Goodbye Lucifer

by John Harold McCoy

  * * *

  The two men looked like painters in their white pants and shirts, with white masks cupped over mouth and nose. Only the Environmental Protection Agency logo on their caps and on the side of the white van identified them for who they were. Jack stood by watching one of them pour the little vials of spring water samples out onto the ground while the other one was folding maps and charts that had been spread on the old picnic table.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” said the man folding the maps. “Absolutely pure good ole West Virginia spring water. There’s nothing out of the ordinary in the air, either. Soil samples are what you’d expect, at least in this area. According to these charts, there has never been any mining in this valley, so no abandoned mines for gases to leak out of. Satellite images, weather radar…nothing special. I think what you’ve got here is, well, in a nutshell…something stinks.”

  Jack wrinkled his nose at the air. “Yeah, but what could smell so bad so suddenly? It’s got people puking all over the place.”

  “I don’t know,” answered the map folder through his white mask. “But we haven’t found anything to justify sending a full team out here. I sympathize, really, I do. It’s awful, but it doesn’t fit any profiles that raise a flag. Occasionally, clouds of particulates from any number of sources, landfills, sewage treatment facilities, whatever, will blow in and settle in a valley. It goes away in time.”

  Jack wasn’t satisfied. “You think that’s what it is?”

  “No.” The EPA man shrugged. “If it were, there would be traces in the air. I’m just sayin’, anything we’d be concerned about—anything hazardous—would show traces.”

  The man scratched his head. “The best you can do is get in touch with the local physicians, pharmacists, hospitals, paramedics: anyone who might become aware of an illness, a health complaint, anything out of the ordinary that could be connected to this. Give them a heads-up about it, just in case.

  Jack frowned, unhappily. “So in the mean time, we just puke and bear it, right?”

  FIFTY-ONE

  “IT WAS ONE of them damn bigfoots, that’s what it was.” Joe Paul was drunk as a skunk. “These here mountains are full of ’em. Damn thing near killed me. They got my Emma too. She put up a fight, though—shot up the place with my shotgun before they drug her off somewheres.” Joe hung his head. “Poor Emma…probably got all ate up by now.”

  Wiley Curtis was only slightly less drunk than Joe. Both men sat on a wooden bench on Wiley’s front porch. The bottle of whiskey they passed back and forth originated from a traditional rather than a formal source, and had no label.

  “You’re so full of shit,” Wiley Curtis said. “Ain’t no bigfoots around here, or anywhere else for that matter. The way you treat Emma, she probably just run off with somebody. Ain’t no bigfoots around here.”

  “Oh yeah?” slurred Joe. “Whad’ya think that god-awful smell is? It’s bigfoots, that’s what it is.”

  Wiley wasn’t buying it. He scowled, “If there’s so damn many bigfoots around here, how come I ain’t never smelt ’em before. How come that, huh? You’re so full of shit.”

  Joe hadn’t thought of that. “Still,” he grumbled, “Just go on out there and take a look at the front of my pickup. If there ain’t no bigfoots then tell me what done that.”

  Wiley scoffed, “Deer! That’s what.”

  Joe was getting annoyed. “I s’pose a big ole deer grabbed me by the neck and lifted me clean off the ground, too.”

  Wiley cackled, “Guess you pissed him off, Joey boy.” He took a long pull off the bottle.

  Joe stood up, angry. “Up yours, Wiley. I’m going over to the Stillman Bar and find somebody to hang out with that ain’t no damn lunatic.”

  “Oh, come on, Joe.” Wiley laughed and waved his hand at the bench. “Sit your ass back down here. I’m just kiddin’ around, for Christ sakes.” Joe hesitated, appearing to think it over, though he had no intention of going anywhere.

  “Come on,” coaxed Wiley, offering Joe the bottle. “Sit down here and tell me what you been blubberin’ ’bout all morning. And this time, start at the start instead of the middle ’cause it don’t make no sense.”

  Joe calculated for few seconds, decided he’d won that round and sat back down on the bench. He took the bottle from Wiley and downed a hefty slug, then leaned back against the weathered boards of Wiley’s “rustic” shack.

  “Awright,” he began, with a little hesitation for dramatic effect. “Last night…middle of the night…” he stopped and looked Wiley right in the eye to make sure he had his attention. Wiley nodded for him to go on.

  Joe continued, “I’m comin’ ’cross the bridge, right?” Another nod from Wiley.

  “And right there in the middle of the road, a big-assed bigfoot…”

  Wiley threw up his hands. “There you go again.”

  “Okay, okay,” Joe conceded. “But it was some kinda big-ass…it weren’t no deer, awright?” He stopped to let his point sink in, then went on.

  “Anyway, here I come cross the bridge, and wham! Damn near wrecked my truck all to hell. Hit that sucker so hard it bounced all the way into them Crumb girl’s back lot.” He took another swig then passed the bottle to Wiley.

  “So there I am, sitting in the middle of the road beside Louis Walker’s store, my poor ole truck steamin’ and sputtering, and so far I’m just like you; I’m figurin’ I hit a deer, right?”

  “Right,” agreed Wiley. “That’s what I’d be figurin.”

  Joe took the bottle back, drained an ounce or two, then said, “Well, that ain’t what it was.”

