Beneath Still Waters

by Matthew Costello

  woke up.” He looked up at Susan, his tears starting to ebb

  now. “We’ve been waiting for her to come back.”

  Claire suddenly grabbed Joshua’s arm.

  “Claire, easy with the poor boy, he—”

  “Where’s Samantha?” she asked sharply.

  Joshua looked up, first to Susan, then over to Claire.

  “The door was open this morning. I tried to shut it . . . it

  was cold. Samantha said maybe Mommy went out . . .

  maybe something happened. She went to look for her.”

  Claire stood up and went to the door.

  “Claire, honey . . . wait.”

  Susan was lost, confused. Claire went out the door.

  Susan turned to the small boy. “Joshua, wait here. We’ll

  be right back.”

  He nodded glumly, and she ran out across the lawn.

  Toward the woods. Toward the lake.

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  “Jeez, I don’t know, Dan. I don’t . . . really . . . know.”

  Rogers stood up and walked over to his window. “This is

  all a bit much. I mean—”

  Right. Too right, thought Dan. Even with the pages

  missing, terrible gaps in the story lost forever, what they

  had read so far was unbelievable.

  Unbelievable. An absolutely incredible bit of insanity.

  Which he nonetheless believed now—totally.

  Reverend Passworthy, according to the diary, was care-

  ful who he had called to help him. Nobody who he ex-

  pected of being close to the Club. . . . They met and prayed

  in secret. And once they accepted the inevitable, their path

  was clear.

  The Club was in service to some other entity. A force.

  Dark. Ancient.

  There was a phrase Passworthy used.

  It sent chills up Dan’s spine.

  (Because he had felt it. My God, he had felt it. There. In the church.)

  It was, Passworthy wrote, “. . . something as close as

  your own breath. As far away as the end of the universe.”

  Others of his small group called it names. The Demon.

  The Beast.

  But Passworthy knew that it was, more simply, evil in-

  carnate. The eater of souls. The destroyer of planets. The

  creator of chaos.

  Aleister Crowley had named it Azathoth. And the Club

  had invited it to come.

  Invited it!

  Into their world. It helped them, served them, until it

  was time to claim its prize, its reward, its due.

  Pain. Suffering. Death. The very marrow of chaos. It

  grew in power, ready to spread throughout the country,

  throughout the world.

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  Feeding. Growing.

  In the end the Club members were no more than mes-

  senger boys—one of Passworthy’s group had witnessed

  one of them being punished. Horribly. Slowly. A terrible

  torture that served to remind them all who was the real

  master.

  As bodies vanished, it fed the demon, building the gate,

  opening the pathway, making it that much stronger.

  Then Passworthy’s group knew what they had to do.

  There were rules, procedures, canonical actions for deal-

  ing with ancient myths.

  They came to the end of the pages.

  “It’s all just too much, Dan. And besides, if they did

  something, what’s all this that’s happening now?”

  The phone rang and Rogers answered it. “Yes. Fine.

  We’ll be there.” He hung up.

  “Who was it?”

  “Smith. Apparently the old boy is reading all this stuff.

  It’s shaking him up. Says he’ll have the rest done in forty-

  five minutes, an hour tops.” Rogers turned toward him.

  “You’ll wait?”

  He was on his way out the door.

  To look for Susan.

  But if he waited, he’d have the rest of the story.

  (Incredible! Unbelievable! And true.)

  “I’ll wait,” he said, hearing the eagerness—an unattrac-

  tive eagerness—in his voice.

  She grabbed Claire.

  “Don’t go any closer.”

  Samantha knelt beside the blackish lump.

  Pop, pop. With each step Susan heard the sound of these

  little . . . things opening up.

  They were standing on them. Surrounded by them.

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  “Samantha. Samantha, sweetheart, I’m Claire’s mom

  and—”

  She wasn’t listening. She crouched down.

  (No, Susan thought. Stay up, away from the ground.

  Please, dear God.)

  And Samantha brought her hand to the top of the black-

  ish thing. To its head. She pushed at the blackened stuff.

  “Samantha, honey, please.”

  She pushed hard. Grim. Determined. Until . . . Yes . . .

  there was a mouth. Then part of a nose.

  Claire tried to step forward, but Susan held her tightly.

  Her hands like talons digging into her shoulder.

  (Sweet God, get the girl out of here.)

  “Step back, Claire . . . to that tree.” She loosened her

  talons.

  “Back, Claire!” she snapped.

  Her daughter moved.

  Samantha had the eyes uncovered.

  They were open.

  “Mommy . . . Mommy . . .” she cried.

  (My God, is she alive? Is she alive?)

  Pop, pop. More of the spore things opened and laid tiny

  tendrils around Samantha’s feet.

  “Mommy . . . Mommy . . .” She was blubbering now.

