Night Of The Beast (36 page)

She stopped when she heard the shot.

Sweet Mary and Joseph
, Maggie thought
. No.

"Peter!" she called. "Peter!"

He stumbled back into the cabin, hands covered with blood, clothes dripping wet. Maggie almost lost her mind, but Rourke was not physically hurt. He was crying.

He went directly to the sink to wash up.

"Peter?"

"Monday is dead," he said. "I shot him. Something cut him open. It took his back legs off. He was calling me for help, Maggie." She held him while he mourned.

"You have to pull it together," she said. "We have to get out of here, and I mean
now
."

Rourke nodded, his face rubbing against her sweater. They raced for the car. Peter started the engine and flicked on the headlights. Maggie couldn't help but see the mutilated remains of the dog. Pieces lay strewn about the yard.

Rourke, in a rage, probed and got lucky; zeroed in by accident. Pure image: A smallish man, standing on the rise
[in the rise?]
above the cabin, observing their panicked flight with great amusement.
I'll find you, motherfucker,
he thought, before he could stop himself; then Peter floored the gas pedal. He ran for his life, for Maggie's life.

Fred Langstrom, ex-advertising executive and would-be artist, experienced his final moment of sanity. The storm flicked the lights on and off, snapping him out of some kind of spell. He turned in a wide circle, gaping. Room 66 was stuffed with unfamiliar paintings; disgusting works depicting torture, rape, suicide and mass execution. A phallus and a vagina both hideously deformed. He saw starving children in rags, graphic scenes of war; an odd totem of arm bones and horse hair…and weird signs in some arcane language. He recognized the signs, because he had also recently carved them onto his naked skin with a razor.

It was night.
It was time
.

Somehow he knew exactly what was expected of him. Langstrom opened his closet to remove something. He got a chair, stood upon it and groped at the ceiling. He knotted the rope around his neck, then kicked away his support and dropped. His neck did not break. Fred Langstrom spun slowly, tongue extended and face turning purple. He grabbed at the rope, but it had dug deeply into the soft tissue and he could not dislodge it. His tongue protruded and his throat whistled thinly. His lungs began wheezing for air.

The lettering on his naked skin pulsed with engorged blood and almost came alive.
Orunde fed, and fed, and fed….

It took him nearly five minutes to strangle to death.

Glenn Bates emptied the last ashtray, leaving the room spotless. He carried his baggage out into the front hallway and set it down next to the screen door. He cursed the storm. Shit weather for night driving, but what the hell.

He started to open the cabinet, then remembered that he'd packed every drop but the small bottle of bourbon in the side pocket of his jacket. It occurred to him, as it did now and then, that he drank too much.
As soon as I'm away from here,
he thought,
things are gonna change.
Who wouldn't drink in this town?

Bates stretched his body flat on the couch. He set the pint of liquor on his massive chest and eyed the ceiling.

The screen door thumped.

He sat up, wary: Is something out there? No, it's only the storm. Nothing is ever out there.

He lay down again. Someday soon life would be different. No more of this small town crap. He drank and thought of Ngo in mid-swallow; a sharp, clean image of the little Viet on his knees, eyes wide and staring. Bates choked, liquor spilling down the front of his shirt. He sat up, coughed and swung his feet to the floor. His head was swimming, stomach churning. He watched the floorboards move while guilt coursed through his veins like acid.

Bates fumbled for his bolstered revolver. He checked the gleaming silver chambers. Six shells, full up.

This time for real.

It could all end right here, in this little desert town. The boredom, the shame. The memories.

No fuss, just one click and a brief flash. No one would notice the bang, not in this weather. His hand began to shake. He raised the gun to his temple and tightened his finger on the trigger. This time for real.

The wind howled with glee. Shutters clapped their hands in appreciation.

Bates carefully replaced the pistol in his jacket, using only the tips of his fingers. Another night, then. Before too long.

He gulped from the bottle, swallowed until he stopped to gasp for air. His stomach filled with the pleasing liquid fire, Bates belched comfortably and leaned back against the wall.

Hell, there were lots of ways to die.

Edith gently placed the tips of her white, wrinkled fingers on the ouija board. She touched it lovingly, stroking the numbers and letters as though she expected them to purr. The board was passive at first, but then the pointer jerked, hopped and began to wander. It paced back and forth, like a wild animal exploring the boundaries of its cage.

"Almost ready," Edith said. The mountains snarled.

Gladys became aware of a strange new smell in the room, an odor that reminded her of rotten eggs. She wrinkled her broad nose in disgust. The stench had affected the taste of her tea. She lowered her cup and heard it rattle against the delicate china saucer. Her hands were shaking.

Edith raised glazed eyes from her beloved board. "Are you ready, dearie?"

"I suppose so."

Gladys forced herself to participate. She reached forward. Her fingers sank slowly, reluctantly, as if the air surrounding the ouija had thickened. It seemed to resist her approach and push back. Gladys thought of swamps, quicksand, of plunging her arms into a slimy pool of polluted water. She was about to say something to Edith, had just shaped the first word, when it was over. Her fingers were resting on the board.

Very active imagination tonight, huh? Well, cut that out. Take it easy, everything's normal — except for that odor.

"Can you smell it?"

Edith looked blank. "What?"

"Never mind," Gladys said.

She took a deep breath and almost gagged. Was the stink worse? "Come on Edith, let's get this over with."

She felt an intense, totally irrational urge to run that kept growing, despite her efforts to ignore it. Gladys concentrated on allowing the ouija to drift. Be sensible, she told herself. The sooner you let something happen, the sooner Edith will be content. Then we can stop this nonsense.

