Lance Brody Omnibus

by Michael Robertson Jr

  Lance felt that unwanted stirring again, but he held firm.

  “Why do you do it?” Lance asked. “What’s the point?”

  Melissa McGuire stepped back and looked at him. She looked uncertain, as if she weren’t sure Lance was being truthful. “You really don’t know?”

  “I asked, didn’t I?”

  She cocked her head to the side. “You mean to tell me a man with your gifts, your … whatever it is that I can feel pouring out of you right now, desperately trying to fight me away—you’re telling me you’re here, and you still don’t know what I’m doing? What we’re doing?”

  Despite his bound position, Lance tried to shrug. “My good looks only get me so far.”

  Melissa McGuire laughed another chalkboard screech, throwing her head back and producing a sound that bordered on cackling. “You’re even weaker than I thought.”

  Lance despised the truth in her statement. If he were half the person he’d thought he was, he wouldn’t have lost this fight. He wouldn’t have been so stupid.

  “Don’t worry, Lance,” she said, taking another step closer. “You’ll find out very shortly.”

  Lance kept pushing forward. If he was going to die, and Melissa McGuire was going to continue to talk, he might as well get some answers.

  “You’re blackmailing the Strangs. How?”

  She smiled at him, and Lance could feel her picking through his memories. He tried to close her out, lock away the important stuff. She found what she was looking for, and her eyes lit up and focused. “Ah … I see. You got a little sneak peek from that boneheaded hillbilly son of theirs.” She walked over to the wood stove and bent over, stared into the flames through the front grate, her ass presented in the air as if waiting for a lover. Lance looked away. “Soon,” he heard her whisper. “Soon.”

  She stood and turned. “Being a female in America doesn’t come with too many benefits, I’m afraid.” She brushed something from her shoulder. “But there’s one thing we always win. Always. Do you know what that is, Lance?”

  “The Bachelor?”

  Her hand darted out and grabbed his crotch. She squeezed, and Lance went further up on his toes. “A rape accusation, Lance. When we say rape, the poor guy on the other end doesn’t stand a chance.” She gave him one more squeeze, then a gentle pat for good measure.

  Lance wasn’t too surprised by this. He’d pieced most of it together while trying to convince Glenn Strang to let him go.

  “A hidden camera—my fucking iPhone, in this case—and an off-camera conversation about liking it rough and liking to be dominated, mixed with some well-chosen words screamed while he thought he was giving me the time of my life … you get the picture.”

  Lance did. “So you show the Strangs the video and tell them they can either help you or you’ll ruin Bobby’s life. And the family’s, by proxy? That it?”

  She nodded. “See? You’re not that dumb.”

  “But why involve them at all? You’ve got the breasts and the butt and the sex. What could the Strangs give you? Glenn’s nice and all, but I don’t think he’s many eighteen-year-old boys’ type.”

  The wood stove cracked and popped. A clanging noise rattled through the small pipe coming from the wall.

  Melissa McGuire’s eyes lit up like a firecracker. “Poor thing was a little tired after trying to slow you down earlier. I was hoping to get Glenn to stop you before even getting to speak with Allison. Believe it or not, there was a part of me that honestly hoped you’d just go away. That you’d move on from Westhaven without digging any deeper. I tried to scare you. So many times I tried to run you off. And I tried to kill you. But you’re a stubborn one.”

  Lance thought of the falling scoreboard. His fear that Leah would be crushed. He saw the image of Deputy Miller’s family. His hatred bubbled and boiled, and he gritted his teeth. He was losing his cool. And at this point, why bother trying to control it?

  A thought hit him. Melissa had said it had tried to slow him down earlier. She must have meant the hail. He thought about the gusts of wind and the lightning that had broken the scoreboard.

  “You’re controlling the weather,” Lance said. “That’s a first for me. And I’ve seen some weird stuff.”

  “Not me, Lance.” She stared at the wood stove’s grate. “Not me.”

  Lance stared at the fire, too. Watching the flames sway together in the blackened oven.

  The flames.

  The fire.

  He thought about the burned boy he’d seen at the diner.

