by C R Langille
The bloody face didn’t disturb him as much as the lone shoe on the passenger-side floorboard of his vehicle. A single, six-inch black stiletto heel with thin straps sat all alone by the seat. Troy didn’t know who owned it or how it arrived in his car. It ate at him bit by bit until consuming his entire being.
Eventually, he left the shoe on the side of the road, a lone marker on the highway, serving as a symbol of wonder and curiosity of the traveling passerby wanting to know where its partner or owner was. To Troy, however, the shoe served as an ugly reminder of his descent into madness.
Now he was in Beaver, Utah, filling up with gas on his way to Canyon Shadows to find… well, he didn’t know what he would find. Nor did he know if he wanted to find out.
But he didn’t dare turn around and go back home. His gut told him fighting the force pulling him would result in grave consequences. Just thinking about turning around caused his headache to spike.
He contemplated lighting another cigarette as the one in his hand had burnt to the filter. The audible click of the pump automatically turning off had sounded over three minutes ago, but no one else was near, and the other pumps sat empty. Plus, Troy wasn’t really in the mood. He knew he had to keep moving, but he wanted to take a breather and stall as long as possible.
The night cast its dark blanket all around, encompassing the small gas station in blackness. The station’s lights served as a small bastion against the shadows. He pulled his smokes from his pocket.
“Those will kill ya, ya know,” chuckled a man who had walked up next to him.
Troy jumped a little and turned. A man wearing a red polo shirt, bearing both the gas station’s logo as well as half a dozen food stains, stood before him. Troy pointed to a Snickers bar tucked in the man’s pocket.
“So will those,” he nodded to the chocolate.
“Fuck, I suppose so.”
The man ran a hand through a greasy mop of hair before lighting a cigarette of his own.
Troy grew a little uneasy next to his newfound friend. The man eyed him while he smoked. It was the typical stink eye he got from store attendants, the kind of look that said get your shit and get out. Troy put the pack of smokes back in his pocket, deciding not to partake in another.
“I’ll finish up and pay for the gas. Sorry for the delay.”
“No problem man, we take it easy here. Easy peasy.”
The man’s voice grated on Troy’s nerves. Rage bubbled in the recesses of his mind, and he wanted to kill the attendant. He hated his sloppy appearance and his lazy attitude. He hated the man on a cellular level, and he didn’t even know why. Troy wanted to take that candy bar and choke him with it.
He’s worthless, Troy, a taint on society. Worthless. Serves nothing but to fuel the flames of power.
His father’s voice. It cut into his mind and ground about like shards of broken glass.
Look at him, Troy. He is a sorry sack of shit! No discipline! Not like you and me. We need to teach him some discipline! Get him back in line!
Troy cringed and absently scratched at the symbol on his arm. The symbol, like his head pain, amplified.
“Ya okay, man?”
The gas station attendant threw his cigarette on the ground and started to back away. Troy felt the familiar tickle of blood run from his nose.
Troy! Show him the meaning of discipline.
His father’s voice cracked and rebounded in his brain, sounding as if he were yelling in an empty symphony hall.
Troy knew what needed to happen. He knew a lot of things at that moment.
“I’m fine, Herbert. But you, you lack discipline.”
The man stopped moving.
“How do ya know my name, man? Nobody calls me that, not anymore.”
“Herbert, Herbie.”
Troy chuckled and grinned at him while he said it. His voice sounded offkey, much like the internal musings of his father. Except Herbert Stanley Benson heard a different voice, a voice that sounded like his deceased mother.
“What the fuck, man?”
Troy picked up Herbert’s discarded cigarette, which still held a small ember of life. He took a long drag, all the while staring at Herbert. Herbert stared back in horror as Troy’s eyes turned black then took on the same pitch of the dying cigarette.
“What the fuck do you want, man?”
“To teach you discipline, Herbie.”
Troy exhaled the smoke, then threw the butt on the ground.
Herbert screamed for a full minute, but no one was around to hear it.
