Anathema (11 page)

"Just like last time?” Jarvis poured another whiskey.

"Yeah, just like last time. There were markings on the boy's ankles and wrists that look like someone held him under the water."

"Dammit,” Jarvis groaned. “I guess I'd better pay Jim a visit. Make sure he's all right. Make sure
everything's
all right."

"Might not be such a bad idea.” Ebert motioned for a whiskey. “In a strange way, I wish the kid
was
murdered. It'd be a helleva lot easier to take care of."

Sheriff Ebert raised the whiskey to his lips.

Molly stared out her bedroom window into the inky blackness of night. Stars peppered the darkness, but none seemed very bright. It was like they, too, mourned the death of her brother. She held the angel in her hand, absently stroking its golden hair with the other.

"I wish I wouldn't had been so mean to you, Travis.” Molly brought the angel to her face and kissed the porcelain head. “I didn't have the chance to say I was sorry."

Tears leaked from her eyes for the umpteenth time, and she wiped them away on her pajama sleeve. She expected Travis to burst into her room at any time, but she knew such a thing would never happen again. God had taken Travis Home.

God had nothing to do with it.

Molly jumped when she heard the voice inside her. No, she told herself, God had everything to do with it.

She backed away from the window and the curtain closed, holding the moonlight outside. She padded to the bed and flopped on the mattress. Punching the pillow next to her, she put the angel in the pocket she made. She stared at the ceiling, listening to the sobs of her father and the tortured moans of her sleeping mother.

Molly felt so alone in the darkness.

The cold, green mist swirled out of the cave and began its slow roll toward the Anderson's home. It had feasted upon the boy, and he was good. The flesh of the innocent was always so succulent. So sweet. Travis had made it stronger.

As the mist wound between the trees, they bowed before it. They moved to one side to allow its tremendous girth to pass.

It rolled up the path like a stream of boiling oil. Occasionally, a tendril would reach out and snap the trunk of a nearby tree. It scorched the ground and withered the foliage as it moved.

At the Anderson house, the mist embraced the ancient stone foundation in a shroud of lacy, green fog. It curled into the cracks and seeped through the window frames. Spidery tentacles reached out and climbed the ancient stones.

It began to pulse, mimicking the rhythm of the household. Its color intensified.

More tentacles, gossamer thin, sprouted from the base and fingered down the hill toward the sleeping town. Just inside the town limits, the mist twirled and swirled as it was eagerly absorbed into the soil like rain sucked into a drought-stricken land.

The seeds had been planted.

Chapter 15

The sun rose as it always did the next day, a red-orange orb that poked above the horizon and bathed everything in a golden morning glow.

Jim Anderson sat on his front porch and watched the event with little interest. Unable to sleep, he crawled out of bed at about eleven o'clock last night and had been on the porch ever since. The rising sun was only a painful indication that he had to start making funeral arrangements for Travis and try to begin life without his son.

Diane was awake, but still in bed. She thought she'd stay there the rest of the day. She had no reason to get up. Even though the house was always quiet this time of day, there was a particular emptiness about it today. Her son was gone, murdered by his own father, yet the police refused to believe her. And that left a void in her heart. She would have to keep an eye on her husband. She'd have to make sure he didn't do the same thing to Molly.

Diane closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep.

A full bladder woke Molly from her bad dream. In it, she was playing with Travis. She turned her back on him for a moment and when she turned around, her brother was gone. She called out his name several times, but her cries were only greeted with silence. Then, she saw him standing on the path. But he was covered with moss and fungus and six other boys with golden eyes gathered around him. The boys took her brother by the arms and pulled. Travis's arms were torn from his body and a green goo sprayed from the wounds. Travis collapsed to the ground and disappeared. The children giggled, looked at Molly, and whispered, “You're next!"

Molly got herself out of bed and headed for the bathroom. She stopped in the hallway. A burning lump welled in her throat.

Travis's bedroom door was open. His bed was still made, and Ted D. Bear, with his black button eyes and red felt tongue, sat patiently on one of the pillows waiting for its playmate.

