Wildest Dreams (15 page)
Authors: Norman Partridge
Tags: #Fiction.Dark Fantasy/Supernatural, #Fiction.Horror, #Fiction.Crime
“A siren’s call,” I said.
“The girl answered it, of course. She was a child of prophecy. What else could she do? She strained toward the shadow…”
Twin memories of the bridge intertwined in my mind—the little girl leaning forward to watch the fish, and Janice Ravenwood staring down at the water as if hypnotized during the strange séance.
“…and the shadow’s voice begged her to come closer…”
I caught Janice Ravenwood before she fell into that cold, clear water.
But no one caught Circe Whistler.
“…and the little girl fell off the bridge and the shadows pulled her under the surface like liquid glass and the creek took her under the bridge and over rocks that never saw the sun…oh, so many rocks…and what those rocks did to her….”
Circe slapped me again. My eyelids fluttered open. “Don’t sleep yet, darling,” she said. “Stay with me a little while longer. There’s not much more to tell.”
Another breath rattled down my throat. Another old man’s birthday. I’d lost count, but I knew there wasn’t any point in starting again.
Circe said, “The rocks hurt her horribly. The little girl died, of course. But her wounds did not matter, for they would pass as she had passed. She was a child of prophecy, a husk to be emptied and repaired by Satan.” Circe leaned close and whispered in my ear as if we were in church.
“And the ruin of Whistler’s corpse shall be Satan’s cradle, and Satan will be reborn in flesh and blood to walk the earth once more—”
“Circe was Satan’s vessel,” I whispered. “She was the chosen one. Not Diabolos—”
“Yes,” she said. “A little girl was Satan’s cradle, and He walks the earth as a woman.”
I coughed blood.
The thing that had once been Circe Whistler ran a long slim finger over my lower lip and silenced me.
She slipped that finger between black lips and sucked it hungrily. A dark buzzing filled her throat, and her words were like a misplaced echo. “Diabolos Whistler’s prophecy was fulfilled a long time ago. The funny thing is, no one seemed to notice.”
Blood pooled in my mouth. Rich and salty and hot, pumped by my heart. Like life itself…like—
She leaned toward me.
Opened her mouth.
Kissed me deeply.
Drinking my blood like sustenance. Feeding the dark things that hid in the hollow of her throat—
I screamed.
She broke off the kiss. “Mortality.” She laughed. “It’s been a real tradeoff. Of course, everything is. I wouldn’t want to carry the whole load, though. I wouldn’t want to grow old, or give up certain advantages I’ve always enjoyed. But it’s like they say—sometimes you’ve got to bring it to get it. I paid a high price to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. Higher than you would ever believe.”
But I did believe. I had to. Satan had shown me the proof.
I believed every word.
I blinked and tried to focus. I looked for the woman who had drawn me to her bed. I looked for her in the shadows. She was with them now. A thing that wore a woman as a mask. A dark ripple on water. A siren calling from the heart of my wildest dream—
My wildest nightmare.
“It’s past your bedtime,” said the thing that lived in Circe Whistler’s skin.
I sucked down one last breath.
Her palm closed over my face, dammed my nostrils and my mouth.
That last breath burned in my lungs. I knew I’d never draw another. I drew my K-bar instead. Drew it from behind my back.
The blade sliced crushed velvet, tore flesh, skittered between ribs.
And dug a grave in Satan’s black heart.
* * *
They lay at my feet.
Three dead dogs and Satan’s corpse.
Her blue eyes shone with surprise.
Her open mouth was a gutter for blood.
In dying, that was all she had surrendered.
Or perhaps it was all I could see.
No shade. No ghost. Only blood.
But blood was enough.
Flies came.
And flies lingered.
So did I.
* * *
I heard footfalls on the staircase. Careful, quiet, afraid. And very much alive.
Janice Ravenwood stood before me, searching for answers in my eyes.
My eyes held nothing. I was dead. But I saw clearly. I saw Janice’s future. She could have everything she’d ever wanted. Fame, fortune…even Circe Whistler’s mansion. She could have it all, as long as she was willing to pay the price.
We all paid our prices. All of us, the living and the dead. Me, and Diabolos Whistler, and the thing that had masqueraded as his daughter, and Spider Ripley and all the rest.
Janice Ravenwood was no different.
I remembered what she’d told me, once upon a time:
“A wise soul understands the dynamics of mercy.”
