by Deryck Jason
“What was that?”
He thought to himself, unable to see Earl’s face clearly as something was blocking it. Whatever it was kind of looked like a dog from behind, only it didn’t looked real… For a moment he watched it gnaw at the torn throat before he decided he couldn’t wait any longer.
“Hey!”
He yelled to grab the creature’s attention. Partially regretting that action, he was absolutely stunned at the sight before him. The creature turned around, roaring violently, its teeth were bared and dripping blood. Instead of being afraid Billy got one looked at Earl’s mutilated body and lost himself.
“Earl?” he uttered as anger boiled volcanically within him.
Screaming, he charged the creature swinging the bat down hard at it. At the last second Dog jumped to the floor, causing the bat to smash hard on Earl’s partially chewed skull. A little blood sprayed from the decimated skull but only very little. Most of the blood in his head had already been used to paint the walls. With no time to be remorseful for the mishit, Billy pulled the bat from Earl’s head and looked for the creature. His breath was heavy as anger ran his lungs like a steam engine. Little eyes observed Billy’s from the temporary cover of another cubicle. Preparing for an attack designed to immobilize the bat-wielding bartender, Dog waited for the opportune moment. Dog watched as the built bartender’s feet turned away from it, it was then the when the creature decided to attack. Planning a quick “bite and run” Dog moved quickly towards his target. Billy didn’t hear the soft feet on the tile floor but he did hear the breathing and at the last minute, turned away offering Dog only a taste of flesh as he grazed Billy’s leg. Ignoring the pain Billy stepped out of the cubicle and ran awkwardly towards Dog who was turning around for another pass, using the bat like a golf club Billy swung so hard he actually lifted himself off the ground, catapulting the small beast up against the wall to the ceiling and back to the floor. Landing hard, Billy fell after he put weight on the wounded leg. Dog lay shaking his head, angrier than ever. As Billy shakily used the bat to stand up, he was careful, much urine had been sprayed this floor making its surface as stable as an ice rink. Billy’s determination to beat the creature was not lost on Dog who tried his deception tactics. Face turning sad and forlorn, Dog whimpered at him. Slowly, Billy lowered his bat as Dog lowered his head, matching Billy’s movements. When Dog’s head was all the way down Billy quickly raised the bat, yelled maniacally and charged, limping towards it. With a quick face change Dog roared and ran at Billy, dodging his swing and scuttling up the drain pipe behind him, leaping onto the high window. Billy looked up at the retreating creature and the two share a looked. They both knew this wasn’t over. Dog growled violently while Billy, unafraid yelled back at it. With a contemptuous grunt Dog dove through the back window, shattering glass and disappearing into the night.
Billy limped out into the murky bar and went straight for the phone behind the wood. Everyone in the bar was standing up watching him, all desperate to knew what was going on.
“What happened Billy?”
Billy didn’t respond, instead he was dialing the Sheriff’s station.
“Is Earl dead?” asked Sandy.
“Yeah, he’s dead, I’m calling the Sheriff, though I don’t know if it will do any good”
“Why?” asked Matthew.
Tony cut in, answering for Billy.
“Because that wasn’t a man in there, it was a creature, it wasn’t real.”
“Billy come on now” started Brian “You’re talking crazy, it must have been real, maybe it was an animal or somethin’”
“No!” Stated Billy “It’s not crazy, it’s true, I saw it. Damn thing bit my leg. And it wasn’t an animal!”
The phone at the Sheriff rung for a little while. Eventually, a cop picked up. The cop told Billy that Oates was busy so the young bartender bit his lip. As casually as he could he told of a murder in the bar, and that they should send officers straight away. He did not want to sound like a complete lunatic to some regular cop; he would save his story for Oates.
Back at the table Tony and his cronies stood awkwardly.
“The thing you saw? The thing that killed Earl. You think it got Jimmy too?”
Matthew’s question was directed at Tony but they all thought about it.
