Daemon of the Dark Wood

by Randy Chandler

  Julie so loved the taste and the sound of her own words that she read them again, this time employing drama-queen inflections in her oral presentation.

  “‘The demon had me pinned to the floor, using her elbows like vices to keep my bent legs immobile as she buried her face between my naked thighs and nipped the tender lips of my sex with her wretched teeth. She had the ungodly strength of ten bull dykes on steroids and I was helpless in her clutches. She looked up at me over my dewy pubic mound and the pale expanse of my flat belly and said with her Hell-coal eyes burning into me: “You belong to me, bitch. There’s no fighting it.”

  “‘There was such evil greed in her eyes that I had to look away. I stared at the door she had knocked half-off its hinges to get at me and I tried my desperate best not to respond to what she was doing to me with her teeth and spirited tongue. But it was no use. Her demonic proficiency had my poor pussy foaming at the mouth with lust and I knew then I was on a one-way slide to Hell, lubricated by my own wanton juices.’”

  Julie liked that last line so much that she had to read it again. She knew a tight-assed editor would accuse her of overwriting that last bit, but Julie knew better now than to ever heed the advice or give credence to the opinions of ignorant editors, snooty critics or detractors of any sort. It had happened just the way she wrote it. She was there, for God’s sake, she ought to know! This wasn’t fiction. This was real-life reportage, gussied up in fictional trappings, of course, because it was going to be disguised as a novel—not presented as a true and felonious confession. Her poor pussy had been foaming at the mouth. And she had nearly lost herself (her writer’s self) to Angela’s bullying seduction. But in the end it was her orgasm that saved her. It was the orgasm that had released the dark power within her and allowed her to fight back with deadly vengeance. She had seized Angela’s head with both hands and gave it such a powerful twist that it felt like she’d wrenched the bitch’s head off her neck. She could still hear the loud snap it made when Angela’s vertebrae ruptured. Her orgasm went on long after Angela fell limp between her legs. She rode those dark orgasmic waves like a cosmic surfer tapping the deepest source in all creation.

  What she’d done to Angela’s body later was done strictly for the sake of her art. For story. The story she was then already composing in her head. To make sure the demon stayed dead, she had to cut out its heart and eat it raw.

  So she did. With a kitchen knife, a metal meat tenderizer to crack the ribs, and tongs to remove the heart. Her detailed graphic description of that anatomical dissection was sure to become the stuff of hardcore horror legend. What other horror writer had sacrificed so much for his/her art?

  Julie pulled a stringy bit of cardiac tissue from between two lower molars, flicked it at the wall, and then went on with her dramatic reading.

  Chapter Thirty

  * * *

  Thorn braked in front of the Leatherwood house and killed the engine. He hopped out of the Triumph and threw up a hand in greeting. Liza Leatherwood was sitting dead-still in her front-porch rocker. She was dressed in black, as if waiting to go to a funeral. Even though she’d obviously taken pains with her makeup, the heavy application of cosmetics could not hide her haggard countenance. Thorn couldn’t help thinking that the old woman looked like she might be a stand-in for a fanciful funeral’s guest-of-honor corpse.

  She rocked forward and gave him a severe look. “Did you do it, professor? Did you keep your promise?”

  Stepping onto the porch, Thorn said, “I did.” Then he remembered she was all but deaf, so he vigorously nodded his head. He pointed to his wristwatch and then held up three fingers. “Three o’clock. He’ll be here.” He pointed down at the ground. “Right here. In about ten minutes.” He held up ten fingers.

  She rocked back and nodded.

  Thorn had been obliged to offer the man at the tree service a hundred dollars extra to do the job today rather than get to it later in the week. He figured it was a good investment, as he was eager to get at the ground beneath the “haunted” tree. The actual archeological dig wouldn’t begin until tomorrow, but Thorn had recruited two male students, Todd Beasley and Jason Darby, to meet him here and be ready to start digging up the dead roots as soon as the Tip Top Tree man felled the tree and removed the stump. They were hearty, strapping young lads and should be able to get the roots out of the way before nightfall.

  A dirty white Toyota pickup truck came up the driveway. Jason Darby waved from the driver’s window as he parked beside Thorn’s Triumph.

  Before she had a chance to ask, Thorn told Mrs. Leatherwood (in words and pantomime) that the boys were going to help dig up the roots.

  The Tip Top Tree Service truck arrived a moment later, towing what Thorn assumed was a stump grinder. The tree man had explained on the phone that the stump grinder could reduce the stump and underlying roots to mulch in a matter of minutes. All Jason and Todd would have to do was shovel that mulch out of the way and dig up any peripheral roots, preparing the ground for tomorrow’s more careful dig.