Molly reached out and closed the door. It clicked shut with a finality that broke her heart. Then the tears came. Suddenly, having to pee didn't matter anymore. Closing Travis's door punched home the reality of his death.

If they'd stayed in California, this wouldn't have happened. Travis would still be alive. Mom was right. All this was Daddy's fault.

Molly wiped her leaking eyes on the balls of her hands and padded into the bathroom. When she was finished, she walked into her brother's room, took Ted D. Bear from his bed, and put it next to the angel on her pillow. She crawled back into bed and pulled the stuffed bear and porcelain angel close to her. Hopefully, when she fell back to sleep, the dream would not come again. But if it did, she knew her special angel and bear would protect her.

Jim lifted himself out of the weathered, wooden rocker and stepped back into the house. He put on a pot of coffee and thought about making himself some breakfast, but decided not to. He was no more hungry than he was ten feet tall. He had a funeral to arrange and as much as he dreaded it, it was something that had to be done.

He supposed Diane would spend most of the day in bed. The sedative Doc Addlerson gave her was quite strong, and he was warned that the day in bed wouldn't be unusual.

The coffee brewing, Jim opened a cabinet drawer and took out the community phone book. He sat at the table and thumbed through the thin directory. It took little time to find the listing.

Peterson's Mortuary was the only funeral home in Prairie Rest. According to the ad, Peterson's was a family-owned business that served the community since 1807.

Jim remembered the somber-looking building when he was downtown. At the time, he wondered how a funeral home in such a small town managed to stay in business. There couldn't possibly be enough deaths to make the venture worthwhile. But here he was, ready to make an appointment with Marcus Peterson. Life was ironically twisted sometimes.

Choking down the lump in his throat and squeezing back the tears, Jim picked up the phone and dialed the number.

Jarvis rapped twice on the screen door and walked into the house just as Jim hung up the phone.

"Hey, Jarvis.” Jim walked to the counter to pour himself a second cup of coffee. Seeing his friend, he tried to smile. “I thought I was the only person in the county that got up this early. Of course, I have extenuating circumstan..."

Jarvis wrapped his arms around Jim. “The sheriff stopped by the bar last night. He told me what happened. Jim, I am so sorry."

"Thanks."

"How are you holding up?” Jarvis helped himself to a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table.

"I can't believe Travis is gone. My son is dead.” Jim joined Jarvis. “I still expect him to come running into the kitchen in his pajamas asking for the Cheerios."

Jarvis reached across the table and squeezed Jim's hand.

"The spooky thing about all this was the old gypsy lady told me this would happen and I laughed at her. I fucking laughed at her, Jarvis."

Jarvis looked puzzled. “What gypsy lady?"

"The one at the carnival. In the black tent."

"There was no gypsy tent at the carnival, Jim."

"Sure there was,” Jim insisted. “She'd set up camp just behind the Ferris Wheel. Diane and I went in to have our fortunes read. We thought it'd be fun. Turned out to be damned spooky."

"When was the last time you had any sleep?” Jarvis changed the subject.

"I can't remember.” He paused. “You don't believe me, do you? You think I imagined this whole thing, don't you?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. I can see the doubt all over your face. Well, one thing's for sure, my son is dead. Or did I imagine that, too?"

Jim pushed himself away from the table and walked to the counter to refill his cup. Maybe Jarvis was right. Maybe he needed some rest. But he knew what he'd seen. He still smelled her mothball stink, and her dreaded words still bounced around in his head:
There is a veil over your son's face. That veil is death.
There was no way he could've imagined all that.

"Maybe Travis's death wasn't an accident,” Jarvis said, speaking to Jim's back.

Jim spun around. In one hand, he held his coffee cup; in the other, the etched glass carafe. “Are you saying someone killed my boy?"

"Not someone,” Jarvis answered, “Something. You should never had been allowed to buy this place. There are forces at work here nobody understands. Strange forces. Evil forces. That gypsy witch you claimed to have seen may be part of all this."

The carafe slipped from Jim's grip. It shattered into a hundred glittery chunks when it hit the floor. Hot coffee splashed his bare feet, but he was too shocked and angry to notice.

