by David Wood
“Hey,” Grant called out, as casually as he could. “You're the girl from the diner, right? I'm Grant.” He dared a broader smile, hoping it would work better on her than it had on the librarian. No such luck.
Her eyes narrowed. “Cassie.” She seemed a little reluctant to give him even that single word.
“These your sisters?” he asked, still trying to be friendly but not pushy.
She shook her head. “My neighbor's girls. I baby-sit.”
“We're not babies!” one of the twins said in high-pitched indignation. She folded her pudgy arms and tapped a foot in disapproval. Grant wondered where she'd picked that up.
“Of course you're not, sweetie. It's just a figure of speech.” Cassie favored the girl with a smile and, for a moment, the weight lifted and it looked like the sun shone on her face. But only for a moment. She looked back to Grant, eyes wary. “You're Andrew's son.” It wasn't a question.
He nodded. “You know him?”
She shrugged.
“I didn't really know him at all,” Grant said. “He wasn't much of a dad. He left when I was little and never came around after that.”
Cassie gave a half-smile. “I wish my dad would leave sometimes.”
“Yeah?”
She clammed up again. Grant looked uncomfortably around the park, across the road to municipal buildings, along to the corner dominated by a tall brick building with a bright white facade. His roving eye paused as he caught sight of the square and compass motif. Block letters raised in the stonework read MASONIC TEMPLE.
“That's where they meet,” Cassie said quietly, making him jump. She half-smiled again at his discomfort.
“They?” he asked.
“Loads of the men in town. Freemasons. They think they're some hot shit secret society or something. Losers.”
“Your dad among them?”
She nodded. “And yours. Well, he was...”
“Yeah, I know. I found some of his stuff at the house. Just the men?”
Cassie frowned, scuffed her ragged sneaker in the dirt. “Yeah. Womenfolk not allowed apparently.”
“Do the women have a society of their own?”
She barked a laugh. “Not unless you count gossiping after church or at the grocery store.”
Silence descended again. Cassie watched the twins run and play. One of them swept past with a swish of dress and said, “We live next door to Cassie!”
“So I heard.” Grant smiled at the little girl, momentarily charmed by the precociousness of youth.
“Right next door to the church!” the girl announced seriously, like this was essential information.
Grant smiled. “That's nice.”
“Run along and play,” Cassie said, her voice a little hard.
Grant saw her expression was guarded. Perhaps she didn't like the girl blurting out where she lived. He decided to change the subject. “I'm sorry that picture bothered you earlier.”
Cassie's face closed, like a shutter had come down. “It's nothing.”
“Sure. But even so, sorry about that.”
“I just didn't like it, that's all.” She seemed spooked.
Grant felt bad for her, but clearly something else was happening here. She knew more than she was letting on. “Did you recognize any of the people in that photo?” he asked. “Besides my dad, I mean.”
Cassie opened her mouth to speak and another voice cut across them.
“This guy bothering you, Cass?”
A tall, rangy guy, with greasy hair in a scruffy ponytail strolled up to them and laid an arm across Cassie's shoulders, a blatant act of ownership. She flinched ever so slightly at his touch. He wore a grubby, checked flannel shirt and jeans that looked as though they'd never been washed. Heavy, scuffed workboots made his feet look three sizes too big for his skinny legs. His eyes were red and droopy, his mouth a little slack.
Enjoy your lunchtime bong? Grant thought to himself, but chose not to say anything.
“No, he's not,” Cassie said, looking at Grant. Her eyes seemed to hold a warning.
The newcomer was about Grant's age, maybe a year or two older than Cassie. “We were just having a chat about nothing,” Grant said. “I'm new in town.”
“That right?”
Grant nodded, unsure where to go from there. “My dad died recently. He was a local here.”
“That right?” the stoner said again.
Grant couldn't repress a slight smile. Such witty repartee! He held out a hand. “I'm Grant. Grant Shipman.”
The stoner's eyes narrowed. He shook hands, though without any real conviction. “Carl. You Andrew Shipman's boy? He died recently.”