The gas station’s surveillance video caught the scene. It looked like a giant figure made of black smoke surrounded Herbert. Then, the attendant’s body fell to the ground in a bloody mess. Troy walked back to his vehicle and drove away while Herbert bled to death on the pavement.
***
Troy came to right outside of Panguitch. He remembered filling the car with gas and finishing a cigarette but nothing else. Blood covered his face in streaks like war paint. This time, instead of a mysterious shoe, a Snickers bar sat on the floorboard of his car.
He pulled over and cleaned his face as best he could. Only a long shower under some hot water would wash away this mess, but at least he didn’t look like a murderer.
Troy kept driving, trying hard to remember what happened. A hitchhiker walked along the side of the road up ahead, and as he drove past the headlights illuminated the stranger. The man had long black hair pulled into braids sprouting out from under a trucker hat.
When he drove past, the pain came back with a vengeance both on his arm and in his head. The symbol burned, glowing red hot. Smoke rose from his skin as it bubbled and blistered. Troy stopped the car, fearing the pain would cause him to wreck. The hitchhiker took the stop as a sign that he had found a ride, and he started to jog toward Troy’s vehicle.
***
When Rusty got close to the vehicle, a cool wash of air covered his body. He slowed down and ambled up to the passenger-side window and looked in. The driver grabbed his head, growling in pain. The man rocked back and forth in the driver’s seat. It wasn’t all that which bothered Rusty the most; it was an angry scar on the man’s arm lit up like a Christmas light.
He who lived deep in the mountain was calling his flock like a shepherd. His power was growing.
***
Troy noticed the man standing outside of the vehicle. The pain faded to the point that he could think clearly, so he rolled down the window to allow the fresh air into the car. Whispers of a thousand different voices came alive in his head, while His voice roared. He wanted this man, wanted to consume him. He wanted to destroy him. However, being so close to the drifter caused the pain to dwindle and quieted the voices in his head to a murmur. It was a scary sensation, for it was at that moment that Troy questioned why he was driving to Canyon Shadows and contemplated going home.
Bring him to me.
“Can... Can I give you a lift?” Troy asked.
“Ah, no thanks. I think I will stick with the open air and lovely scenery,” Rusty replied backing away.
“Are you sure? It wouldn’t be any problem at all to bring you to Canyon Shadows.”
As Troy finished the sentence, his voice shifted, growing deeper and guttural.
“Never said I was going to Canyon Shadows, friend. Thanks again, though. I’ll walk.”
The pain and voices returned in a violent burst of energy. Troy let out a scream and thrust back in his seat. The soothing presence of the hitchhiker was at war with the scratching power of He who dwells under the mountain. The contest of powers only lasted seconds, but the pain felt like forever to Troy. The voices finally won, squashing the hitchhiker’s presence as if it never existed in the first place.
Destroy the Spirit! Kill him!
Troy looked about, but the man was gone. He got out of the car and se
arched around, but it was as if the hitchhiker had vanished. Troy growled and got back in the car. He drove off into the dark.
A lone coyote walked out of a nearby cornfield and watched the car fade into the night.
Chapter Fourteen
September 30, 1180
I awoke to the sounds of battle.
I rushed from my tent to find Sir Brian engaged with what can only be described as a shadow, a shape, indiscernible yet vaguely similar to a man. The mysterious figure weaved about Sir Brian as he tried to cleave it in two with his great sword.
The rest of the men and I rushed to his aid, but it was too late. Sir Brian’s sword drew no blood and caused no damage to the creature. As Sir Brian tried in vain to slay the thing, it struck, and Sir Brian fought no more. His body fell to the ground in a heap of torn flesh. After it had finished with Sir Brian, it turned its attention to us. I said a quick prayer to our Lord and Savior and prepared for the battle.
The shadow came at us, but it was at that moment the air filled with drum beats and rattling similar to the snakes of the region. A chant flitted through our ears, giving us and the creature pause. The chanting started low at first but soon grew into a noise that challenged the thunder of the heavens.
