The Frank Peretti Collection: The Oath, the Visitation, and Monster

by Frank E. Peretti

  “That’s not funny!” Andy said.

  Vic only laughed at him and then went out the door.

  The place was dead quiet. The video games in the corner bleeped and warbled to themselves; nobody was playing. A ball player slammed a triple on the television, but nobody noticed.

  Charlie grabbed another bottle of whiskey and with shaking hands poured himself a stiff drink. He downed it in one gulp.

  Andy made a face. “Shew! He smelled like a dead rat.”

  Charlie spoke to no one in particular, “Probably too drunk to drive.”

  Jack and Amy, who had their coats on now, looked out, and Jack reported, “He isn’t driving. He’s walking up the middle of the road.”

  The shot glass dropped out of Charlie’s hand and clattered on the bar. He grabbed it quickly then wiped the bar frantically with a cloth.

  Phil fumbled a bit with his cue stick, then tried to line up a shot. He missed by a mile.

  Conversation started again. Now that Vic had gone, Jack and Amy took off their jackets and went back to their table, but Paul paid his tab and left. It was Phil’s turn again, and he leaned over the pool table to sink the nine ball in the corner.

  “You think maybe he’s—uh—” Andy Schuller wondered.

  “NO!” Phil shouted. “He’s drunk. He’s just drunk and that’s all!”

  “Well,” said Carl, “it ain’t me, so I ain’t gonna think about it.”

  Phil tried the shot again and missed again.

  When Charlie was satisfied all eyes were elsewhere, he ducked into the kitchen, went past the big iron sink and the hanging pots and pans, and grabbed the phone hanging on the wall by the back door. His hands were still shaking as he read the phone number off the back of a business card and tried to dial it.

  STEVE HAD rented a hookup at the White Tail RV Park about ten miles south of Hyde River. It was a no-frills setup with twenty hookups and a set of restrooms with no paper towels, but almost all the spaces were filled with campers and trailers, families and groups of guys, all out to hook trout the next morning. When the cellular phone warbled from its rack above the sink, he was half expecting the phony Frenchman.

  He wasn’t disappointed.

  “Monsieur Benson!”

  “Well, the Frenchman! How are you?”

  The man’s voice was hushed, tense. “Listen, listen to me! I think there is going to be another death at Hyde Hall tonight!”

  Steve sat up straight. “How do you know?”

  The voice on the other end of the line was frantic, filled with fear. “He . . . was just here. He is going to Hyde Hall right now!”

  “Who?”

  CHARLIE KEPT his voice down and his eyes on the kitchen door. “His name is Vic Moore. He was talking crazy tonight—he is going up the road right now, going to Old Town!”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now! If you hurry, maybe you can catch the dragon before he gets away!”

  Steve hesitated. “I’d be trespassing down there; I suppose you know that.”

  “If you miss your chance, you will know by tomorrow when Vic Moore is dead!”

  Charlie hung up, shaking like a leaf. Enough said. Let the great hunter take it from there. Please.

  STEVE BURST from the back door of his camper and yanked the power cord from the hookup. This was crazy. Risk trespassing in Old Town again, and for what? A wild tip? He hadn’t resolved his argument with himself even as he jumped into the cab, cranked the engine over, and pulled out.

  Should he call Tracy? he wondered. Then he realized he couldn’t call her now—the phone was still in the back. He’d call her once he got there if he decided to proceed. But could he trust the tipster? He would be taking a risk, no question, but it might be worth it. He’d wait until he got to Old Town to make a decision.

  He drove through Hyde River at well above the speed limit but didn’t seem to draw any attention. The lights were on at Charlie’s, and some rigs were parked outside. Apart from that, the sleepy little town looked deserted.

  He came to the dirt road that veered off the highway just past the grove of cottonwoods. It was blocked, of course, but now he’d been back there, he knew the way, and he could make it quickly on foot. His heart was racing; he was primed. With no conscious decision to proceed he proceeded, leaving the camper beside the highway, bounding over the dirt berm and down the overgrown road to Old Town, a flashlight in one hand, his shotgun in the other, and the .357 on his hip. He’d neglected to call Tracy Ellis.