  Wiley was losing patience. “Well, what the hell was it? Get on with it, will ya? I ain’t got all day.”

  “I am, I am,” sneered Joe. “Just hold yer horses.” He grabbed the bottle back from Wiley and took another drink.

  Wiley scowled, “Why don’t I just go in the house and take a nap while you figure out what you wanna say next?”

  Joe stood up, angry again. “What the hell you got to do, anyway, Wiley, ’cept lay around here and drink all day? You wanna hear what happened, or not?”

  “Aw Jesus, Joe! Don’t be so damned itchy,” Wiley protested. “Just sit down here and tell the dag-blamed story. It ain’t no Hollywood movie, ya know. Now come on, get on with it. You want a ‘please?’ Okay, please…how’s that?”

  Joe chalked up another win and sat back down. “Awright,” he said, taking the bottle from Wiley. “Anyways, there I am, standin’ in the middle of the road lookin’ all over the place for a dead deer, and I see somethin’ layin’ over there in that lot behind the Crumb’s house. So I go over there to take a look. Turns out it ain’t no deer at all. First thing I thought was I hit some guy, then I look closer, and it ain’t no guy, neither.” He took a long, slow hit off the bottle. “Wiley, I’m gonna tell you somethin’ you ain’t gonna believe.”

  Joe leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He set the bottle down on the rough planks of the porch between his feet. In a surprisingly sober voice, he said, “Wiley…swear to God, if they was ever a fiend from Hell walked the face of the earth, there it was right there on the ground in front of me.”

  Wiley reached down and snatched up the bottle. “Damn, Joe,” he said with a taunting grin. “First we got bigfoots, now we got fiends from Hell. Hey, ya know what? I got a unicorn tied up out back. Wanna see it?”

  This time Joe didn’t react with anger. He said, in the same sober voice, “There’s more…a lot more. You gonna shut yer ass up and listen, or what?”

  FIFTY-TWO

  THE BOOK OF WORLD RECORDS didn’t list Brandell, West Virginia as the sarcasm capitol of the world. Maybe they didn’t even list sarcasm capitols. It didn’t matter, though, since the prevalence of sarcastic attitudes in Brandell was temporary, and was only because of recent events. Hopefully, it would go away. But right now it was in full swing. Practically everyone in the Valley seemed to be taking part. And Louis Walker was
carrying it right along.

  Claudia sat at the soda fountain, her ever-present cup of coffee on the counter in front of her. Behind the counter, Louis was trying to act cute, but it came off as just what it was: sarcasm. He said, all smiley-like but not at all amused, “Just a little flight of fancy here, Claudia—a silly little thought right off the top of my head.” His smile got sillier, and he tapped the top of his head. “This smell: you guys didn’t just happen to have anything to do with—” He stopped, and with an expression of obviously phony embarrassment, appeared to dismiss the thought. “Oh, no, no, how could I even think—”

  Claudia wasn’t amused, either. She glowered at him. “Cut the crap, Louis.”

  He cut the crap, and stood with hands on hips. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, why have there been several people in here this morning commenting on all the racket and lights coming from the general vicinity of ‘guess who’s’ house in the middle of the night last night? Oh yeah, and then, coincidently, there’s the rather noticeable smell that you girls don’t seem to be particularly bothered about.”

  Claudia frowned. “Louis, do you really think we have something to do with everything that goes on around here?”

  Louis cocked his head, pretending to mull it over. “Yep!” he said finally, with another irritating grin.

  Claudia ignored his response. “This coffee’s cold,” she said, indifferently.

  “Oh, now we can’t have that, can we?” Louis’ his sarcasm softened only a bit. He reached behind him for the carafe. As he poured, he spoke, this time without the sarcasm. “You know, Claudia, for the last forty years or so, I must have said to myself a zillion times, ‘Louis, it’s none of your business.’ And not just me. Everybody knows, when it comes to you women, or anything out of the ordinary happening in the valley, it’s just best not to get too curious. Always been that way…probably always will. Even my wife, God rest her soul; I can’t count the times I bit my tongue and let things slide. And I never had a problem with it; not really. I knew what I was getting into when I married her, and it didn’t matter. Same thing with Mel when she came of age.” He pretended to cringe. “And of course I’d never dream of butting heads with Mistress Claudia.”

  “Very wise of you,” she said, loftily, but with a grin.

  Louis continued, a little playful sarcasm creeping back into his voice. “But just this one time—just once. I’d like to say to myself, ‘Louis, old fella, you finally got a straight answer about something from one of them.’ So wha’dya think, Claudia? Just once, huh? About this smell?” He set the carafe down and leaned against the counter, staring her in the eye, expectantly.

  Claudia was silent for a moment, returning his stare. Then thinking what the hell, she said, “Okay, Louis. Just this once. Here’s the deal. The Devil has gotten out of Hell and has gone to Ft. Lauderdale to be a bartender. There are six demons in our basement, and The Keeper of the Unspeakable Archives has escaped from Underworld. On his way out he left the door open and the essence of pure evil is seeping out into the valley. That’s what the smell is. Don’t worry, it doesn’t do anything; it just stinks. On top of all that, we women have lost our powers and can’t do anything about any of it till we figure out how to get them back. That’s about it for now, Louis. Anything else you wanna know?” She leaned back a little, folded her arms across her chest, and waited for a reaction.

