The Equinox

by M J Preston

  Logan had read and experienced how many of these ghouls enjoyed the notoriety, but Hopper seemed extremely uncomfortable with it. He glanced into his rearview mirror and watched the fat man continue to recite the Lord’s prayer.

  Keep praying, asshole. Even if there is an almighty God, I doubt He’ll offer redemption to a monster like you. With that thought he pushed down on the gas pedal, leaving behind his officers to deal with the mob of reporters.

  7

  Daniel Blackbird was sitting in a truck stop, sipping a cup of hot tea and waiting for his breakfast. He had been doing odd jobs as he traveled: working in warehouses, loading trucks, even washing dishes. Getting work was a task in itself. Firstly, he had no fixed address, so he was forced to take jobs in the underground economy. Secondly, he was native. No matter what people might think, Daniel Blackbird still ran up against racism. It hindered his ability to find work, and now he was almost out of money.

  His presence in the truck stop was also not appreciated. Politics and land claims had caused divisions between natives and whites. There used to be a time when people from his race were regarded as drunks and downtrodden. Now well-educated Natives were challenging broken treaties, and making land claims which spurred a whole new reason for dislike.

  He had followed up six leads, and all had been fruitless. He felt defeated at this point. For all, he knew ‘Skin’ could be running around Europe or the Middle East while he continued running in circles.

  The waitress set a plate of two eggs with a side of toast down in front of him. Gingerly he poked the fork into the yolk. Yellow fluid poured out and onto the plate. He rolled his eyes. He had ordered the eggs cooked over hard; the taste of an uncooked yolk disgusted him. For a second, he considered sending them back but then thought better of it. Whether it was paranoia or not, Blackbird thought that cook might spit on them.

  In the booth to his right, a newspaper was strewn in segments. He reached over and picked a cluster of pages up for later. Maybe he could find some part-time work here. If he couldn’t that meant going back to the Elders and asking for more money. This was something he did not want to do.

  Grudgingly, he ate all of his breakfast, runny yolk and all. There was no point in starving, and with only $25 left in his pocket, he had to be as conservative as possible.

  With breakfast gone, he asked the waitress to bring him some more hot water for his tea. As he waited, he skimmed the help wanted ads. The pickings were sparse, thanks to a worldwide recession.

  The waitress refilled the mini steel teapot and asked, “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  Blackbird shook his head.

  She tore off a bill from the pad and laid it down on the table. He turned it over. Another $8 spent. As the waitress walked away he paid her no mind, nor did he pay attention to the two truck drivers who were making jokes at his expense.

  It looked as though he was going to have to put a call into the Elders to send him money after all. This would mean giving a report on his progress and feeling the sting of scrutiny from his cousin Johnny Proudfoot. Maybe they’d even decline his request, thinking he was squandering their money.

  It had been a long time since he’d felt the tug of the walker – now he wondered if he had lost the ability or if it was too far out of range. If only he had something to give them. Some assurance.

  He folded the paper neatly, setting the classifieds down and sipped the last of his tea when something in the newspaper caught his eye.

  Blackbird picked up his tea, flipping the pages, but there was no page 4 to be found. The waitress was passing by, so he asked her for a refill. She picked up the stainless-steel pot and took it to the counter irritated. This deadbeat probably wouldn’t leave a tip.

  She was right; he could barely afford the meal.

  He re-read the article touching the scar left by the walker, and he began to feel it. He did not know if it was telepathy or just a gut feeling, but when he was getting close, there was a sense that came over him. He could feel the walker’s scent on this. There was some kind of a connection. Maybe this guy was procuring food for Skin?

  He had stopped calling it ‘the walker’ a long time ago; instead, he called it ‘Skin.’

  Its handle harkened back to when they were children. “Skin’s gonna get you, Daniel. Skin’s gonna get you and eat your heart!” Johnny Proudfoot used to tease him. Back then ‘Skin’ had been a boy’s fable – but as he would later find out, the Skinwalker, aka Skin, was no myth or legend.

