Mark looked over at him, smiling pleasantly. “You’re right, Doctor Lewis, that’s exactly what it wants, but it can’t. Not yet. It needs me to do something first.” Mark smiled at Rick, a sad smile that was almost hidden by his conversational voice. “It needs me to finish changing and after that, it just needs a little time. Then, when it’s had that time, everything here will go away.”
Rick wanted desperately to speak, but the little things were stopping him, little things he hadn’t even noticed before. They were everywhere now, climbing over the remains of Pete Larson and Tommy Blake and Tanya Billingsley. Others were present as well, but none he could recognize, none that he himself had ever witnessed. He couldn’t see them very clearly, they kept trying to change shape, as if they were looking for the right form.
“Don’t worry, Doctor Lewis, They won’t hurt you.” Lewis looked over towards Mark Howell and was startled with fascination and fear. Something was happening to the boy, right before his eyes. Mark’s skin was blistering, blisters that looked like fresh burns from hot grease, save the color was wrong; the blisters were the color of corruption, blendings of green and gray, yellow and black, but not colors that refreshed or looked healthy, they looked faded, worn with eons of waiting.
Rick felt magnetized by the sight, as the blistered patches of flesh covered over the healthy tan on Mark’s body growing larger in size and number. “They never hurt anyone, so long as no one hurts me. I like to think of them as my defense system, a way of protecting myself from the things that have happened to me in the past.” The ulcerated flesh covered him now, festering and all but boiling over him.
Somehow, the face hidden by the foul miasma managed to convey a frown of puzzlement. “I don’t think they’d look at it the same way, but that’s okay. As long as they’ll protect me, I don’t have to worry about it. They’re my friends, Doctor. Do you know how hard it is to find friends in this world, the ones that won’t hurt you?” Pustules erupted on Mark’s swollen form, spilling a hellish scent of mold and decay into the air.
“It’s harder than you think. I got lucky. They found me.”
The piercing shriek of Rick’s alarm clock stopped him from hearing what Mark would have said next. Richard Lewis had never before been so grateful for its interruption.
8
Patrick Wilson was suffering from nightmares as well, but his came for him while he was awake. Dave Brundvandt was making an unexpected house call. Patrick was scared, Dave had a way of explaining his problems with his fists and Patrick had a strong allergy to physical pain.
“Look, Dave. I told you before that I’d set you up with the guys to buy from, I never said I’d do anything more than that.” Brundvandt’s expression told him that excuses weren’t going to cut it this time.
“Pat, we made a deal a good while back and I always kept my half of the bargain. I want my shit. Now.” It wasn’t the size of Dave Brundvandt that carried strength, it was the seriousness of his words. No inflection, no reaction, just a steady monotone.
“Shit Dave, what the hell do you want from me? I took you to Denver, I introduced you to all the right people. I told you then that I couldn’t do anything else for you. Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you thick or what?” That almost got a flicker of reaction from Dave. Patrick was doing his best to get through, but Jesus Christ, the guy wasn’t listening.
“You told me all that before and now I’m telling you, I don’t have the time for this. Those friends of yours said they won’t do business with me. So I’ll do business with you.” That was just about it then, “NO” wasn’t going to make a difference with Dave. Patrick started mentally covering the people who owed him favors, the list was surprisingly short and none of the favors were big enough to get rid of Brundvandt easily.
“Leave it be, Dave. I don’t do that anymore. I’m not going to start all over again just to satisfy you. Go find a new connection. Better still, straighten out your mind and get a fucking job.”
“Okay, one more time. Get me the shit. Get it by tomorrow, or else.”
“‘Or else what? You’ll shoot me? Get real. Get a life. And while you’re at it, get the fuck out of my face.”
Dave Brundvandt stared at Patrick Wilson for a long time, neither one of them giving an inch. It took a while, but Dave finally stepped back, nodded once and turned away. Patrick tried hard to convince himself that everything was finally over. It didn’t work.
