Tommy's face was damp with perspiration and with the clinging moisture that suffused the air. The cup rippled, the spiral at the end of the horn whirled impossibly. He couldn't quite make out the color of it. Designs spun across the polished surface, and something brilliant and glittering winked at him from the rim.
Tommy shuffled closer and felt the damp soil soak the knees of his jeans. Greene smiled, but it transformed his narrow features into an expression so alien to the shopkeeper's visage that Tommy shook his head slowly back and forth to refocus and bring it into perspective. His thoughts grew slow and thick. He saw the vines rise to circle Greene's form almost entirely. They were thicker, and they trailed down into the Earth and danced about Silas Greene like green, leafy serpents.
Tommy came within reach, and he felt something grip his hair hard, tilting his head back. The horn was brought to his lips and upended. Hot, slick liquid oozed over the lip of that chalice and down his throat. He fought at first, but he was held easily, and the thick liquid flowed in and down, cutting off his breath completely.
He arched his body, uncertain if he was fighting against the grip in his hair and his slipping consciousness or diving forward into darkness. The hold in his hair was released, and at the same time the arm supporting him fell away. He toppled backward. The drop to the ground took years, and he didn't feel the impact of his shoulders on the trail, or the crack of his head on a loose stone. He felt nothing, saw nothing, though somehow he was still aware of the sensation of falling. He couldn't focus his vision, but he sensed the sky far above, the branches of the trees with their glowing nimbus of morning sunlight, and those antlers, stretching out and twining with the trees, winding in and up, down and out to encompass the mountain and the stone, the valleys and the rivers.
Tommy closed his eyes. Things moved around him and over him, things that he knew he should be trying to brush away, but he heard voices as well, and they called his name. The taste of the drink lingered. At the same time that he thought it strange to say so, he knew that it tasted—green. He concentrated on that for a second and the image of sap oozing from a spike driven deep into an ancient oak tree merged with that of small dewdrops falling from the blossoms of flowers so brilliant in hue and heady in scent they swirled his thoughts off and away.
He saw someone walking, someone smaller than himself, and familiar. It was a girl. Her long dark hair trailed after her and spread out like a cape. She ran, her feet bare and the grass beneath them greener than any he'd ever seen. He knew that hair—knew the face that he would see if she stopped or turned. His heart lurched.
The green taste became his breath. It permeated his mind and flowed into his limbs. He thought of the girl's face and he grew thick with desire. He shivered, and the sap seeped through his groin and lent its strength to his already painfully hard erection. His hips lifted from the ground, and he tried to call out to the girl, to make her turn and see him, to stop her and draw her back where he could touch her, gaze into her eyes and share the heat and drown himself in her and fill her. He tried to bring her back to where he could see her eyes.
All the while, a voice whispered in his ear. Most of the words were jumbled and lost—or filed away. He heard the girl's name, Elspeth Carlson; it shivered through him and raised him from the ground again, wiping the next sentences from his conscious thought and dropping him back into the stream of sound around some bend. He knew that name, had breathed it into the darkness more than once and dreamed it into his life, despite the unlikelihood of such an event ever transpiring.
The girl disappeared into the distance; her image dissolved into the trees and the branches. The sunlight was warm, and he felt wind on the damp, chill sweat that coated his face. He could not breathe—felt as if he had not breathed since that horn cup had been held to his lips and tilted. In that instant, he saw the old church; its faded walls gleamed white and its steeple jutted into the sky, a sharp, one-finger salute to Heaven.
Tommy gasped air through the thick, sticky mess that filled his throat and coughed violently. His hands dropped to the ground at his sides and he dug his fingers into the dirt, dragged his nails deeper and gripped until his knuckles threatened to pop through the skin or explode from the pressure. He coughed again and bile-coated chunks spewed from his mouth in a stream. His head pounded. He tasted sweet air and dragged it into his lungs in great heaving gulps. He lay flat on his back, fighting for the breath he'd been denied before passing out.