  Then his mind flashed to Samuel, the first time he’d seen him, in the mirror. The way he’d looked so blue and swollen. Almost as if he’d … drowned.

  Two victims.

  Two different ways to die.

  Then it clicked.

  “The paper mill!” He hadn’t meant to scream. But the revelation was so suddenly clear he needed to get it out before anything else could disturb it. “You’re using Glenn Strang to get rid of the bodies at the mill! That’s why you’re blackmailing him. First his son, and now you’ve got him so far involved he has no choice but to continue!”

  Melissa McGuire ignored Lance’s breakthrough. The fire in the wood stove gave off a loud whoosh, and the heat and light flashed like a bomb. Wood split and popped. Something clanged in the pipe again.

  “You know the funniest part, Lance? You know what just absolutely tickles me about you showing up in town and thinking you could actually stop me?”

  Lance said nothing. His eyes stayed focused on the fire burning in the stove. The light seemed to be picking up a greenish tint.

  “The funny thing is you made it that much easier for me! This was probably going to be the last year. Even in a dumb fuck town like Westhaven, you can only go on so long without suspicion finally knocking at your door.

  “Four boys would have been the limit, I’m afraid. Even though they all had sob stories to milk to make it so easy to believe they were runaways, even a blind cop finds his nut eventually. Plus, I think poor old Bobby was about to crack.”

  She laughed. “But this year, I can use you! So really, I should be thanking you.”

  Lance was about ask a question—he had so many—but the wood stove’s belly exploded in a belch of green fire. The front grate blasted open on its hinges and slammed against the stove’s side. The noise was like a gunshot. The pipe coming from the wall seemed to expand and contract, heat and air again whooshing out of the stove’s open mouth.

  And then the dragon flew out with the flames.

  Only it wasn’t a dragon. Not really.

  It looked as though it were made of pluming black smoke, sometimes airy and transparent, sometimes as thick and as black as a starless night sky. It floated through the basement, its shape first resembling a snake, then growing legs and feet, looking more like a squashed lizard. It moved slowly, as if riding the heatwave across the room, and as it neared Melissa McGuire, its neck lengthened and its tail forked, and it landed on Melissa’s shoulder in a soft puff of black smoke. The world’s ugliest parrot.

  Lance was certain of only one thing: this was what he’d seen in the sky right before it had started to hail.

  This was what he’d seen outside the Strangs’ patio doors.

  This … thing. This was the true evil in Westhaven.

  And Lance didn’t have the first clue what it was.

  42

  Lance pulled at his chain again, his wrists and forearms burning with fatigue. The hook above his head was unflinching. Solid.

  The thing on Melissa McGuire’s shoulder stayed put, its body of smoke swirling and floating and ever-shifting. But its form stayed mostly the same. The tail and the torso … and the head. A head that seemed to have grown two black holes for eyes, two sockets of darkness that had the tiniest spark of jade. Those eyes stared at Lance, appraising him. Lance’s stomach turned in revulsion, fear. But he kept up his charade. “I think I saw your cousin in FernGully,” he said, looking directly at it.

  Of
course, it said nothing. But it did open its mouth in what looked like a yawn, spawning two rows of black teeth, gooey needles of smoke that elongated the wider its mouth opened.

  “Isn’t he beautiful?” Melissa McGuire said. She reached up with her right hand and appeared to stroke the thing’s side, her fingers disappearing into the smoke, raking through its body and causing tendrils of black to puff into the air. “He’s been in my family for generations. He’s gone from woman to woman, all the way back to my great-great-grandmother in Bulgaria. That’s as far back as we can trace him.” She smiled and shook her head. “The Bulgarians called him a demon—a hala—but what a terrible name for something so grand!”

  “I’m more of a dog person,” Lance said.

  Melissa McGuire ignored him. “The early legends said the hala would cause terrible storms and destroy farmers’ crops. But, if you were respectful and gave them what they wanted, they would in turn give you good fortune, blessing you and your family.”

  Lance felt his stomach churn. “And what did they want?”

  Melissa McGuire sighed. “Like with most myths and urban legends, the early reports were mostly in agreement that a hala ate children to survive and sustain itself.”

