The sun crossed over noon and headed down the side of the mountain, and when he heard the door to the church pulled closed, he raised his head, scanned the half-empty pews and the fearful, expectant eyes, and began to speak. The words flowed easily, and he scarcely recognized his voice. To Abe it was his father's voice speaking through him. The words were gifts he'd held and treasured, and now returned.
He followed the rituals precisely. They expected no less. He spoke, and when the moments arrived, they responded. It was acknowledgment of his leadership. Together, they offered themselves, body and spirit, mind and soul to the mountain, and called for it to lend its strength in return. The air was electric with energy, and when their voices rose in song they shook the stone walls and shivered through the stone beneath them.
It was a short service, and when it was complete, they sat in silence. Their heads were bowed, and Abraham lowered his as well. He scarcely recalled what he'd said, but he knew that every word had been correct. He had not faltered in his litany, and they had not failed to respond.
He didn't raise his gaze from the stone altar, but he spoke again.
"I am the heart," he said. "I carry the blood of my father, and the blood of your fathers. I carry the blood of the mountain. Who will be my arm?"
Silence followed, then, drawn by the moment and the words, Harry George stood and stepped into the center aisle. He knelt there on the cold stone and responded.
"I will be your arm. I bear the sword of truth." Harry rose, and stepped up to stand beside Abraham. When his head was bowed, Abe spoke again.
"Who will balance my arm and carry the light of the sun to the shadows of the world?"
Jacob rose without hesitation and knelt as Harry had. "I will bear that light," he said. Then he rose and joined Abe and Harry behind the altar.
The ritual was the calling of the elders. Some of those who'd stood beside his father that long ago night remained, and he'd known they would stand with him. The others he was less sure of. It wasn't enough to answer the call. There were duties and responsibilities for each of them, and none of it could be neglected. If any single section of the cross he was forming failed, they all failed.
Abe took a deep breath and continued.
"Who will be my eyes and my ears? Who will watch the sky and lay their ear to the mountain's bone? Who will be my head?"
Barbara Carlson rose without hesitation. She stepped into the center aisle, stared straight ahead, then knelt and laid her forehead to the stone floor.
"I will be your head," she said in a strong, even voice. "I will watch the sky and hear the mountain."
She rose, walked to the altar, and turned. She knelt before the altar, her back to Abe, and bowed her head.
This was the moment of truth. None of the others present had been an elder in Jonathan Carlson's day. There were plenty of the faithful on hand, but that would not be enough. Someone needed to step forward and complete the cross.
"Who will be my back?" Abe asked solemnly. "Who will bear the weight of our sin and the flag of our hope? Who will watch what has come before for the truth of what shall be?"
There was a rustle of feet. Someone coughed. Abe's brow coated in sweat, and his heart raced. If none stepped forward the ritual would be broken.
A throat cleared, but Abe did not raise his eyes. He could not lead them into this choice, and he didn't trust his eyes not to show the desperation he felt. He tried to wipe thoughts of Katrina away and to concentrate, but he heard her voice echoing in his head. "No secrets."
Footsteps rang on the stone, and then stopped. "I will be your back."
The voice wavered slightly. It was high pitched, but it carried nicely. Abe breathed a sigh of relief. It was Cyrus Bates. Cyrus was older than any of them. He'd been on the mountain when Abe's father first stepped to this pulpit. He had never been an elder, but he'd seen more sunrises and sunsets on the mountain than any living being Abe knew of. Rail thin, but with the lean strength of a rawhide whip, Cyrus was the perfect completion to the cross. He knelt in the aisle slowly. The silence was deep and edged with power. Cyrus spoke again.
"I will bear the weight of the sins of our fathers. I will bear the flag of our faith. I guard what has come before that we may plan for the future."
