Night Of The Beast (26 page)

The water had turned cold. Maggie sighed and rubbed her arms. She added more hot water to the bath and settled back with her eyes closed. Dumb, she scolded herself. Go for a walk in a graveyard, come home alone to a house that's still strange to you and then listen to an album like that? Dumb!

Peter was good. Too good. Maggie figured she'd best think about something else.

She scrubbed herself. The music was still blasting in the living room. The machine must have played one side of the record a dozen times by now, she thought. But I don't remember hearing a note after that first song.

Maggie stepped out of the tub and dried herself with a large green towel. She began to brush her hair.

A long look out the window. These nights were too damn weird for her taste. Nothing moved. Nothing dared. It seemed so cold and empty, so... dead. She wished she could hold a man. She felt a wave of shame pass over her. She remembered the endless discussions with her therapist about the molestation. That it was never the fault of the child. That the adult was always to blame, but often the poor kid carried the burden for a lifetime. She soothed herself.

Off with the record player and most of the lights. Maggie jumped into bed like a cranky little girl. She turned over on her side, finally feeling warm and safe, and dropped into a deep sleep.

Hours? Minutes? Maggie opened her eyes, blind in the eerie black, her pulse racing. Something is in the house.
[go back to sleep, you're dreaming]
No. Something is in the house
. [agatha?]
Something. No. Stop this — it's childish. The door is locked. Hardly anyone lives here, much less stops here. No one is in this house.

Maggie slipped out of bed onto her knees and pressed her back against the bedroom wall. She peered up over the edge of Agatha's thick quilt at the dark nothingness.

She thought she heard a whisper of fabric. The door, sliding over the worn carpet?
Opening? Oh God, it's opening!

Hinges whined and the latch clicked. The door closed behind something cautious, silent. Had Maggie not already been awake and frightened half out of her wits, she might have slept right through it.

She imagined that strange man Tony waiting in the hall with an ax. She saw Glenn Bates, the big sheriff, and fancied she could smell bourbon on his breath. She wondered which one had come to rape her…or worse.
Not without a fight then, goddamn it. Not this time.

Maggie crawled to the foot of the bed, trying to decide if she could make it to the kitchen. She kept her sanity, but felt four years old and lost. She inched forward on her knees and elbows, fighting to control her panic. Paused in the doorway, listening.

Something was near the living room sofa. Maggie slid into the kitchen, amazed to find herself wishing that she'd worn more clothing to bed. She hated the idea of her body being found in panties.

A metallic sound she didn't recognize. A knife? A gun?

Maggie let her fingers feel their way along the front of the cabinet near the sink until she found the correct drawer. She slid it open, groping with her right hand. Her fingers closed around the handle of a huge meat cleaver. Now, at least, she could put up some kind of fight.

The cleaver made a slight clattering sound as she removed it from its resting place. Someone responded in the living room by shifting position. Maggie listened again. There... Feet across the carpet. Bare feet? Yes. Socks, no shoes.
Being quiet on purpose.

She retreated to the back door and located the lock. Maggie paused. Whoever was in the other room had heard her by now, knew she was up and moving around, yet appeared content to hold back. What if there was a second man outside? She imagined a crashing, pell-mell, half-nude flight into the gloom; rocks cutting her feet, brush whipping her flesh to ribbons. Then, perhaps, two arms reaching out to snare her.

She'd keep her back to the wall and wait.

Maggie suddenly felt calm. She knew she had probably gone into shock, but she was grateful for any kind of release from the crawling horror. She tried to envision the large cleaver hacking into a human body. How would it feel? Could she do it? Yes, she thought, I can do it. Just like chopping up a steak. It's only meat.
You come at me and you're dead, motherfucker
.

Stop that!

Goosebumps: What if some rotting thing had followed her home from the graveyard? A being all twisted and stinking and filthy, right out of her nightmares? Maggie's mind struggled for balance. It's just association, she told herself, that's all. You heard that song and now your imagination is feeding pictures back at you. It had to pick a lock and turn the door knob. That's solid enough.

