Night Of The Beast (33 page)

"Then I shall prepare an elegant repast. Steak, salad and a baked potato for my mountain boy. We will act like lovers without a care in the world. Sound good?"

"Sounds great. Meanwhile, I'll build a roaring fire and try to create a fantastic setting within which to seduce one Maggie Moore."

Rourke began to stack wood onto the metal grate. He felt a sudden chill, heard more thunder. Monday was now under an end table, chin resting on his front paws. Peter snapped his fingers and the dog came to join him. He scratched the pointed ears playfully.

"Relax, pal. Only more thunder."

Rourke spread the dry kindling, mixed it with newspaper and stacked some logs. He took a match from the box near the fireplace and started the blaze. Dry wood crackled, smoke rose. He slid the screen back into position and went to pull the drapes.

The sky looked like a ball of steel wool. Huge black thunderheads were rolling in from high above the mountain peaks. A big storm was coming, all right. He started to close the curtain and stopped. Had something moved? Rourke probed, but wasn't sure his talent was working properly. He watched for a while. All was still, the damn weather pressing down. Soon he couldn't see the tree line any longer.

He closed the drapes, locked the front door and turned off the lights. The glow from the fireplace painted the living room a soft orange. Thin shadows began to bob and weave on the high beam ceiling. A pleasant warmth crept into his loins.

Back in the kitchen: "Miss Moore?"

Maggie, caught off guard, almost dropped the salad bowl. She juggled for a moment, then secured it with a huge sigh of relief.

"Don't do that!"

Rourke took the bowl from her hands. He kissed her and nudged her back towards the fireplace, tugging at her clothing.
We live and love and try to be happy.

"How about I do this?"

Screw it. Dinner could wait.

As the unkind darkness spat rain, it became obvious that even more foul weather was approaching. Thunder roared across the evening sky to slap the house like an angry parent. Furniture rattled and glass clanked against china in the cupboard. Gladys, startled, cried out.

"My, that's loud!"

Old Edith moved slowly through the room, confidently gathering up her tokens, icons and props. "The board told us that evil was coming," she said. "Evil does not enter quietly."

Gladys hugged herself. "You're frightening me, Edith. It isn't necessary to frighten me."

Edith considered. "I'm sorry. We're safe, dear. After all, we were warned."

"I don't feel safe."

"You will."

Edith cleaned the coffee table. She reminded Gladys of a preying mantis: body hunched over, skinny arms and bony fingers hanging. Her nails rapped and scraped the wood. This must really be an occasion, Gladys thought. Edith is wearing her very best black dress.

Gladys eased her obese body deeper down into the cushions of the old plaid couch. She eyed the bare, spartan living room. By day, all polished oak and patterned lace; gay antiques, rainbow curtains. But at night, with the candles lit, with the Ouija board in place…

Thunder.

Gladys jumped, fluttering her hands. Easy does it, that's only rain. Lord knows we could use a little rain around here. Nothing is going to grow without it.

Edith finished. She sat primly, her wide eyes glittering. "There we are," she said. "All set. Oh, would you like some tea before we begin?"

"I'd love some," Gladys replied, stalling for time. I'm a lonely old woman, she thought. When did I become so lonely, so old? Why am I spending this strange night with another old woman who believes in ghosts? Because there's nothing better to do, I guess. Still, sometimes I feel sorry for the both of us.

They sipped their tea. Flickering forms danced the wallpaper. Edith broke the peace. "Tonight," she intoned, "I believe we should hold a seance."

Wonderful.

"Couldn't we just play cards?"

"Hush," Edith said, taking Gladys by the hand. "Don't be frightened. Spirits are nothing to be afraid of. Not if you understand them and talk to them. They like someone to talk to, just as much as you and I."

More thunder. Rain struck the windowpane like oily bullets. Gladys gulped her tea. "Biscuit?"

"I believe I will."