He rose and climbed onto the altar. He passed Jacob so closely that the sleeves of their shirts brushed. Cyrus took his place directly behind Abe and the four of them remained in place for a moment of silence. Abe raised his head and swept his eyes over the small gathering. At that moment he felt as if he could face down any threat. He was ready to step over the altar of the white church, sledgehammer in hand, and turn the pool and its false promises of cleansing into rubble.
He knew these were dangerous thoughts, and he suppressed them quickly. He concentrated and the words returned him to the moment.
"We are complete and stand as one," he said. "The heart beats, the sword and the sun stand ready, the eyes and ears are vigilant, and the weight of darkness cannot shake us."
"Amen." This single word was formed of all their voices. It was one sound, one voice, powerful and sure.
Abe scanned the faces uplifted before him. He couldn't see the elders, but there was plenty of time for that. The five of them would leave the church and climb the mountain to the cottage when the service ended. There were secrets to be shared, and not much time remained for that sharing.
He saw no doubt. Each of them met his gaze with confidence and a bright, burning light in their eyes. Most of them had lost someone to the white church below. Most of them had sat on these same stone pews when Abraham's father taught his message of peace and unity. Each bond drew them together more tightly. The room hummed with an energy and light that could not have been explained by the day's bright sunlight, or the whisper of voices.
He didn't speak again. He pulled the cross, with its gleaming, equal arms from beneath his shirt and held it in his hands. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. As he stood there, Barbara Carlson kneeling before him, Cyrus Bates at his back, and his two arms, Harry and Jacob, their heads bent in equally solemn postures of prayer, standing to either side, the moment dissolved.
He heard them rise. He heard the shuffling of their feet, and the whisper of their voices. He heard them leave, one by one, stepping into the late afternoon sunlight and dispersing like dust in a strong wind. When he finally raised his head and surveyed the chapel, it was empty.
"Will they come?" he asked. The words weren't directed at any one person, but at all four of those who remained.
"They'll come," Cyrus spoke from behind him. "A lot of bad, dark things have happened on this mountain. There's a lot of water under a lot of bridges. Their kin are dancing with the devil in that white abomination on down the mountain, and when it comes to family, they will always come. The blood flows in and out of the stone."
Abe felt the truth of it. He heard whispered voices belonging to none of those present, and he thought he recognized those of his parents in the mix. He was alive with a vitality he could not explain.
"We have a climb ahead of us," Barbara said. She rose and turned. "We'd best get to it."
Abe nodded, and they followed the others out the front of the old church. They turned up the second trail, and Abe marveled at how clear the ground was. The encroaching, shadowy branches of the trees had lifted away, and the ground was free of branches and leaves.
"No secrets," he whispered under his breath.
He felt mocking laughter in the wind. In two hours the sun would set. They climbed quickly, and they did not look back.
TWENTY-TWO
Angel Murphy sat against the wall of the barn and stared at his captive. He was cloaked in shadow, out of her sight, and she had no way to know he was there. He'd watched her off and on from the moment he'd laid eyes on her. She was a pretty girl, and her fright only served to enhance this. Angel hadn't seen a pretty girl in a very long time, other than cousins and a few too young, or old, to be of interest.
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bsp; The air in the old barn was musty. The animals were pastured, so there were no scuffling hooves or grunts in the background. Angel wished there were, because it could have masked any sounds he might make. He didn't want her to know he was there. Not yet. He didn't want to hear her voice again until he had to. It was too easy to imagine things she might say, promises she might make if she were frightened enough. "Watch her," Silas had said. "Watch her carefully, but don't touch her. We may need her before this is done." The problem was that despite Silas' orders, Angel needed her now. He had stood silently by as his brother Tommy hunted down the Carlson girl. Elspeth was too young, Angel thought, too naïve and not yet fully formed. She was a girl, but Angel needed a woman. She squirmed in her bonds and shifted against the far wall. The sunlight that leaked in through the front door of the barn slowly spread across the floor toward her. Already one of her feet and a single slender ankle poked into the light. As the sun lowered in the west, more of her would be illuminated, until just before twilight fell, she'd be lit and fully visible, bound and dusty from her struggles.
