Return to Daemon Hall- Evil Roots

by Andrew Nance

  “It’s okay. Writer’s block probably happens to all writers at one time or another.”

  “Well, it never happened to me before. And it was more like writer’s vacuum. There wasn’t anything there. It was as though I had a history report to write on some event that hadn’t happened yet.”

  “Why was it so easy for us and hard for you?”

  “I have a theory. And I think Mr. Tremblin was on to it before he changed.” I held up the Book of Daemon Hall. “This was made from paper pulped from the black tree, right? That makes the book as much a part of Daemon Hall as its cornerstone. I’ll bet there are a lot more stories, but it chooses which to share, which to bring to a page. We’ve only seen the few relevant to us. My guess is that every terrible thing that’s happened in Daemon Hall and Oaskagu is recorded here. I don’t think any of you actually wrote the stories. They were already in here, not visible as written words, but in here just the same. Daemon Hall used you to release them.”

  “How? I was far away from the book when I wrote my story—we all were.”

  “Once Ian Tremblin assigned those titles, the book gained influence over you. If Daemon Hall can bend time for its benefit, why not distance? That’s why everyone had such an easy time with those stories.”

  “It didn’t influence you. You didn’t write anything.”

  “That’s right, but I bet that if I start reading it, something will happen.”

  Millie took the book and stared at it. After a moment, she groaned, flipped pages, and stopped at the title “The Leaving.” She pushed the book onto my lap.

  I cleared my throat and said, “‘The Leaving,’ by Wade Reilly.”

  Words written in elegant cursive appeared under the title, and I read along. “‘Wade and Millie descend the staircase to the great entrance hall. It’s there that they have the slightest chance to discover the means of their leaving—but, in all probability, will only encounter the method of their death.’”

  No other words appeared.

  “That’s all?” Millie frantically grabbed the book and shook it like an Etch A Sketch. “Come on, give us more.”

  I took it from her. “That’s all there is. ‘The Leaving’ is our story. Get it? There’s no more to read because the story’s not finished. It starts with us going down there.” I pointed to the entrance hall. “It will write itself as it happens.”

  Millie is the bravest girl I’ve ever known. Still, she was so afraid that she was close to tears. In a broken voice, she asked, “Instead of reading it, we have to live it?”

  “I hope there’s a happy ending.” That lame excuse for a joke brought a small smile to her lips, and I knew right then that I would do anything to protect her.

  “If ‘The Leaving’ is our story—if it’s real—what about the other ones?” She pointed at the book. “‘A Promise for Bones,’ ‘The Go-To Guy,’ those really happened?”

  I stood. “They’re not fictional stories—they’re historical accounts.”

  I helped Millie up, and though we were frightened, we started down the great staircase. The candle stub sputtered out halfway down, and I shoved it in my pocket. But we could still see. A bluish haze, like the soft ocean glow created by phosphorescent algae, rose from the marble floor.

  “Daemon Hall wants us to see what’s coming,” Millie whispered.

  “That’s probably not a good thing.”

  In the house a man wandered alone. Often he stumbled aimlessly; occasionally he ran. Sometimes he looked for the teens so he could kill them; other times he hid for fear that he might do that very thing. A battle raged in his mind, heart, and soul. It was a fight for control, for identity, and for his being. He was tired and sweaty, but his enemy didn’t diminish its fight for his body, and neither could he. For a long time, the relentless combat had been internal, but finally, as the bearded man’s resolve broke, the fight became externally evident. He weaved, contorted, and bounced from the walls, speaking gibberish.

  “Mine. You are mine!” A growl, not his voice, came from his mouth.

  “No—nev—never. You will not—not hurt them,” he answered, words slurred with exhaustion.

  “You will rip, you will rend, you will tear them to pieces!”

  “Go—go to hell!”

  The man slapped himself with his right hand. Almost immediately that blow was answered by a slap from his left. The man sneered, eyes crossed as he tried to look at himself, and his right hand balled into a fist that flew into his chin, rocking his head back and sending his glasses flying.

