“I hear that one loud and clear--,” He turned on the wipers as the flurries worsened, “At least we’re moving down now, and not climbing.”
“Can I ask—does your interest in the living dead have anything to do with our current investigation?”
Swallowing hard, he thought before speaking, “Honestly, after reading Mr. Lumberton’s letter for the third time, there was something about what happened to his little girl that got to me. The bruises, bites and marks on her arms and throat. Specifically the bruising on her arms,”
“In the event of a haunting—,” I thought about what he had said, “A spirit wouldn’t require the restraint of a victim’s arms.”
“Exactly--,” He agreed, “So, it’s either someone—or something….”
“One aspect of the letter that I did find a little odd--,” I remembered Mr. Lumberton’s words, “Was that as descriptive as his narrative of the house, property and surrounding area was—he remained very basic concerning his daughter’s recollection of the incident.”
“Maybe he only told us what he had known for sure?”
“That’s quite possible, but you would imagine that having been in such close vicinity with her attacker, the girl must have seen something?”
The comment disturbing him greatly, Rich said nothing, but now focused on the highway ahead. It was apparent that the father had either refrained from description due to bleak information, or feared to express the facts of the matter….
The snow had slowed as we had pulled into the little gas station and diner. As the night had fallen quickly due to season and weather, we had fueled the truck and soon sat down to a hot meal. The restaurant was styled in the fashion of something that one might expect to find in the Bavarian Alps. It was painted in deep greens and accented in white, with arches, a thatched roof and ornate woodwork. The décor included a boar’s head above the long bar, several deer mounts, a large hearth and accommodating fire. The seating consisted of long oak tables, green padded bench seating, and the smell in the place was absolutely captivating!
“We have pork schnitzel, mashed potatoes and green beans on special this evening.” An older man in an apron approached us with a smile and menus in his hand. He spoke with an obvious Germanic accent, and raising a finger, happily added, “Or you might prefer the home-made Hungarian Goulash, served on mashed or diced potatoes with corn? Both come with your choice of soup or salad. Tonight’s soup is beef noodle.”
He was hefty and broad shouldered, dressed in suit pants, a matching vest and bow tie. White haired and bearing a long mustache that was waxed and curled at the ends, his smile and bright blue eyes warmed the bitter cold night. “I am Carl, your host for the evening--,” He politely introduced himself, “Can I offer you gentlemen some drinks?”
We had ordered tea and coffee while perusing the specials. The menu was absolutely enticing, but the expression on Rich’s face reminded me of a diet that would forever haunt my every moment. My heart sank at the prospect. Looking over the menu, I ordered a clubhouse sandwich on whole wheat, without bacon, mayo or butter. To this I had also added a green salad, without dressing. Our host had seemed somewhat surprised, but happily submitted as Rich had ordered likewise.
“I know how much you must miss eating whatever you like--,” He sighed, swallowing hard, and shrugged, “But it’s easier to let go of old habits than friends and loved ones.”
“I know--,” I thanked him, “I really do appreciate you suffering through it with me. You really didn’t have to order the same thing.”
“Actually—I did--,” He slipped a hand down and pinched at his protruding stomach, “The greasy food, snacks and pies have caught up to me as well. Maya pointed it out last week, so this will do us both some good—as much as we may hate it.”
I had considered the possibility that he had devised the excuse for my benefit, but appreciating the consideration had just left the subject alone. There were far more pressing issues at hand.
“The weather seems to be against us.” I listened as the forecast was announced over the antique console radio that rested off to one side of the room, “It sounds like we’re expecting a blizzard….”
“Somehow, that really doesn’t surprise me.” He turned as Carl brought out our food, “Maybe we should wait until morning before leaving again?”
“The rooms here are spacious, comfortable and affordable--,” Carl proudly announced, while adding with a gracious smile, “And I would of course offer you the ‘off-season’ rates. We don’t expect the hunters and skiers for another week!”
Rich had just looked over his plate at me, the expression obvious as I had thanked Carl and politely accepted his hospitality, “We would be fine with a single room and two beds, if it were available? We plan to depart very early in the morning—and still have a long way to travel.”
“Of course—I am certain that we can accommodate you, my friends--,” He paused in thought while walking away, and looking back, asked, “Would you care for dessert? We have pies of all kinds and a lovely black-forest torte.”
I could feel the drool as I now melted into the seat, but forcing a smile, said, “No, but thank you—maybe just a little more tea and coffee, please.”
“Remind me never to stop here again--,” Rich listlessly chewed at his salad, his eyes huge, “I doubt that I’ll be able to resist the food here twice in one lifetime.”
The motel was located just behind the restaurant and provided front door parking for each cabin. There were twenty rooms and ours was located to the far end, furthest from the highway and nearest the forest’s edge. This of course had provided more privacy and less noise from the big trucks which traveled that route, but it had also left me with an uneasy feeling while nervously peering into the deep shadow of the tall pines. I suppose that the nightmare of Hedley would forever leave me unsettled in dark and forested places.