Angel couldn't see her clearly, but he remembered a single strand of dark hair that curled down along her neck. It had matted with sweat and tears the day before, then streaked as dust plastered it to her face. Angel wanted to brush that strand of hair back. He wanted to lay his palm flat on her face and turn her eyes up to meet his gaze. He wanted to see what the hunger in his eyes brought out in her own. He still tasted her fear.
The girl shifted again, and her calf slid into the beam of sunlight. Angel traced the curve upward and remembered strong thighs, slim hips. Her hair distracted him. It was long and dark, like his mother's hair had been. He thought about running his fingers through it—gripping it and holding her still so that he could see her eyes. He grew uncomfortable and sat up a little straighter.
He knew that services had begun below. The church was lit brightly, and the girl, Elspeth, would soon taste the pool, and the cleansing. Angel remembered that pool. He remembered Reverend Kotz, as well. He wasn't as old as Silas, but he was old enough to remember that time before. He'd seen the dark, horned shadow and felt the touch of those deep, ancient eyes when he was a boy. He had made the forced march down the center aisle of the church so long ago that it played like a dream in his mind. His father didn't know. Tommy suspected, but even his little brother didn't know all the truth.
Angel kept his secrets to himself. He shared some things, like Janis Joplin and Bobby McGee, but the important things—the things that mattered to him and stuck with him, he told no one. Not even Silas Greene knew all of it, though Angel suspected that the man—or whatever he now was—had extracted a good deal more from his mind than it was possible to measure. Greene knew things he should not know, and he knew how to get Angel to do things he didn't necessarily want to do. These were facts Angel had come to terms with, and he made no protest. He didn't want to push it, because he didn't think Silas knew that he still had a choice, and he didn't want that choice removed.
Tommy was led around like a bull with a ring in his nose. Silas snapped his fingers, or waved his shadow horns through the air and Tommy snapped to. Might as well have been a marine, or an altar boy taking orders. Angel did what he was told and bided his time. He had been told to watch this girl, and he had been told to keep her safe. He could do that, and he probably would do that, but it was important to him to know that he did not have to do it. There would be hell to pay the first time he acted on his own, but it was nice to have the hole card up his sleeve, all the same.
The girl stirred again. She wasn't as frightened as he'd first thought, or if she was, she hid it well. Angel watched as she scooted along the wall toward the light, and the door. She was tied carefully, and he knew she wouldn't get free of the binding, but he was interested to see how far she would get—and what she thought she could accomplish wasting her energy scooting along the floor.
She moved like an inchworm. First she kicked her legs forward, gained an inch or two, then dug in her heels and dragged herself along the wall. She used her hands behind her back as well as she could, but they were bound at the wrist and tight up against the small of her back. She'd nearly escaped in the back of Silas' store, and when Angel brought her to the barn he'd tightened the ropes almost cruelly.
She slipped fully into the light, and he caught his breath. The sun caught her full in the face, and she blinked. Her skin was streaked with sweat and dirt. Her hair was matted to her face, and to the side of her neck, but her eyes flashed with anger, and with the effort of each sliding shuffle toward the light. The top button of her blouse was gone, and he saw tanned flesh beneath.
Angel pressed one arm between his legs and with his other hand he braced against the ground. He needed to stand up. He needed to walk away before the heat washed up and over him and he lost control. Silas Greene's dark eyes flashed through his mind, as if searching for him, and he flinched, but he didn't remove the arm from between his legs. He rocked up and back, closed his eyes, and tried to blank his mind.
He didn't quite make it. Darkness filled his thoughts, deep and black, but instead of bringing him peace, another scene shimmered into focus. It was the white church as it had been. It was dark, but light streamed from every window of the place. Low voices rumbled in a rhythmic chant that fell short of music, but resonated through the ground and up through his bones.