  Louis didn’t react. He just stared at her with a blank expression.

  FIFTY-THREE

  “…EVER LIGHT IN THE HOUSE ON and Emma nowhere to be seen—at one o’clock in the morning.” Joe Paul finally had Wiley’s attention.

  “Where was she?” Wiley asked.

  Joe snapped back, impatiently, “Hell, Wiley, I done told ya she got ate up, didn’t I?”

  “Ahhhhh,” Wiley scoffed, “How’ya know she got ate up? How’ya know she didn’t just run off somewhere like I said?”

  Joe rolled his eyes back and exhaled a long, disgusted, breath. “Wiley,” he said, “Are you tryin’ to be an asshole or are you just naturally one? Didn’t I just tell you that when I went outside to look around for her there was holes in the shed that looked like shotgun holes, and my shotgun was gone out of the closet? Don’t that prove she was defendin’ herself? And since she weren’t around nowhere, well, she musta got ate up or somethin’. Just makes sense, don’t it?”

  Wiley, the unbeliever, said, “Nope.”

  “Does to me,” said Joe.

  Wiley scratched his beard. “Did it ever occur to you to call her momma’s house…see if she was there?”

  “Huh uh,” grunted Joe. “What it occurred to me to do was go back over to the Stillman Bar. That’s what it occurred to me to do. If she was already ate up, no sense hangin’ around getting’ ate up, myself.” Suddenly, unsure of his logic, he added, “Well, maybe I’ll call her momma later, just to see.”

  Wiley was looking at the bottle, wondering which would last longer, the few swigs left or Joe’s story. “Anyway,” said Joe, “I go out and get in the truck and head back down towards town. I figured whatever that thing was down by the bridge woulda run off by now and I could get on back over to Stillman.” He reached over and took the bottle from Wiley, drained half the remaining contents, and went on.

  “Just as I get down to the corner by the Meljac place, I see this big…” He gave Wiley a threatening look. “…and goddamnit, Wiley, if you make one smartass remark, I’ll knock you right in the head with this here bottle!”

  “Hell, I didn’t say nothing,” Wiley said, indignantly.

  “Awright then,” said Joe. “So I’m down there by the Meljac house, and all of sudden some kinda big, cracklin’ light starts flashin’ back there on the patio down behind the house. I look over there, and there’s one of them witch women—I think it was that Clark girl—standing there with her arms stuck up in the air and her hair flyin’ all around like they was some kinda storm goin’ on back there. I don’t know what she was doin’ cause I seen all this just as I was passin’ by. But you can bet it was some kinda damn heathen ritual. And I bet you another thing; it had somethin’ to do with that monster from Hell I hit.”

  Joe finished up his story, figuring it was the best one Wiley had heard in a long time. “Anyway,” he said, “I just drove right on past and right on over to Stillman.”

  Wiley snatched the bottle before Joe could finish it off. “You’re just lucky you didn’t get seen. It don’t do to get mixed up in them women’s business.”

  “Well,” said Joe, a little peeved, “It don’t do for them to be makin’ monsters that eat a man’s wife, neither.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  THE REVEREND ALFRED MORGAN was not a pervert. He was a healthy, thirty-five-year-old, unmarried man who, like any reasonable guy, appreciated attractive women. Nothing wrong or immoral about that. Alfred was a preacher, not a Priest. That being the case, Alfred found no problem with being attracted to Amanda Clark. But what had happened during his visit with Amanda the day before yesterday had shocked him to the core.

  Basically, the fantasies he’d experienced were, although perhaps a tad over the line, pretty much a normal guy thing—not everyday normal, but not all that rare. What had shaken him so badly was the overwhelming urge to physically act—to play them out. It was as though a dark and hidden part of him had surfaced, telling him, “go ahead…do it.” He shuddered to think what might have happened if he hadn’t left—fled was more like it; fled out the door, down the steps, out into the street, and all the way home.

  Equally disturbing was the persistence of the fantasies, lasting all day and into the night. No matter what he did, he couldn’t shake them off. He tried prayer, but his concentration failed, his mind wandering back to Amanda’s delicious…attributes. By the time Alfred collapsed into bed he felt that his faith and his soul were lost.

  Alfred awoke the next morning feeling nothing out of the ordinary. The harrowing events of the day before seemed like an odd drea
m, half-remembered and a little foggy. He could recall what had happened, but only vaguely, and in the light of a bright new day none of it seemed all that dramatic. He remembered visiting Amanda Clark. He remembered thinking how terrific she looked, and even feeling a little aroused. That’s why he had left; it was embarrassing, not to mention inappropriate. The oddest part was that he remembered spending the entire day consumed by guilt over it, but couldn’t imagine why. The simple fact was, Amanda Clark was a knock-out, and getting a little turned on by a good-looking woman wasn’t the worst sin Alfred could think of. He decided he’d better drop back in on Amanda with some explanation as to why he’d made such a fool out of himself. This time he’d keep his eyes on her face instead of her…attributes.

