The Devil's Touch

by William W. Johnstone

  "Tell me more about being a Christian, Sam."

  "I don't know that much about it, Nydia. I sometimes think it's a feeling one must have. And I don't have it very often."

  "1 think you're a better person than you will admit to being, Sam."

  "Maybe."

  They sat and talked and both felt the evil from the great house. It penetrated even the deep timber. Nydia told him about a circle of stones not too far away, a place that frightened her. Sam wanted to see that place.

  At the circle of stones, Sam knelt down, studying closely and with great interest the largest stone of the circle, which depicted scenes of great depravity: of men with huge jutting phalluses; of women with legs widespread, exposing the genitalia; scenes of mass orgies: men with men, women with women, men with small children; scenes of hideous torture; of grotesque creatures, monsters, leaping and snarling. And finally, on the east side of the great stone, a scene depicting a saintly looking man who was locked in some sort of combat with a beastlike creature.

  "Let's see this hole in the ground," Sam said.

  They smelled the stench long before they came to the hole, both of them wrinkling their noses at the foul odor. "Can you imagine what it's like deep in that hole?" Sam tried a grin, unaware that his real father had said almost the same thing to a couple of friends back in 1958, standing near The Digging. (The Devil's Kiss).

  It was then Sam had put his hand into his jacket pocket, jerking his hand out as if he had touched a snake.

  His father's old army issue .45 was in his pocket. But before leaving his room at Falcon House that morning, Sam had put his own .38 revolver in that pocket.

  Sam and Nydia looked at the pistol. A brass name-plate was riveted into the handle. SGT. SAM BALON KOREA 1953.

  The young couple both felt themselves being overwhelmed by a dark force field. They sank to the ground, helplessly immobile as the strange force took them under its control.

  Time took them winging backward. They watched a naked man fighting with a naked woman. Both Sam and Nydia knew, somehow, the identities of the couple. Sam Balon, Sr. and Nydia's mother, Roma, the witch.

  Articles of clothing and equipment flew about the struggling couple. Both were bloody from the combat. The woman impaled herself on the man's erect penis, hunching on him. He struck her, knocking her away. But again and again she mounted the man, only to have him shove her away, each shove less forceful than the preceding one.

  Then, shrieking her taunting laughter, the witch lunged at the man, wailing her delight as his phallus drove to the inner depths of her. For what seemed like hours, the mortal and the witch fucked their way across trackless worlds of space.

  The young couple could see the man was nearly dead.

  With one last supreme burst of courage and strength, the man grabbed something out of the maze of clothing and equipment that circled the couple. The objects seemed to fly from his hand, through the years, straight toward the young man and young women frozen to the ground on Earth, 1980.

  Nydia screamed. Sam ducked.

  They both jumped to their feet. All was peaceful. The scene replayed in their minds was gone. Sam looked at the gun in his hand. His father's gun. From years and worlds away.

  When they returned to Falcon House, Sam found his father's old Thompson SMG lying on the bed.

  Sam shook off the memories and walked across the old apple orchard, his irritation growing with each step. The smell grew fouler. Twice Sam changed direction as the smell grew fainter. Then he was standing over the hole in the ground. He picked up a rock from the ground and savagely hurled it down the stinking hole.

  "Bastards!" he cursed. "I know, somehow, you didn't follow us here, so you must have been here all along. Come on out, bastards—face me."

  Only silence greeted his words.

  "Satan's filth!" Sam called to the dark hole.

  Silence.

  The wind sighed as it shifted direction. Sam looked around him. The old orchard was void of life. That he could see.

  Then he began putting it all together. This hole was not the entrance to any living quarters for the Beasts, but only an exit and entrance hole. He thought for a moment. The land belonged to Norman Giddon; the man who owned the mansion that bordered Fox Estate. "Uh-huh," Sam said. "And the new girl, Desiree, her parents own Fox Estate. Cute. Odds are, she's one of them."

  In the two years that Sam and Nydia had lived next to the old orchard, he had never seen Norman Giddon or any of his company trucks or cars even so much as drive past. The land had once been productive; now it lay barren.