The room had been simple but pleasant, spacious and flawlessly clean. After a long day and quick showers, we had both called home and spoken to our wives. Not long after and wearied beyond words, we had climbed into soft and wonderful beds. Buried beneath fresh linens, we had soon settled in for the night. The beds were side by side and faced an enormous window; beneath rested the hot water heater. It was one of the old style iron coils, which caused it to creak as heated oil traversed the pipes, ticking as we listened in the darkness. It reminded me of many wonderful Victorian homes, pleasant moments and places held dear in time.
“This reminds me of the first adventure that we ever shared--,” Rich suddenly spoke, propping on an elbow, as he turned to look at me. “Brampton house, the bog and that giant turtle that almost made a midnight snack out of the both of us.”
Chuckling at the thought, I peered back at my friend in the darkness, “The Vandenberg’s still own the old place and have a subscription to our magazine.”
“I wonder if they manage to get much rest out there, knowing what they do about the place.”
“Douglas still calls from time to time--,” I smiled with the memory, “And dear Miranda insists that I send her an autographed book with each new publication.”
“What about Howard?” He moved from beneath his covers, grabbing at a can of soda from his bag and sitting on the bed’s edge, and looked to me, “Does he ever drop us a line?”
“Actually, I spoke with him about a month ago. He just called to remind me that we always have an open invitation at their bed and breakfast, any time.”
“We should take our wives there in the summer--,” He thought it over, and then shook his head as though having made a horrid mistake, “Or maybe not.”
“I doubt that either of us would ever get any rest in that place. I still wonder as to whatever became of that poor family? Murdered in cold blood and then just dumped, resting somewhere deep beneath the mud at the bottom of that bog.”
“Or that turtle--,” He frowned, looking into space as he thought aloud, “I sure would’ve liked to have had its skull for my collectio
n.”
“I can just imagine you sneaking out there in the middle of the night. And Maya catching you poking around in that foul place.” Shuddering with the thought, I laughed, “I think that we’re best off far away from Brampton House and the Waldense bog.”
“While we’re reminiscing, do you ever wonder?” His features grew long and dark, “Whether Trudy survived that fire—and was still out there somewhere?”
“No—I’m fairly certain that she was buried in that house-fire--,” Whether I had made the statement sincerely or simply prayed it true, I was uncertain, maybe both, “But there are times late in the night, when I consider, even fear the possibility that there are more of those things at the bottom of that mine….”
“Sometimes I wonder if they actually crawled out of that place--,” He seemed to struggle with the thought, “Or whether they came out of a test-tube, being part of some government experiment, and were placed there. Can you imagine the possibilities of refining a weapon like that?”
“It’s the kind of nightmare that we have come to expect from humanity.” I pulled the covers closer about me, “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if you were right.”
“We have seen some very strange things.” He admitted, “And then there was that animal, the beast that almost got all of us on that mountain-side--,” The recollection sent visible shudders through him. Draining his soda, he placed the bottle on the night-stand between us and scurried back under the covers. “You know—it’s really strange, come to think of it? But it seems that the worst things have always happened to us during the winter….”
“I really couldn’t argue that--,” I thought of Leigh, Hedley and a number of other sad and horrifying things, “That certainly gives us something to look forward to.” Nodding, I brought his attention to where the lights of the parking lot shone through the slightly parted curtains, revealing the swiftly deepening snow.
“It’s going to be a long and slow run tomorrow--,” He muttered, “Let’s just hope that the flurries slow down before morning.”
“They have snow-plows working the main routes.” I had attempted to offer a little comfort from the obvious, “So, we should be just fine regardless of the weather.”
“Maybe we should have brought snow-mobiles?” He mumbled while slowly drifting off, “It might have been a lot safer and a whole lot faster, too.”
“Something to consider on our next winter expedition--,” I had quietly agreed, “But a plow might be safest—so nothing can get to us in the open….”
“What could possibly get to us in this weather?” He thought briefly and then groaned, “Forget that I said that—I don’t really want to know….”
We had fallen silent within contemplation and slowly settled back down into our beds. There had been only the soft ticking of the heater and steady snow-fall as we succumbed to the stillness and the night....
Monday, November 4, 1974.
The morning had arrived all too early. Warming up the truck, we had indulged the free continental breakfast while chatting with Carl. He had kindly filled our thermoses with the beverage of choice at no extra charge and insisted that we return when next we passed by.
To this remark Rich had replied quite sincerely. Having obviously forgotten his request of the previous night, he promised that we would certainly try! It was after a breakfast of fresh fruit and bran muffins when we had soon been underway. The weather had worsened considerably and the forecast warned of heavy flurries that would last throughout the day.
With the worst of the journey already long behind us, we had made our way down the mountain by late afternoon. The roads were being cleared by plows that sanded and salted all day and through the night. But the endless snow, strong winds and streaming drifts seemed determined to block all passages along the way. The journey had become painfully slow, as listening to an eight track tape of Christmas surf music, we cautiously continued.