  Alfred’s day wore on in the usual manner with the usual duties and the usual responsibilities. By evening, the events of the day before were all but forgotten, and a visit to Amanda Clark didn’t seem so important after all. Alfred went to bed confident that all was well with the world.

  It was this morning that Reverend Alfred Morgan awoke to find that all was definitely not well with the world. Alfred opened his eyes to the bright new morning. Anticipating a satisfying morning yawn, he took a nice deep breath. Lungs filling with evil essence, eyes popping wide with surprise, Alfred leaped out of bed and ran for the bathroom, gagging and retching all the way.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  LOUIS WAS GRUMBLING, “Jesus, Claudia. A simple ‘none-of-your-business’ would have done just fine.”

  “Well,” Claudia wore a smirk, “You asked.”

  Louis said, wryly, “I asked a sincere question. I didn’t ask for underworld keepers and devil bartenders. And, oh yeah, let’s not forget demons in your bottom…s’cuse me…your basement.” He sneered and added, “Come on, Claudia…really!”

  Claudia’s response was snappish. “No, you come on, Louis! You think we’re to blame for this? How do you think a few women go about making a whole valley smell like old curried vomit? You wanna tell me how you figure that?”

  “I don’t know!” Louis said, a little louder than he’d intended. “I don’t know how you women do any of the stuff you do.”

  “Stuff? What stuff?” she asked, huffily.

  “Stuff!” he almost shouted. “I don’t know; just stuff!” He caught himself and lowered his voice. “Claudia, there are creepy creatures running around all over the place. The town smells like a ship’s bilge. God knows what else is going on. And you guys aren’t the tiniest bit surprised at any of it. So what am I supposed to think?” He stopped for a breath, and softened a little.

  “Okay, look,” he paused again, searching for the right words. “Here, in the valley, people get born, myself included, and we grow up with everything around us being simple facts of life—including weird wizard women.” Claudia smiled at Louis’ favorite description, but didn’t interrupt him. “Anyway,” he said, “Like a kid born on Mars, the kid wouldn’t think Mars was strange. Same with you guys; nobody from around here thinks there’s anything strange about you guys being…well, what you are. Nobody even cares; just another day in the valley. But dammit, Claudia, when the crap hits the fan like it has the last few days, then people do start to care. I think it’s time you came clean about what’s going on.”

  Claudia didn’t hesitate. She raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. “You asked for it,” she said. She slid off the stool, walked to the front window and turned the hour hand on the cardboard Be Back In A While sign an hour ahead.

  Turning back to Louis, she said, “Hitch your pants up, Lou. We’re going for a walk. I’ve got a few friends I want you to meet.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  THE LIGHT FROM THE FULL MOON shining on her naked young body, her long, curly, red locks whipping around her head, Myra Hinkle danced with wild abandon, whirling, leaping into the air, laughing and shouting with the other four naked women while the Devil sat out on the big flat rock and—

  A fly buzzed across the porch and landed on Myra’s nose. She snorted, and woke up just in time to grunt, “Damned tourist,” at a passing car. Her rheumy old eyes followed the car as it headed up Stillman Road. She didn’t wonder where it was going. Wherever it was, she’d already been there…enough times. Myra closed her eyes, trying to recapture the dream, the dancing, the laughter, but it wouldn’t come—gone, just like the youth. Long gone. The damned smell was still there, though.

  “Stupid kids,” she grumbled aloud, referring to Melanie, Amanda and the Crumbs. She had too much respect for Claudia Meljac to include her in the complaint; although she couldn’t imagine how Claudia had let it happen.

  Myra knew they’d let him out. She knew it the moment he’d escaped—the moment she’d felt the few powers she had left begin to fade. Not that she would miss them. At her age, powers got scrambled up and did funny things, so she didn’t mess with them anymore except to add a little heft to her egg tossing.

  “Stupid kids,” she muttered, again. Something had to be done about that damned smell.

  Getting up out of the wheelchair was always chore enough, and coaxing her creaky old joints through the house to the basement door was hell on her rheumatism. At eighty-nine years old, getting down the steep, rickety, old basement steps was a nightmare—not the spooky kind of nightmare, just the pain-in-the-ass and potentially dangerous kind. So much so, that she hadn’t tried it in almost ten years. Myra figured one of two things would happen. She would make it to the basement where she just might be able to do something about the smell, or she’d fall down the stairs and break her neck, rendering the smell academic. Either way would work.

  She solved the problem by sitting down on the top step and with grunts and groans lowering herself to the next one, step by step, sitting and resting on each one till she reached the bottom. She didn’t want to think about how she was going to get back to the top. She’d worry about that later. Right now, the important thing was getting to the book.

  There wasn’t any real power in the book of witches’ spells Myra’s mother had given her for her fifteenth birthday. For a sorceress, even one that hadn’t come of age yet, witchcraft was pretty puny. Still, puny or not, some of the spells actually worked, and when she was a kid they’d been fun to play around with. But when Myra came of age, and later when her mother relinquished her place with the women of the valley to Myra, the book had been tucked away in a corner of the basement with all the other artifacts of childhood.

