Goodbye Lucifer

by John Harold McCoy

  * * *

  With some frantic backpedaling on the slippery tiles, Simmons managed to hit the door with slightly less force than it took to shatter the thin mullioned panes of glass. Even so, the impact was jarring and surprisingly noisy, not to mention embarrassing. Thankfully, no one was around to witness his second bout with something breakable in less than a week.

  He was having that thought when the door swung open and Melanie gasped, “Oh, my God, John! Are you all right?”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  JOE AND WILEY sat on the riverbank watching as the current tried, and failed, to claim the remains of Joe’s crappy old pickup.

  “Least it ain’t gonna float away,” said Joe. He held the half-pint bottle of bourbon he’d rescued from the glove compartment up in front of him.

  “And it didn’t break my bottle, neither.”

  “That ain’t no bottle; that’s a thimble,” Wiley snorted.

  “It’s better’n you got. You didn’t bring nothing.” He twisted off the cap and downed half of the little bottle, then turned to Wiley with a humorless smile.

  “I guess you ain’t too proud to drink the rest of it, are ya,” he said, passing it over. Wiley grumbled, took the bottle and finished it off then tossed it into the river.

  The rain had ended as abruptly as it had begun, and the howling wind had died just as suddenly. Now, it was no more than gusts that came and went. But the sky remained gray and threatening, as though it had unfinished business.

  Joe stood up, looking around and sniffing. “Hey! It don’t stink no more,” he declared.

  Wiley wrinkled his nose and inhaled. “’Bout damn time,” he said, hoisting himself up off the bank.

  Both men stood for a moment sniffing the air. Joe turned and began crabbing his way up the slope of the bank to the pavement of the Boulevard. Wiley followed. Reaching the road, they lingered long enough for a few more exaggerated sniffs then, with no particular destination in mind, began ambling towards town. They had only gone a dozen steps when Joe stopped.

  “Ya know what?” he said. He was staring down the Boulevard past the downtown buildings. Even at that distance he could see the big rock house on the corner where the Boulevard crossed Stillman Road and narrowed into Meljac Lane.

  “Lemme guess,” grinned Wiley. “The Bigfoots are comin’, right?”

  Joe turned on Wiley, fuming, “That’s what I need, Wiley. My truck just got all wrecked to hell, and I need your dumbass wisecracks.”

  Wiley was still grinning. “Ah, I’m jus’ kiddin’ ’round, Joe. Don’t get yer balls in a uproar.” He dropped the grin and tried to look serious.

  “I’m sorry ’bout yer truck, Joe. Really. You know I didn’t wish it to get all wrecked. Come on. Let’s go on down to the bridge and see if we can hitch a ride over to the Stillman Bar.”

  Joe didn’t budge. “Hold on a minute, Wiley. I’m wonderin’ somethin’ and I’m trying to tell ya about it. Now just think on this a minute.”

  Wiley rolled his eyes. “On what?” he groaned, expecting another one of Joe’s long tales.

  “Just think on this,” Joe repeated. “Whether you believe me or not, last night I got grabbed and throwed around by a monster. Then I go home and find out Emma’s been shootin’ up the place with my shotgun, and she ain’t nowhere in sight. Then I drive by the Meljac place and see them women out back jumpin’ around, and lights flashing—probably some kinda witch orgy. Then the whole valley fills up with the smell of skunk farts. Then today, right out of a sunny sky comes a damn hurricane—startin’ and stoppin’ just like that. Then my truck just runs right into the river and gets all wrecked up. Now, Wiley, don’t that all seem kinda strange…it all comin’ at once like that?” Joe finished and waited for Wiley to comment. It was satisfying to see Wiley, for once, just shut his mouth and think a minute.

  “Well,” Wiley ventured, scratching his head thoughtfully, “ain’t no brakes on the pickup.”

  “Awright,” conceded Joe. “I’ll give ya that one. But how ’bout all that other stuff?

  Wiley looked stumped for a moment, then said, “You ain’t thinkin’…” he raised his eyebrows as it came to him, “…the women done all that?”

  “Damn straight that’s what I’m thinkin,” said Joe. “And I’m about to go down there and find out what’s goin’ on, right now.”

  SIXTY-SIX

  JACK STOPPED THE CRUISER and rolled down the window. He yelled at the two men standing beside the road. “Joe, what’s your pickup doing out in the middle of the river back there?”

  He wanted to laugh, but that wouldn’t have been very officer-like, so he resisted the impulse. He already knew what had happened. The picture rolled through his mind of ole Joe Paul tearing down the mountain, bouncing along the glorified path Wiley Curtis called a driveway. The brakes probably gave out on his piece of junk pickup. The cartoon image of Joe and Wiley’s screaming faces as the old truck sailed across the Boulevard and into the river made the laugh hard to resist.