A storm came upon us then, the dark clouds rolling in quickly and seemingly from nowhere. The winds increased in violence, and the chanting and drumbeats grew in volume as well as tempo. As the lightning flashed overhead, I saw the specter of an old man engaged in a strange dance, each move, each clap of thunder, accentuated with a rattle in his hand. With each successive flash of light, I could see the man continue his dance as well as see that a group of drummers surrounded him.
The Lord and Savior answered our prayers, for the creature howled in pain, and its body convulsed. Each drumbeat drove it further and further into a frenzy until finally, in a thunderous climax, the heavens opened, and a bolt of lightning struck the creature, reducing it to nothing but a burnt pile of ash on the rocks.
As quick as it started, the storm disappeared. Our mysterious dancing ally killed the thing, but too late; Sir Brian died as well. We were silent in our sorrow. A small chuckle broke our reverie, and I turned to see Sir Geoffrey with his all too familiar smile.
I have seen enough insanity and bloodshed, and deep down I knew Sir Geoffrey caused this creature to manifest. I drew my sword and made haste to end his suffering and hopefully our own. As I neared him, I was alerted to another presence—a group of men, local tribesmen judging by their dress, standing nearby. Leading the group was the man from the clouds, the one who slew the beast.
-Sir William Brock
Canyon Shadows, Utah
Garrett raced into Childers’ parking lot, kicking up dust and rocks as he fishtailed, spinning the car 180 degrees as he tried to stop. Once the vehicle stopped moving, he jumped out the car and ran to Childers’ door. There was a sheriff’s Bronco in the lot as well, but he hadn’t paid it any attention, at least until the police lights came alive. The sheriff stepped out of the vehicle.
“Stop right there, sir,” Blackwood said.
The sheriff’s deep voice boomed through the parking lot. A tickle of electricity ran up Garrett’s spine, and he stopped moving as if his legs refused to take a step. It was only temporary, but it was enough.
“Let’s turn it down and a notch, okay? Would you like to tell me what’s going on and why you’re in such a hurry?”
For a moment, it was a standstill. Neither Garrett nor Dan moved, but both eyed each other waiting for something to happen. The morning sun broke through a mess of trees next to Childers’ store, painting the gravel in a puzzle of light.
“Boss?”
Garrett turned, surprised by Allison’s presence. In the rush, he hadn’t noticed her car. The tension drained from the air as Garrett ran towards Allison, picking her up in a warm embrace.
“Allison? How did you find this place? You never called,” Garrett said.
Before she could answer, Blackwood interrupted.
“So, this is the friend you were going to meet up with?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“What’s the rush?” Dan asked, still trying to figure Garrett out.
“I need your help. There’s some fucking weirdo down at the mini-store!”
“Well, it’s not illegal to be weird.”
“You don’t get it. this Guy was bleeding all over the place, speaking in—” He hesitated, not sure if he wanted to say in exactly which voice the man was speaking to this complete stranger. “—speaking in an odd voice.”
“Boss, you okay? You said you had a rough night with the booze and all.”
Garrett shot her a nasty look, slightly pissed that she revealed that fact about him in front of the law. With that factoid, the sheriff wouldn’t believe a word he had to say. Thanks a lot, Grasshopper.
“Don’t get too mad at her; I can smell the alcohol from here. But tell you what, let me give a call to the store and see what happened.” Blackwood stepped back into his vehicle and got his cell phone out.
Allison took a step back and looked Garrett over.
“You okay boss? You seem off.”
“In the last day, I have been through some shit. I don’t know what to believe. I would like to think that it was the rum, but I don’t know. It seemed real, and then what I saw today at the mini-store, I… I don’t know. I know what I saw, but my mind doesn’t want to believe.”
Allison gnawed at her hair, giving him a wide-eyed look. Garrett suppressed the urge to repeat the whole story. Would it even make a difference? To her, and especially to the sheriff, he was a drunkard telling a booze-infested tale.
“What did you see?” she asked.
