by M J Preston
THE EQUINOX
A NOVEL OF HORROR
M.J. PRESTON
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THE EQUINOX is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to a person, or persons, or historical events is entirely coincidental.
THE EQUINOX published by:
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Table of Contents
In Spirit Wood
Prologue - The Hunt Begins
Chapter 1 - Rituals and Intersections
Chapter 2 - Breathing Exercises
Chapter 3 - Confrontations
Chapter 4 - The Excavation
Chapter 5 - Revelations
Chapter 6 - Hopper’s Basement
Chapter 7 - Visitation and Preparation
Chapter 8 - Hopper Talks
Chapter 9 - Jackanoob
Chapter 10 - Misery
Chapter 11- The Big Blind
Chapter 12 - The Kolchak Factor
Chapter 13 - Nekoneet
Chapter 14 - Exit Strategies and Confessions
Chapter 15 - More Rituals and Intersections
Chapter 16 - Kaw seu Igwhot
Chapter 17 - Red Sky in Morning
Chapter 18 - The New Hunters [Omachiw]
Chapter 19 - Blood and Smoke
Chapter 20 - The Drums of Chocktee
Epilogue - The Spirit Walk
Acknowledgment
For Stormy.
You are my love, my life.
IN SPIRIT WOOD
By MJ Preston
Gather young children, hush now and listen
Do you hear the call of skin, the walker within
Its head filled with hunger, its heart filled with ick
Walk softly my children and pick up the stick
Where are the guardians, what came of their glow?
Why have they abandoned us, to die in the snow?
Its shriek brings us sickness, its calls brings on fear
Walk softly my children the walker is near
No man but the hunter can slay this great beast
No man feels the pull of its mark from the feast
Our future was bartered that day for a life
And children of Chocktee have paid a high price
It knows only hunger this walker of skin
It hunts for mere pleasure and scares you within
When night and day are equal the walker shall rise
And the children of Chocktee will meet their demise...
†††
Prologue - The Hunt Begins
1
Spirit Woods, Chocktee Nation Village
1995: One Day after Spring Equinox
He was packing the small knapsack with provisions for the trip, yet he really had no idea what to take. At his side, his mother wept. Once so upright, so proud, now she was barely a skeletal shell of the woman she had once been. Cancer was consuming her, had turned her thin, gray. The death of her father, coupled with her son’s erratic behavior, drained her even further, and he was too entrenched in his own selfishness to appreciate the depth of her pain.
The freshly bandaged cut on his cheek was swollen and had been stitched closed the night before. Small dots of crimson peppered the cotton dressing. Pulses of fire radiated from the gash, stopping maybe an inch below his right eye. Not being able to touch it only made matters worse. It hurt just to blink.
He picked up his knife from the bed, wrapped a piece of cloth around it and placed it into the bag. Then the dreamcatcher and feather. Suddenly his hand reached up and tugged at the medicine bag hanging around his neck. Grandfather had given it to him. That was more than he could take.
This is all so unbelievable. Only yesterday morning the old man had been smiling and joking around, and now he’s gone! Gone! Anguish rose above all else and anger pushed him into a tantrum. Let this be a dream! Fuck! Please let this be a dream! Tell me I didn’t get my Grandfather killed!
But he had.
Janice Blackbird finally broke her mournful silence. “You don’t have to leave. I will talk to the Elders. They will let you stay.”
He stopped what he was doing, turned in her direction, his voice sharp and spiteful. “I’m not doing it for them! I have to go, Mother.”
Her eyes welled up with fresh tears, her voice quivered. “Daniel, this is crazy.”
Finished packing, he fastened the straps, not wanting to look at her. “I can’t stay here. I have brought disgrace to your name; to Grandfather’s name.”
“I know all about disgrace, Daniel. When I brought you back here, I faced their looks of disapproval, but I knew in time that they would come around. Our people are good. They will forgive you. It is in their nature to forgive.” Her voice rose and fell, rife with anxiety. But it was futile: she knew, no matter what she said, he would not change his mind.
Again, he stopped, but this time his eyes met hers. With gentle care – so as not to harm her feeble form – he reached out and pulled her toward him. She was so frail; this brittle body hardly contained her strong spirit. Physically she looked that of a woman twenty-five years her senior.
She cried harder in his arms, her body convulsing gently, knowing that she would never see him again and that there was a distinct possibility that he may die before her. She tried to take solace in his arms, but there was no use: his embrace only epitomized the sheer hopelessness of the situation.
Gently he caressed her back, feeling the bones protruding through the light sweater she wore, and he felt hopeless and conflicted. “I have to go, Mother. I don’t want to, but I must.” He shoved away the urge to cry. “I need to speak with the Elders. They won’t even acknowledge me, but if you talk to them, maybe they’ll listen. There are many things I don’t know. I need their counsel.”