  Sam wondered why.

  Then the wind once more shifted direction, bringing with it a smell that touched and raised the short hairs on the back of Sam's neck.

  The Beasts were close. The smell was stronger than ever. Sam looked up to the Heavens. "I know you're not with me on this one, Dad. I'm on my own, right?"

  The skies remained mute.

  "It's all up to me this time, huh, Dad?"

  The silence prevailed. The wind from the north had ceased. Sam could not hear one audible sound. Not a car, truck, nothing at all.

  He turned slowly in a circle. He could see nothing to alarm him. But he knew the Beasts were very close; he could sense them as well as smell their odious presence.

  It was an aura of evil.

  The Dark One is here, Sam thought. Satan is very near. The Beasts have been here—these Beasts—for a long time. So that means Logandale has been chosen by the Prince of Darkness for his own.

  Sam's smile was a mixture of sadness and understanding as he contemplated his future, and Nydia and Little Sam's future. He would have to pay the local priest a visit. Father Le Moyne appeared to be a sensible, levelheaded person. He had no doubts but that when he laid it on the line for the priest his story would be believed. Chief Monty Draper would be quite another story.

  Sam could almost hear the laughter of the chief.

  Til be back," he spoke to the almost tangible evil that clung to the trees and rocks of the orchard. "Bet on it."

  The wind sighed in reply.

  It was a hot stinking wind.

  FOUR

  Chief Monty Draper looked again at the body of the young woman and once more felt like tossing up his breakfast. Marie Fowler had stiffened in death and was becoming a bit on the smelly side. He fought back his sickness.

  Monty looked at Sheriff Jenkins, looking at him.

  Clark County was a large county, but it was one of the smallest in population. Half of the county was set within the borders of the Adirondack Park, about forty miles from the Canadian border. It was, for all intents and purposes, a peaceful county. The county liked to boast of its good fishing and skiing. One rather well-known ski lodge operated within the county. And there hadn't been a murder in Clark County in two years. Not since those doped up skiers had been found in a naked jumble of sex by the boyfriend of one of the young ladies caught up in the orgy and hauled out a pistol and started blasting away.

  Sheriff Jenkins often expressed the opinion that anyone who would kill someone else over pussy was an idiot. Too much stuff prancing around just waiting for a stiff pecker.

  Sheriff Jenkins turned his gaze from Monty to a deputy. "You got your pictures, Ed?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then somebody cut the poor girl down and cover her up, for God's sake." His voice sounded too loud, too false, too protesting. Shakespeare came to Monty's mind. Pat Jenkins looked back at Monty. "This happen over at Lecoy or Woodburn or Aumsville, Chief, those guys would be running all over the place in a panic, stomping all over the physical evidence and making damn fools of themselves. But I guess you saw worse than this in the big city, right?"

  "Yes," Monty said. "I did. Sheriff, the only physical evidence I found was a basket and a scattering of freshly picked wild flowers."

  "Yeah, I know," the sheriff replied glumly. Why did Monty think it was an act? And why? "And if you didn't find nothing, Monty, not much point in my boys cov
ering the same ground."

  Not very professional of you, sheriff, Monty thought. What the hell is wrong around here? Monty could not shake the feeling. Something is just not right!

  "What do you make of it, Monty?" Sheriff Jenkins asked.

  Monty was careful in his reply. He thought of the priest's description of the cuttings and markings on the man Le Moyne had found. Same markings on the dead girl. He decided he would not tell the sheriff of that. Not just yet. Of course, Monty thought, he could be way off base about this whole thing.

  "I think we got a problem," he said.

  The sheriffs smile contained a hidden meaning. Monty picked up on it but did not know what it meant. "You care to elaborate, Monty? That we got a problem is obvious."

  Don't tell him! That leaped suddenly into Monty's brain. "The girl was tortured; cut many times with a sharp instrument." He would not be the one to bring up strange markings. If the sheriff didn't mention it, then that would prove to Monty that something odd indeed was going on. "The girl's genital area was mangled." Monty chose his words very cautiously. "She was raped; no doubt about that."

  "By one big-hung sucker," a sheriffs deputy said with a nasty grin.