  What prompted Myra’s sudden quest was the fact that anyone, even an old retired sorceress who’d lost her powers, could read a spell. If memory served right, there was something in the book about conjuring up a wind, and Myra figured if she could find the book, maybe—just maybe, she could get a good, respectable, wind going. With any luck the damned smell would just blow away. It couldn’t hurt to try.

  Myra rested a few minutes on the bottom stair step, then, with surprisingly little difficulty, she stood up. Conquering the stairs had given her a feeling of competence she hadn’t experienced in a long time. It felt good for a moment till all the things she hadn’t thought of flooded in. The bulb in the single ceiling fixture was over ten years old. What if it didn’t work? What if she fell and hurt herself? Could she recover with enough strength to make it back up the stairs? What if she got stuck down here for days? What if…? Screw it, she thought. Spend my life with “what ifs”…never get anything done.

  The few steps to the middle of the small basement, then looking up and reaching for the short chain hanging from the light fixture, made her dizzy. She lowered her arm and looked down, waiting for the dizziness to pass then reached up, this time without looking, and pulled the chain. The dusty old bulb did itself proud, and the basement lit up—not brilliantly, but good enough for spell casting.

  A few old trunks were stacked in the corner, and boxes piled against a wall filled with who knows what. The book had to be in all that junk somewhere.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  THE BIG-SHOT DEMOGRAPHICS EXPERTS dismissed t
he idea with a casual, “Naaa.” So no chain motels ever got built at the foot of the off-ramp in Stillman Township. That was lucky for Simmons, because if there had been a Holiday Inn or a Ramada he would have stayed there out of habit. That being the case, the only motel worth considering was the Stillman Lodge. The lucky part was, the same Gerald Bowman who had stumbled upon the pristine little hollow where he had built the Lakeside Inn also owned the Stillman Lodge, and since Mr. Bowman was a stickler for quality, the Lodge was modern, but quaint, old, but in an antique way, and breakfast at the motel’s restaurant was down-home-delicious.

  The young waitress with the crisp pink and white uniform was straight out of a Norman Rockwell print. “Hi, what can I get’cha?” she bubbled with bright eyes and cheery smile, her heavy accent a song from the backwoods of misty mountains and forested valleys—a far cry from the impersonal efficiency of Charleston.

  Simmons was thinking of freeways and traffic jams, regretting today would be his last drive over the mountain into Brandell—and the last time he would see Melanie Meljac.

  …how the morning sunlight shone through the strands of Melanie’s ash-blonde hair.

  The waitress was fidgeting. “Oh, sorry,” Simmons apologized, “Guess I was daydreaming.”

  He ordered breakfast. The Normal Rockwell smile beamed, “Comin’ right up,” and she flounced away.

  Simmons waited for his order, his mind wandering…walking down from the springs, he resisted the urge to take her hand, wondering what she would do if he did.

  He barely noticed the waitress set the cup of coffee on his table, and prance off again.

  …she took his hand in hers, and shouted back to Amanda, “Yep, I got another big spender over here. We’re on.”

  Simmons idly sipped at his coffee, smiling at his thoughts. …I haven’t been dancing in 10 years. You know what? You’re going to fix that, right now, sir.

  “Here ya are,” said the crispy pink waitress, setting the plate in front of him. “Want that coffee warmed up?” she asked.

  “Huh? Oh yes, please,” he answered, snapping out of his reverie.

  The waitress moved the coffee pot over his cup, but stopped before pouring. “Well, would you look at that,” she said, staring out the window and looking a bit awed.

  Simmons glanced towards the window. Outside, the morning was bright and sunny.

  “A beautiful day,” he said.

  “No, …up there.” She leaned across the table, her head tilted upward.

  Simmons looked again, following her gaze—out the window, across the parking lot—Main Street and the little post office on the other side. Beside the post office, Stillman Road branched off Main Street and began its crawl up Stillman Mountain where, broaching the top, it fell into the town of Brandell. At the crest of the mountain a distinct line divided the beautiful spring morning in Stillman Township from the roiling, black storm clouds looming over Brandell Valley.

  “Now, ain’t that weird,” said crispy pink. She dismissed the phenomena with a shrug and poured Simmons’ coffee.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  THERE WAS A LITTLE PROBLEM with the spell. Oh, it worked okay. Thing is, the spells in the book were meant to be read by simple, run-of-the-mill witches, not a full-blown adult sorceress; even one who’d temporarily lost her powers. So when Myra Hinkle read the spell it was like driving a tack with a sledgehammer. But at least the book had been easy to find.

  Way back in 1965, before he became Princeton County’s most successful entrepreneur, Gerald Bowman, the antique hunter, would have been delighted to run across the dusty old desk with the broken leg that had been propped against the wall in the Hinkle’s basement since before Myra was born. Had he acquired the desk with the peculiar book tucked away in the top right-hand drawer…well, there’s no telling what might have become of ole Gerald.

  Myra leafed through the book looking for the “wind” spell, hoping it didn’t require any special props. Witches were notorious for incorporating nonsense items in their spells, and Myra was pretty sure she didn’t have any eyes of newts or dead men’s toes laying around. She found a spell for a “light spring rain” that needed a drop of virgin’s blood. Myra chuckled, thinking there damn sure weren’t going to be many “light spring rains” around these parts any time soon.

