Night Of The Beast (18 page)

Maggie Moore was cooking supper, a heaping plate of freshly steamed vegetables straight from the garden. She sat on the couch and tucked her legs under her body. The old television set splattered weak black-and-white images around the room, and nondescript people did indecipherable things to loud theme music. The satellite dish was broken and the reception was miserable. She had tried to read one of her aunt's old large-print condensed novels, but her mind refused to cooperate.

In truth, Maggie found herself a bit frightened. Everywhere the house whispered of Agatha. For the first few weeks she'd had Monday around to keep her company, but now she felt lonely and small.

Photographs of Agatha and her ancestors dangled from the walls like bats sleeping in a cave. They seemed to stare down at Maggie from the splintered oval frames, their dead eyes all blank and shiny.

She would have to replace that collection. These walls were pages in a scrapbook, full of people long dead. She tried not to dwell on the thought, but what if they rose up at night? If poor Aggie did? What if there really were avenging night-creatures who came to punish bad little girls?

Maggie knew she was a bad little girl. The awareness was seldom more than a heartbeat away. Her formidable intelligence spoke to her of an old neurosis, sexual guilt from a long-ago molestation; she had paid a therapist thousands to relieve her of those symptoms, and for a time she'd been healed.

But now the voices were back.

She thought of Peter Rourke; the cautious look on his face, how strikingly intense his eyes were. They had pierced her defenses and warmed her blood. Maggie wanted him. His hands on her, his weight
[dirty]
his breath a humid mist stroking her cheek. Just when she had begun to wonder if she would ever feel desire again, this man had attracted her. And perhaps that fact alone had reawakened her tenacious insecurities.

Maggie Moore had been an athlete for as long as she could remember. Her body was supple and responsive, but she had started playing tennis far too late in life. The winning edge, that little extra ounce of endurance necessary to peak at the right time, was missing. Promising finishes led to dashed hopes. She went out on the low-paying semi-professional circuit, serving as a kind of opening act; a warm-up for better players who always won the big money.

The constant humiliation had eventually forced her to look elsewhere for a sense of worth, and men had always wanted her. So…Party time: Rooms crowded with strangers who laughed too loud and far too often. Desperate for something to hold on to, Maggie ended up in the arms of a series of nameless, faceless men. She was soon in a prison of her own making, behind bars created by an abusive childhood. She wanted to go back to college for a Masters, she wanted to change careers, but she did nothing but party. There seemed to be no way out.

Michael had come to visit. He'd read the signs immediately, and convinced her to drop out of the tour. He had yelled and screamed and cajoled and pleaded and eventually even slapped her back into reality. She withdrew from competition, enrolled at University of Nevada at Las Vegas and started a new life.

Maggie and Michael always took care of each other. She had lied once to keep him out of prison when they were younger, and he came through in her time of need. Michael covered the bills until she could think straight, and still sent money occasionally. There were alternatives now. She had a plan for the future, to teach English and PE, and….

The wall had changed color.

Maggie blinked and put her plate of vegetables aside. Her mind was playing tricks on her. Funny, she loved this house during the day, when the sun was scorching the ground. But at night, with the desert wind howling
[..?..]
Maggie rubbed her eyes. For a moment she'd been positive there was a blanket on her lap, fuzzy and covered by a pattern of little square boxes. How bizarre. Agatha hadn't owned such a blanket, had she? Maggie knew she'd never bought one. She cautiously walked from room to room, but everything seemed normal. Typically drab; nine o'clock and all's well.
What an imagination, kiddo
, she thought.
You're just projecting some of your mixed feelings. It's a spooky night.

Maggie had been ambivalent about remaining in Nevada at the start. She had come hoping to unload the house she'd inherited on another resident... But there were so few residents! Besides, she'd fallen in love with the place at first sight. She'd seriously considered staying, but soon changed her mind again. There was nothing in the town of Two Trees but slow decay.