Janice Blackbird had been a Den Mother of the Chocktee people for three years and was now a respected member of the nation and its council. They would grant her son an audience if she asked, but that would be the last of her political clout. They would do it because of her Father, but only grudgingly. With their help and magic he had a chance; without them, he would be going to slaughter.
She pulled away from his embrace. Her long, silky black hair, flecked with grey, flowed down over the protruding collar bones which poked through her sweater. Even now, in the throes of this terrible disease, she still held onto her beauty. She mustered her strength, wiped the tears with the heel of her hand, and then used her sleeve to rub her nose.
“They will see you, Daniel. They will give you what you need. I will make sure of it.”
2
He met with them that afternoon, standing in shame, before their dissecting and accusatory eyes. They were seated behind a large wooden table. Crafted from cedar, it was engraved with Chocktee symbols and the names of all the Elders who
sat before them. There were five seats – but one stood empty, and the remaining occupants shifted inward. In the center sat Jake Toomey in what was, until yesterday, his grandfather’s chair. Now Old Jake Toomey had assumed the position of Chief Elder. Toomey had been his grandfather’s closest and oldest friend.
They talked amongst themselves in Ancient Chocktee, and though Daniel tried to interpret their words, he was unable to equate it to the modern language of his people. Chocktee dialect was similar to Cree, but the Elders’ tongue was of the ancient times and indecipherable to Blackbird. Only the chosen were taught the ancient language.
The four men barked back and forth, raising their voices over each other, but among the four one voice held stable in its tone – and that was Jake Toomey’s. He was Blackbird’s only hope. The remaining Elders – Fortier, Machino, and Monias – cast an angry glance his way as they individually waved their hands, making their points and pontificating. Daniel could only guess they were making arguments for putting his head on a stick. But Toomey was calm, patient. While all Elders oversaw the good of the Nation, the Chief Elder reigned supreme, and his word was law.
Finally, Toomey raised his hand to silence them and turned his attention on Blackbird as the others listened. “Daniel Blackbird, you are wepinikewin.” (One who walks alone) “You cannot return to Spirit woods unless you undo this. Here are the things we can give you.”
Fortier passed a leather roll made of deer hide across to the Chief Elder; he unrolled it on the cedar table. Blackbird stood motionless, his eyes fixed upon the objects before him, afraid to move. But Toomey motioned him forward, and he did so cautiously. An old crossbow, collapsed and dismantled, sat next to ten small arrows. The tip of each arrow sparkled with amber, the fire inside the room reflecting off the precious metal they had been dipped in.
“Silver is said to be hard enough to break the icy heart of wendigos and skinwalkers, but this creature is more dangerous and powerful than others. Use these arrows only for protection. If the time comes when you think you can trap it, you will need our help.” Toomey rolled the hide up and handed it to Monias, who then passed it across to Blackbird. His face was an expressionless mask. Like the others, his anger was muted by the Chief Elder’s authority.
Blackbird started, “What can…”
“Close your mouth and listen to the Chief Elder!” Fortier’s voice was venomous, laced with spite. Toomey remained silent, his expression plain. The Elders were the enforcers of discipline in Chocktee, and he would not second-guess them, even if he felt they were heavy-handed.
“You are omachiw,” [a hunter] Daniel Blackbird. You accept this burden?” The light from the fire flickered across the span of Toomey’s wrinkled forehead, setting his curly grey hair ablaze with amber.
“I do.”
Blackbird waited to see if the others would scoff or grunt. They did not. At least not with their mouths―but their eyes were angry spheres that did not require words to convey their sentiment.
“You bear its mark.” Toomey touched his index finger to the pocked landscape of his cheek, drawing an imaginary cut from eye to cheekbone. “As the wound heals you will feel a pull taking you in whatever direction it moves. You are a hunter now, and it is your quarry. The walker is fast and smart, but a slave to its hunger. You must make this weakness your weapon and try to catch up to it. Have you any questions?”
Blackbird had a thousand but limited himself to only those that were most pressing. This conversation alone was a blessing, one that he would not sniff at. “Are there any signs it will leave behind or clues to its whereabouts?”
Toomey looked at the other Elders then cleared his throat. “It must feed daily. It will eat animal. But craves to eat of man. In its wake you will find many bodies, the organs removed. Read the signs and concentrate on the beckoning. You have many roads ahead of you, Omachiw. Trust the pull as it guides you.”
Monias reached across and handed him an envelope. In it, Daniel correctly speculated, was a sum of money. “Spend this wisely. Live as a man who has but the clothes on his back.”