  “Leave my body!” he shouted.

  His left fist hit him squarely in the middle of his face.

  “Never.”

  He knew what was at stake. He had to fight even if it took hours, days, decades. If Daemon Hall got him now, his soul and the lives of his young friends would be lost. He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t, even if his heart quit from fatigue. The muttering, the shouts, the blows, and the blood continued as Ian Tremblin stumbled through the dark hallways.

  Since we were the characters in “The Leaving,” we descended the stairs as described in the narrative. The entire entrance hall was visible in the blue glow. As our feet touched the marble floor, things began to shake. At first it was a mild vibration, but the intensity increased until the whole hall rumbled.

  Millie lost her balance and grabbed at me, shouting, “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know!”

  The quake strengthened, and we had trouble keeping on our feet. The floor rippled like it was made of rubber. Millie screamed as one violent roll sent her stumbling. Across the surging floor, near the front of the house, an explosion hurled chunks of shattered marble and splintered lumber into the air.

  The debris rained down and I threw up my arms. “Look out!”

  There was a hole in the floor, a crater, where the explosion had originated, from which something climbed into view. Black, with twisted limbs, it had stiletto-pointed branches.

  As I watched it rise through the floor, its name fell from my lips: “Oaskaguakw.”

  Millie, hands over her ears, stared at the expanding tree. Then I encountered something that scared me more than anything I’d seen so far—her courage broke. Screaming, she turned and raced up the staircase, leaving me behind on the thrashing floor. I tried to make my way to the stairs, but the ground buckled and I flew in the opposite direction. It was too turbulent to stand, so I lay flat while watching limbs bigger around than a weight lifter’s torso expand and push out. Bumps erupted on the limbs, then sprouted and produced buds, which got big and formed bizarre shapes. They grew larger still, unveiling bodies that dangled from the branches.

  Still growing, the tree punctured the ceiling, and chunks of the roof fell in. I rolled away as a slab crashed where I’d been a moment before. The quake lessened, and I pushed to my knees. The treetop was through the ceiling, and branches punched out the walls. The tree had reclaimed its place.

  Upon those branches were dozens of suspended bodies—seventy, eighty, maybe more. And I knew who they were. A mishmash of emotions ran through me as I took inventory of the tree’s crop: fear, revulsion, sympathy, compassion. Scattered among the limbs were those who had died during the construction of Daemon Hall. Many were twisted by the disease that eventually snapped their spines. Twenty feet overhead was what looked like an overstuffed figure with a demon’s face, its outer flesh patched in brightly colored tattoos. To the other side of the tree and farther up, hung the great beast from Millie’s story. A man who would barely draw a glance if seen out on the street hung higher; I recognized him as Demarius’s Go-To Guy. Far above, gathered in a sad little clump of five, were the Daemons. And the others? Judging from their nightclothes, the scattered children were the ones who had disappeared from the small village that was once located on Oaskagu. The rest, I supposed, were thrill seekers who had come and never left.

  I heard the rapid slap of feet against stone; Millie flew down the stairs. She’d come back!

&nb
sp; “Wade! Little Fox did leave this!” She held up the bow from the glass case in Daemon’s study. “Remember in my story? She buried her weapons in case a warrior needed them to fight the Oaskagu evil. It’s real! It’s history!”

  Was Millie that warrior? She ran closer to the tree, then stopped and fumbled to set the arrow in the bowstring.

  There was a thump and another: The fruit had ripened. Bodies dropped, then stood.

  Millie pulled back on the bow and aimed at Oaskaguakw, then shifted to the figures spawned by the tree. The flesh eater of the Nanticoke plunged to the floor not twenty feet from her. It was on all fours, sniffing the air.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” Her voice trembled.

  The arrow slipped from the bowstring and fell to the floor. She squatted and felt for it while keeping her eyes on the beast. She found the arrow at the exact moment the great beast fixed on her and stretched its oversized mouth into a daggered grin. She yelped, and the monster’s grin split its face even more.

  “Wade?” Millie called desperately. The beast circled her. She spun, notched the arrow, and screamed, “There’s only one arrow!”