And now that she realized how unlikely it was that she'd ever be able to sell the property, Maggie felt trapped. She had just enough money left to buy some time to think, and she wanted to avoid borrowing more, except perhaps for student loans. Maggie owed enough to Michael already. She didn't like the feeling.

She was not alone: Two blocks away, in her room at the top of the old adobe hotel, Evangalist Louise Polson was thinking about the debt she owed her husband Hiram. She didn't care for the feeling, either
[..?..]
Maggie decided she must have caught the flu. She felt all weak and spacy; numb, like her feet were half asleep.

Neither woman realized she'd been linked, briefly, to the other. It was a fluke, a tangential oddity, created by the paranormal energy concentrated on the little town. Emotional impulses had touched; found rhythms compatible and synchronized. The wrinkle in reality abruptly vanished.

Louise Polson straightened the checkered blanket, covering her useless legs. The mysterious illusion of youth and vigor drained away, and an arctic chill coursed through her body. It came to rest in the marrow of her bones.

So cold
.

Hiram was out there somewhere, swapping lies with his old crony Jake. Louise estimated they'd be pretty looped by now, their moon faces bright red from howling at the same stale jokes. Hi Polson was bound to suffer come morning. He'd have a head full of broken glass and the belly of a seasick poodle.

Still, it wasn't all that bad. Louise knew that weeks would go by before the next one. This was just something Hi needed to do to blow off steam. It made him happy, and he'd earned the right to be happy. He didn't get that many chances.

Though her husband would be home soon enough, Louise found the waiting lonely. She hated being cooped up inside, stuck in her wheelchair, listening to the clock ticking and her heart beating. Hiram had asked her if she wanted to go along, but the love behind his offer had given her the strength to say no.

The elderly woman felt a familiar tug of longing: The ache to return to her life as Louise Morgan, healer and minister of the Lord. She'd once been a tower of confidence and strength.

Louise rolled her squeaking wheelchair over to the writing table, her palms slipping on the slick rubber, and located the tall stack of memorabilia. She pulled a large scrapbook into her lap and caressed the worn leather cover with thin, arthritic fingers.

She opened the door and entered the past.

People had been in awe of her, back then. The faithful were speechless in her presence. They'd flocked to hear her preach, to witness the miracles that so often occurred with the laying on of hands. Sick children made well, cripples whole — and all by a touch, at a whisper. From the raw energy that flowed through her prayers.

Louise Morgan never claimed to be a saint. She had thrived on adulation, craved more and more attention, felt dishonest acting modest. Pride was her weakness, her private sickness. It had been her favorite sin.

Louise Polson could see the truth now, looking back over her shoulder, but Louise Morgan had refused to face it. She had been a junkie, addicted to her own ego. Perhaps if she'd only —

Louise clutched her precious scrapbook. She turned to a photograph of herself and her first husband William. Some church picnic, long ago: Sunshine, filtering down through thick branches; young families at play in the summer-green grass. Sweet William looked so handsome and practical, so sure of his future. That optimism had been captured here forever, sealed under clear plastic. He had one strong arm around her narrow waist and his smile was toothy, friendly and wide.

Her eyes filled, surprising her. But it was guilt, not grief, that made her turn to the next page. Hiram was her husband now — William had been dead and gone for more than twenty years. Hi was a good man; gentle, loyal and considerate. She knew she was fortunate to have him, for theirs was a chaste friendship of a marriage. Far less than a virile man deserved. Poor William belonged in the past, surrendered to memory
[screaming/blood everywhere/calling out to God] —
but it was difficult to let him go
.

She sighed and glanced at the temperature. Nearly seventy-four degrees. Then why on Earth did she feel as if she were freezing to death?
[William]
Perhaps it would be wise to return to bed. Louise grabbed the wooden post of her headboard and pulled herself up onto the quilt, dragging her lower body behind her. The old woman lifted her legs and shoved them under the covers. She tried to rest, but kept seeing that night.