  "Yeah," the sheriff said, a grin slipping onto his lips. It faded as quickly as it came. "Go on, Monty."

  The sheriff thought rape amusing. Yeah, Monty thought. About as amusing as a crutch. And the deputy, Vernon Parish, was behaving even more oddly than ever.

  Vernon was the locally based deputy. He did not like the chief of police and the feeling was very mutual. Vernon was poorly educated and a cruel and sarcastic man. He was not a good deputy, but was well liked by most in the community. And that was something that Monty could never understand, for the man was too heavy-handed in the few arrests he did make.

  Personally, Monty thought the deputy an asshole. That feeling worsened when Monty learned the man abused his wife, slapping her around from time to time. Vernon was fond of saying, "Got to keep the broads in line, you know."

  He also beat his kids, sometimes savagely. His son, Fred, was a sullen, uncommunicative boy. His daughters, Judy and Anne, were pretty girls, and, as far as Monty could determine, good kids. He felt sorry for Vernon's wife, Susie.

  Monty said, "She was tortured and beaten and God only knows what else. But not around this area." Why did I say that? he thought. "She was brought in here and strung up."

  Again, he thought: why did I say that when I don't believe it?

  "By more than one person?" Jenkins asked.

  "By several, would be my guess."

  "Why was it done to her?" Jenkins pressed.

  Monty shrugged. Forces battled within him. Suddenly, he did not trust Sheriff Pat Jenkins. Suddenly, Monty didn't know who to trust. Or why he felt that way.

  He loaded his next comment. "I think it was done by a bunch of crazies; probably all doped up. And I don't believe it was done by local people. I think they did the deed and then moved on. I doubt we'll ever find out for sure."

  Was it Monty's imagination, or did Sheriff Jenkins suddenly relax. No, it wasn't his imagination. The sheriff seemed looser, calmer.

  Monty caught Deputy Parish looking at him, a strange sort of smile on his face. A smile of … satisfaction. Yes. That was it.

  Something odd going on around here. Something between Jenkins and his deputy. But what? Monty mused.

  He didn't know.

  And he was oddly afraid of finding out.

  "You a damn good cop, Monty," Sheriff Jenkins said. Was that a smirk on his face? Yes, Monty thought. It was. "A damn fine cop. I think you hit the nail right on the head on this one. Sure do. We'll just leave it at that; maybe let the state boys handle it. They like all that gory stuff. Don't you worry about any report, Monty. I'll take care of all the paperwork." The sheriff left.

  I'll just bet you will, Pat, Monty thought. I just bet you will.

  The body of Marie Fowler was loaded into the back of an ambulance. A blanket covered her tortured body. The driver headed for the county seat, Blaine. Only five towns in Clark County: Blaine, the biggest town, followed by Lecoy, Woodburn, Aumsville, and Logandale.

  The big hospital that served the entire county was located in Blaine, although Logandale and Woodburn did have very respectable clinics and several good doctors.

  Vernon looked at Chief Draper, and, without speaking, strolled off, got in his county car, and pulled out. Monty stood in the middle of the orchard with one of his men, Joe Bennett.

  "Chief?"

  Monty glanced at the man.

  "I don't like none of this worth a shit."

  "Neither do I, Joe," Monty admitted. "But keep that to yourself. I'm getting—bad vibes about this whole thing."

  "Yeah. Me, too."

  Monty looked toward the Mayberry house. "Odd," he said.

  "What's that, Chief?"

  "All this activity and Judith hasn't made an appearance. Or no one else, for that matter. Don't you find that strange?" That word again.

  "1 was thinking the same thing. It ain't like these folks."

  "Let's go up to the house."

  Some people claim they can sense when a home is empty. That the home emits a lonely type of force, or message. Whether or not there is any truth in that, both cops felt better when they rested their hands on the butt of their pistols.

  "1 just don't like the feeling I'm getting, Chief. I just flat don't like it."

  "I know the feeling, Joe. But settle down. Seeing that Fowler girl has unsettled you."

  "Something sure as hell has," the cop admitted.