  He swerved and dodged through the grass and brush. He could tell someone had passed by here recently because the tall grass was pressed down in the direction of Old Town. It could have been Levi, Tracy, or the spies for Harold Bly, or—it could be what’s-his-name, if the Frenchman’s tip was reliable.

  He stopped to listen. Was that laughter?

  Yes. A man was laughing somewhere in the dark, somewhere in Old Town. The eerie sound of it perfectly matched the surrealistic, deathlike surroundings, and Steve felt a chill.

  Now the man was talking. But to whom? It was the unheard, the unseen, the unknown, that frightened him. Suddenly Levi’s words, “Ghosts . . . the place is haunted . . . the devil lives here . . .” carried a lot more weight.

  He extinguished his light, though he hated to do so, chambered a shell in the shotgun, then stole along in the deepening shadows of the night, his eyes finally beginning to discern the dark shapes of trees and bushes ahead of him as the grass rustled and hissed around his legs.

  Yes, he could hear the man’s voice plainly now, hollering and whooping as if having a one-man party. Maybe the Frenchman was right, and yet . . . this was bizarre.

  What am I walking into? Steve wondered.

  The wind kicked up, the first real wind of the night, rushing through the tall cottonwoods, making the leaves flutter in the dark, drowning out the man’s voice. Steve kept moving. Hyde Hall. He had to get there.

  Steve reached the main road through Old Town and stopped to listen, to observe. The ruins were barely visible in the dark. The trees just beyond were swaying lazily, the wind the only sound.

  He heard the voice again, a little quieter but still going on and on about something. It was definitely in the direction of Hyde Hall. Steve pressed on, hoping the sigh of the wind would drown out the rustling of his footsteps.

  Suddenly Steve felt a gust of wind. It was strong, forceful, rolling through the treetops and sweeping down the old street like a wave, rippling the grass, shaking the brush, and nearly knocking him over.

  Then, just above the rush of that wind, came a scream. Then another scream, this one muted. Then there was a silence.

  Vic Moore was definitely not alone out there. Someone—or something—had gotten him.

  Steve’s fear vanished. He charged like an animal, running headlong down the street, his flashlight still out.

  Hyde Hall loomed up on the right. He stopped. He listened.

  The wind was gone. The place was eerily quiet.

  He could hear no sound except that of his own pounding heart.

  He approached Hyde Hall like a hunter stalking his prey, first a step, then listen and watch, then a few more steps, then listen and watch, staying low, looking around, listening, his finger on the trigger of the shotgun.

  The place was dead. Silent.

  Steve reached the foundation and stepped over it. He listened again. There was no sound, so he clicked on the flashlight. The beam stunned his night-sensitive eyes, but it revealed nothing out of place. No breakage, no body, no signs of—

  Wait. Here was something new. Not far from the big flat stone in the center of the building, almost in the same spot where Levi had found Maggie’s purse, was a broken bottle. Steve approached and examined it in his light without touching it.

  A broken bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey. The ground was wet with the spilled liquor, the smell unmistakable. He searched the immediate area for any other signs or clues. The grass was flattened all around the stone, but
that was no surprise.

  Steve clicked the light off and sat down on the rock, trying to figure things out. He had heard screams, yet there was no one around. The only evidence that someone had just been there was the broken bottle of Jack Daniels. There had to be—

  Uh-oh. Now he heard more sounds, then saw two flashlights approaching from up the street. Harold Bly’s two spies again? He immediately looked for a place to conceal himself.

  The flashlights continued up the street, sweeping back and forth, searching.

  He looked for a back door to this place. Funny. There were only three walls and no roof, and here he was looking for the door. Apparently it was hidden by the remnants of the fallen roof. He’d have to make a wider sweep around the rear wall to get out. He kept low and started working his way along the building.

  The lights were coming closer, moving directly toward Hyde Hall. That made sense, but it wasn’t good news. He recalled that his truck was still parked out on the highway like a billboard to advertise his presence. Whoever this was, they had to be coming after him. He kept a grip on his shotgun, desperately hoping he wouldn’t have to use it.