  He glanced at the dotted picture of Stephen Hopper and tried to see something in it, but the quality was poor. No matter. He trusted his instincts on this: the scar on his face tingled, and for the first time in more than two years he felt the same feeling as when he had stumbled upon the murder of that young prostitute in Chicago.

  Outside he found a phone booth. There he punched in the number he knew by heart and waited for the operator to come on. It was all automated now, a frustrating part of technology. The computer asked who the collect call was for, and he answered, “Johnny Proudfoot.” Then, as prompted, he gave his name. He traced his fingers over the stainless-steel pedestal as the phone began to ring. The tug was stronger now.

  A woman picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “This is Bell Long Distance calling. I have collect call for ‘Johnny Proudfoot’ from ‘Daniel Blackbird.’ Please press one to accept the charges or two to –”

  He heard the key pressed.

  “Thank you, you are now connected. Go ahead please.”

  “Get me, Proudfoot,” Blackbird said flatly.

  “Just a minute.” She placed a hand over the mouthpiece, but he could still hear her. “Uncle Johnny, it’s Dan. Dan Blackbird!”

  He folded the newspaper and began to reread it while he waited. The pull felt stronger now. He was confident that this was no blind alley.

  The two truck drivers from inside the restaurant passed him, and one said, “How’s it going, Chief?” and snorted.

  Dickhead, he thought.

  “Hello, Daniel,” a voice greeted on the phone. “It’s been quite a while.”

  “I’ve found him,” Blackbird said.

  “You’re sure about this?” Proudfoot inquired.

  “Johnny, I’m positive. I can feel him, just like in the city. It’s unmistakable.”

  “Where?”

  “A small town on the prairies called Thomasville. I think he’s made contact this time, and I’m pretty sure he’s still there, but I don’t know for how long. I have to get there as soon as possible.”

  “How much money do you need?” There was a judgmental tone in Proudfoot’s voice. Blackbird had heard it on more than one occasion.

  He hadn’t even thought about that. He tried doing some math, then gave up and said, “Stay by the phone. I have some calls to make. I’ll get back to you within the hour.”

  He hung up and picked up the tattered phone book which was dangling between his knees on a steel cord. Flipping through the yellow pages, he found what he was looking for. He inserted two quarters and dialed the number. The phone rang twice, and a party answered.

  “Greyhound, how can I help you?”

  ***

  Chapter 7 - Visitation and Preparation

  1

  Hopper was opening his eyes when he saw something scuttling across the cell floor toward him. He hadn’t even begun to realize what it was when black vapor began to plume upward from under his bunk and solidify. By then, all he had time to do was retreat to the corner of his mattress with his knees up to his chest. The Bible fell to the floor as he cowered. He reached for it, then thought better.

  Dear God, no, he thought.

  He opened his mouth to scream – but out shot a hooked claw from the smoke, which covered his mouth and contained his scream before it could escape. The smell of it ran up into his nose, and he almost vomit
ed.

  As he fought back the urge to spew, it continued changing to a chorus of pops of grinding bone and cartilage. From the black poisonous haze, it began to take form, and as it did the vapor became tar-like beads on its sickly grey skin, first settling like dew drops then absorbing inward.

  Between the pop and grating bone, it greeted, “Stephen.” The change was almost complete, and the ragged creature perched beside him in its true form. The cell was a chamber of wretched decay. The razor-sharp claws dug into the skin below each of Hopper’s ears, just before the point they would puncture him. It could easily twist off his head or open both jugular veins from this position – it had done so many times before. Its black lips peeled back, exposing rotted teeth that had chewed up so much human flesh. Hopper could hold his breath no longer and inhaled the stink of its sour breath.

  “If I uncover your mouth, are you going to be a good boy?” it hissed, and from one of its inflamed gums, black ick hemorrhaged, flooding over its lips and spilling down its chin.