  Love potions, bountiful crops, there was even a spell for summoning the devil. She had to laugh at that one. She tried to picture some dumb witch trying to call up Lucifer. No way. She found what she was looking for near the end of the book. “A Refreshing Breeze” as the spell was called, required nothing special other than to be intoned by the voice of a fair-haired witch.

  A little late for fair hair, she thought. Grey would have to do. She read through the spell several times before trying it out loud. Satisfied she could get through it without stumbling over the words, she stepped to the center of the floor, and in as confident a voice as she could muster she gave it a try.

  Nothing happened. Myra waited a few minutes, ears cocked expectantly for some hint of wind from outside. Still nothing.

  Myra tossed the book at the desk and limped towards the stairs. “What a bunch of crap,” she mumbled to herself.

  FIFTY-NINE

  ON THE INTERSTATE, just north of Atlanta, there was yet another in a series of close calls. Harry was talking, not paying attention to his driving, as usual. Dirt and gravel spewed as the big black Hummer swerved out of the median and back onto the hardtop at ninety miles an hour.

  “Oops,” said Harry, nonchalantly.

  Sarah was at the edge of her seat, both white-knuckled hands gripping the dashboard, her face pale. “Harry,” she said calmly, quietly, resisting the urge to scream at him, “Would you pull over, please?” She still gripped the dashboard.

  Harry was, blithely, unconcerned by the close call. He said, innocently, “Sure. You need to go? You hungry? I see an exit up there a ways.”

  Her nerves had had it. Harry loved driving the big Hummer, but Sarah loved living, more.

  Sorry, Harry, she thought. Your driving days are over. “Yeah,” she said, releasing the breath she’d been holding. “I gotta go. Let’s get off, here.” She relinquished her grip on the dashboard and scooted back in the seat, hoping Harry would get the Hummer off the highway without killing them.

  She rehearsed it silently in her mind. Let’s see, now. How about, Gee, Harry, you look tired. Why don’t I drive for a while? Lame, but the best she could think of.

  Harry tooled along the next half mile, then up the exit ramp. At the top, he turned onto a country road, found a small diner a few hundred feet away and turned into the parking lot without running into anything. He pulled in a parking space in front of the restaurant and turned off the engine.

  Sarah grabbed her purse, opened the door and got out with a sigh of relief. She hadn’t needed to use the bathroom before Harry’s last incident, but she damn sure had to pee, now. Harry hadn’t gotten out, yet. He was stretching, arms over his head and with a big yawn. Good sign, she thought.

  She walked around the front of the Hummer, and as Harry opened the door she waved him back, saying, “I’ll just be a minute. You don’t have to get out.”

  Harry said, “Okay,” and shut the door. He leaned back in his seat, apparently content to wait.

  Sarah strode towards the door of the diner relishing the safety of solid ground under her feet. It was amazing, she thought, how Harry, eternal lord and master of Hell itself, and whose mind held the wisdom of eons, could be such a scatterbrain behind the wheel of a car. She suspected it had something to do with being immortal—simply not recognizing the concept of personal danger. Whatever it was, Harry’s remaining time on earth was going to be spent as a passenger. Sarah wasn’t immortal.

  SIXTY

  EMMA HADN’T LEFT the Meljacs’ guest room since she’d awakened hours earlier. She sat on the edge of the bed staring out the second floor window at Louis’ store across the way. She had been watching when Claudia walked across the i
ntersection and went in the store. She was watching now as Louis and Claudia came out and were walking back across the street towards the house. She wondered if Louis had locked the front door to the drug store, and how long he would be out—and if her shotgun was still leaning against the wall behind the soda fountain counter.

  She got up and went to the bedroom door, opened it and peeked out. The upstairs hall was empty. She left the room, tiptoed to the landing at the top of the stairs and looked down. No one in sight, no sounds drifting up from below. She waited there, ready to back out of sight if Louis and Claudia came through the front door. A minute passed, then two. The house remained quiet except for what might have been the muffled sound of voices, not in the house, maybe from the basement. That must have been where Louis and Claudia went.

  Emma moved quickly, quietly, down the stairs, across the foyer to the front door. With a last glance behind her, she opened the door, slipped out and dashed across the porch, down the steps to the walkway and out into the Lane. A few more strides and she was at the intersection across from Louis’ store. There was no traffic and only a few pedestrians wandered the sidewalk far down at the other end of the Boulevard.

  Having made it out of the house past Louis and Claudia, Emma no longer cared if anyone saw her. But before rushing across the intersection, something funny, something odd about her surroundings stopped her. The day had been bright, cheerful and sunny when she’d watched from the bedroom window as Louis and Claudia walked through the warm spring afternoon. But now, in the few minutes it had taken her to make her way from the Meljac’s guest room to the street, the day had darkened, the air oppressive, heavy and damp. Black clouds had gathered, boiling down from the sky, threatening to touch the very tops of the Lane’s great oaks and the eaves of the red brick buildings on the other side of the intersection.

  A breeze moved a lock of hair into Emma’s face. She brushed it away. The breeze stiffened, insistent, no longer a breeze, but a steady wind, growing stronger, blowing more hair into her face. As she raised her hand to push it back, something stung her on the arm. She jerked her arm down, rubbing it, puzzled. On the top of her head, another sting—hail—she could see the tiny round balls of ice bouncing off the road in front of her.

