Forest of Shadows (22 page)

The raccoon scampered back into the brush and Muraco made a hard right into the driveway. He quickly killed the lights and cut the engine. It was still a good fifty feet before the driveway ended at the front yard. He left the keys in the ignition and the door slightly open just in case he had to make a fast exit. Taking a deep breath, he flexed his arms and headed for the door. 

Just what he was going to do when he got there was anyone’s guess. Never one to over-plan things, he usually let his emotions rule the moment. As he stomped up the gravel drive, the anger that had fueled him this far began to abate, replaced by something else. 

The downstairs lights were on. It was as still as death outside. This was the middle of the woods and being surrounded by nature could sometimes be noisier than living in an apartment in midtown of a busy city. 

Except here, there wasn’t a solitary sound. Even the breeze that had picked up as the night wore on and brought the evening chill was absent.

He took a few hesitant steps, the crunch of his feet on the gravel like sonic booms.

His heart was racing and he broke out in a sweat, chilling him as it touched the night air. 

This was crazy. He’d been in these woods all his life. Why did he feel like he was going to die? 

At twenty feet from the front porch he was no longer mad at the world, his grudge against the white stranger forgotten. Now all he wanted to do was turn around, even though it meant going back into the complete darkness. He looked back and came face to face with a wall of black. 

And in the darkness, misting low amid the fallen leaves and earth, was the faint sound of tiny voices, a whispered chattering of a disembodied crowd. Not a single word was discernible but the message was clear. 

He could not go back. 

Terrified to face the voices, he made a dash for the porch, practically tearing the screen door from its hinges and banging on the heavy door. 

The whispering was coming closer and growing louder. 

Chapter Twenty-Five

Sheriff High Bear’s coffee was cold as iced penguin piss and only half as tasty. He scowled at the mug then tossed the rank drink into the waste can. Millie Cloud’s file sat atop the small pile of miscellaneous papers on his desk. The coroner’s report, hot off the presses, was neatly clipped inside as well as a dozen crime scene photos and various statements by the handful of local miscreants he felt obliged to shake down for appearances’ sake. 

He was the only one in the station and it was getting late. The radio was tuned to a station run by a hippie couple several towns away. Joe Cocker was rumbling for a woman to leave her hat on when the phone rang. He was tempted to just let the damn thing ring itself out so he could hear the rest of the song but it’s hard to enjoy music when a phone is screeching out to be held. 

“Sheriff’s office,” he said irritably. 

“Have you completed your investigation?” The voice was thin and delicate and ancient. Gary High Bear straightened in his chair and forgot all about Joe Cocker.

“It’s done.”

“And the report. Who knows?”

“Just me and Bart.”

“It’s good there is no family left to bear such sadness.”

“Yeah,” he huffed. “I guess you could say that.”

There was a long silence and he thought he heard a dog howl in the distance on the other end of the line.

“What about the white man?”

“I’m still working on it. It’s not as if I have a setup like the F.B.I. or something around here. Don’t you worry none, I haven’t forgotten and I’m not giving up.”

What he didn’t mention was that he had not found anything to verify that John Backman was a Hollywood writer. Backman had also not committed any crimes as far as he could research. Everything, so far, was a dead end. 

“Good. He concerns us.”

“Worrying can shorten your life span.”

There was a soft chuckle on the other end. 

“He is not who he says he is.”

“As far as I’ve been able to tell he’s done nothing but bottle himself up in that house. He ventured into town twice to less than warm receptions and one of my deputies noticed his car was gone and the lights were out for a few days, so I figure they went out for a spell to do some sightseeing or maybe some of that extreme shit idiots today like to do to get themselves killed.”

“He has brought
ixitqusiqjuk
.”

The file on his desk caught his eye and he placed his hand over the cover. 

“Now don’t you go around spreading that. The last thing I need is the whole town in a panic.”

“Like the winds, it has traveled its own course. It will use them as a generator uses the rush of water. If you let it charge too long…”

“Don’t you tell me what’s at stake and how to do my job.”

More quiet laughter.

“Perhaps you are getting too old, High Bear. Or maybe you’re afraid.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” he said, not bothering to mask his anger nor his eagerness to terminate this conversation. 

“I only called to remind you of your duty.”

“Listen, I’ve been doing my job for thirty years now.”

“Good. Sleep well, Sheriff.”

He stared at the receiver for a while, lost in his own thoughts and the steady hum of the dial tone. 

He fumbled in the pockets, mumbled aloud, “Goddamn fools think I’m as old and scared and weak as they are,” and snatched Millie Cloud’s file as he strode past his desk into the small kitchen area where he produced his lighter, lit one end of the file, fanned it a bit with a hand that shook more than he’d like, and dropped it in the sink to burn to ashes. 

Watching her file burn, his mind went its own course until he was a younger man in a younger town. 

“Please, you don’t have to do this. I have money. Is it money you want? You can have it all.”

Gary kicked the man’s legs out from under him and watched him crumple to the ground. A three-quarter moon cast shafts of light between dark clouds. The air was dry and still. A snowstorm was coming. 

“Get up and walk!” he yelled at the man. 

He stumbled through the brush, falling twice. Each time, Gary jammed his boot heel on his lower back to prod him along. 

“Please! I have a family!”

“You shouldn’t have come here. This is our land. These are our people. You answer to us now.”