  Joe had his hands in his pockets, trying not to appear too concerned. “I guess it just finally gave up the ghost. The brakes quit while we was comin’ down the mountain.” His tone of voice suggested it was no big deal. Wiley nodded agreement.

  Too casual for just now crawling out of a car wreck, Jack was thinking. These old boys are up to something. He didn’t dwell on the thought. Whatever they were up to, Joe and Wiley were slackers, not troublemakers.

  “Where you fellas headed?” he asked.

  “Over to the Stillman Bar,” answered Joe. “Gonna go hang around the bridge; see if we can hitch a ride.”

  Jack jerked his thumb towards the back seat. “You guys hop in back there. I’ll take you down to the corner.” He flipped the lock open for the back doors. Joe and Wiley got in.

  From the back seat, Wiley said to Jack, “Hey, that smell washed away. You notice that?”

  Emma Paul couldn’t believe her luck. First, she’d found the shotgun right there behind the soda fountain counter where Louis had left it. And now, low and behold will you lookee there…Joe the pig and his worthless buddy, Wiley, being delivered right out front by that nice Officer Paris…or was it Harris? …Whatever. Even the freaky storm had gone away, taking that awful smell with it and leaving everything calm and quiet outside. Should be good shootin’ weather, now.

  She watched as the two men got out of the car. They exchanged a few words with the officer, then the cruiser took off across the intersection and up Meljac Lane. Yep, delivered on a platter. Now if they’ll just come in here.

  Emma broke open the shotgun and checked the two rounds in the breach. She touched each one with a fingertip and giggled. “I think I’ll name you two Joe and Wiley.” She snapped the breach closed, and raised the gun towards the door. Joe and Wiley were gone.

  “No!” she cried out loud, lowering the gun and rushing to the front window. She reached it just in time to see the back of Joe’s shirt disappear around the corner of the building. Surely they weren’t going to walk all the way to Stillman. Joe wouldn’t walk out to the street with the garbage can, let alone all the way to Stillman.

  Emma whirled around and ran to the back of the store, past the prescription counter and into Louis’s small office. She knew there was a back door. As a kid, she and the other children had run in and out—in the front doors and out the back doors of all the downtown stores, laughing and playing, loved and smiled at by shopkeepers and customers alike…it being Brandell, and all.

  She jerked open the back door. The slope of the riverbank began only a few feet away, and just to the right at the Stillman Road end of the buildings loomed the rusty girders of the old bridge. The men were nowhere in sight.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  GONE, FINALLY—the wind, the rain, and thank God that horrible smell. The sky was still gray, but beginning to clear, a hint of sunlight edging the clouds.

  Reverend Gordon stood on the steps of the chapel enjoying welcome breaths of clean fresh air. He’d open
ed the front double doors and the back door behind the pulpit to allow the slight breeze—all that was left of the storm—to carry out the last vestiges of the rank odor.

  So far, the day had not been kind to Albert. The ghastly stench he’d awakened to was enough to sicken the heartiest residents of the valley, including Albert. But it wasn’t revulsion from the smell itself that had held him on the brink of nausea all day. It was a vague sense of its origins; something subtly vile that assaulted him personally, spiritually. Its presence in the church seemed especially wrong. That’s the best word he could think of…wrong.

  Then the storm coming so sudden and violent without any warning of lowering sky or approaching clouds. There was something unnatural in the wind that wailed through the eaves, and the hail that threatened to shatter the church’s only stained glass window; the one he’d begged for so long and that he’d finally paid for out of his own pocket.

  During the hours of gale driven rain and hail, Albert sat in the empty church in the first pew staring at the cross on the wall behind the podium, listening to the buffeting of the wind against the building, and breathing in the foul odor that seemed to gather around him. There was no doubt in his mind that nature had played no part in what was happening. No wounded opossum had crawled under the church to die a smelly death. No rotting raccoon lay beneath the azaleas surrounding the church parking lot. And though storms occurred in the valley, they simply occurred, they never raged; not like this one. As far as Albert was concerned, all of it was just somehow…and there was that word again…wrong.

  His calling, or rather the education that formalized his dedication to it, had taught him to dismiss ideas like the ones twitching around in his head. But Albert was Brandell Valley born and raised. And even here, in this consecrated house where he served a higher power, the teachings of the church resided in his brain side by side with an inherited acceptance of other knowledge, other ways. It was those other ways that crept into his mind even as he sat staring at the cross, the supreme icon of his faith.