  He nodded: “Yes.” In its reflective eyes, he could see his head bobbing up and down, enveloped by the vast claw.

  The clamp loosened, then paused, waiting for him to screech. When he didn’t, it removed its claw.

  Hopper gasped, then quietly recited, “Our Father, who art –”

  “That won’t help you,” it dismissed.

  “–who art in heaven,” he blubbered.

  “Have you told them about me?”

  Hopper shook his head.

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m going to make you pay for this.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” he proclaimed.

  “Shut up you, stupid man.” It brought a claw up and absently pierced its inflamed gum. A stream of dark liquid squirted from its mouth out onto the bed but evaporated before the prison-issued blanket could absorb it. “My teeth hurt all the time. Do you know how bad that feels?”

  “I’m sorry,” Hopper replied.

  It cackled. “You’re sorry. We had a good thing going, Stephen, and you screwed it up. You’ll be sorry for that. There just isn’t enough time for the amount of pleasure I am going to take in dismantling you. I just wanted you to know that I am still here and it isn’t over yet. What did I tell you?”

  “Never take the locals.” Hopper started crying.

  “Exactly. Never take the locals. But you couldn’t control yourself.” Its lips drew back in a gruesome snarl. More vile black liquid leaked from between its teeth and gums. “I am going to pick you apart the same way a child pulls the wings off a fly, and I’m going to take my time.” It laughed. “Oh yes, I will be savoring every moment of your agony.”

  “I never told them anything about you,” he convulsed.

  “Oh, but you will. Maybe not today, but one day when you’re penned up somewhere, you’ll talk. Humans always talk. It’s their nature; it’s your nature.” A momentary pause. “Too late anyway; he’s coming.”

  “Who? No, I won’t! I promise I won’t!”

  “I’ve got to go now, Stephen. An old friend of mine is coming to town, and I’ve got people to see. I would kill you tonight, but there’s so much to do.” It let out a raspy laugh.

  “Please, I’m begging you. Pleeease!” Tears gushed down onto his cheeks as he wailed. “Lord protect me, I have sinned. Please protect me.” He balled his right hand up into a fist and bit down on it hard enough to break the skin. He dropped to the floor, clutched his knees to his chest.

  Again it began to change. Droplets of tar seeped from its pores, and as its skin darkened, the black substance began to vaporize and swallow its body in a tiny storm of dirty smoke. There were pops intermingled with crackling, then an odd liquid sound as the black mist flowed down from Hopper’s bunk and into the cracks where the concrete wall met the floor. The last of it vanishing out of sight, it let out a bone-chilling shriek that echoed through the walls.

  Hopper opened his eyes ever so slowly, dumbly, scanning the confines of the cell. Once he had assured himself it was indeed gone, his composure crumbled.

  Hopper started to scream.

  2

  Detective Pearson was at his desk tapping away on his laptop and chartering a flight for the entourage that would escort Hopper to Artisan Institute. The Institution was in a remote location where many violent criminals were evaluated before trial. It was also the residency of Dr. Robert Kolchak. Kolchak was scheduled to arrive tomorrow afternoon at the small airport in Brandon.

  The doctor intended to spend a couple days in Thomasville. He wanted to look at the dig, go through Hopper’s house, and meet with the Parkins family. This was, “All a part of the evaluation,” he had said over the phone, but Pearson speculated the Good Doctor was already preparing a synopsis for a new bestseller. Not that he cared much either way. As long as Kolchak helped them get a guilty confession, his motives were of little relevance to Pearson.

  They would be flying back to Artisan in a Dash 8. The twin-engine would more than meet their requirements when they left at the end of the week. Cooper, Kolchak, Hopper and himself would be the only passengers on board the craft. He missed the city and could not wait to get out of Thomasville. Chief Logan had been a decent enough host, and his 2I/C Collins turned out to be a good guy. The problem was, he hated these little communities where they rolled up the sidewalks at 8 PM.