With a sigh, he stepped back into the house and closed the door. Standing behind him was his father. For most of his life, Patrick had seen his father as a good man with no anger in his body. He never punished Patrick or Tyler, he just explained why it was wrong to do certain things, like pulling the cat’s tail or lifting a candy bar from the counter at the store. It was Mom who did the punishing, Dad just explained the reasons for the punishment.
The thunderous look on his father’s face let Patrick know that today would be different. Today, Dad would be doing a lot more than explaining. Samuel Wilson reached for his son faster than Patrick would have ever thought possible. The hand that struck Patrick across the face was anything but the hand of his father; it was more akin to the hand of God.
Patrick looked fearfully at his father as the man forced him against the wall. “Drugs?” Just one word, but the voice wasn’t even like his dad’s. It was like Clint Eastwood in Hollywood makeup, a prosthetic dad face that couldn’t hide the squinty eyes and gravelly whisper.
“Dad! I…uhm. I think we need to talk.”
Samuel Wilson pivoted at the waist and put his whole body into the swing that sent Patrick into the other wall of the hallway. The plasterboard wall gave slightly at the impact leaving a dent in the cheery plum and pink stripes. Patrick was stunned by both the impact and by the source of impact. Never, never in his whole fucking life, had his father hit him. Patrick couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. He knew deep inside that he had just crossed over a line not meant to be crossed. He could think of no words to soothe the man coming towards him. The capacity for speech had left him completely when he saw his father start loosening his belt.
9
Chuck Hanson stared at the snow on his television screen without acknowledging that his cable had gone out. His mind was too occupied with fear. It wasn’t the type of fear that grips a person into paralysis, it was the kind that nibbles at all of your foundations for belief. Too much little shit that didn’t add up.
Alan Fisk was dead. Dead Alan Fisk had told him that Tony Scarrabelli was responsible for everything that was wrong. No sir. Didn’t add up.
Dead Alan Fisk had told him it was in the woods near Overtree. What was in the woods near Overtree, the answer? The goddam questions? Yet another body? Nope. No way was he going into the woods.
Jonathan Crowley, a man four inches shorter and half his weight was scaring the hell out of him. Why? Chuck never thought of himself as a hero, but he sure as hell wasn’t a coward.
Rick Lewis, long time friend and all around good guy was letting him down. Rick couldn’t find the answers that Chuck needed and that was bad. If Rick couldn’t with a degree in Pathology, what the hell chance did he have? All Rick had time for today was trying to stare up that Jackie girl’s skirt and Chuck resented that too.
The people around town weren’t looking at him like he was something special anymore. Something was going down that shouldn’t be and he wasn’t getting the answers fast enough for them. People were dying. Looks like Chuckie can’t handle it anymore, time to get someone new in here. Everything in his gut pointed to the new kid, Mark Howell, but there was no solid proof. Was that just the old paranoia about strangers, or was it something real. He just didn’t know.
More and more Alan’s dead voice told him that it was time to go look in the woods. More and more he tried to ignore that voice. More and more he couldn’t. Alan had been a good kid, if a little thick sometimes and Alan had died in the woods near Overtree. What if he’d seen something? What if it was so big it was worth coming
back from the dead for?
Chuck Hanson stared at the snow on his Panasonic’s screen, not noticing that his cable had gone out. In his hands he held his service revolver, its weight a strong reassurance that he was still in control. He had to go to the woods. Every time that thought crossed his mind, the gun seemed less substantial.
10
In the woods near Lake Overtree, the Folk gathered together. Time was growing shorter and the Hunter was getting closer. The world was not working as They would have liked. The Chosen had picked this time, of all possible times, to be obstinate. They had wonders waiting for Him, if only He would let Them finish Their work. Even the Chosen’s Mate was starting to come around, bit by little bit. On her They could force the Changes. But on the Chosen? No. Too risky.