“I wonder if we actually beat the demon that night—at the warehouse.” The question had arrived from out of nowhere, and taking me completely by surprise, left me without reply. Cautiously sipping at hot tea, I turned with a frown, “You certainly seem preoccupied with personal doubts lately.”
“Well, it’s been bothering me--,” He admitted, “Especially with what happened to that old woman. Sometimes I wonder if that was a victory or just another loss in disguise.”
“We never truly beat our demons.” I felt something dark touch a cold finger to my soul, “We just manage to better hide them away.”
“I’m sorry if I keep going on--,” He apologized, “I suppose that it’s been eating at me for some time. This was the first real opportunity that we have had to talk, undisturbed. So, I’m wearing your ears off along the way.”
“No need to apologize—I’m always interested in your thoughts and ideas. I’m just getting the impression that you’re not saying what you’re really thinking?”
“Okay then--,” He swallowed hard, his eyes flitting nervously about the cab and at me, “You got me there—and you’re right. Things have just been happening so fast lately, that I kept it to myself. I do have some worries concerning the things that happened that night.”
I had remained silent, offering only a solemn and sincere nod.
“When everything went down at the warehouse and it seemed that we were all screwed. What really happened in those last moments? I know that you didn’t want to discuss it before—but I’ve never really been sure?”
It had never previously occurred to me that I might have witnessed more than the others had seen. I had also never considered the fact, that simply by incorporating the story into my last book, the others might have considered the written testimonial to have been the truth.
“In those final moments, after Red Cloud had fallen and all seemed lost--,” I struggled with the recollection, fearing the mere mention might possibly invoke them, and said, “Marlowe’s minion possessed the old woman and returned the guilty party before the Fae court and demon. She was judged, sentenced for family sins and punished accordingly, and likewise we were released.”
“And what happened to Marlowe and his servant—were they banished from our reality?” Reaching for his pipe, he faltered and dropped it back into his vest. Ever since I had quit the habit, he had considerately ceased from smoking in my presence.
“I would imagine that they still exist somewhere on the borders of our world.” The thought now bothered me, “But not all that might seem evil are enemies to us.”
“And, on that particular subject--,” He continued with a nod, “Remember what that thing in the asylum had said to you, about the mystic, his minion and that book? Do you think that there might have been any truth in what he had said, about you and a second chance?”
“Would you chance an eternity in service to a demon—for a second chance at a single lifetime?”
“Maybe we have it all wrong--,” Rich appeared suddenly desperate, “The soul is eternal—what if this could grant you more than just a little time. What if it could extend your youth, as well as lengthen your life? We both know that Marlowe, Faust or whoever he really was, had no existing birth records. He might have been hundreds of years old, possibly even more.”
“Please—stop.” Raising both hands, I felt a sudden fear welling from deep within, “I know that your intentions are for the best, but please believe me—you really don’t understand the consequences of what you’re suggesting….”
To this he had said nothing, but seemed deeply ashamed. It was apparent that he now sought alternatives to the inevitable outcome of my current situation. I could hardly be angry or disappointed with him. After such a narrow escape the last time, I refused to risk any further involvement with either Marlowe or his angel of doom….
“I suppose that I’m just a little on edge about things--,” He sounded sincerely apologetic, “And, you have to admit, we really have pissed off a lot of seriously bad things. I guess I was just hoping that, maybe, at least in Mar
lowe’s case, we might’ve had more help.”
“And for that you could never be blamed.” I looked to him as a great sadness filled his face, his eyes returning to the road as he solemnly said, “It’s not just about you—this concerns each and every last one of us. Can you imagine what might happen when you’re no longer here? And whatever we’ve managed to put away together decides to come back for revenge? We’re a team—and without you, well, I’m afraid to even think about what might happen….”
The possibility having never previously occurred to me, I simply sat and stared back. His features now grew stern, his eyes revealing a cold and blatant dread. I knew that he had not simply stumbled on some paranoid or unsubstantiated fear, but that he now revealed something which had haunted him for a considerable time.
“And you feel—honestly believe that, if I return to Marlowe, his demon and the book, it will somehow benefit us and alter the course of things?”
“At times I feel as though he calls to me from out of the darkness.” His words chilled the very blood in my veins as he slowly spoke, “Marlowe came to me in a dream only weeks ago. I just didn’t want to say anything—you were already going through enough.”
“And he spoke to you in that dream—what did he say?”
“He didn’t say much—but I had the strong impression that it was a warning of something soon to come--,” He swallowed hard, his eyes now fixed upon the road, “Return—return to me before it is too late. Return….”
I now trembled uncontrollably, almost spilling the tea from the little thermos cup. The words had been exactly as Marlowe had said them from out of the golden sphere, and my supposed dream.
“It might all be nothing more than paranoid delusions, stress and resulting bad dreams.” He noticed my trembling, and concernedly took hold of my arm, “Are you alright—I’m sorry if I’m making this all worse.”
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