In those moments, he saw how death could come without warning. He would not die this time, but this was a wake-up call. You could drive down the mountain, park your truck, walk into the woods and die. It was that simple.
As his breathing steadied, his awareness of his surroundings returned. He felt the press of grass and dried leaves against his back and the knot where he'd cracked his head on the rock. He heard the chirruping cry of crickets in the shadows and the flapping of wings overhead. The sun was not as bright as it should be, and for a moment he thought there would be a storm. Then he lifted his arm and glanced at his watch, and sat upright as though stung by a hornet.
The quick motion was a mistake, and vertigo struck hard. He leaned forward and placed his head between his knees. His mind whirled. It was after six in the evening. When he and Angel had come down the mountain, it had only been one o'clock.
Angel.
He turned, but Angel was not beside him on the ground, or anywhere in sight. Shadows encroached on the path from all sides, and only the slightest hint of sunlight glowed about the trees. Tommy scanned the trail, and the trees beyond it, but there was no sign of Silas Greene, or of antlers. The thick, ropy vines that had erupted from the earth were nowhere in evidence, and the ground where Greene would have stood, if he'd been there at all, was as undisturbed as any other patch of trail in sight.
He found his hat on the ground at his side, lifted it and brushed the dirt from it carefully before sliding it back onto his head. His throat hurt like hell, and there was an awful, bitter taste in his mouth. He'd tried an acorn when he was much younger, not listening to his father's warning about the taste. This was like that, only worse, so bitter that even the act of trying to spit it out drew new spasms of disgust. At the same time, he felt the ghost flicker of desire sizzle down the back of his throat. Elspeth Carlson's face flashed through his thoughts, and then was gone.
He rolled back to his knees and stumbled to his feet, brushing the grass and dirt from his clothing absently. He couldn't remember exactly what had happened, but he knew what he had to do. He turned toward Greene's store and the parking lot beyond.
As he walked, he brought back the fleeting images of Elspeth Carlson. The bitter taste in his mouth tingled and his jeans felt very tight. Tommy shook his head and tried to concentrate on something other than long dark hair and longer legs. He broke through the trees and rounded the building at a trot.
He'd been afraid he would find himself abandoned, Angel long gone and a five mile hike back up the mountain still in front of him, but the truck was there, right where they'd parked it. He caught sight of a quick burst of flame, and knew Angel had lit a cigarette and was waiting.
Tommy rounded the truck and slid into the seat beside his brother, who turned the ignition key the moment they were both seated. Without a word, Angel flipped on the headlights, backed out of the small parking lot in a whirl of dust, and turned the nose of the truck down the lower fork of the road toward the base of the mountain, and the city of San Valencez.
Tommy didn't ask where they were going; he knew. Their father was not going to be happy about them taking off in the truck, but somehow Tommy understood that things were different now. What Pa wanted had always been law, but laws change, and there had definitely been a shift on the mountain.
Remembering something, like a long-forgotten dream rising to the surface of his mind, he slid his hand into his pocket. There was a crumpled paper there, and he pulled it out, almost groaning as his fingers brushed against his throbbing erection.
He smoothed the paper on his thigh. There was a lot of work to do, and not a lot of time to do it. The list was a start.
In silence, the truck wound down and away from Silas Greene's store. Behind them, Silas stood in the doorway and watched until their taillights had rounded a bend, far below, and slipped out of sight. Turning and opening the door to his store, Silas did the same.
FOUR
Irma Creed lay alone in her bed, wrapped tightly in her shabby sheets and a quilt her mother had given her. She stared at the lone window straight into the face of the nearly full moon. She saw the tops of the trees and the higher peaks beyond her own. She had her Bible open and leaning against her bony knees. One hand rested on top of the pages to hold the book open to the words she was no longer reading. Her forehead ached. She wanted to touch it. She wanted to soak it in cold water and soothe the pain. She wanted to take so many pain-killing pills that she would forget. Except she wouldn't. Of all the many things Irma knew, this was most certain. She would never forget what ached on her forehead. Her free hand, the one not resting on the Bible, inched closer to her thigh and she trembled. Her hand slid closer still, the nail of her thumb brushed against her skin and her face flushed with heat. There was a scent in the air, deep and damp, like the loamy earth beneath a tall pine after a summer rain. She thought of droplets of sap bursting through the bark and the strength of the trunk, shooting into the sky in defiance of the heavens. The scent filled her mind and she pressed her palm so hard into the pages of the Bible that her knees nearly buckled from the strain. She tore her gaze from the window and stared at the pages before her, the bright, white paper and the beautiful, close-set words. The pages were illuminated, and since she could not clear her mind enough to read, she studied the designs and ran her gaze up and down the intricate scrolls and images of angels with swords and trumpets. Sweat dripped from her chin and dampened the sheets of her bed, and the tremble became a shaking that made her gasp aloud with its intensity.
Her vision blurred as the sweat burned the corners of her eyes. The swirling tapestries of the illumination shimmered. Serpents twined with the banners and fanciful letters, turned to vines, and back again to serpents. All of the words had gone pale. She could read none of it. Then, starting at one corner, and then the other, curling down in a sweeping curve, the designs became great antlers, the branches piercing the page like thorns, tearing the paper and rending chapter and verse.
Irma's heart pounded and she felt the pulse in the veins of her neck rush behind her ears like a swollen river. She grew light-headed, and the heat that rose flushed the skin of her neck and down to her breasts. Her thighs parted slightly, and the book, which she still pressed down on so hard her arm shook from the pressure, collapsed between her knees, slammed painfully on the fingers of her hand and closed with a snap. Her forehead throbbed, and she wanted to reach up to that mark, to claw at it with her long nails and flay the skin from her bones, but she could not. Her hands were busy at other things, and her Bible lay forgotten on the sheets, its covers slicked with her sweat, until her writhing cast it from the bed to land face down on the floor.
The room lost focus. A breeze brushed her damp skin; impossible where she lay, alone in her bed with the windows closed tightly. Beneath her back the soft sheets and mattress gave way to grass and overhead the ceiling of her bedroom was erased by an endless expanse of dark, brooding clouds with the silvered hint of moonlight at their edges and the scudding speed and purple backlight of a storm. Lightning flashed, and she arched off the ground, her shoulder blades digging into the ground and her hips thrusting up and into the embrace of the wind.
A voice called out from very far away. The words were caught in the breeze, which rose suddenly to a wind, and blown aside before she could make sense of them. She squirmed. Her palms slid up and down her thighs and the ache in her forehead was matched by a wash of desire so intense she cried out.
The voice rose again. This time she was able to make out her name before a cold wind slammed the sound from her mind. The chill of that blast cleared her thoughts. She shook her head and tried to regain control. She caught a swatch of color and groped with mental fingers to draw it near. It was not the green of grass, or the purple light of the storm. It was a single red square. She knew it, knew what it was and where it had come from, but she had to force her mind to draw the information to the surface. The quilt—it was one of the squares of her mother's quilt.
Her bedroom snapped back into focus and a jolt of energy sizzled through her, starting at the top of her head and crackling along the length of her body. She thought of the lightning and cried out again, but the only pain was the pounding in her forehead. Whatever had gripped her was gone. For now. She felt things crawl over her. Tongues and flesh pressed to her skin, lingering in passing and drawing her along. She lifted herself from the mattress and pressed after that touch, but it was gone, and in the void it left behind, the voice became clearer.
Someone was pounding on her door and calling her name. Irma shook so violently she thought she would vomit. She sat up shakily, wrapped the quilt around her thin shoulders, and stepped to the window. She glanced down the wall of her cottage toward the front, but she couldn't make out who was there. The muffled voice sounded frightened, or angry.
She tried to call out to whoever it was to go way. She didn't want to see anyone, but more than that, she didn't want to be seen. She didn't want to be touched, and she was certain that no amount of strong soap and hot water would wash the slick, unclean sensations from her flesh. Her gaze passed over the trees, and, just for a second, she smelled that scent again, almost tasted the green sap on her tongue. Then it was gone, and with a sigh she left the bedroom and stumbled down the short hall toward her front door.