So much could go wrong. The Chosen had to be willing in order to avoid potential catastrophe. Nearby, the stone shifted fitfully, bulging and growing in ways that were never meant to be seen by living things. What had once appeared to be a buried rock was now closer to a Cadillac in size. The woods pulsed with the Stone’s impatience. Animals started moving on, the sure knowledge that the worst was yet to come propelling them from their havens.
As the Stone changed its shape, so too did the Folk. They grew static, fluctuating fitfully with the whims of the creatures around them.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
1
Later that same night, Samuel Wilson lay in his bed wondering just where he had gone wrong. He’d always tried his best to be a loving father and role model. Now, to find out what his son had been doing for three years…Well, it was enough to make him want to cry.
The reasons for his son dealing drugs had not escaped him either; he wasn’t stupid enough to think the boy would have risked prison just for kicks. How in the name of God was he supposed to punish the boy for protecting himself in the only way he could think of? The thoughts of what he had almost done to Patrick were enough to make Samuel sick. He’d long ago promised himself that he would never punish his son in anything remotely resembling the way his father had punished him. Barring rape or murder, Sam couldn’t come up with a single crime that deserved physical reprimands.
Thank God for Susan, if she hadn’t heard the sounds of poor Patrick hitting the wall he would likely have skinned the boy. He turned his head to study Susan’s body under the sheets. She was more than he deserved. A sad little smile creased a face made for larger grins as he hoisted himself out of the bed. He was calmer now, more able to speak rationally with his son. Now was as good a time as Sam was likely to find for apologizing for his behavior. For all the good it would do, Patrick would never see him in the same way again. How could he?
He walked barefoot through the plush peach carpet in the hallway, treading as lightly as he could to avoid waking Susan or Tyler. It was only a dozen feet to Patrick’s room, but it seemed a much greater distance. How could he expect Patrick to forgive him, when he couldn’t even forgive himself?
The door to Patrick’s room was unlocked, but Samuel Wilson knocked lightly anyway. His first born was old enough to have earned his privacy, even if he had been dealing in narcotics. No response. He knocked once more with a little more force, not much as he still feared waking Susan.
Nothing. All of the worst case scenarios started running through his mind. Patrick dead with slashed open wrists and a pool of drying crimson soaking into the carpet around him. Patrick lying face up in the bed, a puddle of bile blocking his oxygen starved lungs. A dozen more ways to end one’s own life flickered painfully through his skull. With a heartfelt prayer and closed eyes, Samuel Wilson eased the door to his son’s private sanctum open. When he finally pried his eyes open far enough to see the room, Samuel Wilson shed a silent tear of relief. His little Patrick was asleep, snoring softly. Tomorrow. Tomorrow was soon enough for the man to man talk he had in mind.
Samuel Wilson crept slowly back to his own room, relieved of his fears for his son. If nothing had happened by now, nothing was likely to happen at all. The talk would still occur, but not now. Tomorrow after he had spent time thinking carefully on the words he would say. When he could be properly prepared for any contingency and he was calmer still than he was now.
Samuel Wilson drifted into his sleep peacefully as the luminous clock face registered the new days beginning, unaware that Tyler had yet to come home.
2
Patrick waited until he heard his father snoring. No way was he heading out after curfew with the man conscious. Not after today. After he had heard the familiar growling sound for a good fifteen minutes, he slipped his fully clothed body from under his blankets and scurried out of his room.
Somewhere out there was his little brother. Tyler needed him. He knew Tyler well enough to know that he wasn’t just imagining things, Tyler was never late on getting home. Tyler had a good deal more sense than his older sibling. All he could think of was what he had seen Mark Howell do in the woods so long ago, even knowing that it had been a hallucination didn’t make the thoughts any easier to deal with. Tyler was in trouble, nothing else mattered.