How dare he! How dare Jarvis come into his house and make a mockery of his son's death. Jim's eyebrow began to twitch.

"Out!” Jim hissed. “Get the fuck out of my house!” His face was cherry red as he grabbed Jarvis by the collar and lifted him out of the chair. The chair toppled over and skid across the floor. He threw his friend at the screen door, and Jarvis landed on the front porch.

Jim towered above him; his chest rose and fell as intense angry rippled through his trembling body. Sweaty hair dangled in front of his eyes like wet ropes. A fine strand of spittle glistened from the corner of his mouth. His eyebrow twitched uncontrollably.

Kill him,
the alien voice whispered in his head.
Snap his pathetic little neck like a twig.

Eyes on fire, Jim reached down, prepared to wrap his big hands around his friend's pale, skinny throat, when Jarvis scrambled to his feet.

"Go!” Jim screamed. He forced his arms to his sides.

"I'll see you later,” Jarvis croaked. “Go upstairs and get some rest."

"Get out of here! Now!” It took all of his willpower to keep him from leaping at Jarvis. He wanted to attack his friend like a hungry animal attacks its prey. He wanted to tear out his throat and lap up the blood in great, greedy gulps.

Jarvis nearly stumbled down the stairs as he ran for his truck.

Jim turned, walked into the house. He tried to close the door behind him, but Jarvis's weight had sprung the frame. Jim picked up the pieces of the broken carafe, tossed them in the trashcan under the sink, then sat down on the floor. He scooted his knees up to his chest, rested his elbows on them, and dropped his face into his upturned hands.

God in Heaven, what was happening to him? He was going to kill another human being.

(Snap his neck like a twig.)

Was he losing his mind? Had his son's death pushed him over the edge?

Jim wept.

Outside, the hot morning breeze rustled through the trees. It sounded like children's laughter.

"Jarvis, I can't believe you told him without consulting one of us first,” Cal said.

"I hadn't intended to, but you weren't there. You didn't see the pain in Jim's face. He was blaming himself for Travis's death. I couldn't let him do that. He was my friend, and the words just kinda came out,” Jarvis replied. He studied the bruise he'd gotten on his arm when he was thrown out of the house. “It didn't matter, anyway. He didn't believe me."

"They never do the first time."

Jarvis and Cal were in the back room of the Gas-n-Go. Cal handed Jarvis a Zip-Loc bag filled with ice from the machine that grumbled in the corner.

"So, what now?” Jarvis winced as he touched the ice bag to the black and blue wound. “Except for this,” Jarvis motioned to the bruise, “everything seemed fine. Nothing changed. There were no physical manifestations of the house."

"Not yet, anyway,” Cal reminded.

"Do you suppose I should go up there again? Convince him to abandon the place. I'm sure we could find him something in town."

Cal chuckled. “Jarvis, you sound like you want to run the man out on a rail. And while we're at it, why don't we tar and feather his wife and daughter as well. I thought you were his friend?"

"I am. But I have my obligations to this town as well."

"All right.” Cal sighed. “After the funeral, we'll all get together and try to make Anderson see things our way. For the better of the town."

"That's all I ask. I only hope we won't be too late."

"So do I, but if this drowning is anything more than just an accident, it may already be."

That night, as residents of Prairie Rest slept peacefully ignorant in their beds, six specter children came out of the woods. Their bodies shimmered like kaleidoscopes in the moonlight, and their eyes sparkled like rare jewels. Blown by an undetectable wind, their golden hair framed their small faces like obscene halos.

Behind the children were the three whores. Wispy hair poked from their heads like dirty fright wigs. Tiny eyes were yellow and running with pus. They cackled like chickens as they fondled each other's sagging, putrid breasts.

Floating an inch above the ground, the group moved down the hill toward town. As they did this, green tendrils of glowing light snaked from the bottom of their feet and lapped at the passing landscape. Small animals that were unfortunate enough to be caught in the poison path of these tentacles immediately shriveled to dried out husks. Plant life blackened and died.