“I don’t know.” Tony eventually replied. “But that thing…I’ve never seen anything like it before, it just, it wasn’t real.”
“What does that mean exactly? Wasn’t real.” Matt asked.
As Tony fumbled for the answer Billy interjected:
“Like a toy, a toy dog. It was like something a kid would have.”
“A toy dog?” scoffed Sandy. “How could a toy dog do all this?”
“It wasn’t real” said Tony trancelike.
Matthew glared at his friend. He didn’t believe a word of this. In his mind it was an animal attack, plain and simple.
“I just can’t help but think…” spoke Sandy “…That all this started the day after you killed that guy Tony.”
“Are we back to this again?” Tony snapped from his trance.
“Look. We already covered this, that guy deserved it. Plus, it wasn’t all my fault.”
“One of the last things Earl said before he died was that we all share the blame” said Brian somberly.
Tony just looked around the group, the words were hitting home.
“You think Earl died because of some kind of revenge?” Matthew asked in disbelief.
“Jimmy and Amanda too.” Sandy said “It makes sense Matt.”
Matthew didn’t believe it still. Or more accurately, he didn’t want to believe it. He was about to challenge Sandy’s statement when he was interrupted. Brian spotted Tony backing off towards the exit.
“Tony, where are you going?”
“I’m going somewhere safe! You guys want my advice? You should do the same. I’m not ending up like Earl!”
With that, Tony turned and ran out the door, heading to the one place in town he thought he would be safe.
CHAPTER 26
In the city Connor Williams slept, his hands were now unclenched and he lay with them by his head. In the shadows beside him stood Dixie and “The Eye”; both watching him intently. “The Eye’s” voice was husky and quiet, sailing through the air delicately like smoke from a cigarette.
“Good boy Connor. You have done well today. You have given the people a lot to think about. Tomorrow we will start again, and we will really put the fear into their little minds.” Dixie moved powerfully yet quietly over to the sleeping Connor’s bed. Leaning over the boy the hulking beast gently pulled the blankets up to his chin. Then he stepped back to rejoin his master in the shadows.
“You sleep now child, tomorrow will be a great day. You’re going to be getting a visitor, and your Doctor friends will be getting a little surprise.”
“The Eye” grinned. His teeth were visible only slightly in the darkness. Although sleeping, Connor smiled a little too. “The Eye’s” words reached him even in sleep. The two demons watched him sleep for another moment while Dixie heavy wet breath billowed in the cell. In the dead silence of Hallcombes, the two slowly disappeared into the shadows allowing Connor Williams to sleep right through till morning.
CHAPTER 27
An empty bottle of liquor guarded an alarm clock which buzzed furiously at its owner. The wakeup call was like a drill to the head of Oates who roused groggily into the land of the awake. He would bother trying to justify his excessive alcohol consumption if he thought anyone noticed, or cared. Even his once trophy wife who was now bitching at him to “turn the noise off” didn’t give a crap about him or his drinking. Part of his routine in the morning was looking over at old his high school sweetheart who once had so much potential. Lying beside him, now a self-medicating hag, whose only rest bite from her ten-hour sleep was a dose of talk shows and microwave dinners. Shriveled up with age she slept like he imagined a big fat fish would, on its side, mouth open, sucking in o
xygen and spewing out gases in return. He was pleased to escape her sleeping flatulence; a side effect of her medication. He stepped out of bed and had a quick stretch. After so many years, his day started out perfectly routine; even despite the fact that these past few days his sanity been slowly packing its bags, intent on heading for a better climate. Autopilot kicked in as per usual. First he went for a shower then he brushed his teeth. He put on his uniform and combed what little hair he had left. He took his gun out of his bedside drawer and clipped it into his holster. He headed downstairs to the stillness of his kitchen, teaching himself years ago to remember to put on socks before stepping on the cold wooden floor. He placed sliced bread inside the toaster and brewed a pot of coffee. His morning routine was all alone. It had been this way for years. For all his loyalty to the letter of the law, his dedication the badge, his reward was the two cousins: emptiness and loneliness. Every