Patrick knew every sound his home made and avoided the front door because of the squeaks from the hinges. The kitchen door was his safest bet and getting out was easy enough. It was colder than he’d expected and Patrick cursed himself for not pulling out a sweatshirt at the very least. Worry over his brother made Patrick’s senses sharp. He moved as quietly as he could towards Mark Howell’s house, then thought better of the idea. Tony had told him that Mark was okay, but Tony wasn’t the brightest guy Patrick had ever met either. Maybe it was just leftover anxiety from a very bad mind trip, but he’d avoid Mark Howell for as long as he could.
Cassie’s place looked like a mausoleum this late at night and Patrick was forced to go back to the house for his own car after checking the Monroe place. Mom and Dad would be sound asleep and even if they weren’t he’d just roll the car down the hill before starting the engine. Easy as pie he thought and why shouldn’t he? Patrick had done this a hundred times in the past.
Rolling the car took more out of him than he had expected, his rib cage felt bruised from his earlier impact with the wall. He wondered if his father had broken anything, then he shrugged the idea off. Everyone in the movies always whimpered too much when they broke something. If they couldn’t handle the pain, he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to.
It had been a long while since he’d hit the roads this late at night. Patrick had forgotten how dark the night could be. Clouds obscured the moon and the only real source he had for seeing anything at all was his car’s headlights. The Honda’s high beams revealed only the road ahead and the trees on either side. No Tyler walking home from wherever he had gone, no clues to easily point the way to his brother. Just road that curved gently and trees that swayed in a wind that was growing stronger by the minute. The Basilisk. Tyler hung out there a lot these days. Patrick pulled up in front of the stout old house just a short while later. The lights were off. Damn, where the hell was Tyler? Never, never late. Tyler was the one who always got home with a half hour to spare.
He’d try Tony’s place, if he had no luck there, then Tyler would have to save his own ass. Patrick was tired and the day had drained him of any extra reserves of energy a long while back. Tony lived on the other side of town. The Scarrabelli’s just weren’t the type to give up the old ancestral home, thus they lived in the part of town that really was a part of the town. Red Oaks was a good three quarters of a mile from the Basilisk and that was a good mile and a half out of Summitville proper. No big deal if you had a car, but Tyler didn’t. Tyler had to walk unless Tony gave him a lift home.
More and more, Patrick felt the niggling little worries about his brother growing into serious worries. Too many people had died in recent months for him to remain comfortable. Without conscious thought, his pressure on the Honda’s gas pedal started to slowly increase.
3
In his own eyes, Tyler was taking the ongoing one on one conversation with Crowley r
emarkably well. He had yet to wet his pants. It was two o’clock in the morning, Tyler had been up since ten A.M. yesterday and here he was having pleasant conversation with a mad man.
If you’d asked Tyler his opinions of the man, he would have been at a total lack of words. The guy looked like anyone you’d find on the street, but it was like he was wearing his average guy face like it was a mask or something. He was too extreme to be an average guy, too intense in a way that made Tyler uncomfortable. He looked at everyone like he knew just what they were thinking and he found their thoughts to be amusingly suspect. Tyler didn’t know if he should be worried or pissed off.
For the last three hours, he’d been having a long talk about Mark and Tony with Jonathan Crowley. He didn’t really want to have the discussion, but he had the uneasy feeling that just leaving was an option he should not give consideration in a serious way. So far he’d been asked just about every question in the book and while Crowley was thinking of another dozen or so, Tyler decided to turn the tables on his interviewer.
“Okay. I’ve answered your questions, now you get to answer a few of mine.” That wasn’t so bad, almost sounded authoritative.
Crowley raised his left eyebrow and curled the right side of his mouth into a smirking half grin. The overall effect made his face seem extremely lopsided. “Fair enough. I can spare a few minutes. Ask away.”
“My, how magnanimous. For starters, where do you know P.J. from?”
Crowley smiled openly at that one, you could just see that he knew it was going to be the first question. Tyler decided to be angry. “I met your famous author back when he was going to college. He had a little problem going on with a demon he’d managed to summon. Seems he’s always pulling that kind of shit. Next question?”
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