  “Steve!” came a voice behind one of the lights. “Steve Benson, are you out there?”

  Tracy Ellis. Did that mean he was in or out of trouble? There were no more secrets; that was certain.

  He called back, “Over here, in Hyde Hall!”

  Now he could see the lights heading toward the old ruin. He worked his way back toward the flat rock, trying to think of ways to look innocent.

  Too late. The first flashlight beam found him, and he heard the voice of Sheriff Lester Collins. “Benson! Hold it right there! Don’t move!” Collins did not sound cordial. Steve didn’t move. “And put down that rifle!”

  This was definitely a bad development. Steve slowly set the shotgun down on the rock.

  Collins and Tracy, dark shadows behind their flashlights, stepped over the foundation and into Hyde Hall.

  “I’ve found something here,” Steve said, hoping that would explain his presence.

  “Drop that revolver too! Put it on the rock, slowly! And the flashlight!”

  He set down the flashlight, then unbuckled his gunbelt and set it on the rock. Collins remained in front, his police revolver in his hand, while Tracy circled around behind.

  Oh no, what was this?

  “C’mon,” said Tracy, “let’s have those hands.”

  Steve obeyed, and Tracy put on the handcuffs.

  “Mr. Benson,” said Collins, “you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  WHEN COLLINS brought the patrol car to a halt in front of a large, brick home in Hyde River, it seemed an unexpected twist— Steve hoped it would be a favorable one.

  Collins turned off his engine and looked back at Steve, still cuffed in the back seat. “Dr. Benson, I’m a practical kind of guy, and I know you are too. Now neither one of us needs extra trouble in our lives, and I’m guessing you’d just as soon get out of Hyde Valley altogether than spend time in jail. Am I correct, sir?”

  “I would agree with that,” Steve said. Actually, he wasn’t so sure, but as the sheriff said, he was a practical kind of guy.

  “All right, good. That’s what I wanted to hear. Now. This is the home of Harold Bly. It’s his land you were trespassing on, and he’s the one who called us. He’s not too happy about this, but he’s a reasonable man. I’m hoping he’ll be satisfied with an apology and a promise that you’ll stay off his land so I won’t have to take you to jail. But that all depends on you.”

  Tracy had pulled up in her Ranger and parked across the street. Even though she wasn’t in her uniform—she was wearing an oversized shirt and jeans—when she joined them on Bly’s front walk she was still acting like a cop. “Are we ready?”

  “I’ve talked it over with him,” Collins answered.

  Steve glared at Tracy. He was steaming.

  But so was she. “I was right in the middle of dinner!”

  “You should get paid overtime,” he quipped.

  She just grabbed his arm and shoved him along. “Come on, let’s get this over with.” She led him up the front stairs, just a few steps behind Collins.

  “So when do the cuffs come off?” he asked.

  “We have to impress Harold first.”

  Harold Bly answered their knock. He was expecting them, and he looked Steve over with a sly smile. “Well, lookie here!”

  Collins answered, “Harold, this is Dr. Steve Benson. I think he was trying to help us out on that bear-attack case. He didn’t know he was trespassing.”

  “Well, we’ll just see about that.”

  So this was Harold Bly. Tough-looking character, Steve thought, with arms that could beat a gorilla in an arm wrestle. Steve could tell Bly was enjoying this moment, this chance to be Caesar with a man’s life in his hands: Thumbs up or thumbs down? You’re all mine, you poor jerk. Steve knew immediately he didn’t like this guy.

  “Come on in,” said Bly, and they followed him through the house into his living room.

  The house was furnished with antiques, all vestiges of the Hyde family’s glory days. In the living room, comfortable sofas and chairs were arranged on a Persian rug around the big stone fireplace. Steve noticed a handsome writing desk in one corner, and the ceiling-high bookshelves displayed antique collectibles as well as volumes of old, leather-bound books. On the mantel sat some gold nuggets in a glass case, and above the mantel was a large portrait of a distinguished-looking gentleman in suit and vest with a gold watch chain, his thumb cocked in his vest pocket, a stern, man-in-charge look on his bearded face. Maybe this was the way Harold Bly viewed himself, Steve thought.