  Closing the laptop, he stood up to stretch his back. He was ready to call it a night – when suddenly he heard a distant moan which reminded him of wind whistling through the rafters of an old barn. There a second sound came. It sounded … jagged. Like a clanging metallic screech echoing through the walls again and again until it was gone.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked the duty officer.

  Hardy turned her head to listen, but she did not respond, deciding to wait and see if the sound would repeat itself. The two of them stood motionless, straining their ears. Hardy glanced toward the cell block, while Pearson gazed at her chest wondering how firm her breasts were.

  Before he could visualize what they looked like beneath her uniform, his concentration was broken by the screaming of the only man they had locked up.

  The two raced for the cell block.

  3

  Scott Masterson was the manager of the Thomasville Motor Inn for over fifteen years, and the small motel had been a landmark of the community for almost thirty. It was a cheap place to get a room, only $35 a night, but it was also run-down, and the air-conditioning in half the rooms didn’t work.

  Since the construction of the Holiday Inn just off the main highway, business at the motel suffered. Most travelers never ventured far enough into town. The recent influx of reporters had not even benefited the failing business.

  Scott was not a particularly ambitious man. Masterson’s father owned the place and gave Scott the management job when it became abundantly clear he had decided to do nothing else with his life.

  Scott liked to smoke pot and gamble. Stud poker was his game of choice. He was a slave to the table, always looking for the turn of a friendly card, but rarely finding one. On his days off he dropped thousands of dollars in the casino in the city. As the lust consumed him, he began embezzling money from the Motel Maintenance fund, and when he drained that, he stopped paying bills. First, he rotated paying the utilities, always a month behind – and then after a weekend that cost $5000 Scott Masterson committed the equivalent of business suicide. He skipped paying the taxes.

  There were two paying customers in his father’s thirty-unit motel. In 7B there was a kid in his mid-twenties who had come in on his own dime to cover the murders. Scott had smoked a joint with him the other night. His name was Tim something-or-other, a wannabe reporter/blogger. In 11A was a married couple from town who used the room regularly for a bit of uninhibited sex. Masterson guessed they had kids and just wanted the privacy to cut loose and have a bit of fun.

  Every day he wa
ited for the end. He cringed when he thought about what his father would do when he found out about the taxes. On more than one occasion he contemplated going down to the basement and just hanging himself from the support beam. The old man was going to freak, and he really didn’t want to face that. He didn’t know if he really had the nerve to kill himself – but thought he would find out soon enough. Everything would come to a head sooner or later.

  As he pondered this, the door chimed and in walked the answer to all of his problems. A tall man with broad shoulders, dressed all in black, strutted across the lobby, and without saying a word dropped two envelopes on the counter.

  “What’s this?” He drew back a little, thinking he was being served a summons or threat of foreclosure.

  The tall man smiled and pushed the first envelope toward him with his index finger.

  Scott reached down and picked up the large yellow envelope. It was bulky and overstuffed. Peeling back the seal, he glanced inside. There was an enormous wad of $100 bills. He tried to guess what the amount was, but the dark stranger answered for him.

  “There are ten thousand dollars in that envelope,” he said. “That is yours for the keeping if you can carry out one simple task.”

  He looked from the man, whom he now thought might be an Indian, and then back into the envelope. He was tempted, but then set it down on the counter. “I may not be the brightest guy, Mister, but I don’t need trouble with the law, and you look like trouble.”

  He pushed the envelope back – but the stranger placed a hand over his and stopped him. The stranger’s hand was icy cold and felt smooth, unreal.

  “There will be no trouble or illegal dealings, Mr. Masterson. I simply want you to deliver this second envelope to a friend of mine. Inside this envelope is a message. That message is confidential which I do not want violated. Also, if my friend requires shelter, you will provide it free of charge for as long as he stays.”