They walked in silence, only broken by the man’s gurgling sobs, until they came to a slight clearing in the woods. A circle of men and women stood waiting for them. 

“That’s far enough.”

The circle parted and the man was thrown into the center. Glints of moonlight reflected off brandished knives. 

A tiny snowflake spiraled down from the night sky and landed in the stream of tears on the man’s cheek. 

Interesting. 

He was just about done washing the black embers down the drain when he heard the front door open and Erica shout his name. Nothing was going right. 

He pushed his thumbs into his temples. 

Maybe they were right. If Backman had been here thirty years ago, Gary’s job would have been a lot easier, his trepidations much fewer. Maybe he wasn’t up to the task anymore. Sooner or later, an old man had to rest. 

For the first time in his adult life Judas was choosing to remain on edge. Most times when he felt this way, like an army of fire ants was laying siege to him just beneath the surface of his skin, he took to medicating himself to a far calmer place that was more a home to him than the house his foster parents had provided or the crummy apartment he lived in. Right now he was angry and confused and, most of all, scared to death. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Millie’s face, pale and frozen in terror. He saw the blood on the door, felt her desperate struggle to get out of the basement and even smelled the raw fear that stalked her to her death. Then there was her spectral shape appearing in the road, leading him to Backman’s house and the unnamable presence that permeated every square inch of the property. 

Something was out there. Something bad. And because of him, John, Eve, Jessica and Liam were trapped with the evil that lived there. It was evil. That was one of the only things he was sure about. Somehow Millie was tied up in all of this and he felt responsible for her death.

But why weren’t John and his family having the same experiences as him? The things that John had shared with him, though slightly eerie, were nothing compared to the otherworldly strangeness that seemed almost out to get him. It was as if they were living in two different dimensions, and John was definitely in the better of the two. Maybe if he could find the answer to that, he could find the root of the haunting. 

Haunting. This went way beyond odd footsteps in the night and disembodied voices shouting to get out of the house. This was black terror that turned your bowels to mush and made your heart feel like it was about to pop.

What was even more chilling was the undeniable fact that this particular haunting killed a person. He wasn’t sure how or why but he was positive no man or animal was responsible for ending Millie’s life. 

He felt like crying just thinking about her.

Judas flicked on the TV to clear his head, rapidly clicking past every channel once, then twice, the shows and movies and commercials blending into one mass production of useless noise. He didn’t want to get high, he didn’t want to sleep and he didn’t want to stay awake.

As he let his thoughts float through him instead of fighting the tide for footholds that were not to be, one glaring sensation rose above all the others: guilt. If he had only kept his damn mouth shut after that day cleaning the house none of this would have happened. 

Well, he hadn’t and it was time he started acting instead of reacting. He grabbed his heavy leather jacket and car keys and headed out the door. 

Shida was shut down for the night and the looming hulk of the library was a dark shadow at the end of the street. Judas passed by in his truck, pulled into the next side street and parked it off the road behind a stand of trees. He needn’t be quiet as he made his way through the trees because there wasn’t a residential house nearby. The library sat at the end of Main Street. After that was a scattering of long, semi-paved roads that popped out of the wilderness and seemingly led to nowhere. 

He tripped on a root and stumbled into the side alley of the library. He could see his breath as he huffed and puffed in the cold night air. Mindful to watch his step a little better, he cautiously made his way to one of the windows, tipped over a metal garbage pail and peered inside. It was even blacker inside than out where at least the quarter moon offered a small haze of pale light. He’d brought a penlight but decided to wait until he was inside to use it. 

Judas pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and removed, of all things, his plastic library card. Wedging it between the slats of the double window panes, he slid it rapidly across and popped the latch. It was almost too easy, but then again, Shida wasn’t all that big on security, especially for a library that almost no one cared about. It was his second time breaking into the library in a week. 

He ended up in the periodicals room and almost knocked over a rack of old magazines. The air already smelled old and stuffy and dead. With his penlight trained on the floor so as not to be seen by anyone happening to pass by the building, he turned right into the main room with its empty chairs and tables littered with a few newspapers and worn paperback books. It looked like Millie hadn’t gotten around to cleaning up for the night before she went to the basement. 

The basement. 

The door to Millie’s murder room sat at the end of a long hallway. The first time he had gone down there, the day he’d found her body, the library had been brightly lit and he hadn’t expected much of anything, especially not a bloodied corpse. A line of yellow police tape stretched across the door. 

It was a wonder they even bothered with the tape. No one was ever coming back to do any follow up investigation and odds were high that the library would be shut down for good. No demand for its supplies, especially after a woman had been killed within its confines. Not that anyone was calling it a killing. The town’s quiet acceptance of Millie’s death was almost as supernatural as the shadow spirits at John’s house. 

His breath hitched as he slowly stepped down the hall. The doorknob was still on the floor, so he moved it aside with his foot and pulled the tape from the partially open door. 

The feeble glow from the penlight was overpowered by the oppressive dark of the basement. Millie’s blood had crusted to a dark brown on the door and top step. Cold air wafted up the stairs. It was like stepping into the heart of an iceberg. The temperature outside was a normal early autumn night, but this was like a draft from the dead of winter. 

Every one of his senses was screaming for him to close the door and leave the library immediately. 

Judas stood on the top step, peering into the inky depths. He was on the verge of hyperventilating, so he closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing.