Demon's Delight: An Urban Fantasy Christmas Collection

by Dan Thompson

  Shivering again, Wendy puts the car in reverse, hoping the mundane task of driving will quell her uneasiness, for there is nothing amiss in the neighborhood. She looks in the rearview mirror and reassures herself that all is clear before moving the car out of the parking lot. Once the front wheels break the plane onto the neighborhood street, Wendy focuses more on her evening, and is less apprehensive of the unknown. As the car negotiates the first curve in Jackson Street, she sees a line of dogs, led by Diesel, the missing pet of the kids across the street. He has huge jaws, reddened by what appears to be blood. A closer look tells Wendy the dog’s ruff is also matted with the same substance. Behind him, at least two dozen other canines of various sizes and breeds follow. Their tongues are extended as though from extreme thirst.

  The leader moves into the traffic lane, blocking her exit, then the others form a line across both lanes. The hood of Wendy’s car suddenly compresses as the mastiff jumps onto it, and the dog’s large frame blocks her down-road sight. She notices then the dog’s eyes are red—the color of the blood on its jaws and the western sky. She puts her foot down hard on the accelerator, honks her horn, and the car shoots forward, colliding with several of the lined-up animals. Nausea grips her as the wheels rise and bump, moving over bodies. The mastiff growls deep in its throat as dark red saliva runs from the corners of its mouth. Rabies, she thinks. It must be rabies.

  Wendy guns the motor even more, and twists the steering wheel hard to the right, hoping to throw the animal from the hood, but it hangs on, glaring at her through the windshield. She stops quickly and puts the car in reverse, then backs against the dogs behind her. Again she revs the engine forward in her determination to unseat Diesel from the hood. Slamming the brakes, then reversing again, Wendy hoots triumphantly as the snarling mastiff finally slides to the left side of the vehicle, and falls to the pavement.

  “Got you now!” she growls, insanely happy over her victory.

  She revs the engine again, and the vehicle jerks as it speeds away from the angry dogs. Wendy notices in her rearview mirror that some of them are feeding on their dead companions. She gags and feels her stomach rumble from nausea. The bar is five minutes away, and Wendy can’t wait to order a vodka martini, maybe two.

  Chapter 3

  In a motel on the outskirts of Rosedale, Nebraska, a brown pickup sits in front of a dingy green door with the number “5” painted in white across the top. Inside the room, a double bed with a red and green spread sits next to the east wall, where a faded copy of the Mona Lisa hangs off-center. Elisha Short floats three inches off the floor, leafing through some pictures he was given at the desk. The manager was more than pleased to loan the photos of the city. Not that Short needs pictures to remember the town; he has been here before. Problem is, after all his years, places run together and look alike. A few reminders are all he needs to put the right memory with the right location.

  He moves toward the overhang outside the room and watches the redness continue creeping up in the west. Should have been dark long ago, but it isn’t. Short speaks to the Creator, who assures him the red sky is not His doing. “There are goblins in your part of the world, Elisha. They are a precursor to worse things to come.”

  Short nods, respectful as always. “Any suggestions, sir?”

  “No,” is the answer that comes back through eternity.

  “Yes, sir,” Short says after a bit, “I will do my best.”

  He yearns for an appetite as in old times, when by day he rode hard on a buckskin horse, then settled around a fire at night. But food is not part of Elisha Short’s agenda anymore. Instead, he will study the routes in and out of town, meet some of the people. He must find the demon bringing chaos into the world. That is why he is back, the reason he left Paradise.

  Wendy has two vodka martinis, and as she grows tipsy, the memory of the dogs fades, and she is no longer frightened. Surely she imagined the blood and the determined stance of the big mastiff. Her friends laugh and talk her down from worrying, pointing out how an active imagination, which Wendy has, can make a person see things in the wrong light. But now, when she is alone in the bathroom, she feels panic, wondering if Mr. Kyle made it home without similar visions. Her cell phone is close by, on the paper roll, and she lifts it to call him as she sits. She decides to use the excuse that the last-minute contract signature has her concerned.

  The phone at his home rings several times before voice mail picks up.

  “This is Chuck Kyle. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.” She disconnects the phone, once again feeling foolish.

  Wendy washes her hands and frowns into the mirror; worrying over what she knows was out there. She weaves to the front of the bar, intent on leaving, and sees others standing there, remarking on the red sky that has chased away darkness. The city looks aflame, for reflections from the tall glass-front buildings are colored dark red from above. Streetlights are lit because it is ten o’clock at night, but there is no need, for Wendy and the other city dwellers can see fine in the crimson light. They think it must be an unannounced eclipse on this night before Christmas Eve.

  She leaves her friends to begin the short walk to the parking garage and finds it has emptied in the few hours since her arrival. The open slots on the fourth floor create long, dark shadows on the concrete ramps. The half-walls of the garage allow the red light of night inside, carving out tall columns of metal and concrete into medieval figures. Something is wrong, and Wendy knows she does not want to go home to an empty apartment. A friend would be better at this time, someone to lean on; someone she has slept with in the past. She blushes, thinks of Andrew, and her heart skips a beat. No, she can’t call him; he dumped her for another girl.

  Jimmy Williams’s number is still in her contact list, and she calls him before thinking it through.

  “Hello,” he says. “Who is this?”

  “It’s Wendy. I was at the Chocolate Bar and thought about you.” Her words sound hollow, for she hasn’t thought about Jimmy in six months and alcohol has not made her a better liar.

  “So, what were you thinking? Feeling sorry for old Jimmy?” He sounds bitter.

  She wishes she hadn’t called. “No, not that. I just… I guess I was lonely.” Sometimes the truth is kinder and gets her further than a lie.

  Jimmy is quiet for a full minute, and Wendy almost breaks the silence, but she doesn’t. It is his decision whether she says goodbye now, or hello at the door.

  “Well, okay. Loneliness I can understand. Do you want to come over? This weird thing going on tonight has my dog spooked. Guess it did the same for you. Spooked you, I mean.”

  She was always amazed at Jimmy’s ability to read her mind. That was one of the reasons they broke up. He was just too weird for her—besides, who wants someone knowing what you’re thinking?

  “Yeah, spooky is a good word. Listen, Jimmy, I… don’t want you to think this is a redo of what we had before. It’s just… you know. I don’t want to go home alone.”

  There, she’d said it, the absolute truth.

  “Okay, at least you’re being honest. Come on over. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

  “All right. Give me fifteen minutes,” she says with gratitude. “Thanks.”

  Ten minutes later, a more sober Wendy pulls up in front of Jimmy’s duplex. It is a big rental compared to Rosedale’s normal housing; it’s a place to hide out from whatever is out there. She hurriedly parks the car on the street,then kills the engine. The old memory of being chased brings sudden fear, and makes her look over her left shoulder, expecting to see long fingers ready to grab her arm. Funny, she hadn’t thought about that in a long time. Handbag and keys in her right hand, Wendy uses her elbow to close the door on her way up the sidewalk.

  The red sky has advanced even more; it is three-quarters done, solid-edged, like the bow after a rain. Near the horizon a change has occurred. Orange and yellow streaks, like flames, rise up and extend into the red. Wendy imagines a bright curtain being pulled.
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  After the call ends, Jimmy waits impatiently for her, his excitement mounting each minute. Sure, he knows what she said, and yeah, maybe he gets too needy with girls, but she’s coming back! Elroy, his yellow lab, is antsy; Jimmy thinks the dog smells her, that she is near, that the lab is entranced where he waits by the window to see her cross the concrete sidewalk. Elroy sniffs, briefly howls then drops his head level with his shoulders as something otherworldly enters his brain. Silently the animal turns, eyes fixed on Jimmy, but no longer seeing him. Pushing his ninety pounds to maximum thrust, the dog flies through the air and is on his master; the past, with dog treats and evening walks, forgotten in the taste and smell of hot blood.

  The door is open—Wendy sees a sliver of light from the warm house. She nears quietly, not wishing to draw attention to herself. There was a time when she and Jimmy were together, and the neighbors be damned, but not now. There is enough weirdness in the day already. She leans forward, about to knock and enter with a cheerful greeting, but her footsteps falter. The sharp smell of hot iron pushes her backward, away from the door. It is a smell she remembers. It is the smell of blood. She wants to cough, but is fearful of making any noise. She is afraid of so much, and now this.

  The windows are closed, with blinds drawn except across a single glass pane that faces the sidewalk. Easing her way toward the window, Wendy hunches over as she passes the door. She moves quietly, careful of her footing. There is no movement through the door’s opening, but Wendy is too nervous to chance it, to pull it open. She moves on toward the window, and falls to her knees, wishing she’d changed her skirt to sweatpants. Crawling slowly, she is very quiet and breathes shallowly. A sharp rock gouges her knee through thin cloth, but she bites her tongue into silence.

  The base of the house is pier and beam, an older model from the 1960s, brought from across town after the government closed the air base. Skirting around the base is made of stucco, and is peeling where it touches the ground. Wendy wants to scream as she feels the broken cement cutting the skin on her hands. There are small slithering creatures on the ground, and the crazy redness has tinged everything the colors of blood and fire—even the small bugs that frighten her in the daylight are red slithering things.

  No rain has fallen in Rosedale since September, and the cold temperatures are iceless and snowless, an oddity for this time of year. People have remarked on the drought, wondering about the lack of snowfall—the whole area around Rosedale is at least fifteen inches off for the winter. The hard dirt under Wendy’s hands and knees reaffirms the dryness as she crawls slowly and wonders what the hell she is doing.

  Just below the window, Wendy stops, quietly wipes her hands, and rises on one foot and one knee. She keeps her head low, until finally, in a good position she looks inside, seeing beyond the glass. Her throat dries as she stares directly into Elroy’s cold red eyes. The dog glares, a growling stranger, not the friendly animal she remembers from before.

  On the floor behind the huge dog, Jimmy lies in fetal pose, protecting the vital organs in his chest and midsection. Wendy can see that he is still alive. She can’t tell the amount of damage to his body, but there’s a lot of blood on his shirt and pants. Unconcerned by her presence, Elroy shakes his head and moves back toward Jimmy. Wendy panics at losing eye contact with the big dog, and screams, hoping to get the animal’s attention away from the man. She is both horrified and grateful when Elroy turns back to her. She leans in and beats on the window, challenging the lab to a chase.

  “What the hell am I doing?” she asks. Elroy quickly snarls, and starts for the door, tripping over wrapped Christmas presents lying between Jimmy and the exit. Suddenly Wendy is petrified with fear, just like in her dreams, when the bad thing is on her and she can’t run, can’t move to save her life. But this… this is real.

  She jumps up and sprints for the driver’s door on her car, regretting the long strip of sidewalk she now has to cover. She is reminded of a video from Wild Country, a nature program on television, where lions chase an eland across the open plain. Elroy’s deep chuffs are near, for he is closing in fast, and Wendy is running for her life. She is grateful for her stamina, and even more grateful to the physical education teacher from high school that demanded Wendy inhale-exhale efficiently during exercise.

  The Ford Escort is five years old, a good vehicle, but unequipped with a clicker lock. She must use the key to open the door, but how, when the dog is so near? There is no possible way to get there first. She starts screaming with frustration, holding the key out, ready to insert it, but her hands have panicked also, and she drops the ring just before she gets to the car.

  “No, you bastard, nooo,” she shrieks, reaching for the keys and tripping over her feet on the sidewalk. For just a moment, she can feel the hot breath of Elroy on her neck, and Wendy shudders as her bowels threaten to purge.

  “My God, I’m too young to die,” she screams. “Help me, somebody, help me.” Her strong, flexible knees recover as she regains her balance and bends to grab the key ring off the ground. A quick turn and look-back mesmerize her, for there is Elroy, the largest of the Labrador breed, poised in midair, his front legs frozen in forward motion just above her head.

  “Yes, ma’am, Wendy. Someone heard you,” Elisha Short says. The jeans have been put away and he is tweedy tonight; a sharp sixties blazer of brown and tan oversees a pair of brown and white oxfords. More brown in the pants completes the outfit. Elisha Short likes being well dressed. He tips his Panama hat to the young woman and gets down to the business of saving the day.