  I wanted to shout something that would help, or run over and defend her, but I was numb with fear and paralyzed by terror. Other things dropped from the tree and started for Millie. I had also attracted unwanted attention, including the Satanic tattooed patchwork from Lucinda’s story.

  “Wade!” Millie shrieked, gazing helplessly at me, tears on her cheeks. I watched her expression change—her eyes narrowed. She gritted her teeth, lifted the bow, and sighted. This was all so familiar, damn near a déjà-vu. Why? And why was the arrow aimed at me?

  I found my voice. “Millie! What are you doing?”

  “Your vision,” she shouted, like that would explain everything. It hardly seemed real in that bluish haze as she pulled the bowstring all the way back.

  “Millie?”

  Terrified, she cried, “It’s what I have to do!”

  “What do you have to—”

  She didn’t seem to hear me. Nor did she see the great beast turn abruptly and charge at her. She didn’t see the dozens of creatures rushing in its wake. She wasn’t aware of anything except the bow and arrow, and her target—me.

  “No, Millie! Don’t!”

  She released the bowstring as the beast knocked her screaming to the ground. The missile cut through the air: halfway across the foyer, three-quarters of the way, and I stood at ground zero. I felt the impact as the arrow drove home—into the Book of Daemon Hall that I held in front of my chest. Four inches of the shaft stuck out the back, stopping a quarter of an inch from my ribs. In shock, I fell to my knees.

  All around us, the creatures, beasts, and monsters borne by Oaskaguakw stopped and collapsed to the floor. Millie kicked away the corpse of the flesh eater and stood. Within seconds all the bodies had decomposed, turning to greasy puddles that streamed over the floor like mercury and spilled into the hole at the base of the tree.

  Millie threw down the bow and ran across the broken floor. “Wade? Wade? Are you okay?” She knelt before me, tears on her cheeks, and ran her hands over my face, arms, and chest, making sure I was still whole.

  All I could say was “Great shot.”

  It was faint at first, a crackle of surging energy coming from Oaskaguakw. The sound built in volume, then rose to a crescendo that could be felt, like a lightning blast that strikes too close. Still kneeling, we grabbed each other and watched openmouthed as the black tree imploded. It collapsed upon itself and disappeared in a goopy spray of reddish-black liquid that sounded like a summer shower as splats fell to the farthest corners of the entrance hall. It smelled rancid, like putrefying meat.

  Millie and I stared at each other. The tree was gone. The marble floor was in one piece, as were the ceiling and walls. Then Millie faded from sight as the subtle glow went out.

  “I thought you were shooting me.” I’d relit my candle stub and worked the arrow free from the Book of Daemon Hall. “Here, in case you need it again.”

  Something fell from the book and glided to the floor. It was a piece of paper, I assumed a page torn free by the piercing arrow.

  Millie picked it up and handed it to me. “I remembered your vision, and when I saw you with the book, it made sense.”

  I sat on the bottom step to catch my breath and folded the paper. I’d been an avid paper airplane maker when I was a kid. My specialty was a streamlined and pointy-nosed design that flew through the air with almost as much precision as Millie’s arrow. Without my really paying attention, one of those was taking form in my hands. “At least you’re a good shot.”

  “Uh, actually, I’ve never shot a bow and arrow,” Millie confessed, sitting next to me. “Somehow I knew I wouldn’t miss, something to do with Little Fox’s bow.”

  We rested for several minutes. I hefted the plane. The paper was heavy, and it would fly well, but I didn’t throw it. It probably wasn’t a good idea to practice origami with paper made from Oaskaguakw, much less start throwing it around. I shoved the airplane into the middle of the book and shut it.

  “Wade, outside!”

  Time shifted into overdrive, and we watched the windows as day and night alternated. It was hypnotic. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. When that metallic rasp of slowing time interrupted, day remained. We grinned at each other. Millie was covered in goo from the tree. I was too.

  She wiped a handful of the reddish-black gunk from my hair. “Ugh, you stink.” We laughed as she tried to shake it from her hands.