sound was magnified in the silence but he did not notice it, he was used to it by now. The dull sound as the fridge door opened, the snap of the margarine lid coming off, the crunch of the yellow paste spreading onto his burnt toast just the way he liked it, all the while being accompanied by the constant drip of the percolator. Then he poured the milk into his coffee. Oates liked this part. He liked it because except for the immediate splash, there was little noise involved in the process. As the milk gallantly dove into his Columbian roast, (dramatically changing the color and the flavor) it did so silently. No sound was magnified here. Odd as it may seem, this was his favorite part of the morning. Not least because it was when he got time to himself to sit and eat before heading into work. When he was finished he would normally pick up his badge then his hat but today he saved his badge for last. Today he wished he never had his badge at all. Today, in light of what was happening he silently wished he didn’t have to be the Sheriff. Still, that was his life and when he took the job he accepted the fact he would have to be able to deal with anything. However never in a million years did he think he would be dealing with a situation like this. He knew his town was falling to ruin and all eyes were on him to fix it.
Today, Sheriff Oates was going to go to Hallcombes psychiatric hospital to speak to Doctor MacNamee about Connor Williams. He had to see if he could make some sense out of all this mess. As he stepped into his cruiser he already had his route planned, knowing he would have to swing by the station and let Dora know where he would be. He already thought about this. He could have called but he would rather show face and let her know directly. He believed his officers at the station felt more comfortable knowing their Sheriff was behind them and by showing face he hoped he could boost morale even a little.
“Morning Dora” said Oates as he drifted by the reception desk into the heart of the station. Although he was leaving soon he hung up his hat on a hat hook beside his office, wearing a hat inside was bad etiquette after all. Scanning the room he spotted Deputy Lynch chatting with another cop. The buzz was in the station early today. The cops were confused. They wanted to go out and find whoever was responsible for the murders but they did not know where to begin. They had been mostly kept in the dark over the specifics of the crimes but any information that was brought to light was-on the whole-strange to them anyways.
“Deputy Lynch! Can I talk to you a moment?” yelled Oates, announcing his presence to the station. Lynch made a strange face at the cop he was chatting to and headed to the office. Oates appreciated having a man like Lynch as his Deputy; he had such a good rapport with his officers. Since Oates could be a very disagreeable man, having his second in command be so personable turned out to be a very good partnership. Oates headed into his office, followed shortly by Lynch
“Closed the door Deputy” said Oates as he sat down at his desk.
Lynch obliged then stood at the other side of the desk. Oates didn’t bother asking him to sit down; he knew Lynch already would if he wanted to.
“Everything alright Sheriff?” asked Lynch, watching the old man pull out his file on the recent murders, paying particular attention to the ventriloquist dummy picture.
“No not really Deputy, this case needs to be cracked soon, but I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”
Lynch looked down at the floor, memories of Barlow’s terminal wound crept in, and how he tried in vain to stop the bleeding.
“No sir you don’t.”
“I’m going up to Hallcombes today, in fact I’m leaving in the next ten minutes. I’m going to come back with some answers and hopefully a solution to all this. Deputy…” Oates paused, realizing this wasn’t the time to be so formal. “…Dorrian, I know this situation is far from ideal…”
“Sir, please stop a second.”
Lynch interrupted Oates in a rare display of insolence, brought on by high emotions.
“I need you to tell me something. We haven’t spoke of it since it happened, but, in light of recent developments I’d like you to be honest with me”
“Ok, Deputy, ask away.”
“Do you still think the image we saw in the motel is a child? Or something else?”
Oates looked at Lynch firmly. He didn’t think it was a child at all anymore, he already told the mayor as much. But his pride prevented him from saying that to those whose rank was beneath him, even if it was his trusted Deputy.