  “Come in, make yourselves comfortable,” said Bly, taking the wing chair by the fireplace with the air of a king taking his throne. “Oh, and—” He waved his hand toward Steve. “—let’s take those cuffs off, at least for now.”

  Tracy used her key and set Steve loose. He rubbed his wrists, now creased by the cold metal.

  “Have a seat,” Bly said. Steve sat down on the couch across the room from Bly, as did Tracy. Collins took the other wing chair near the fireplace. Now they all faced the man of the hour, ready to plead their case.

  “So you’re the mighty hunter,” Bly said with unabashed sarcasm. “Seems the whole town’s been talking about you, wondering what you’re going to do next. I hear you started a big fight down at Charlie’s.”

  Steve knew Bly was goading him, so he gave a careful, guarded response. “It was an unpleasant situation, something I neither expected nor intended. But there was no harm done.” Then he added, “Just as in this situation.”

  “Well, I don’t know that for sure, now do I? I had to have you and Levi Cobb run out of there once before, and now here you are, back again. Either I’m not making myself clear or you’ve got one thick head.”

  Steve knew this guy wouldn’t be too impressed with the anonymous “Frenchman” and hot tips about a dragon, or with the notion that another person had just vanished in the same way Maggie had. “It’s as Sheriff Collins was saying. I was hunting for a rogue grizzly. I had reason to believe it might be frequenting the ruins of Old Town.”

  Sheriff Collins piped up, “But I need to make it clear, Harold, that Dr. Benson is not working for us and never was. His actions are all strictly voluntary, and I told him this morning the case was closed. This is all his own doing, you understand.”

  Right, Collins, Steve thought. By all means, cover your rear.

  Bly looked Steve over again and said, “I guess you don’t know how folks around here feel about that place. They have a lot of strong feelings, a lot of traditions—”

  “And I used to have a brother before he was horribly mutilated by—by something,” Steve interrupted brusquely. “Of course I’m sorry for going on private land without permission, and I didn’t mean to offend the local traditions, but I’ll be blunt with you: There’s a predator of some kind out there killing peo
ple, and it has to be stopped.” Even if it’s you and your pals, he wanted to say.

  Collins piped up again, “Steve, we’ve been through that. You already shot the bear, and the coroner says so—”

  “The coroner took the word of the pathologist, and I don’t think the pathologist knew what to make of it. As for the bear, I did the autopsy on 318, and I’m not convinced it was 318 that killed my brother.”

  Bly waved his hand for a halt. “Hey, guys, I don’t really care if it was 318 or an overgrown raccoon. It’s you stomping around on my land that I care about. Besides, I don’t buy this idea of a grizzly hanging around down there. Why would a bear be in that area?”

  “Well, I’m working on a theory,” Steve said. “It’s sketchy, but—” They were waiting to hear it, and he knew he had to be very careful. He drew a deep breath. “It’s, well, perhaps I could call it my Coincidence Theory. You see, I think maybe the town’s superstitions could be the key to this whole thing.”

  Bly looked grim at that. His eyes seemed to be warning Steve to watch his step.

  Steve tried to tread carefully. “If a bear finds a predictable food source, whether it’s a campground, a garbage dump, or a dumpster behind a restaurant—any place where food is easily available on a regular basis, the bear will frequent that spot, it’ll keep coming back. Well, if the—” Careful, Steve. “—traditions of Hyde River cause people to go out to Hyde Hall on any frequent or regular basis, then it’s possible that a predatory animal of some kind, a bear, could be viewing that as an easy, predictable food source. If the local superstitions have prevailed for any length of time, there could be several bears involved, not just one.” Even as this fumbling hypothesis crossed his lips, Steve knew that if he’d read it in a term paper he would have flunked it. Well, no one in the room was applauding the idea either. “Granted, what we’ve observed so far doesn’t sound like your typical bear, but that’s the theory I’ve been going on.”

  Bly seemed dumbfounded. He looked at Steve, then Tracy, and then Collins. “Am I missing something somewhere? Who’s been eaten by this bear besides your brother?”