  “My new cologne, eau de roadkill.”

  There was a clack and rattling across the foyer. The front door swung wide. A group of people stood outside the entrance. They came in cautiously and shut the door.

  Millie mumbled, “What…?” Then, “It’s you.”

  Along with Demarius, Chris and Kara. They—we—carried four large gas cans.

  “Oh, no,” I whispered. “We’ve shown up to set the house on fire.”

  Millie gripped my arm, disbelief thick in her voice. “Daemon Hall rushed us through time so the fire you start will kill us.”

  “We need to find everyone and leave.” My voice shook as we took the stairs two at a time. “We stay together no matter what. We’ll run through the house and yell for them. I don’t know how much time we have because strange things happened before we set the fire—an hour at most.”

  We’d just started down the second-floor hall when the grinding noise of slowing time reverberated through the house.

  “Time jumped again.” Millie had an edge of panic in her voice.

  “Which means we have even less time.”

  She handed me her watch so that I could keep track of how much time passed while she kept the bow and arrow ready. We saw someone crouched in a corner in one room, absolute terror on his face. It was me from before, when we’d arrived to set the fire. Back then the noise made us panic, and this is where I ended up. The other me in the corner glanced up. I remembered when I saw vague shapes through the doorway and thought they were ghosts. I guess, in a way, I was haunting myself.

  “Go away!” that other me shouted. “Leave me alone!”

  I pulled Millie away. “Come on.”

  “But, he needs—you need—help.”

  “That me will be fine. It’s this one”—I poked my chest—“that I’m worried about.”

  On the third floor, after shouting, we miraculously got an answer. Most everybody rounded a corner, exhausted, scared, and in shock. Lucinda and Demarius smiled, but Matt didn’t. He kept one foot off the ground while leaning against Demarius. We gathered for a long moment in a group hug.

  “Gross!” Lucinda pulled away. “What’s that slime all over you guys?”

  “Where’s Mr. Tremblin?” I asked.

  Demarius shook his head. “Haven’t seen him.”

  Millie filled them in on the four gas-toting teens, including Demarius and me, that we had seen enter Daemon Hall. “We need to get out right now. The fi
re happens soon.”

  “Millie and I think some of this is about revenge. The house wants to make sure we’re here when it goes up.”

  Millie nodded. “So we have to find Mr. Tremblin as soon as possible.”

  “What if he’s still possessed or whatever?” Demarius asked.

  “Look, I’m not saying we leave him, but our first priority should be to get out before the place burns up.” I pointed to the front of the house. “If we’re lucky, we’ll come across him on the way.”

  I directed a question at Lucinda. “What happened in Daemon’s office after the door closed?”

  Lucinda said that after Daemon died, time had shifted and the door opened. She and Matt couldn’t find anyone. They blindly roamed the house until Demarius literally ran into them while escaping from Narcissa. The collision sprained Matt’s ankle. They’d climbed to the third floor in search of us. Millie told about the twins, my vision, the entrance hall, and how she came to carry Little Fox’s bow and arrow.

  I led us to the staircase, but halted several feet from the landing. We heard someone coming up. The footsteps were slow and methodical: step, pause, step, pause. We warily approached the top of the stairs and saw a tall shape ascending.

  “Is it Mr. Tremblin?” Millie asked.

  Demarius was ready to bolt. “Is it Daemon Hall in Mr. Tremblin?”

  When he got midway up, I called to him. He stopped, gazing blankly ahead, arms hanging at his sides. His clothes were torn, his face was bruised, and old blood crusted under his nose and around his mouth. He slowly lifted his head until he took us in his gaze.

  “I don’t think he’s—” Demarius started to say.

  “Get ready to run,” I whispered.

  Ian Tremblin flung his arms wide and shouted, “Afghanistan banana stand!”

  Grinning, he ran up and we rushed down, Demarius helping Matt. We collided on the staircase, which nearly caused us to tumble down. We crowded him with a united hug.

  “Oh, thank God, you’re safe. Thank God.”