  The thing on her shoulder stood on its rear legs, standing tall and appearing to stretch, its mouth widening again to reveal the smoking teeth. Melissa McGuire made a shhhh sound, as if soothing it. “Soon, my love. Soon.”

  The heat pouring out of the wood stove was becoming overbearing. Sweat dripped down Lance’s face, his shirt stuck to him as if he’d gone swimming. His head began to feel faint again. His arms tingled and burned. He was suddenly tired. Tired of everything. His mind reeled with everything he’d learned.

  “You’re killing the boys so … what? Your husband can win football games?” he said, his voice sounding small.

  She laughed. “Among other things, yes. The hala brings good fortune to us in more ways than just football. But keeping Kenny happy and respected in the community is one big way. It keeps the suspicion away, and in small towns like this, where sports are king, the perks of coaching a winning team run deep.” She walked closer to Lance. “And poor Kenny. He actually thinks his coaching is what’s winning games.” She shook her head. “I’ll never have the heart to tell him. He snoozes away every time my baby needs to feed, and then he gets to wake up and reap all the benefits. I do all the work, but I don’t mind. Kenny wouldn’t understand. He’s like…” She glared at Lance, a sudden fierceness in her eyes. “He’s like you. He’s too kind, too good.”

  Lance said nothing. His mother had been too kind a person. But Lance had always thought himself to be healthily balanced. Polite and courteous and respectful to all, until it was time to get dirty. Then he could show his claws. Then he could fight.

  Given his current predicament, he wondered if his whole bad-boy side had been an illusion. Something made up in his head.

  I walked right into this. Just like the others.

  You could call him a psychic, you could call him clairvoyant, you could call him strange. He could see the dead, and he could see people’s lives in a flash with just a single touch. You could call him whatever you wanted, but he felt a great pang of sadness in his heart as the certainty of his fate suddenly rang true. He’d not been ready to die, but in a matter of minutes, he would have his life ended at the hands of a monster.

  He wished he could have told Leah goodbye. Told her to get out of this town and start a good life for herself. He could have used one more kiss to take with him.

  Do not fear death. His mother’s voice came out of nowhere, trumpeting in his head with an unexpected announcement. She had told him this repeatedly over the years as he’d progressed from child to adolescent to adult. It does not fear you.

  Lance wasn’t sure he’d ever understood exactly what this philosophical quip had meant, but at that moment, he sucked in a deep breath of hot, heavy air and let it out in a relaxed rush. He straightened and said, “So, do you give everyone the history lesson before you feed them to Puff the Magic Dragon?”

  The thing made of smoke uncoiled itself from Melissa McGuire’s shoulder and slithered down her torso, its head and neck covering her breasts before swirling around her like an anaconda ensnaring its dinner. Melissa McGuire threw her head back and moaned, her eyes closed and her mouth turned down in an expression of what appeared to be pleasure.

  “So warm,” she said. “So perfect.”

  Lance continued to stare at what could be the kinkiest porn he’d ever seen. What would you even call it? Smoke-on-girl action?

  And then Melissa’s eyes shot open again, and her head snapped forward. She looked at Lance and said, “It’s time.”

  She walked forward, the smoke beast continuing to encircle her as she came toward Lance, its head darting around her body and stealing quick glances at Lance as it went.

  It’s excited, Lance thought. That can’t be good.

  Melissa McGuire held up her left index finger, and Lance saw the fingernail shimmer in the firelight. It was long and sharp, pointed like a spear.

  “Kenny thinks this is because I open so many envelopes at the school.” She laughed, and then she reached down to her left thigh, just below her sex, and made a tiny slit. It was less than an inch wide, but the blood flowed fast all the same. The head of the beast darted to the wound in an instant, its face appearing to sniff, a smoky tongue flicking from the mouth and tasting the cut.

  “This is the worst part,” Melissa McGuire said, raising her finger to Lance’s neck. “One quick pinch, and then the rest is painless. It’ll be like you’re getting so, so tired, and then finally you’ll fall asleep.” She made a quick slashing motion, and Lance felt the cut and then the warm tickle of blood down his neck, dripping onto his shirt.