Something sailed into the kitchen, bounced off the icebox and struck the floor. Maggie stifled a shriek. No! Don't let it know where you are, that's what it wants. Be still.

The object rolled over and came to rest at her feet. Maggie jumped and banged her head against the door. She reached for it, then jerked her hand away. She made herself try again, but she was too afraid to touch it. She kicked out with her foot. The thing hopped away. It sounded as if it had landed on the little orange throw rug near the sink.

Her calm began to dissolve, terror returned.
Our Father, Who art in Heaven...
What if it was Peter? What if he really was a maniac, and he'd come to...

Maggie began to whimper. That's when she heard the footsteps crossing the carpet, moving in her direction.

Someone turned on the lights.

Half blind and dazed, Maggie could only focus on the barrel of the gun. It was pointed at her head. It seemed huge, as empty as the mouth of a killer shark. Then she saw the outline of a man, his body in perfect shooting stance, both hands clasping the pistol, arms extended, feet slightly apart. She threw the meat cleaver in his direction, but he stepped aside with ease. Broken, Maggie fell apart. She began to cry.

The man lowered his gun.

Maggie suddenly took it all in. The object by the sink, the thing that had struck her foot, was a tennis shoe. The man in the doorway was speaking, walking towards her. Apologizing.

It was Michael.

"Jesus, sis," he gasped. "I'm sorry. I was scared shitless!"

It took fifteen minutes for Maggie to complete her first rational sentence, a well-constructed string of insults and curses directed at her beloved brother.

While outside, in the night: Vargas slapped the grass with his palm in rage and frustration. He silently melted away to become a different kind of dark.

That same, wicked night…

The curious snake slithered out from beneath a flat rock to observe the huge life form slumbering nearby. Spats Rafferty pursed his lips to dislodge an insect. He rolled over and slept again. He was not aware that it was still night, or that he was lying only a few feet from the path leading to the cemetery.

Later, Spats woke up and brushed the clinging sand from his creased, bronzed face. He located his bottle of wine and drained it. The sun had fallen deep into the mountains, and it was pitch black. The moon was hiding behind a thick blanket of storm clouds. Spats cowered. He did not like to be alone late at night, especially sober.

When he groped around, his knuckles rapped the picket fence behind him. Jesus, the graveyard! His hackles rose and he jumped to his feet. Far in the distance a lone coyote started howling.

Rafferty whimpered. Someone was moving his way, coming through the cemetery. Footsteps crunching dead grass and pebbles.

A pair of glittering eyes, low to the ground. Fascinating eyes, soothing eyes; Spats found it impossible to look away from them, even for an instant. Someone he'd met, but didn't really know? Shit, he thought, I'm hypnotized or somethin'. Who's gonna believe me when I try and tell 'em about this?

"They have wronged you greatly."

Spats flinched. The voice was loud. It seemed to come from inside his brain. "Yeah," he said bitterly. "You bet your ass they have."

"I understand this, Mr. Rafferty. I can help, if you wish."

"Help me what?"

The eyes twinkled. A chuckle, hollow as an empty tomb. "Take your revenge."

Revenge? On fuckers like Bates? The concept pleased Spats. He smiled. The lonesome coyote wailed again, and Jason's voice continued. "Do you love the creatures who kill? They are beautiful when they sing."

Rafferty became ecstatic. "Yes," he said. "Oh, yes."

He saw the eyes float closer, grow even larger.

"You wish things. I can supply them. Would you like that?"

"Yes."

"Sex. Liquor. Freedom from loneliness?"

"Please."

"The death of your enemies? All of your enemies?"

Spats began to drown in those eyes. It felt nice. Like getting drunk on good, hard whiskey. He craved more.

"More? Look, then," Jason hissed.

Young Beth Reiss, her long brown hair flowing down over smooth, pink shoulders. How fucking weird, Spats thought. I ain't seen Elizabeth since before she and Elmo was buried together.