Blackbird took the envelope and lowered his eyes.
“You are done, Daniel Blackbird. Leave us now,” Toomey said.
Daniel had not expected to be turned out this way. The sudden finality was akin to the death of his grandfather, in that he could not argue or undue his misfortune. He sighed―but minutely, so it would not draw criticism. He stowed the items they had given him, lifted the knapsack, and exited the shelter.
Toomey watched the young man go as the others spoke amongst themselves. He had known this young man and his cousin, Johnny Proudfoot, their entire lives. He took no satisfaction in banishing him, but as Chief Elder, he had a duty to his people.
Watch over him, Nekoneet. Protect him with your wisdom, he thought sadly.
The hunt was on.
***
Chapter 1 - Rituals and Intersections
1
Chicago, Illinois
October 2001
Roosted on a building high above the city’s red-light district, a group of pigeons congregated, trying to ward off the autumn cold. The ledge where they gathered was spattered with droppings that wafted the vile stench of ammonia. Below, the cityscape was filled with the noisy activity of cars and people moving along the gridwork of streets, illuminated by the fluorescent glow of night lighting. In the distance, adding to the chorus of sound, an ambulance siren cried out.
Not far from where the pigeons huddled together, a lone raven stared obsessively down upon the nightlife. But this was no typical raven. It was not a parasite content to pick over the remains of the dead, but a predator always hungry, always stalking. It was a magnificent creature, with a wingspan that spread four feet across. It was slightly ragged looking, its feathers unkempt, and it had eyes that were as cold and silver as steel ball bearings. The streets below reflected in those shiny globes as it scanned the panorama for new prey.
The pigeons cowered. They saw through the chameleon cloak, right into the grotesque and macabre thing it truly was. They saw the embryonic monster pulsing beneath the black feathers and skin, felt the spiral of madness pulsing from it in waves.
Must eat! So hungry! So very hungry!
It cast a fleeting glimpse their way, and they squawked huddling together even tighter; though they had nothing to fear, because the creature’s appetite could not be sated by the meat on their scrawny bodies. It smelled the air hungrily, tasting it – and a scent caught in its nasal cavities. The giant bird spread its wings and took flight, descending from the ledge, down towards the ignorance of its prey.
2
Kerry McNeil had been on the street for five years now. She left home at the age of fifteen. Nobody wanted to hire a teenager in the city, so turning tricks became the only alternative. Now, at twenty years old she was what many would call a seasoned sex trade worker; a streetwise working girl who knew how to handle herself – although she had come by this wisdom as most people in her profession: the hard way.
Before turning 16, she had been beaten up and raped twice. As a result, she kept a fresh supply of condoms in her purse and a four-inch blade in her boot. Both used as weapons against HIV and the occasional bully. Some ‘Johns’ would insist on having sex without a condom, and this almost always led to confrontation. In one incident a guy grabbed her by the hair after she had argued with him. He changed his tune when she pressed the blade from her boot against his inner thigh, only a few inches from his scrotum.
“Understand me, asshole,” she whispered. “I know what it’s like to get beat up and I will cut off your balls before I let you do that.”
He relented and left without much of fuss.
Her other life seemed a thousand years ago. The abusive drunk that had been her father was fading from her memories. But the ghost of those memories would always linger that memory as a reminder that this life was better
than the one she had left behind.
Gay prostitutes and transsexuals worked the east side of 22nd and the straight girls worked the west side. You didn’t dare step into somebody else’s territory. This was something Kerry found out in her first month as a working girl. She wandered onto the wrong corner and got slapped around by a tranny named Carla. Carla – Carl in her former life – could have easily given Kerry’s father a run for his money.
Kerry stood alone. It was cold, and she wanted to get off the street. Goose pimples rose on her legs: despite the autumn air, she stood kitted out in a black leather miniskirt and matching boots.
Soon she would have to resort to jeans. Something she didn’t look forward to. Blue jeans didn’t draw as much attention as a miniskirt, and as a result, business would suffer.
Cars approached, slowed, and then moved on. Many of them were just onlookers, getting a cheap thrill at her expense. Drunken college kids out for a Saturday night or married men trying to work up the nerve to cheat. So far, she’d only turned one trick tonight, blowing a guy in his car for $30. That wasn’t enough. She needed to turn at least two more tricks tonight so she could eat and put a bit away for the rent.
Another car slowed, and she walked out toward it putting on her best smile – but as she got closer, it sped off. “Fuckers,” she cussed. The cold pinched at her legs. “Fuck it.” If there was no action in the next hour, she would pack it in for the night and work twice as hard tomorrow.
So she stood back and continued to wait. And as she did, what she did not realize was that she was being watched.