This guy was a real Sherlock Holmes. “That's right. Did you know my dad? I didn't know him well at all.”
“You need to leave my girlfriend alone. C'mon, Cassie.”
Cassie shook his arm off as he tried to turn her around. “Carl! I can't go anywhere, I'm watching the girls.”
Carl seemed to find the situation suddenly difficult, his face twisting into a confused frown. Grant swiftly sized things up. If Carl felt like his authority was being tested, he looked the sort to react badly to it. Cassie couldn't go anywhere, so Grant would need to break the tension. He clenched a fist, tempted to break the tension by breaking this loser’s nose, but bit it down. His temper was another thing that stressed Suzanne out.
“Anyway,” he said quickly, “I'd better be off. Gotta lot of stuff to do up at my dad's old place. That's where I'm staying for now.”
He gave Cassie a reassuring smile, sneered at Carl, and strode off across the scrubby park without waiting for a response. There was something very uncomfortable between those two and he didn't want to get Cassie in any kind of trouble. And if Carl was anything other than stupid, it was trouble. Frustrated, he headed back to where he'd parked his Camaro, wondering what kind of answer Cassie would have given about the photo if they hadn't been interrupted.
Chapter 4
A soft knock at the door rattled Grant from dark thoughts. He hesitated, then decided anyone who meant him ill probably wouldn't announce their presence so boldly. Then again, who could tell with these locals?
He drew back the curtain just far enough to peer outside. A woman of middle years stood on the doorstep holding a cardboard box packed with food. Silver streaked her blonde hair, and wrinkles creased her forehead and the corners of her eyes. She saw him and smiled.
“I'm so sorry to drop in unannounced like this,” she said while the door was still opening, “but Andrew turned off his home phone years ago and we didn't know any other way to reach you.” She bustled in like an expected guest, chattering as she headed to the kitchen. “I'm Mary Ann Stallard, Pastor Edwin's wife. The sheriff told us you were in town, and we wanted to make sure you were welcome. Have you had supper yet?”
Grant caught a whiff of fried chicken and his stomach answered the question for him.
“You just have a seat then.” Mary Ann pulled out a chair for him and started unloading her box. Grant sat down and watched, a little uncomfortably, as she laid out fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, biscuits, green beans, corn, and a jar of sweet tea. In typical southern fashion, she apologized profusely for what she claimed was meager fare.
“It looks delicious. I can't remember the last time I had real home cooking.”
“Well, you just enjoy yourself then. I'm going to take a little walk.” She patted him on the shoulder and turned toward the front door.
“Do you want to join me?” Grant asked. “I doubt I can eat all this by myself.” He didn't relish the thought of making small talk with his unexpected visitor, but it would have been rude not to offer.
“I'll be fine.” She gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. “Take your time.”
When the front door closed behind her, he chuckled and set to his meal. The chicken was the best he'd ever had-- crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside. The biscuits were perfect, and the green beans and corn were fresh, though seas
oned with a little too much salt and bacon grease for his liking. He could almost feel his arteries clogging with every delicious bite. By the time Mary Ann returned, he was working on his second plate. She nodded in approval and started wandering around the living room.
Grant did his best to ignore her as she hovered about, looking in turn at the paintings on the wall and his dad's old musket. As he stuffed the last bite of biscuit and gravy in his mouth, he noticed her kneeling beside the boxes where he'd been sorting his dad's books. Her back arched strangely, her fingers curled like claws, the nails jet black and far too long. Her face seemed stretched back, drawn tight and angular across her skull. She seemed to be growling deep in her chest. Grant gasped, his chair scraping back as he stood.
Mary Ann turned, her soft, middle-aged face curious, her hands resting on the edge of a box. Grant shook his head, blinked. What the hell was that? He swallowed, took a swig of tea, and cleared his throat.
“Did you want to borrow a book?” He kept his tone easy. “Dad had plenty of them. I figured I'd donate them to the library. I'm more of an e-book guy myself.” He wondered if she even knew what an e-book was.