Gladys watched Edith butter a roll. Her wrinkled face seemed somehow girlish as she prepared to take a bite.
I feel strange. What is wrong with me?
Things looked funny, blurry. All distorted. Edith chewed her biscuit. One end opened and snarled at Gladys: A yawning, pasty-white mouth drooling butter.

"Oops," Edith giggled, wiping her chin.

"There's a station in Reno that stays on the air until late," Gladys croaked. "It's running a Doris Day movie tonight."

Edith loved Doris Day. Now, there was a temptation to rival buttered biscuits. She smiled. "Then we'll stop early and watch. Is Tony Randall in this one?"

"I think so," Gladys said. She was barely able to disguise her disappointment.

Edith began to clear the table. Gladys sighed and shifted her bulk on the couch. At least she wouldn't have to go home right after being scared. She'd stay and watch the movie, then pretend that the rest of the evening had been a bad dream.

What is so fascinating about terror, anyhow? Why do we stand in line for hours just to see a scary movie, when we know we won't be able to sleep all night because of it? People are odd, Gladys reflected. Including me. Here I am, actually starting to look forward to this.

"I wonder why," she said aloud.

"Why what?" asked Edith. Her figure dim but visible in the doorway: Black on black.

"Nothing. Ready when you are."

Edith moved slowly through the candlelight, like a spider in a corner tracking food.

Corridors/Passages/Fugue state
:

Anthony Vargas seemed to be floating through tall, thick wooden doors and into a large room full of red furniture and squirming dark. He was present, yet not present. He raised one arm and found he could see right through it, straight on down to the scuffed floor perhaps a yard below his transparent feet.

A rancid odor, a belch of flame. Smoke fingers in a fist, digits fanning out and opening. Jason Smith appeared and stepped down from the massive palm. He addressed Vargas in that many/voice, the one that hurt the ears; bored in and burrowed deep.

"The Night of the Beast is upon us," he crowed. "We who prepare the way have unhinged the dreaded Gate to Hell. Once we have caused a precise number of deaths to occur in sequence, He shall be free!"

Jason began to pace. "Mark me well," he said. "Every human here has been summoned to this place, and each for a sacred reason. There is magnificence, Vargas. Design. Do you understand?"

Fervent grunts, tears of joy.

Jason stole his sight, sealed his vision. Said: "See?"
[and Vargas did behold a man, a house, the other man. this and more: that woman, the thing!]
and he howled like a wolf as he was given back his eyes.

"I understand. Oh, thank you."

"Kill only the men I have ordered you to kill, no others. And when this is done, leave immediately. Come directly back to me."

Assent.

"Go now."

Vargas could feel himself returning to his body. The tiny warlock pointed a crooked, dirty finger at his vanishing form.

"Vargas... Do not fail. The penalty would be unspeakable."

Jason kept his mind locked, his concentration fixed. He heightened the intensity, and the evil net tightened. More humans strangled spiritually; felt primordial, unspeakable terror rise up like ripe sewage and begin to seep through their consciousness…and sensed the presence of death.

Hi Polson flushed the toilet, checked the bathroom cabinets one last time and turned out the lights. He cursed the turbulent storm raging outside the hotel, a threat he and Louise would have to pass through in order to reach safety. Their suitcases and boxes were already in the pickup, strapped down with clothesline, and the gas tank was full. Hi walked into the naked living room.

"Hurry," Louise said. She was white with fear, her fingers continuously tapping the rubber wheels of her chair. Hi pushed her through the door. He gently guided her down the steps, through the lobby, and out into the night. The elements had gone mad.

After a few false starts, Hiram was able to maneuver Louise onto the specially designed electric lift below the passenger door. He ran around to the driver's side, started the truck and pressed the lever. Louise drifted up from the murky black. Hi pulled her body onto the front seat, returned to fold the chair, then slammed and locked the door. They drove away from the hotel they had owned for more than forty years.