  Melissa McGuire wiped a drop of blood from Lance’s neck, then reached down and swiped a drop of her own blood onto her finger as well, smearing and mixing them together. She held her new blood concoction out toward the black thing’s head, and it caught the scent, quickly snapping its head toward her finger. Once it was close and began flicking its swirling tongue of smoke and vapor, Melissa moved her finger up and away from her body, toward Lance’s neck. The carrot leading the rabbit.

  And that was the first time Lance was hit with the urge to scream. The thing’s head passed by his own, its jade sparkles for eyes locking on to his for just the briefest of moments, the black billows of smoke swirling around Lance’s head as the thing’s body got into place.

  And just as Lance opened his mouth to shout, the thing shot with unearthly speed to the cut on Lance’s neck, and he was shocked into silence.

  The sensation was so unnerving, startling, Lance’s voice was trapped in his throat. His mind floated to the time Amber Tutkus had given him a hickey his freshman year of high school. When his mother had seen it, she’d been more inquisitive about the event than upset at her son’s promiscuousness. The conversation was something Lance would never forget. As was the sensation he’d experienced that night in the Tutkus family basement. The gentle amount of pressure, the suction of Amber’s lips and warm tongue against his skin.

  The feeling now on his neck was just like that night, only intensified by a factor of ten. The creature was weightless, seeming to have no solid form or bearing against Lance’s body, yet the suction was there, the sudden rush of pressure on his neck where Melissa had cut him. And there was warmth. A warm, sticky heat, like a summer afternoon thunderstorm.

  Lance’s head fell involuntarily to the side, allowing the suckling beast’s mouth to work its way further in. Lance’s eyes looked straight ahead, seeing through the rising tendrils of blackish-gray smoke coming off the creature’s body as it seemed to pulse and swirl. In the glow of the greenish-gold light from the stove and the candles, Melissa McGuire stood still, staring as her hala did its work. She smiled a wide, sinister grin, an evil acknowledgment of the horrors she was witnessing.

  And then the room started to fade.


  First the smell, that strong, flowery aroma that Lance had nearly forgotten existed, began to fade from his senses, replaced by a sterile gray-smelling nothingness.

  The heat of the room seemed to suddenly cool, the temperature plummeting from what must have been a hundred degrees to something like freezing, before finally there was no sense of temperature at all. It was perhaps the most definitive observation of comfort.

  His legs began to buckle, his muscles slackening like melting putty.

  His ears began to ring, then cleared. Sound warped in and out, like somebody quickly twisting the volume knob.

  Something rumbled outside the walls. Something … familiar?

  Then the sound was cut and Lance felt his legs begin to fail him completely, and the room grew dim as color drained from his vision.

  And then he understood he was going to die.

  It’s not sucking my blood, he thought, straining his eyes, his muscles, his heart, his mind, straining everything he was or could be to survive a little longer.

  It’s sucking my soul. It’s eating the life force right out of me.

  Lance’s eyes slid closed, and a sleep so deep and so wonderful called to him, begged him to give in. His body slid further down the wall, his arms pulled tight by the chain.

  (You’re not finished yet! Get up and fight!)

  Annabelle Winters’s voice grabbed hold of his consciousness and slapped it across the face. Lance’s eyes shot open just in time to see the woman’s ghost lunge from the shadows of the room. She held a wooden rolling pin in both hands, gripped tightly by one handle, and she leapt and reared back and slammed it into the neck of the hala, an explosion of smoke billowing and puffing and clouding Lance’s vision.

  And all at once, the sucking sensation stopped, a fierce jerk of Lance’s neck followed by a coldness where the beast’s face had been buried. The thing sprang to action, snapping its needle-toothed mouth open and closed. It hit the ground on all fours and then pounced, its tail swooshing through the air in a murky cloud. It rose up in the air, high above Annabelle Winters’s head, and the old woman swung her rolling pin in an upward arc and caught the creature on the chin. Its head split in two, right down the middle, the rolling pin appearing to slice it cleanly in half.