  Monty knocked on the back door. After a moment, he told Joe to stay there while he went around to the front. The front door was locked.

  "Joe!" he called. "See if the back door is locked."

  "It ain't," Joe returned the shout.

  Together, with Monty leading, the men entered the silent house. They noticed the electric coffee brewer, still on, a full pot of coffee. Strips of bacon laid out in an iron skillet, uncooked. A setting for one at the kitchen table, unused.

  For the moment, the men went no further than the kitchen. Both of them experienced the hard sensation of something being very wrong.

  "Take the house to the left, Joe," Monty said. "I'll check the one to the right. Ask if anyone saw Miss Mayberry today."

  "Something awful wrong in town, Chief. And I mean the whole town."

  "I know, Joe. You haven't mentioned to anybody about what Father Le Moyne saw last night, have you?"

  "Not a word, Chief."

  "O.K. Let's go."

  "Yes, Chief," a lady said. "I saw her earlier this morning, out in the orchard, picking wildflowers. But that's the only time I saw her."

  The lady could definitely use a good scrubbing, Monty thought. She smelled very bad. Come to think of it, Monty mused, a lot of folks around town the last three-four days have needed a good bath. Strange. Damn! that word again.

  So the basket and the flowers did belong to Judith. But where was Judith?

  And the smelly lady showed absolutely no interest in what had just transpired in the orchard. Strange. Crap! Come on, Monty—find another word.

  "Ah—Mrs. Clemmings, you haven't noticed anything out of the ordinary this morning, have you?"

  "Not a thing, Chief. I've been here all morning. Haven't seen a thing."

  Somehow, her reply was not unexpected to Monty. "I see," he said slowly. "You didn't notice large groups of men, an ambulance, nothing like that?"

  "Why—no, Chief," she said.

  What was wrong with her eyes. They seemed so . . . so dull and lifeless.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Clemmings. You've been very helpful." And for God's sake, lady, take a bath! You're a one-woman hog pen.

  Monty walked slowly to the rear of the Mayberry house. The woman had seen or heard nothing! Four police and sheriffs department vehicles and one ambulance, and the woman had heard nothing. He knew she wasn't deaf; she had admitted being in the house all morning. So that left one a
lternative: she was lying.

  But why?

  He looked up to watch Joe walking slowly toward him, a very puzzled expression on his face. Monty felt he knew the reason for the puzzlement.

  "Chief, either we got the most unobservant and deafest folks in all of northern New York State, or we got a bunch of bald-faced liars. Take your pick. And these folks are beginning to stink like polecats."

  "I know what you mean, Joe. Nobody has seen or heard a thing. Strange." That word again. Monty made a mental note to avoid using it.

  "Strange isn't the word I'd use, Chief."

  "Oh?"

  "Weird."

  "Yes. That, too. Let's take a walk in the orchard before we prowl the house. I want to go over every inch of that old orchard."

  "What are we looking for?" Monty glanced at the man. Joe was more than his assistant; the men were good friends. Joe was the oldest and most stable of all Monty's men. "I don't know, Joe. I just don't know."

  In the rolling ambulance, beneath the blanket that covered her tortured and mangled body, Marie Fowler twitched her fingers. She opened her eyes. They were not the eyes of the living. They were dull, unfeeling, evil eyes of the undead.

  Marie felt no pain. She was no longer of the living world. Her body had not yet been washed of the blood that streaked her marked nakedness, so no one among the police or the paramedics had noticed the tiny fang marks on her neck. They were her vaccination against almost everything pertaining to the human side of living.

  Marie was weak. She had lost much blood, and her new form of unlife craved the hot, salty taste of fresh, living blood. She was fully cognizant of what had happened to her; fully aware of her new life-form. She harbored no ill will toward those that changed the direction of her human life, for in this form, she would know eternal life, barring no unforeseen difficulties, such as humans wielding pointed stakes or holy water.

  She pushed the blanket from her and wrapped herself in a hospital gown. She looked around. The driver and his partner were chatting. Marie smiled; a grotesque grimace, exposing teeth that had become pointed. Her lips were chalk white, her tongue a swollen bright red.