  Susan tried to see the thing on the ground. She stepped

  closer.

  Pop.

  The open eyes.

  Damn, was she alive? Open eyes!

  But no. They were clear, cold, dead.

  Waiting!

  For who the hell knows what.

  “No!” she screamed, and she ran over to Samantha,

  grabbing her around her midsection. She lifted her up.

  But Samantha’s feet held fast.

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  “No. Goddammit!”

  Pop. Pop.

  She pulled, spittle flying from her mouth. More, harder,

  more.

  Sweet God, let me be strong enough.

  She tugged, groaning, screaming to the woods.

  (A tendril curled itself around her ankle.)

  “Now!” And Samantha sprung free, her arms reaching

  out for her mom. Crying, screaming her mother’s name

  over and over, a pathetic, hopeless litany.

  “Run!” she ordered Claire. “Back to the house.”

  She felt the tendril on her ankle tightening. She snapped

  her leg forward, and the single vine shrugged off.

  “Run!” she screamed, as much to herself as to Claire.

  T W E N T Y - T W O

  She reached the house, holding Claire with one hand and

  Samantha with the other.

  Joshua was just inside the sliding door, his nose pressed

  against the double-paned glass.

  Susan tugged on the door. It didn’t move. Then she

  grunted and pulled, and the door slid sluggishly to the left.

  “C’mon . . . c’mon, kids, inside.” She looked over her

  shoulder.

  (Half expecting to see a black figure trudging out of the

  woods to
ward them.)

  She turned to Claire. “Where’s their phone?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  Claire began following her upstairs.

  “Stay with them,” she ordered. “Just stay downstairs.”

  But Claire stayed right beside her.

  What will I tell them? she thought. What will I tell the police? That these two kids lost their mommy to some black

  fungi? And you’ d better get somebody out here ’cause the

  stuff is spreading?

  Sure, lady.

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  She picked up the phone and started to dial.

  Joshua had followed them.

  “It broke. My mommy went to get it fixed.”

  She went to him, pulled him close. “Right, honey.

  That’s where she is.”

  Claire was staring at her, demanding, What are we go-

  ing to do now?

  “Claire, get Samantha up here. I want to get everyone

  out to our car . . . to . . .”

  (Get out of here.)

  Claire scuttled downstairs and led Samantha—now

  silent, her eyes glassy, blank—into the kitchen.

  “Okay, group,” Susan said, “we’re going to walk back to

  my car and”—she looked right at Joshua, her voice

  bright—“see if we can find your mom.”

  “I know where she is,” Samantha said dully. “She’s—”

  “Let’s go,” Susan said, interrupting.

  She led them toward the front door, past the modern

  living room with its freestanding fireplace and beveled-

  glass table.

  She opened the door. And looked outside.

  “Oh, thank God.”

  She saw three people at the end of the long driveway.

  The two policemen—how’d they know she needed help?—

  and someone else. A man walking with them. Dressed in a

  blue suit.

  “C’mon, kids, someone’s here to help us. Hurry now.”

  She turned to check that the children were behind her. She

  took a step out of the door.

  A hand closed around her wrist. Tight, desperate, pinch-

  ing into her skin.

  “No.”

  She turned to Claire.

  “Claire, honey, what’s wrong? It’s okay now . . . some-

  one’s here.”

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  Claire walked beside her and stood rigid. She spoke

  quietly . . . just loud enough for her mother to hear.

  “Mom . . . no . . . don’t go out there. Don’t bring us out

  there. We have to do something else.”

  The policemen were halfway up the driveway, with the

  other man just a few steps behind. Susan looked at them,

  and then at her daughter. “Claire, what on earth are you

  talking about?” Her voice started to snap, growing angry.

  Claire looked right at her. “You have to get us away . . .

  from them.” She paused. “Please.”

  Susan shook her head. “What? I don’t see . . .” She

  looked down the driveway. The man in the suit had stopped,

  while the two young cops kept walking. Slow, plodding

  steps. She looked at them, smiled. She could almost see

  their faces . . . their eyes.

  Her body went cold.

  “Oh, God.”

  And in an instant she knew that they weren’t there to

  help them. It was as if she saw them through her daughter’s

  eyes. Their slow, measured steps. Their oddly vacant eyes.

  Samantha and Joshua tried to push past her, eager to get

  out to the front porch, out to the policemen.

  She slammed the door.

  “Okay . . . over here.” She backed away from the door,

  shaking.

  What now? Surely not back toward the lake. Just where

  the hell were they? She tried to picture the Benny house,

  the lake, the dam.

  The park.

  To the northeast, surrounding the far end of the reser-

  voir, there was Pennington Park. Named for the county ex-

  ecutive who had ruled Westchester as his personal fiefdom

  for nearly a quarter of a century. It was almost a wilderness

  park. Just a few biking trails and a couple of hundred acres

  of woods.