He was late. He knew what might happen if he came to the church late. He knew that Reverend Kotz would single him out and draw him to the pool. He'd been to the pool before, and he did not want to go again, but the power of their voices itched at his senses, and the lights blazing from the windows showed him the silhouetted shadows of those dancing within. He thought of the serpents. He thought of the others, dancing so close to one another their flesh shared sweat and their breath heated the body of whoever was closest. He took a step forward, then another—and then he stopped.
Other voices floated through the night. Angel melted back into the trees and slipped through the shadows toward the sound. Everyone who should be in the church was already there. They were all as aware as he was of the consequences of arriving late. There might be others, hiding as he was and wishing they'd been faster, but they would not be singing in the trees.
As he neared the voices he heard footsteps, and he saw wavering lights bobbing along the trail. Angel's thoughts whirled, but he held his silence, and he moved as silently as his slight frame would carry him. He reached a vantage point from which he could see the trail where it approached the church, but not be seen by those walking it, and he waited.
Moments later, the lights came into sharper focus. A small pool of illumination washed over the trees and path and he saw them clearly. It was the reverend from the stone church on the mountain, Reverend Carlson. He held a vial of some sort in his hand, crystal and glittering in the flickering light of torches and candles. Directly before him a woman walked. She held a small brazier carefully in small, slender fingers, and smoke curled up from it to be lost in the shadowed branches above. To Reverend Carlson's left, his brother Jacob walked. Angel caught his breath. On the right side, keeping perfect step with the others, walked his father. Ed Murphy's eyes blazed with light of their own, and his steps were steady.
Another man walked behind Reverend Carlson, but Angel couldn't make out who it was. There was a small group trailing along behind, matching the steps and rhythm of the five who led the way. Angel saw at least one child among them, hanging back near the rear, and recognized Abraham Carlson. He knew Abe vaguely; they'd met a few times, though Abe was several years Angel's junior, and not worth much attention.
He knew almost all of them. Their voices rose in a bright song that echoed from the peaks above and filled the air around them with energy. Angel stepped back a bit further into the shadows, as if that energy might reach out, grab him by his shirt and drag him onto the trail behind them. They were headed straight for the front doors of the white church, and when Angel shifted his gaze back to that
familiar structure, he saw that things had changed inside. The chanting was no less frenzied, and it hummed just as powerfully through the stone underfoot, but Reverend Kotz was moving down the aisle toward the main door, cutting a swath through the others, who fell away like children before him.
Angel caught his breath. He felt the power surging in opposite directions. The grounds between the line of trees and the doors to the church were a battleground. He didn't know how he knew this, but he did. If the ground had raised and rippled toward the group on the path like a giant mole, or a snake chewed it up, Angel would not have been surprised.
Instead, they stopped and stared at the church, and at that moment Reverend Kotz reached the doors and slammed them open, letting the sickly greenish light from within the church leak out around him. He glowed in that backlight and his eyes blazed. Above his head, the antlers rose, tall and dark, and swept through the doorframe and up toward the ceiling inside and the roof beyond.
The voices of the group on the trail didn't falter. They continued their song, and behind Reverend Kotz, the chant droned on as well, louder with the doors open. Bodies swayed and whirled. Serpents lifted their heads toward the rafters and slithered over arms and about the necks of the faithful.
Angel stifled a cry as the mark on his forehead throbbed with sudden pain. He took half a step toward the church, but managed to stop himself. He grabbed the trunk of a tree tightly, closed his eyes and pressed his forehead into the rough bark, moaning at the pain.
A splinter of old wood buried itself in his skin, and Angel pressed off hard. He tumbled away from the barn's wall and rolled in the dirt, both hands clamped to his forehead. A moment later he sat up, spit dirt and old straw off his lips, and stared around himself in confusion. The sun had dropped another foot, but the sunlight still illumined the girl's figure. She leaned against the wall and stared at him. Her expression was startled, and he knew that until he'd made the sound she hadn't known he was there.
A Haunting of Horrors: A Twenty-Novel eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult Page 419