“Oh, no.” The smile that suddenly spread across her face was so unlike her expression moments before that he found the change unsettling. “My husband lent your daddy a book. It isn't valuable, but it belonged to Edwin's great grandfather, and he'd love to have it back in his library.” She rose unsteadily to her feet.
Cold suspicion trickled down his spine. “What was the title?”
“Oh, it didn't even have a title. Just a wrinkled old leather cover, kind of light brown in color. The pages are old and wavy and the words aren't even English. It's just a curiosity that was passed down through the family.”
He relaxed a little. He'd assumed she was referring to Demonology and The Bible.
“Sorry, but I definitely haven't seen anything like that, and I've been through all the books.”
“Are there any in the back rooms?” she asked. “I could go check for you.”
Grant shook his head. “Nope, I've checked every nook and cranny, but I'll definitely let you know if it turns up.”
Her face tightened and, for a moment, he thought she would protest, but she nodded. “Thank you kindly. I'll leave you our number, but you can find us at the parsonage. It's right by the church, and somebody's most always home.”
She insisted he keep all the food he had not eaten, telling him he could return the dishes any time he liked. He thanked her and promised again to keep an eye out for the book. He stood in the doorway as she drove away, and didn't go back inside until her taillights vanished in the darkness.
He supposed her hospitality should warm his heart, but he felt cold inside. There was something wrong about this town.
A freaking iron key. That was the only thing his dad had left in his safe deposit box at the First National Bank of Wallen's Gap. Grant wondered why he'd even bothered to make the trip into town, enduring another round of dull stares and angry mutters from the local fauna. He'd kept an eye out for Cassie, but hadn't seen her. He was still convinced she knew something about his dad. Maybe she even knew something about the book the pastor's wife had been so interested in finding.
He'd searched every inch of the cabin, including the attic and the crawlspace, and was satisfied there was no lock the iron key would fit. He now stood on the front porch, twirling the key around his finger and thinking. Why put a key in a safe deposit box? The reasons were obvious. While the key itself might not have any intrinsic value, it must unlock something that did. His dad was keeping the key safe, keeping it away from someone else, or both.
Slapping his palm with the cold iron, he looked around. There was nothing out front except an old dog house, its roof sagging like an aged horse. He stepped down off the porch and circled the house. On the back side, the land sloped upward toward the peak of Clay Mountain far above. The pine forest that covered the mountainside was fast encroaching, casting the land in a dull hue of dark green. As Grant gazed up the hill, he caught a glimpse of weathered, gray wood. He climbed up the slope, heading directly toward it, nervous energy buoying his steps. Something told him he'd found what he was looking for.
An old smokehouse stood almost completely hidden in a dense stand of blackberry vines. He tried to push a few aside and got a handful of briars for his trouble. This wasn't going to be easy. He headed back to the house and returned a few minutes later with an old sickle. Its curved blade was pitted with rust and the edge was dull, but it would have to do.
For half an hour he hacked away at the tangled vines. His hands and forearms were scraped and bloodied and his muscles burned, but he felt good. He hadn't had a proper workout since he'd left home, and it was nice to work up a sweat. When at last he'd cleared a path to the smokehouse door, he tossed the sickle aside and withdrew the key from his pocket.
His heart sank. The door was secured by a simple padlock. Whatever lock the iron key opened, this wasn't it. He'd worked for nothing.
“What the hell?” he said to no one in particular. “Might as well see what's in here.” He picked up a rock and took out his frustrations on the padlock until it snapped off. He put his hand to the door but, as he was about to open it, a cool breeze passed over him. He paused, gooseflesh rising up on his arms. Where had that breath of air come from in the midst of this dead, calm forest? Puzzled and a little spooked, he retrieved the sickle, holding it in a white knuckled grip, and pushed the door open.