I wondered if Janice truly believed that, for even mercy has its price.
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” she said. “But I want to tell you that I’m sorry. For everything. I didn’t know about Circe until tonight…. When she told me what she was, I thought it was too late for any of us…especially for me. I hope you believe me.”
Sirens howled in the distance.
Janice’s fingers brushed my forehead.
“Thank you,” she said.
She closed my eyelids with fingers that felt too much. She knew the price of a single touch. She paid it.
* * *
I left Circe Whistler’s mansion under a ripe moon.
The storm was clearing. Tattered clouds whipped across the heavens, but there was no power left in them. The wind took the clouds where it wanted to go, blustering through the long night and beyond.
I could not go with the wind.
I looked to the road ahead.
A pair of gates swung open before me.
Not the gates of heaven, and not the gates of hell.
Only the gates that shielded the Whistler estate from the outside world.
A car from the sheriff’s department raced down the driveway. Instinctively, I made a grab for my K-bar, and the laughter that spilled across my lips didn’t even amount to a whisper on the wind.
I held the knife before me. Just like the deputy I’d murdered at the side of Circe’s house—the one who’d aimed a ghostly pistol in my direction—I could see the weapon clearly.
But I wouldn’t be fooled by it. I tucked the knife under my belt. The patrol car skidded to a stop beneath the porte-cochere. Two deputies jumped out, and Janice Ravenwood met them at the door, and they entered the mansion together.
I turned my back on the mansion and started toward the open gates.
I didn’t know where I was bound.
Heaven. Hell. Somewhere in between.
But I knew where I wanted to go.
I started up the road. Another police car came down the drive, followed by a CNN news van.
This time, I didn’t spare them a backward glance.
Car doors opened behind me, then slammed shut.
Radio crosstalk drifted through the night air, along with insistent voices.
The talk was of a killer.
They’d given him a name, the way they always do. They called him Jehovah’s Hammer.
2
She was waiting, of course.
Sitting on a footbridge that arched across a rushing creek, her little girl legs dangling over the side as she gazed down at the cold water rushing below.
I moved toward her, following a fern-choked path through old redwoods, but Circe Whistler didn’t notice me.
Of course, the sounds I made were hardly sounds at all, and what the little girl would have heard had she been listening was masked by the hollow sigh of clear creek water flowing to the sea.
Silent as an evening breeze, I stepped onto the bridge.
“I always keep my promises,” I said.
Circe looked up with startled blue eyes that were as clear as the October sky.
A smile bloomed on her face. “I’m glad you came back,” she said.
“So am I.”
I sat down next to her, and Circe looked into my eyes. She saw nothing there to make her wary or afraid. But she was afraid of questions, questions she had to ask.
Questions are never good. She said, “Did you find out—”
“The truth?”
She nodded.
“Yes, I did,” I said. “Later, I’ll tell you everything.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” I said.
We sat in silence, in shadows beneath heavy redwood bowers. Somewhere above the sun was rising, but we could not see it, and we could not feel its warmth.
“Look!” I said.
A steelhead shot through the water like a bullet, fighting the current every inch of the way. A flash of scale like living sunshine, a splash of the steelhead’s dark and powerful tail, and then it was gone.
I stared down at the dark water, rushing so fast, and at the shadows that waited there.
The shadows didn’t move at all.
I drew the K-bar from behind my back.
The knife wasn’t what it had been. I knew that.
Maybe now it was something different.
My fingers parted. The blade started down.
Gleaming like a steelhead swimming upstream to die.
The K-bar sliced through the shadows without the slightest splash, and then it was gone.
The water gleamed like silver.
“Will you stay with me?” Circe asked.
“I’ll stay.”
The creek whispered below, the soothing sound of water rushing to the sea.
Circe reached out and took my hand.
THE END
Cemetery Dance Publications
Be sure to visit CemeteryDance.com for more information about all of our great horror and suspense eBooks, along with our collectible signed Limited Edition hardcovers and our awarding magazine.
Our authors include Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Ray Bradbury, PetemStraub, William Peter Blatty, Justin Cronin, Frank Darabont, Mick Garris, Joe R. Lansdale, Norman Partridge, Richard Laymon, Michael Slade, Graham Masterton, Douglas Clegg, Jack Ketchum, William F. Nolan, Nancy A. Collins, Al Sarrantonio, John Skipp, and many others.