“I don’t know if you would believe me if I told you.”
“Try me, Boss.”
He started to tell her, but the door of Dan’s Bronco squealed, silencing the birds and grabbing his attention. Dan walked over to the pair, running his fingers through his hair before putting his cap back on.
“The owner said that you met Jared Barlow. He owns the local pawn shop. I guess Jared had one hell of a bloody nose. The owner didn’t say anything about odd voices, only that you took off screaming.”
“God damn it! I know what I heard!”
Blackwood flinched.
“Please sir, no need to take the good Lord’s name in vain.”
Garrett let out a deep sigh of frustration. This was ridiculous. Garrett took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to get his bearings. He rubbed his temples, formulating what to say next.
“What did you hear? What happened exactly? Don’t worry, I’ve had my share of crazy stories,” Dan said.
A wave a calm spread across his body, as if he sank into a warm tub of bathwater. Whether the exhaustion of everything finally caught up with him, or if the need to spill his guts overwhelmed his system, it didn’t matter. What he did know was that for some reason Sheriff Blackwood’s presence helped him regain his composure, and Garrett found himself wanting to tell this man everything that happened. So he did.
They migrated inside of Childers’ place. They took a seat at a small glass coffee table in Randall’s office. Garrett started his tale with last night’s encounter in the motel. Randall stood at the window, his eyes wide, wearing a look of confusion on his face. Randall’s reaction to the situation told Garrett that the man wasn’t used to this much excitement. He took a small measure of amusement from the man’s flinches, open mouth stares, and over-the-top guffaws at Garrett’s story. In the end, everyone stared at him in silence.
“Well, that’s one hell of a story,” Blackwood said.
“No wonder you look like shit, Boss.”
Garrett shot Allison a meek smile. Whether she believed him or not, Garrett found a measure of comfort in the fact she didn’t outright call bullshit on his story.
“I’ll call my brother over at the motel and see if there is any surveillance footage. The security cameras are low quality, but it might show something,” Randall said.
“Thanks.”
“Mr. Porter, I hope that you can see my point of view in that your story sounds like it should be part of the Evil Dead movies. Not only that, but your sweat smells like it’s pure rum. I’m sure if I collected it, I could use it to fuel my Bronco,” Dan said. The sheriff leaned back in his chair and waited for Garrett’s reaction.
“I know it sounds like I’m a delusional drunk, but I know what I heard, I know what I saw, and how can you explain away my wife’s cell phone number showing up on my caller ID?”
“I never said that her cell phone didn’t. It could be that someone got the number and called your phone. I’m not saying you weren’t accosted; I’m just saying that I highly doubt your dead daughter and wife came to Canyon Shadows to torment you.”
Blackwood stood up and stretched. Allison laid a hand on Garrett’s leg and watched Dan as a tiger would watch prey.
“Sheriff! Cut him some slack for God’s sake. He’s been through enough. At least look into it?”
Garrett had been around Allison long enough to know she was pissed. When she stopped chewing her hair and focused, it meant only one of two things. Anger was one of those things.
“It’s okay. It does sound like a bad B movie, Grasshopper,” Garrett said.
“Mr. Porter, don’t worry. I’ll look into this. I’ll check with Randall’s brother at the motel about the video, as well as swing by Jared’s to see what he has to say. Please stick around town while I conduct this investigation.”
“Okay, Sheriff, thanks.”
“Yes, Sheriff Blackwood, thanks for giving a shit,” Allison said, the sarcasm oozing out of her pores.
“Ma’am.”
Dan put his hat on and started to walk out of the antique store. When he neared the door of the office, he turned around. “Have a good day, Mr. Porter, Randall, and you too, Allison. Call me if you need anything.”
Garrett nodded, and Randall waved goodbye. Allison folded her arms and sat back in the chair, turning her attention to a German falchion on the wall. Garrett watched the exchange with a little bit of amusement. Allison stole a glance back to the Sheriff as he walked out the door, then flushed with embarrassment when Garrett raised an eyebrow her way.