But the dizzy, spacy perspective reappeared and brought another anxiety. It was crazy, childish nonsense, but Gladys couldn't lose the feeling.

She was afraid of Edith.

Breath, clocks ticking. The whisper of fabric on wood. Both women kept their hands and eyes glued to the ouija; Edith because it fascinated her, Gladys from sheer terror. But the little felt-lined pointer rambled on past various symbols, numbers and words without stopping.

Big evening.
What am I so jumpy about?

"Isn't this fun?" asked Edith, her voice quavering with excitement. "Well, isn't it?"

The pointer moved.

NO.

Edith laughed. "You did that on purpose."

Gladys shook her head, which felt as if it might soon come off and drop right into her lap. The feeling of disorientation worsened, triggered taller and taller waves of suspicion. She was drowning. It almost looked like underwater; everything shimmered and seemed wrenched out of perspective. Her eyes began to mist over. Noises came from far away. She could no longer control her hands.

The pointer continued to move.

"Edith, what's happening to me?" Gladys mumbled. Her voice sounded strange, as though her mouth were changing shape.

Edith sat back, all crafty and calm. "It's just the spirits, dear. You're feeling the spirits."

Gladys sighed. "I'm very tired," she whispered. "Sleepy all of a sudden."

Edith smiled, her false teeth gleaming like polished piano keys. "Good. We must be very close."

The candles flared. Gladys straightened in her chair. I've been asleep, she thought. I wonder how long? She felt like she was experiencing everything for the very first time. She became sharply aware of the fat on her body, the size of this prison she lived in.

The candles shrank to oily smoke, and then the rest of the lights went out.

Jason was gloating, looking in through the window, his squashed figure contorted with laughter. Lightning popped like flash cubes: Another power failure. The battered plant groaned, faltered and strained to restore electricity.

The thump of a chair falling over. A woman started to babble, her voice high and shrill. A table crashed to the carpet. More sounds: Breaking china, a struggle, cries of pain.

Jason stepped away from the window, greatly pleased. He stood by the side of the house, basking in the Night of Nights. Something shattered glass and struck the ground nearby.

The ouija board.

The woman began to plead — a sobbing wail. Violence, the dark beauty of flowing blood. Death sent out invisible rings of raw emotion, like ripples on the surface of a pond. The screams began to die down. The lights came up.

A grunt. The
POP
of gristle and bone. Something being pulled apart...

Another object flew through the window, bounced and crunched on the broken glass. Jason Smith kicked it and grinned. It rolled a few feet away before coming to a stop. He walked on. The severed head stared after him, sightless and mindless, open mouth frozen in an eternal plea for mercy.

Michael Moore stiffened and looked up from the note he was writing. Somebody was approaching the house. He palmed his gun, went over to the curtain, nudged it to one side and peered out at the stormy night.

Glaring headlights entered the driveway. Car doors slammed. There they were, running up the steps; obviously spooked about something, because Rourke was carrying a fucking rifle.

"I thought you'd find the rain romantic," Michael joked.

Peter shoved him aside, just pushed right past him. Michael kicked the door shut, a trifle harder than necessary. Maggie went straight to the fireplace. She began to feed it wood. She was afraid she might never feel warm, or safe, ever again. Rourke propped his rifle against the dining room table and glared at the wallpaper.

"You look terrible," Michael said. "What happened?"

"Something got my dog. It almost got us."

"A big cat?"

Peter snapped at him. "I said something, Michael, and I meant it. Not animal, not human. I don't know what the fuck it was."

Michael seemed amused. "Give me a break. Maggie?"

"Mike," Maggie whispered, her gaze still fixed on the comfort of the fire. "You've got to believe me. Just accept this, okay? Peter has some sort of a gift. He can see what we can't. He senses things. Don't argue."

"What,like he's a psychic?"

"Close enough," his sister answered.

"Oh, come on…."

"Please trust me, and trust Pete. We're all in deep trouble. I felt it too, Michael. It was real and it was horrible."

Michael stared at her, then shrugged. "I was leaving you a note anyway," he said. "I need to borrow your car, sis. It's time for me to be off."

Maggie pivoted on her knees. "No. Not tonight, Mike. Don't go out there."

"Look Pete, I'm sorry about Monday but what's all the panic about?"

Rourke stared at him. He read something and shook his head sadly.

"You know, don't you? Your instincts are telling you to run."

Michael grimaced at the note he'd intended to leave. It was funny, light — and phony as hell. Now, with Rourke right in front of him, he felt embarrassed. He clenched his fist, squashed the note into a tiny ball and bounced it in his palm.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I've got a good sense of self-preservation. That's why I'm going, Rourke. Self-preservation."

Peter skulled and snapped something elusive in Maggie's brother. "Michael, could you have brought something with you when you came here? No. You were following someone!"

They faced each other. Michael blinked first. He tossed his farewell note into the blaze. "I don't understand."

"I think you do," Rourke said softly.

"Well, fuck you."

Maggie raised her voice. "For the love of God, Mike. If you know anything, please tell him!"

"I don't," Michael lied. With a barely discernible shake of the head, he indicated that he wanted to speak to Rourke in private, away from Maggie. Peter nodded his agreement. He went to warm his hands by the fire.

Michael hid his feelings well, but Rourke could sense the turmoil raging within him. It felt a lot like the storm now assaulting the house — a churning, whirling mass of trapped energy. Michael was volatile, as potentially dangerous as a chunk of plastic explosive. And connected, somehow...

A jolt: Distant, desperate, motivated by terror raw enough to have created a subconscious connection. How could a person without the talent be this powerful?
[wait! help/oh/ please/oh]
Too fast, too far away. Rourke couldn't hold on to it.

Who was
that?