The Town (26 page)

As he described the agony of Jim’s last moments, she wished she could not understand him at all.

“What is causing this?” Nikolai asked when he was through. “And what can we do about it? We have performed a Cleansing—”

“There is not only one,” Vasili said, and they were silent, listening to him. A distorted shadow of his crouched form flickered on the rock wall behind him in concert with the flames of the fire. “There are
many
evil spirits in McGuane. And more are coming. The dead do not rest well there.”

Agafia shivered. The
pra roak
looked up at her, and she felt more than saw the unfettered intensity of his gaze.

She heard the voice in her mind:
You have invited them.

She looked quickly around, but none of the others were reacting, none of the others had heard.

This was meant only for her.

The fact that the prophet was communicating with her in this way, that he
could
communicate in this way, did not surprise her, but it frightened her. No less frightening than the nature of the communication were the ideas behind it, and she tried to think of what he meant, of what she could possibly have done to invite these sorts of . . . beings to McGuane.

The word triggered an association in her mind. Perhaps she had not
invited
these spirits, but by
not
inviting one, she had inadvertently allowed them entrance.

Jedushka di Muvedushka.

That could not be it. They had forgotten to invite the Owner of the House when they’d moved to McGuane and that would account for any unusual or unexplainable events at their new home, but all of the other Molokans had Owners protecting their houses, and there was no way that their own lack of protection could be affecting the entire town. The
pra roak
had to mean something else—but she could not for the life of her figure out what it was.

“No!” he suddenly screeched. “No!”

They jumped, all of them, Katsya letting out a little gasped cry and clutching a hand to her breast.

Vasili was holding his ears and grimacing with pain. It looked like he was trying to keep his head from exploding.

Suddenly he slumped forward, toward the fire, then seemed to catch himself. He shook his head as though just waking up from a long nap.

“They must be stopped,” he said, looking up.

“That is why we are here,” Nikolai explained patiently. “We do not know what to do. Are we supposed to pray? Perform more Cleansings? What do we do?”

“God will show you.”

“Has he shown
you
?” Nikolai asked. “If so, tell us. We are lost.”

“God will show you,” he repeated. “You will know what to do.”

“What if we don’t know what to do?” Agafia got up the courage to ask. She faced him. “What if God shows us, but we are too stupid to figure it out? What will happen then?”

The prophet grinned, the translucent skin of his face pulling tighter, his too-strong teeth giving his head the look of a skull. “All gone,” he said, and with one sweeping arm flattened the makeshift town on the sand next to him. His beard swung to the side as he moved and she saw his wrinkled, shriveled genitals. “All gone.”

 

They were silent on the trip home, each of them thinking individually about what Vasili had said, about what his words and warnings meant.

That was the trouble with prophets. They had to be interpreted.

Agafia closed her eyes, thought about the meeting.

The McGuane he had destroyed with his hand was already gone.

Had he meant by that that the Molokan community in McGuane would be destroyed, the community that had been born when the town really had looked like his model? Or had he meant that the
existing
town would be somehow turned to rubble? Had he meant that there would be some sort of earthquake or disaster, or that spirits would somehow bring about the destruction?

It was impossible to tell, and that’s what was so frustrating. She considered asking Vera, seeing if the old woman had any ideas or any feelings about this, but Vera was already dead asleep in the back of the van.

Agafia was tired, too. Tired not just physically but mentally, spiritually. Living seemed like such an effort, the energy required to get through a single day almost too much to bear. Would she had felt the same way if she was still back in California, she wondered, if she had not agreed to leave L.A. and come with Gregory? She did not know, but Los Angeles seemed far away now, part of another life, and she could not imagine leading that life again.

Was she ready to die?

She might have been, but it was her grandchildren that kept her going, that supplied what little spark of meaning she had in her life. She sensed that they needed her, and though there was no evidence of that, she felt it in her bones and knew it to be true, and that was what enabled her to keep on living.

She’d been avoiding that, trying not to think about it. Vasili had said no more to her, either verbally or in her head, and the entire meeting, the entire experience, had been so strange and dreamlike that already the reality of it was fading, the sharp edges blurring in her mind.

But the emotional impact of it had not lessened. And that was how she knew it was real, that was why she knew it had actually happened. The fear she’d felt was still inside her and could be recalled at any time.

Had he spoken to the others that way as well? Had they all heard voices in their heads? She didn’t know, but somehow she didn’t think so. She’d looked around at that moment, and everyone else’s attention had been focused on the external reality of the old man crouched next to the fire. None of them appeared to have been hearing any inner voices.

Why had she been chosen?

Was it really her fault?

She didn’t know. She glanced around the van at her fellow passengers, her fellow parishioners, her friends. She felt guilty for not telling them everything, for not telling them about what the
pra roak
had said, but she felt guiltier for what she’d done, for forgetting to invite the Owner of the House, and now she was too embarrassed to tell them the truth. Especially at this late date. If she’d been honest with Jim from the very beginning, perhaps he could have thought of some way to counteract or counterbalance her mistake, perhaps it all could have been avoided. He had known a lot more about rituals and traditions and ceremonies than anyone else, and it was possible that he could have come up with an idea.

But it was here and it was now and all they could do was deal with it.

Besides, when it came right down to it, despite what the prophet had told her, she didn’t really believe that it was because they had not invited Jedushka di Muvedushka that all of this was happening. The Owner might have been able to protect their house from evil spirits, but that had no bearing on what was happening elsewhere in McGuane.