  The rain came suddenly, in torrents, with more stinging hail whipped by the steadily increasing wind. She started to turn back to the safety of the big rock house behind her, then she thought of Joe, and the glorious cleansing roar of her big black shotgun. That did it. She gathered her courage, braced herself against the onslaught of wind, rain and hail, and bolted across the intersection.

  Rain-drenched and hail-battered, she reached the store just as the wind turned to fury. She grabbed frantically at the door handle, fumbling, her hands slipping on the wet metal. It was unlocked…oh, thank you, lord. Fighting against the wind, she pulled it open and stumbled inside.

  SIXTY-ONE

  THE VOICE ON THE PHONE SAID, “He’s sitting right here beside me, Aubrey. He can hear every word I say.”

  Aubrey was angry. “Then tell him to stop it!”

  “Huh? Stop what?” came the voice.

  Aubrey shouted into the phone, “He knows what! This damned storm, that’s what. It’s a hurricane, here. Tell him to knock it off!”

  Aubrey heard muffled shuffling sounds from the phone. She thought she heard Sarah whispering to Harry, “She thinks you’re doin’ something…,” then more shuffling sounds.

  Sarah’s voice came clear. “He’s not doing anything, Aubrey. What are you talking about? Just because it’s storming there…you’re not making sense.”

  Aubrey shouted back, “It’s not just storming here, Sarah. It’s…it’s…unnatural. It’s a conjured storm. I can feel it.”

  More shuffling sounds and she distinctly heard, “That’s crazy” from Harry.

  Then from Sarah, “That’s crazy, Aubrey. Why would Harry be conjuring up storms in Brandell?

  Aubrey had no answer for that. She changed the subject. “Are you bringing him back, or what?”

  “Yes,” said Sarah, “…well, I’m not really bringing him. It was his decision. It’s going to be all right, Aubrey. Everything is going to be back to normal.”

  Aubrey huffed into the phone, “Well, it damned sure isn’t normal here, now. Somebody’s up to something. If not Harry, then somebody else. Just get back here. And…oh yeah, I almost forgot. Tell Harry his demons are out and running around all over town.”

  She slammed the receiver down on the phone and sat staring across the room at the hail rattling on the big bay window. Conjured, she thought. It’s gotta be. Nothing natural about a hurricane right out of a clear blue sky.

  SIXTY-TWO

  JOE’S CRAPPY OLD PICKUP TRUCK jolted its way along the twin ruts that wound down the side of the mountain from Wiley’s cabin to the River Road end of the Boulevard. Joe was hunched over the wheel, intent on keeping the pickup on the poor excuse for what Wiley referred to as his private road. Pouring rain, worn-out windshield wipers, and the effects of Wiley’s moonshine weren’t helping.

  “Whoooaaa!” Wiley’s butt bounced two inches off the seat. He held on for dear life, furtively eying Joe’s muddy boot pumping the brake.

  “Ain’t got the best brakes in the world, does it, Joe!” Wiley complained, anxiously.

  “It stops when I need it to,” declared Joe over the clattering of assorted junk bouncing around in the bed of the pickup. “That’s all you need to know, Wiley,”

  It was a quarter-mile or so from Wiley’s “rustic” cabin down to the Boulevard—a very steep quarter-mile—and Joe was starting to get anxious himself. Wiley was right about the brakes, but pumping them usually helped. Not this time, though. All Joe’s pumping was only giving him about an inch of brake pedal, and at this speed it wasn’t near enough. The Boulevard was coming up fast.

  Wiley was pressing himself against the back of the seat, wide-eyed and looking scared. He yelled in panic, “Joe, you better get yer foot on that damn brake good and hard or we gonna go right across the Boulevard and into the river.”

  Joe stomped on the brake as hard as he could, his back arching with the effort. Too many years of too many stomps for the worn out old brakes, and the last inch of pedal gave way as Wiley’s prediction came true.

  The old pickup went into the dip at the end of Wiley’s private road at forty miles an hour, then up a slight incline to the pavement of the intersecting Boulevard and sailed across without touching hardtop. On the other side, the drop down to the river was only seven feet or so, but the river was only two feet deep, and the old pickup didn’t slow down much before arriving at it’s final, and rather abrupt, destination. Lucky for Joe and Wiley, it had gone airborne nose up enough so that it slammed flat into the riverbed on all four wheels rather than nose first. The two feet of water was good for a terrific splash. If there had been any witnesses they would have been greatly impressed. But it did zilch to cushion the impact.

  The old pickup hit the rocks of the riverbed hard…crumpling, shattering, and slamming Joe and Wiley down into the seats that collapsed under them. The displaced water rushed back to reclaim its place. Then, for a moment, all was quiet…except for Wiley.

  “God dammit, Joe, you dumb bastard…goddamn beat up old piece of shit pickup…you stupid son of a bitch.”

  Joe yelled, “Oh shut the hell up, Wiley. What the hell you s’pect me to do? The damn thing just wouldn’t stop. You ain’t hurt, anyway.”