  What didn’t fit, though—and of course he was thinking of the women—was that they didn’t delve into this type of dark and foreboding magic—not the women of the valley. They dealt with elementals: the spirits of the earth, the sky, and water; ancient science passed from the consciousness of mother to daughter through millenniums. Sorcery, yes, but a sorcery of light: benign, irreproachable, perhaps even a gift from…somewhere—although Albert wasn’t really very comfortable taking that last thought too far.

  But they would know. If there was darkness in the valley the women would know, and Albert wanted answers. The walk down to Meljac Lane wasn’t far, but he decided to take his raincoat just in case.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  DAVID SAT ON THE REC ROOM FLOOR—very, very disappointed. What started out to be the coolest thing ever had turned out to be a whopping dud. Probably no kid in the whole world had their own real-life, honest to goodness demons right there in their own basement. Six of them—plus a monster. But nope, not even close to cool, just boring.

  First of all, except for the monster, they didn’t even look like demons. They were too short. He’d seen his share of demons; the comic books were full of them. They were supposed to loom over people, growling, and flexing their creepy claws. These were too short to loom, and as far as growling went, forget it. He might have been able to get over the no-looming part if they just looked a little more gruesome rather than just butt-ugly. But that quacking noise? Yep, forget about growling.

  As for the monster, that was a whole different story. Dread was definitely cool. At least he looked cool. Right now he wasn’t acting very cool, though—just sitting over there in the corner grumbling to himself. Then again, whad’ya expect? Every time Dread started to get up Mom hollered at him to sit back down. And you don’t mess with Mom if you know what’s good for you. Still, as far as cool went, Dread had potential.

  Anyway, all said and done, the whole demon thing was a bust. He wished he could have gone to school today, but Mom said he had to stay home and help her watch the demons—make sure they didn’t get out and cause mischief. Of course, that was bull. What she really meant was, she thought he was a blabbermouth and would blabber all over the school about the demons. Well, he had to go back sometime, probably tomorrow…and maybe just tell a few friends. What’s the good of having demons, even goofy ones, if you can’t tell anybody?

  Silly Jilly had to stay home today too, but you could bet old Batty Patty from next door was in school blabbing to everybody. Probably be five hundred giggly girls hop-scotchin’ across the mountain to see the demons after school. None of his friends; just five hundred giggly girls hop-scotchin’ across the mountain.

  At least Jilly had stopped acting so gross. Not that he hadn’t liked the blueberry pancakes she’d fixed him for breakfast yesterday, but all that goody-goody big sister stuff she’d been doing was icky. Even Mom and Anta thought it was icky. They didn’t say anything about it, but he could tell they thought it was icky. They kept looking at each other and wrinkling their faces. He was glad Jilly had quit it and gone back to acting right. He glanced over to where Jilly and that stupid demon in the rocking chair were just sitting there staring at each other. Every now and then they would nod, then just keep staring. How dumb can you get?

  A noise from upstairs caught his attention. It sounded like something banged against the veranda doors, or maybe grandpa slammed them on his way out. Grandpa didn’t look too happy when he’d come in the basement with Anta a little while ago, and he looked really surprised when he saw the demons—especially Dread. Then he’d made Anta go upstairs with him. They were probably going to have one of those talks. Grownups had a lot of talks. David sighed a bored, “whatever,” and went back to his drawing.

  He had a pretty good picture going. It didn’t look exactly like a demon, but so what; the demons didn’t look exactly like demons, either. He rummaged around in the crayon box till he found a good red one. Maybe some blood around the mouth would dress it up a little.

  Concentrating on getting the blood on the fangs just right—he’d added fangs too—he didn’t notice the real demon till it flopped down on the floor beside him. David was startled, but delighted that one of them had finally decided to pay him some attention.

  “Quack,” it said

  “Quack, yourself,” David said back, giggling.

  “Quack,” it said, again. Apparently, conversation was out.

  On impulse, hoping to get something going before the demon got bored and wandered off, David pushed his drawing towards it and handed it the red crayon. The demon grabbed the crayon and stuck it in its mouth.

  “No!” David yelped, too late to grab it back. The demon chewed it up and swallowed it.

  “You’re not s’posed to do that!” exclaimed David. “It’ll make you sick.” He wasn’t really sure eating crayons would make you sick, but you still weren’t supposed to eat them. Everybody knew that. He scooted the box of crayons out of reach just in case the demon got any ideas.

  That was the moment Dread decided he’d had enough. He was up, across the room, and out the door before anyone could blink.

  SIXTY-NINE

  TRAVELING NORTH ON ROUTE 52 one can take the tunnel that burrows under the ridge of mountains separating the gentle rolling hills of northern Virginia from the rugged terrain of southern West Virginia. Or one can take old Route 52: a harrowing, twisting snake crawling up the craggy face of Big Walker Mountain, then a breathless roller coaster decent down the other side into Bluefield, West Virginia—not recommended for the faint of heart, but a lot more fun.