As she neared the door, she recognized the voice of Ed Murphy. She could count the times they'd spoken on the fingers of one hand, but she knew the voice. She'd watched Ed and his boys come up and down the mountain for years. She'd run the boys off her land more than once when they were in their sauce, but she'd never run them too hard. She'd always hoped Ed would come to talk with her about them—or about anything.
In Irma's daydreams Ed Murphy came around often, rough on the outside, but soft spoken. His coarse manners and stoic features gave him an aura of danger that Irma secretly found intoxicatingly attractive. The three of them, Ed, Tommy, and Angel, had lived alone for nearly ten years, ever since little Anna Murphy had taken ill.
Anna had been dark and slender, speaking only enough to get by, whether because she feared her husband or because her English was poor none of them ever knew. She'd been a Mexican girl, and winters on the mountain had eventually taken their toll. It was a long way to a decent doctor—even further to San Valencez, and the hospital. Anna Murphy hadn't been taken there until it was far too late, and when Ed's truck had wound its way back up the mountain, he was alone.
Now he was at Irma's door, and she was afraid to open it. She knew how she must look. God, she knew how she must smell. Her hair was a mess, and she was still dressed in her nightclothes beneath the quilt. What would he think? What would he do?
Visions of the forest flashed through her mind. She remembered the fire, and the dance. She remembered the low, chanting voice that had been a blend of all their voices, and something greater at the same time. And she remembered the hot, blinding fear as they toppled one over the other, kicking and screaming, fighting to get free of that clearing and the forest—the laughter that dogged their steps.
And she remembered Ed. Very suddenly, and very clearly, she saw his face, contorted with fear—and something more—falling away before her. She had landed across his legs. He'd been directly behind her during that dance. She shivered again. He had been so close to her, his hips moving in time with hers, their skin never touching—until the end. How had she not known? How…
"Irma!" He was still there. "Irma, come out here. I need to talk to you. My boys have gone."
The jumble of his wor
ds finally sorted itself, and she shook off the last cobwebs of vision. She cleared her throat to be certain her voice would not be weak, or break as she answered.
"Give me a minute, Ed," she called out. "I need just a minute."
He kept on talking, but she closed her mind to it and stumbled back into her bedroom. She dropped the quilt and slipped quickly into jeans and boots. She pulled an old flannel shirt off the chair beside her bed, put it on and buttoned it as quickly as her trembling hands could manage.
She glanced only very briefly into the mirror, ran her hands back through the stringy length of her light brown hair helplessly, and wished she hadn't looked. Then, fighting to calm herself, she went back down the hall and opened her door.
Ed stared at her, his hand still poised in midair where he'd pounded on the wood of her door. His mouth dropped open, and he took a half step back before he caught himself and slapped his mouth shut.
"Jesus," he muttered softly, "you look like hell." Irma flushed, then bit her lip and stood her ground. Ed Murphy ordered his thoughts carefully. He wasn't a stupid man, but he was careful. He liked to have his words planned several minutes in advance, and for this reason most folks on the mountain thought he was slow.
"I," he began, then thought about it for a minute, letting his gaze drop to the ground, then raising it again with purpose, "I need your help, Irma. I'm sorry for what I just said. It's Tommy and Angel. I sent them down to Greene's Store early this afternoon. I haven't seen them or the truck since. I know they'd have to pass back by here to get home…"
There was a question lingering at the end of his words, and Irma shook her head, still not really trusting her voice. Then she added, "I didn't see them going or hear them coming, Ed."
He nodded almost absently. His concern over his boys seemed genuine enough, but something else was eating at him, something more important, or more powerful. Since he didn't speak immediately, Irma looked him over carefully, hoping to find a sign of what was really on his mind—hoping that she knew—afraid that she might.
A Haunting of Horrors: A Twenty-Novel eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult Page 401