  Wiley was thoroughly shaken up, and more than a little dazed. He sputtered, “What’dya mean I ain’t hurt? …jarred my goddamn guts out is what it done, you idiot.”

  Joe ignored Wiley’s tirade, and jerked at the door handle; giving the door a good shoulder bump to open it. It didn’t budge. He tried again. Still stuck. He leaned to his right to get a little momentum, then rammed his shoulder against the door as hard as he could. The door gave suddenly and fell off into the river, a surprised and flailing Joe Paul tumbling out with it.

/>   SIXTY-THREE

  EVERYONE WAS GETTING RESTLESS. Quackrak, except for getting up occasionally to whack at an overly rambunctious demon, hadn’t moved from the rocking chair for two days. One of the squeally girls had pulled a low stool up beside him. He couldn’t tell if this was the Jilly one or the Patty one since they were both about the same size, and humans all looked alike. He had figured out that the big ones were adults, but they were all about the same size too, so he’d given up on trying to tell them apart. The short one, David, was easy to remember. That one was obviously an adolescent.

  Jilly regarded him curiously, then asked, How come you make people do such creepy things when you possess them?

  Quackrak looked blank. When I what? He had no idea what she was talking about.

  Jilly tried again. You know, like when their heads twirl around and they puke green pea soup.

  Quackrak laughed. Do people puke green soup if their heads twirl?

  Nooooo, moaned Jilly. “Talking” to Quackrak could be a little exasperating.

  Just when they’re possessed, she clarified.

  Possessed by what?

  Jilly sighed. By you—possessed by a demon.

  It was Quackrak’s turn to be exasperated. More insanity. He said, Why would I want to possess a human? I barely have enough space in my room as it is. Just a few knickknacks—where would I keep a human? He was trying to imagine including a “green pea soup puking” human among his possessions. An unpleasant thought.

  So you don’t possess people? Jilly was vaguely disappointed. …take over their bodies? …make them talk like the devil?

  Quackrak raised his eyebrows. My goodness, whatever for? He chuckled to himself, thinking Lucifer would have gotten a kick out of that one.

  Jilly was silent for a moment, then wrinkled her nose, realizing, You guys aren’t really like evil demonic type demons at all, are you?

  Quackrak shrugged. Guess not, unless you include weirdo over there. He gestured towards Dread who was sitting on the floor in a corner grumbling to himself.

  Jilly glanced over at Dread apprehensively. He’s evil?

  No, admitted Quackrak. Just stupid.

  At the sound of the basement door opening, Jilly looked around to see Aunt Claudia coming in from the patio. Louis followed her in. He got halfway through the door before stopping in mid stride.

  Louis stood, frozen, leaning slightly forward, his mouth forming an O and his eyes widening at the scene before him. He gaped at the creatures lying on the floor watching television, and the one sitting in the rocking chair looking for all the world like it was having a pleasant, every day conversation with his granddaughter—not to mention the one hunched up in the corner; the one that looked like something out of a cheap horror movie.

  Louis made a gasping sound, then in a shocked whisper, said, “Oh my dear God!” His mouth stayed opened after he spoke.

  Claudia turned around to Louis. She stood for a few seconds watching his reaction as he took it all in, then said with a humorous smirk, “Well, Louis, what’dya think of our new friends?”

  “They’re…they’re,” stuttered Louis, pointing at the floor in front of the TV.

  “Demons,” offered Claudia.

  Louis’ eyes darted towards the corner. Claudia caught where he was looking. She said, almost laughing at his discomfort, “And that’s Dread, Keeper of the Unspeakable Archives. Remember? I think I mentioned him before.” She walked around Louis and shut the door. She didn’t notice the wind picking up outside.

  “Okay, Louie, m’boy,” she said with a mischievous smile. “You’re about to get the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Grab a seat, and I’ll tell you the tale of demons, devils, and the women of the valley.”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIMMONS SAT IN THE CAR in front of Melanie’s house waiting for a break in the downpour. The drive from Stillman, over the mountain and down into Brandell, had been a little unsettling. He’d driven up the Stillman side of the mountain on a beautiful spring morning, and down the Brandell side into a raging storm. The strangest part, other than the fact that there shouldn’t be a storm here at all, was that up near the top of the mountain he could have gotten out of the car, walked ten paces into the storm, then turned around and walked the same number of steps right back into a clear day. He had seen isolated patches of rain before, but never anything so sharply defined. It was as though the storm was reserved for Brandell Valley alone. Just plain weird.

  Finally, tired of just sitting there, he gave up waiting for a break and decided to make a run for it. He opened the car door and stepped out, prepared to run for the shelter of Melanie’s front porch. He took one step, slamming the car door behind him, and was instantly soaked to the skin. The rain on the windshield had been deceiving. What had seemed to be a pretty good rain turned out to be buckets of water pouring from the sky.

  “Shit,” he muttered to himself, sprinting towards the house.

  He decided the veranda was closer, and in this case, closer was better, so he chose it over the front porch. He didn’t bother with the steps, and the running jump from the sidewalk onto the veranda carried more momentum than he was prepared for. The tiles of the veranda were wet and slippery—with the expected results.

  Oh Christ! Not another window. The thought flashed through his mind as he skidded towards the mullioned doors.