Grant tested the floorboards before stepping inside. The smokehouse was dark, dusty, and filled with cobwebs. Thin shafts of light pierced the cracks in the rough-hewn walls, shining on heaps of mouldering burlap sacks. A coil of rope hung from a hook on one of the overhead beams.
“Shit.” He kicked a pile of burlap, sending up a cloud of dust that burned his eyes and set him to coughing. When the dust cleared, he looked down and his eyes fell on a small door set in the base of the wall. The keyhole in the center looked like the perfect fit. For no particular reason, he looked around to see if anyone was watching. He knelt, inserted the key in the lock, and turned it.
The door swung open, revealing a small, recessed area carved into the natural rock that abutted the smokehouse. Inside lay a book. The cover was a light tan, creased leather, strangely soft to the touch. The pages were heavy, rough-edged and covered in a curling, crabbed script that made Grant frown as he flicked through. Fascinated, he sat on a pile of mouldering burlap and turned to the front of the book, reading by a shaft of light through a gap in the wall behind him.
An inscription was written by hand inside the front cover, in a different language to the rest of the book. It used the alphabet as he knew it, though still not English. One word was clear, however - Kaletherex. He turned the page and realized the rest of the book was hand-written too, in a dark, reddish brown ink. A crooked smile tugged at one side of his mouth as he wondered if the thing was written in blood, but the smile faded like sunlight behind a passing cloud when it occurred to him that he might be right. A weird leather-bound book, written in blood, in an arcane, indecipherable script. “What the..?” His voice was barely a whisper.
As if in answer, the cold breeze blew again, shifting the edges of the sacking all around, chilling him. The breeze seemed to carry a voice, read read read, like a distant echo.
Grant jumped up, looked around. “Who's there?”
He stood still for close to a minute, listening so hard he felt as though his ears must be standing out on the sides of his head. Nothing but the susurration of the leaves and pine needles outside, the occasional call of a bird. He stuck his head out the door of the smokehouse and saw nothing but trees.
Losing my freaking mind. He sat down again.
The pages were heavy, thick, slightly waxy. He turned slowly through the book, examining each page in turn. He could make no more sense of it than if he had been trying to read Chinese or ancient Greek, but there was something compelling about the shapes and ellipses of
the text. His eyes moved slowly, sliding around the words and paragraphs. This had to be something important, something worth locking in a safe carved into bedrock. The key to which was kept far away in a strong box in the bank. Was it something so valuable it needed security? Or something else. Important? Dangerous?
He turned another page and jumped, a small gasp escaping his lips. Across the double page spread was a drawing in exquisite detail, fine lines and smooth shading. It showed a young, naked girl on a table, her arms and legs strapped wide to make an X of her body. There were marks on her skin, spirals over her heart, stomach and forehead. Candles stood around her on the table's edges and strange symbols, similar to the text of the book, were carved into the wooden tabletop. Several figures stood around her holding a variety of implements: knives, scythes, branches of gnarled wood. One held a dripping organ, like the liver of a sheep or cow... or something. It looked too large to be human.
The girl's head was tipped back, her mouth wide in a scream, eyes squeezed shut. Grant held the book up closer to his eyes, fascinated by the gruesome detail. He could see where the straps at her ankles and wrists bit into the skin, rubbed it raw as she pulled against them, could see tears and sweat on her face. As his eyes narrowed in morbid fascination, the picture moved, the girl thrashed and screamed, the sound pierced his ears. A chant rose up from the people gathered around her, candles flickered, somewhere a sonorous drum beat a solid, regular dirge.
With a cry, Grant dropped the book and staggered back, tripped against a pile of sacking and sat heavily. His heart pounded as he struggled to recover his breath.
“What's going on in there?” a sharp voice called from outside.
Grant shuddered, adrenaline coursing through his body like an electric shock. He scooped the book from the floor, shoved it back in the rock safe and locked the door. He shoved sacking up against the door to hide it and pocketed the key as he turned and stepped out of the smokehouse. Three young men stood a few yards down the path, grizzled and a little dirty. They looked at him with hooded, suspicious eyes.