Yet she was here. Now. Floating towards Spats like a transparent porno shot, stark naked. He felt young again. His penis began swelling. She placed his hands on her breasts, opened his pants and dropped to her knees. She reached out to him in her mouth. Spats moaned and stuttered.

Elizabeth had suddenly become the beautiful little black boy.

Something hungry shambled closer, slobbering. It smelled terrible. Rafferty opened his eyes. He jumped away from the erotic vision, just as it dissolved, and saw the truth.

His mind broke.

"Julie, for me?" Paula Baxter pleaded. "Try. You've got to eat something, baby."

Her daughter turned the page of the horror comic. "Not now," she said. "I'd just throw up again."

Paula frowned and placed the bowl of cereal on the nightstand next to the bed. Poor Julie was suffering. What a rotten coincidence; sunburn and then stomach flu. Could her awful fantasy, that deep fear of peeling, have caused this illness? No, she was too calm. Children bounce back, Paula told herself for the tenth time that morning. Julie had always been frail.

Christ
, Paula thought.
What should I do; cut the vacation short and see a doctor, or wait this out?

"Oh, Mommy," Julie sighed. "Take it easy, will you? I'm okay. Really. I just gotta rest until my tummy settles down."

Paula got to her feet. "At least let me pull the drapes and open a window. We've got to got some fresh air in here."

"NO!"

Paula Baxter became a statue. Julie was that formidable. She glared at her mother, flames dancing in her steel blue eyes. Paula felt dominated, rooted to the spot. It was as if she were facing a total stranger. But then the moment shattered; sailed away on the wings of a quick, cool breeze.

Hallucination, a brief burst of paranoia. There was little Julie, all rumpled and yawning, just cranky from the flu and a sunburn. No reason to freak.
Jesus, Paula
, she told herself,
maybe you need to get laid
.

"Mom?"

She shook the creepy feeling. "Yes."

"I know it's morning, but good night."

Julie blew her mother a kiss and rolled to one side. She spoke again, her voice muffled by the pillow. "Don't get upset, huh? I'm gonna be fine. I'll grab a bite later tonight. Go enjoy yourself."

"Sure."

Paula watched those eyes close, studied every inch of her daughter's face. Normal, absolutely normal. And yet...

What?

Paula Baxter walked down the RV's cramped hall, carefully and quietly. She stepped through the door and out into the reassuring warmth of sunshine.

Timmy was perfecting a fast draw. He was in his gunslinger stance: cowboy hat at a jaunty angle, legs bowed. Whipping that little plastic gun from its holster with a soft POW! and then starting all over again. Paula was staggered by a sudden rush of love for her son. She decided to take a little hike, alone, and try to put things back together. She tucked her filtered pacifiers into the pocket of her checkered blouse.

"Hey, Mom," Timmy shouted. "Let's play croquet!"

No response.

"You wanna?"

But his mother must not have heard him, 'cause she just sorta wandered off.

Anthony Martoni thought Two Trees was a lonely place to die. Hell, even the mortician was gone. Doc had vanished right after the State changed its mind about that new highway. He went off to Chicago looking for more people to bury, the selfish bastard. Up and left the town without a real undertaker, except for that kid Jason Smith. Because Smith wasn't a friend, someone who could give an old man a decent burial. There's no dignity in it this way, Martoni sighed. Just don't seem right.

He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. When he looked around, he felt only mildly curious to find himself sitting right where he'd been all of the previous day. He was even wearing the same rumpled clothing. Had he gone to bed? He could not remember. Old fool, Martoni grimaced, you are goin' senile. So weak, so drained.

God, I miss you Helena. I dream you back to life each night. I can feel your fingers on my skin, smell the fragrance of your perfume.

Flies landed on the front window.

A sudden gust of wind raised a dust devil. It whirled past the store like a miniature tornado before disappearing into the flat, heavy air. Anthony Martoni rubbed his bleary eyes. For a moment the yard seemed carpeted with wildflowers. He almost saw her, heard her laughter. So many years ago...