delightful jobs I’ve had in eons.”
“Really? Well then, of course you must share all the details. My last job was quite satisfying as well. I’m not expected at my next assignment for another hour. Let’s find a comfortable place to have a nice chat.”
Arm in arm, the two fiends selected a nearby house at random. Upon entering, they discovered a cozy study off the main foyer furnished with overstuffed chains. There were some still-glowing embers in the fireplace, the sight of which evoked feelings of nostalgia in both demons, and perhaps a bit of homesickness.
“Perfect, Clarence. Oh look, there’s ev
en a decent single malt scotch on the credenza. Care for a snort?” Stanley asked, as he poured the amber liquid into a highball glass.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Demons don’t often engage in temporal activities. Eating, having sexual intercourse, creating babies, and most other human practices are not only off-limits, they are largely impossible due to basic anatomical differences. However, because their kind played a significant role in the invention of distilled beverages, they are able to imbibe, and do so at every opportunity.
The two companions settled into the chairs, whiskey in one clawed hand and a pricey Cuban cigar in the other. (Tobacco is another diversion in which demons can indulge, having been integral in the development of the plant.)
“Now let’s hear about this last job of yours. A real humdinger, was it?” Clarence asked with a hint of distaste. One thing Clarence couldn’t stand was a show-off, but he decided to tolerate a little braggadocio for the sake of entertainment. The next best thing to inflicting misery upon humankind directly was to hear about it second-hand.
“Oh my, yes. One of those beastly teenage girls that I do so love to inhabit. Couldn’t have been more enjoyable if I’d possessed Beelzebub himself.”
“They are first-rate hosts...those raging hormones provide a superb environment for conducting our work. But where’s the challenge? Most of the time they only need a gentle prod to behave horribly.”
Clarence was disappointed. Certainly he had inhabited plenty of teenagers during his demon tenure. Who hadn’t? Their narcissistic, self-centered natures provided fertile ground from which even the least-skilled demon could coax a bumper crop of abhorrent behavior. But once their physiology leveled out, they weren’t much fun. Most demons departed their post-pubescent hosts around the age of seventeen.
Dead Leaves, Dark Corners Page 6