  Since Harry was a fun guy, he’d suggested the old route. What he really wanted to do was drive the big SUV over the mountain, himself. But, when he’d suggested that part, Sarah had explained how she suddenly remembered the insurance her credit card carried on the rented Hummer only covered her as a driver. Harry didn’t know anything about insurance, but she had looked a little nervous when she
explained it so he figured it must be important. Much to his regret, he was forced to accept that his driving days were over.

  They stopped for a breather at the top of the mountain, pulling into a small rest area with a few benches and a sign that read “Scenic View.” Sarah turned off the ignition, arched her back, stretched, and yawed. “Let’s get out for a minute…take a break, okay?”

  Harry perked up with a hopeful look. “You sure you don’t want me to dri—”

  “Oh, no. I’m fine, really,” Sarah reassured him.

  She opened the door and hopped out before he could pursue the subject. She shut the door, then looked back through the open window at Harry. “Come on, Harry,” she said. “Let’s walk around for a few minutes…shake out the kinks.”

  The rest area was less than a hundred feet of widened shoulder where Route 52 reached the crest of Big Walker Mountain. At the very top, the old highway crossed the state line between Virginia and West Virginia, then wound its way for two miles down the nearly sheer facade of the West Virginia side and into the town of Bluefield. But it was the view from the Virginia side of the mountaintop that was truly spectacular.

  Harry and Sarah stood by the low stone wall at the edge of the “scenic view” where, far below, the endless miles of low Virginia hills and valleys faded off under a light haze to a distant horizon that seemed an infinity away. Sarah braced herself with both hands on the iron rail that ran along the top of the low wall at the very edge of the precipice.

  Leaning precariously out over the rail, she said, dreamily, “I love places like this, Harry: like the top of a mountain, or an ocean shore; places where you can look out and see forever without anything getting in the way. I guess… I don’t know… I guess you feel like you get a break from everything. Problems can’t crowd around you in all this space. You get a chance to back off and regroup…kinda. You know what I mean?” Harry did, though he hadn’t really thought of it consciously till Sarah put it into words.

  Sarah pushed back from the railing and stood up straight. She turned, facing him. “Twenty miles, Harry,” she said, her voice turning solemn. “Twenty more miles and we’re there; back to once a month at midnight. You sitting out on your rock, and me at that old picnic table with the Brandell girls club. Are you sure, Harry? Are you really sure?”

  Harry reached for her, pulling her close, folding her into his arms. He said, “If you’re asking if I want it to be like that…no, I don’t. You know I don’t. But…” He didn’t have to finish.

  “Yeah, I know,” Sarah whispered, “…I know.”

  SEVENTY

  BOTH OF THEM DRUNK AS A SKUNK, thought Harris as Joe and Wiley walked away from the cruiser…probably the best place for that old pickup truck is right where it is, in the middle of the river instead of those two roarin’ around in it.

  Glancing across the intersection, he saw Amanda walking across the narrow strip of lawn that separated her house from the Meljacs’. She waved, noticing Jack just as she reached Melanie’s front steps.

  Jack smiled to himself. Ah, a ray of sunshine on a dreary day. He flipped on the cruiser’s flashing red, blue and white strobes, and gunned it across the intersection. Pulling even with the Meljacs’ walkway, he stopped, leaned across the passenger seat and with a grin, shouted out the window. “Officer Harris here, Ma’am. What seems to be the problem?”

  Amanda posed coquettishly—a lady-in-distress—and pleaded, “Oh, officer. Officer, come quickly. I’ve been attacked by an itch and it needs scratching.”

  “Well, Ma’am, the Princeton County Sheriff’s Department is always ready to—”

  Amanda wiggled her hips, and smiled, naughtily.

  “…help in any way we—”

  She wiggled again and Jack cracked up, unable to continue. “Okay, Okay,” he conceded, laughing. “You win!”

  Amanda walked up to the car window, leaned down and asked, smiling, “You staying dry today, buddy?”

  “Tryin’ to,” he answered. “Looks like it’s over now, though. That was weird, huh? …the way it came up so fast?”

  “Yeah, it was. Hey, speaking of weird, I’m going in to visit my weird neighbor. You got time to stop by a while?”

  Jack reached to turn off the ignition. “Sure, I’ve got a few minutes. You think she’ll give us some coffee if we ask nice?”

  “Ha, a masochist!” Amanda grunted. “Apparently, you’ve never tasted Melanie’s coffee.”

  “Shall I tell her you said that?” Jack grinned.

  “Uh, best not.”

  “How about the part about her being weird?”

  “Uh, best not that, either.”