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  The condo developers with their cheapjack duplexes

  itched to get at it, but so far the county had resisted the lure

  of easy money.

  If they were to go into the park now, it would take them

  miles away from any help.

  There was no other way to get out.

  “Okay, gang,” she said, pulling them close, “we have to

  go on a little adventure.”

  Joshua chewed his lower lip. It was all getting to be too

  much for him.

  “We have to hike. Claire,” she said, looking at her daugh-

  ter, “will take the lead.”

  Claire seemed a bit steadier (now that they weren’t going

  out the front door).

  “And I’ll be in the back. Okay?”

  Samantha nodded listlessly.

  “Hurry, Mom,” Claire said.

  She took Claire’s head in her hands. “Go out the family-

  room door, Claire, and go left, straight into the woods.

  Don’t go anywhere near the lake. Stay well away—”

  She thought she heard sounds outside. The sound of feet

  shuffling along, kicking pebbles.

  “Now run, honey.”

  Claire turned and led them out of the house.

  “That’s all of it. All he could save.”

  Dan pulled a chair close to the chief ’s desk. He could

  see that there were many more gaps here, whole chunks of

  pages missing.

  They sat together, pouring over the pages together.

  There was enough, Dan saw, yes, more than enough to

  finish the story of Gouldens Falls.

  Passworthy’s plan had been simple. He and his group

  surrounded the Club one October night while a simmering

  Hudson Valley storm barreled down toward Manhattan.

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  A few men had run away—unable, at last, to face the

  Club. But Passworthy moved his circle tighter and tighter,

  and then knocked on the doctor’s door.

  Dr. Hustis appeared. Then the others.

  Hustis laughed and threatened the men if they didn’t

  leave.

  (Pages were missing here. He and Rogers were left to

  their imagination to fill the gaps.)

  Hustis took a step toward the invaders, then Thomas

  Raine and Jonathan Reynolds. That’s when Passworthy

  acted.

  The ceremony he was about to use dated from the late

  fourth century. It was a time when Christianity was still a

  disorganized assortment of rival sects. Real orthodoxy

  was two hundred years away, with the coming of the Holy

  Roman Empire and Constantine.

  One of these sects had explored the border between the

  religious and the profane, the holy and the damned, where

  good and evil clash.

  The ceremony had been banned for more than a millen-

  nium but never removed from the old historical texts of

  Christianity. It was nothing less than the mirror image of a

  black-magic rite. A White Mass designed to dispatch evil

 
and to close the earthly gates to otherworldly dimensions

  of horror.

  As the Club moved toward them, Passworthy began the

  ceremony. The members laughed, sipping their port, confi-

  dent of their overwhelming strength, the pure power of evil.

  But then they saw the daggers glinting in the moonlight,

  the swirling of the leaves, and a sudden warm breeze seem-

  ingly rising from the very ground. They knew. The power of

  King Solomon, the great magician, was invoked. Then a

  litany of holy names, culminating in the one, the powerful—

  The Lord.

  They screamed out obscenities, raised their hands, be-

  gan to gesture, to summon their power.

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  But Passworthy had already drawn the intricate lattice

  of crosses and circles into the dirt. Finally the pentagram,

  filled with ancient Hebraic runes.

  “By the power of the Lord, let the gate to him-that-

  never-sleeps be closed.”

  Above them the clouds swirled, and the air spun the

  leaves dizzyingly around the house. Passworthy’s follow-

  ers moved onto the steps, ready to act.

  Their knives had been washed in holy water and blessed.

  They glistened in the just revealed moonlight.

  Hustis called out a name.

  “Azathoth!” But his power was too weakened.

  He fell first, Passworthy himself plunging the knife into

  his heart.

  (More pages were gone . . . )

  There was nothing more about the Club, nothing about

  what had happened in those next few moments. Instead

  there was a description of that house on Scott Street . . . the

  sickening souvenirs that filled the walls. The unholy art,

  images of a horror that would haunt these men from that

  night until the day of their deaths.

  The Club had been murdered.

  All of them . . . except one.

  Somehow Martin Parks had escaped, leaping from a

  back window, pushing past the young boy who’d dropped

  his knife onto the ground.

  The one that got away.

  Five points in a pentagram. Five members of the Club.

  They gutted the house. Buried the members in the base-

  ment.

  But Passworthy still feared the forces unleashed in the

  town. Somehow his group convinced the governor to ap-

  prove the long-talked-about Kenicut Dam. To bury the

  town of Gouldens Falls forever. To seal the horror in . . .

  the bodies . . . the victims. Everything.

  (More missing pages, and Dan was unable to discover

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