It wasn’t her fault, she told herself again.

But she could not make herself believe it.

Scott woke up early on Saturday and had two cold cinnamon Pop Tarts for breakfast, washing them down with the dregs of his dad’s coffee. His parents were gone already, off on their usual weekend rounds of McGuane garage sales, and he was once again on his own.

He watched cartoons while he ate, then dumped his cup and plate in the sink and took his dad’s 35-millimeter camera from the closet where it had been gathering dust since their last trip to Disneyland. It still had film in it, but the counter had broken and he didn’t know how many pictures were left.

One would be enough if everything went perfectly, but things hardly ever did, and he hoped there was at least half a roll to go. He pressed the “Test” button on the attached flash. It worked, and he turned off the TV, locked up the house, got his bike out from the backyard, and pedaled over to Adam’s place.

Their family’s van was gone when he arrived, and though the house looked empty, he checked to make sure anyway. He knocked on the door, waited, knocked on the door, waited, but there was no answer, and after the sixth round of knocks he gave up. He’d told Adam ahead of time that he was coming over this morning, but obviously his friend wasn’t home. Maybe he’d been corralled into some family outing, suckered into going on a hike or a shopping trip or something.

Maybe he really
hadn’t
wanted to help him.

Scott hadn’t actually considered that before. He knew
Dan
was uncomfortable with the idea of taking photos of the bathhouse, but he hadn’t taken Adam’s mild objections seriously, and now he found himself wondering if
both
of his friends weren’t afraid of the small building.

No, he told himself. Adam went there all the time. Alone. It was spooky, but it was cool, and there was a slight prickle at the back of his neck as he hopped back on his bike and pedaled around the side of the house and across the property toward the hill.

The bathhouse.

He saw it against the background of the old burned-out home as he emerged from the copse of paloverdes and stopped.

The day was bright, the sun high in the sky, but suddenly he was not so sure he wanted to go through with this. The idea was a winner, and he had no doubt that he would be able to sell any pictures he took, but he thought that maybe he should wait until Adam was here or at least someone was home at Adam’s house before trying to take any photos.

He did not want to go into the bathhouse alone.

That’s what it came down to.

He leaned his bike against a tree trunk and walked slowly through the jumble of boulders toward the small adobe structure. There were no birds here, he noticed. This area was completely silent, the only sounds the crunching of his tennis shoes on the ground. He took the lens cap off the camera as he walked, turned on the flash. Maybe he could just take the pictures quickly and then get out of here as fast as possible.

He approached the bathhouse, feeling nervous. He’d been too glib before, too flippant in his attitude. Dan was right. There
was
something here.

Of course there was something here. That’s why he’d come to take pictures.

But it was evil, he thought now. It was not merely weird and interesting and
X-Files-
ish. It was not just a freakish occurrence to be exploited. There was something wrong and profoundly unnatural about what lay inside that little building, and he was suddenly cowed, intimidated by its presence.

Maybe he should just forget about the whole thing.

No, he’d come this far, he might as well go through with it. Because, after this, he certainly wouldn’t be brave enough to come back and try it again.

After this, he didn’t plan
ever
to come back here again.

He shivered as a tingle of fear shot down his spine, but there was something exciting about it. It was exhilarating as well as frightening, and that extra rush of adrenaline gave him the courage to walk across the last few feet of ground and up to the bathhouse.

He stood in the doorway, aimed the camera. It was too dark inside the building for him to see anything—the scene in the viewfinder was completely black—but he pointed the camera toward where he knew the shadow of the man was and pressed the shutter. There was a blinding overwhelming strobe of light, then darkness once again.

He stepped back. He thought he’d seen something in the flash. Movement. It had been quick, almost too quick to see, but it had been there. He was sure of it. A quick-silver flow of shadow from one place to another.

Heart pounding, he leaned forward, took another picture.

Again, movement.

Movement and flesh.

Yes. This time he’d seen skin. Someone naked, sitting on a bench.

Someone waiting for a steam bath.

He should run, he thought, leave, get the hell out of here. It would take only a few seconds to reach his bike, then he’d be gone, speeding away. He already had two pictures. He’d gotten what he came for.

But he had to know what was in there. He could not leave without seeing this through.

This’ll make a great story at school, a foolishly brave part of him thought.

It gave him the strength to go on.

He took another picture.

Once more, something was illuminated by the flash. Something he could not see on his own. The scene was more complicated this time, and he had the impression that there were several people in there.

People?

No. Not people.

It was completely silent in the bathhouse, and the phrase “the silence of the grave” popped into his mind. He didn’t know where he’d heard it before, but he backed slowly away from the door, peering into the darkness, trying desperately to make out any shapes inside the room, but the light seemed to die immediately after crossing the threshold, and nothing could be made out.

He wanted to take one more photo, give it one last shot, but this time he stayed away from the door and pointed the camera in the general direction, not bothering to look through the viewfinder.

He saw flesh and shadows, movement more fluid than anything on this earth, and, overseeing everything, on the back wall, the figure of the Russian man.

He ran.

He’d reached the end of the film anyway, and the camera’s automatic rewind was whirring. Several long strides brought him to the paloverde tree against which he’d leaned his bike. He hopped on it and took off, not looking back.

I got it!
he thought as he pedaled furiously, leaping the ruts and holes in the path.
I got it!

He did not slow down until he was off Adam’s road and downtown. He took the film out of the camera and dropped it off at the 1-Hour Photo next to the video store.