  “You have about two minutes to get in your car and leave. This fellow will be waking up soon, and his feet are going to hurt when they hit the sidewalk. Leave by Washington Street and you should miss the others.”

  “But who are you, and oh God, what is going on?” Reaching for the keyhole on the door of her car, Wendy tries to get a clear picture of what has just happened as she opens the door. The booze has left her system, but everything now seems unreal.

  “Well, ma’am, it’s not for you to worry about. Just drive on home, lock the door, pull your curtains, and call your work tomorrow. I wouldn’t worry about going in anytime soon. Many things will happen in this city before that becomes necessary again. Go along now, and remember what I told you. Oh, and if you don’t, watch out for the glass.”

  Sliding into the seat, Wendy quickly locks all the doors and starts the engine. She sees Elroy coming alive in her rearview mirror. Washington Street is down two blocks, and a quick left. After that, it is ten minutes with traffic to her neighborhood. She drives carefully, but fast, on the lookout for crazed behavior by man or beast. A funky odor fills her nostrils, and Wendy knows it is her own fear-sweat. Mama always warned her about that.

  “Spend your money on good deodorant, honey. You come from a line of smelly sweaters.” Seems so long since Mama was still alive. Tears start then, some of them self-pity, and some are for Jimmy. Jimmy, oh God, she suddenly thinks, I forgot about Jimmy. She hits her brakes and the car comes to a quick stop in the eerie red light. She punches in numbers on the phone, but the dispatcher at 911 doesn’t answer. Again she tries, but this time an automated exchange tells Wendy to stay on the line and the phone will be answered within a few moments. She hangs up and calls again, and this time she gets voice mail advising her to stay on the line or leave a message.

  “I’m going home. Send a cop if you need me—I’m at 924 Chestnut, Apartment 3, but first, send an ambulance to 132 Bruton Drive. There’s an injured man that’s been attacked by a dog.” Wendy puts her foot on the gas and drives again, noticing several people out walking with unleashed dogs at their heels. They don’t see her; they are all moving in the same direction and pay her no mind. She looks at the streetlights decorated with Santa Clauses and candles, happy scenes for the season, and wonders if she’ll make it till Christmas Day. It’s only two days away, but things aren’t looking good.

  A three-block stretch is clear, with no stray animals, and Wendy
decides to drive by the office and see if Mr. Kyle’s car is still there. It’s only a short distance from her apartment. She has forgotten the man’s words that she should go home. The two-story building is up ahead, and all on the street is quiet. The house across the road has the curtains pulled, a sign they’ve gone to bed or gone out. It’s something Wendy has noticed in the three months she’s worked in the neighborhood, that people have habits you can depend on. Like Mr. Kyle. He always works late on Wednesdays. And today is Wednesday.

  The Caddie is parked in the boss’s slot; it hasn’t moved since morning. Wendy pulls in, backs, and heads her car into the street, ready to go. She is more cautious since dumping the big mastiff off her hood. The glass in the front door of the office is broken, and the words “Kyle Developments, Charles B. Kyle, CEO” are barely legible as they reflect the weird sky in an alphabet of streaked reds, oranges, and yellows.

  Wendy pushes the door inward, into the front office, and sees her desk is overturned, with numerous papers from the drawers spilled across the beige carpet.

  “Mr. Kyle,” she whispers. “Mr. Kyle, are you okay?” Tiptoeing from her office to his door, Wendy sees prints on the carpet, and recognizes they are dog tracks. Fear makes her move erratically, and she stumbles over a brown Bass loafer, one she has seen before. She remembers the shoes, because her boss was wearing them when he arrived at work earlier in the day. Oh God, she thinks, something has happened to him. Those dogs, she shudders at the thought, they tracked me back here, and Mr. Kyle never knew what bit him.

  Wendy stares through the open inner door into Kyle’s office and is unprepared for the horror. Chuck Kyle has been ripped apart, starting with his vital organs. His body is lying on the floor near the window, as though he made a last stand before trying to escape out back. Wendy moves through the door into Kyle’s office to get a closer look, hoping her employer is not dead. She knows it is a foolish move, because no one could live with the damage that was done to his body.