They had been driving, arguing bitterly. A huge truck suddenly appeared from the right. William, cursing and fighting the wheel... the screech of tortured metal... a crash. Throbbing pain, distant voices. Holding her husband's crushed, leaking head in her lap and knowing he was gone.

Louise could not help herself. She'd worked desperately to heal him, bring him back to life. She had poured her force into that gory corpse — and felt it twitch. Saw the eyes open and the nothingness behind them.

Heard it
whine
and
moan...

Louise realized what she had nearly done; saw, with horror, the grey brain matter scattered on the ground. She stopped reaching for her husband's soul and released him. But then, when she had tried to stand, she'd found she could not. Louise Morgan was paralyzed. She had committed an unholy act, a blasphemy, by attempting to raise the dead. God had taken her legs to punish her. Or was she suffering because she wished to?

A knock.

"Mrs. Polson?"

Fred Langstrom, their only guest. He now lived in the hotel. A retired businessman, Mr. Langstrom had moved to Two Trees to paint desert scenery in his declining years.

"Yes?"

A pause.

"I just wanted to see if you needed anything."

Louise, still lost in her memories, missed the hollow lonliness in his tone.

"No, thank you, Fred. I'm fine."

"Well ... Good night, then."

"Sleep well."

She listened intently, but could barely hear Langstrom move away down the hall towards room 66.
Such a quiet little mouse of a man
, Louise thought.
No trouble to anyone
.

It was so cold. She wished Hiram would come home. She needed someone to hold her, someone she could talk to…

…Ironically, Fred Langstrom was every bit as desperate for someone to talk to. He was frightened half out of his wits. He paced, cursing himself. He'd been too shy to ask Mrs. Polson if he might come in and talk for a while. He now felt too humiliated to go back. Langstrom understood himself. Communicating would be even more of a problem in the morning. Waiting always made these things worse.
No
, he thought,
I'll just have to wrestle through alone.

He sat on the edge of his bed, wondering where to begin. The brick walls his mind kept hitting — blank spots in his memory — scared him stiff. So did whatever horrors were lurking behind them; things he obviously found too terrible to remember.

There had been a powder-blue tint to the long, seamless sky. Langstrom had climbed the ridge shortly after noon, lost in the majesty of this land that never changed. He had no idea how long he'd remained entranced before unpacking his things and setting up the easel.

Retirement agrees with me, he thought. I like this state of mind. I may never be a great painter, but that doesn't matter. I've already been more fortunate than most.

Perhaps he would send a gift to Tammy. He'd heard she was living in Phoenix now, working as a waitress. It wasn't right, their not speaking. A man his age needed family. Hell, a woman her age might need an occasional Daddy. She probably remembered him as aloof and cold, but a painting might break the ice. Get them back in touch. Langstrom decided he'd like that.

He waited, sketch pad in hand. Two hawks began to dive in elastic circles, wing to wing. He scratched furiously with his charcoal; trying to feel the lines, not just see them. His concentration had been good, he remembered. He'd been able to hold fast to the images until long after his models had flown. When he'd finally looked up again, the light had changed.

The time! The sun was setting over his shoulder. Langstrom had hurriedly packed his things, worried he'd get lost in the dark. That was an easy thing to do in open country.

He'd been slow upon the rock face. It had taken him the better part of an hour to reach solid ground. The night was thick and oily by then, black as squid ink. There were no other sounds, nothing to mask the racket of his clumsy passage through those hidden gullies packed with sharp stones.

How had it started? Langstrom became anxious just remembering:Steadily increasing tension, the disturbing sensation he was being watched. An unsteady, unfamiliar rhythm to his pulse.

Something was following him.

His legs had gone out of control. He had run for his life, tripping and stumbling but picking up speed, racing along as if twenty years younger. Christ, then it had hit him in the face like a bucket of cold water; the absolute conviction he was out of time, that he wasn't going to survive.