“I stand by my original statement…”
Lynch stared at Oates for a moment before talking; his voice laced with anger.
“Sir? Can I be frank?”
“By all means Deputy.”
“How the hell can you expect me to trust you when you sit there lying to my face? You know it’s not a child, I don’t understand why you won’t just tell me that.”
Oates sat, his office seemed smaller now, and with each second he crept towards his admission his office got smaller still. Oates sighed.
“You’re right Deputy. God you’re right! No, I don’t think it’s a child in the picture, I think it’s something else, something, not of this world. I’ve already talked with the child Connor’s Doctor, he confirmed some of my suspicions. That’s why I’m leaving. I think I can come back here later today with a definite solution to all this.”
“Well, thanks for telling me.” Lynch said grudgingly.
“I don’t want to come back to any more surprises Deputy. I want patrols out, scouring the streets. The only time I want our boys to stop moving is when they’re getting more gas! You understand?”
“Yes, sir!” stated Lynch, as he turned to leave.
“And Dorrian?”
Lynch, still angry at being kept in the dark, turned around.
“Yes sir?”
“I’m sorry I never told you, it was a bad move on my part. I do trust you, and I do need you.”
The sentiment from the old man was not lost on Lynch, who graciously nodded his head, appreciating the thanks.
“Oh, before you leave sir, you might want to talk to your nephew, he’s downstairs in the cells.”
“What? Why’s he down there?”
“I tried talking him out, but he isn’t having it, said he isn’t leaving there till this blows over.”
The main reason Oates hated the layout of Staunton police station was the layout of the holding cell area. There were two ways to get there and two ways to get a prisoner down there. One way was long but easy, the other, short but tricky. The first way was via the interview rooms, a long corridor moving round in a loop with access to the second floor, and from the main room it would normally take around five or six minutes to take the whole route if you were escorting a prisoner. The second way was about a one minute journey from the main room; the only catch was that there was a steep set of stairs to traverse in order to get there. The dilemma cops faced was whether to take an unruly prisoner past numerous people, through a long corridor or simply risk the stairs and have him locked up in no time flat. Oates would love to remodel the staircase however the Mayor would usually claim it was an “unnecessary expense.”
“Typical bureaucrat” Oates th
ought when he tried to push for the renovation work. Further pissing off Oates was the fact that Shannahan was always prepared with an answer. He would cite the fact the station was a listed building; therefore it would be tricky to receive planning permission. Oates tried to reason that the police station was the most important building in town but that point never sat well with the spendthrift mayor. During these conversations Oates knew full well that if Shannahan wished, he could use his position to supersede the planning permission committee instead of using them as scapegoats each time. The truth remained that Shannahan just never wanted to spend a large chunk of money renovating the station; it had been that way for years before he took office so he didn’t see why he should have to be the one to fix it. He would much rather spend the money organizing galas and state fairs. But, as Oates pointed out on many occasions, attracting more people to the town when the cells capacity could barely accommodate the towns’ population would create more problems than anything else. There was many an occasion in the past where Oates had ran out of room in his drunk tank thanks largely to an outside group of revelers. There were four closed door cells on one side, with heavy stone supplying most of the structure and four open barred cells on the other, normally reserved for the town drunks. Dimly lit, mostly underground, the cell area was a dank place, musty in odor. Access routes aside however, Oates secretly enjoyed one aspect of the squalid cell area. It reminded him of an old dungeon, not the sort of place you would like to spend the night, thus, many of the youth who found themselves in here very rarely came back. In his experience he found that by having such a miserable place for punishment, people were actually less likely to get themselves into trouble. He had seen cells in other stations, which, in comparison were like hotel rooms; bright and relatively comfortable. So all in all he didn’t mind the cells themselves, he just hated that staircase. As he navigated the tight descent he remembered why he was coming down in the first place, someone did want to be in the cells now, his own nephew Tony.