Hi could barely see ten feet in front of the vehicle. Dust swirled, scratched and scraped the paint. Wind buffeted the pickup to and fro. He gripped the wheel tightly, swearing, fighting to maintain control. Louise began to read her Bible aloud by flashlight.

Louise and Hiram Polson left Two Trees behind them. They were heading north. Abruptly, the weather cleared. Open highway stretched out before them, beckoning. Hiram breathed a sigh of relief.

The engine started to whine. It was straining, like the truck had been chained to the town. Hi floored the gas pedal. Some invisible force was tugging at them from behind, refusing to let go. Louise continued to pray.

They broke free and sped away.

Louise thanked God, but Hiram knew that the engine was now badly overheated. Perhaps a broken hose, or a crack in the radiator. He had an uneasy feeling they were being toyed with. He slowed, wondering silently how long they had before the loss of water would force him to stop and allow things to cool down.

Steam, hissing. Clattering and clanging.

Hi pulled over. He was sweating, growing anxious. "We'll have to wait here for a minute," he said.

Hiram couldn't help himself. He began flicking the headlights on and off every few minutes, just to have a reassuring look around. Before too long he realized that he might be weakening the battery, so he and Louise sat quietly in the eerie dark, not even daring to whisper. Hours and days crept by. It was pure torture. Finally, they could wait no longer.

Hi started the engine and turned on the lights.

Louise screamed. Hi joined her.

A squirming brown carpet now covered the road and stretched in every direction. It surrounded the truck, constantly in motion. Something landed on the roof and bounced off again. Small, tan rocks began sliding down the windshield. They crawled across the hood as if searching for a way inside.

Tarantulas
. Thousands of them.

Hi shrank back in disgust and disbelief. Arachnids often came out onto the scorched blacktop after nightfall seeking warmth, but he had never heard of a horror such as this. The bastards were everywhere — mandibles clacking, furry legs clutching for purchase.

They were attacking the pickup, an entire army of them. He shifted into drive and moved forward.

The crunching sounds were sickening.

The crazed, suicidal tarantulas gradually managed to work their way up and into the body of the vehicle in numbers sufficient to jam the belts. Hiram heard his truck sputter and whimper. It ground to a halt again. More and more of the hairy insects propelled themselves at the vehicle with all of their might. Soon the racket was deafening; every window covered with writhing legs and fat, round bodies.

All things considered, Hiram Polson comported himself rather well. He kept it all together, despite his gibbering fear; that intense revulsion he'd carried his entire life, for bugs. Until something bit his leg. Hi shrieked, kicked and squashed the maddened thing against the floor mat.

"Spiders! Jesus Christ,
spiders
!"

Frantic, he began trying to close the air vents. It was impossible. Yet, they were all jammed — open. Louise was crying, praying for salvation, but she knew in her heart it was hopeless. So did her husband. The unthinkable had happened. His worst phobia had come to torment him, and Louise could do nothing to assist.

They fought for as long as they could. Hiram killed many of the invaders. But the relentless horde just kept on coming, wave after terrible wave.

Screaming, crying. Snapping... Bleeding.

Mercifully, Hiram suffered a massive coronary. He groaned, clutched his chest and dropped into a deep state of shock. Tarantulas covered him in moments, chewing and squeaking. Louise looked away from the terrible sight. It was her turn. She saw her first husband, William, standing in the glare of the headlights. He was grinning, motioning for her to join him. He spoke, the words hissing past rotting teeth.

"Come touch me, Louise. Touch me."

Louise brushed a spider from the cover of her Bible. She closed her eyes, whispered one final prayer...And opened the door.

He stood on the railroad trestle, directly above the skull and cross-bones Rourke had painted as a boy. He raised his stubby arms, laughing. A snarl of yellowed teeth, some guttural words in an inhuman language. He took a rusty nail and scrawled symbols on his bloodied skin. The sky roared approval. The weather answered his command. Hot needles of rain poured down from the bleak, grey sky.
So I'm mad, am I? Hahahhuaaahahahuha!