  “You want to ride with me?” Thorn asked the old lady, pointing at her, then himself and finally at his car.

  With a nod, she stood up and started—wearily but with great dignity—toward his vehicle. He offered his arm but she ignored it and went down the porch steps unassisted.

  When she was settled in the passenger seat, she said, “I’ll tell you how to go. It’s not far. Is this little car safe?”

  “Yes ma’am,” he said, and then remembered to nod.

  “I thank you for getting rid of them dogs.”

  He nodded again. He hadn’t taken time to bury them but instead had dragged them into the woods and left them for the buzzards.

  The three vehicles caravanned down a two-rut road that wound its way along the mountain’s outer contours and deeper into shady trees. Ten minutes later they were there, and Liza Leatherwood pointed a bony finger at a tall, all but leafless tree, its limbs black and twisted against the summer sky.

  “There it sets,” she said hoarsely. “The ghost tree. You’ll find your bones under it, but the poor souls left their bones a long time ago and are trapped in the tree. Bones don’t matter to nobody but you.”

  Thorn cut the engine and opened his door to get out.

  Mrs. Leatherwood said, “You brought your gun like I told you?”

  He opened the glove box and extracted the .45. “Thanks for reminding me,” he said by way of humoring her. He didn’t expect that he’d have to use it again. Just the same, he was glad to have it. Those spooky dogs had thrown him quite a shock in the way they’d tried to attack him. He could almost believe Mrs. Leatherwood’s characterization of them as devil dogs.

  “I have to do something before he commences to cut it down,” she said, opening her door.

  Thorn moved quickly around the car to give her a hand out of the passenger seat. She took his hand and stood with a groan. Then she moved stiffly toward the tree, which stood forlornly on a weedy shelf of mountain ground.

  While the Tip Top man got his chainsaw from the back of his truck and Jason and Todd unloaded picks and shovels from the Toyota pickup, Liza Leatherwood walked out onto the narrow lip of land, reached out her hand and rested her palm lightly against the tree’s thick trunk.

  She muttered words Thorn couldn’t make out, and then she pulled what looked like a pruning knife from the folds of her black dress and used both hands to stick its curved blade into the bark. She withdrew the blade, placed her palm on the cut and shut her eyes, looking as if she were trying to commune with the tree—or with the spirits allegedly trapped within it.

  Todd and Jason joined Thorn in front of the Triumph. “What’s she doing?” Jason asked.

  Thorn said, “Showing respect for the dead. Which is exactly what I want you boys to do when you start digging. As far as you’re concerned, this is hallowed ground.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper,” said Todd, leaning on the handle of his shovel.

  Mrs. Leatherwood l
eaned in closer to the tree and kissed it, then she turned and walked back to the car.

  As Carl the tree man approached the tree with his chainsaw, Thorn suddenly had the feeling that unseen eyes were watching them from the shadowy woods. He touched the butt of the pistol stuck in the waist of his jeans and kept his eyes on the woods beyond the haunted tree.

  * * * *

  Sharyn no longer felt the fear that had driven her to seek refuge in the hospital. The fear had been usurped by intense anticipation, a bone-deep expectancy, born of the furtive knowledge that a momentous event was impending, hanging over her like a fierce blade—not a sword of Damocles, but rather a sword of shining truth. If the truth turned out to be terrible, then tough shit, deal with it.

  She knew she could. Deal. With anything. The thing that had happened between her and Susan Knott was a revelation. Mental doors had slammed shut behind her as spiritual doors opened in front of her. Whatever was going to happen, it was going to happen soon. Tonight. It had to. She couldn’t remain on this razor’s edge of anticipation much longer.

  Her skin nearly jumped off her bones when the ponytailed med nurse knocked on her door and came in with the dose of lithium Dr. Knott had ordered. “Your lithium levels were good,” the nurse explained, “so we’re starting you back on it.”

  Sharyn cheeked the medication and discarded it after the nurse left the room. When the call came again, she would answer it unimpeded by the mind-dulling drug. This time, nature would take its course. She would follow her nature, if not her bliss. She and Susan would go together into that dark night of bright possibilities, and no manmade psychotropic concoction was going to stop them.

  Before the med nurse had left the room, she told Sharyn that Dr. Knott would be in to see her again later in the evening. Sharyn had smiled with the tablet chipmunked in her cheek. Was it too much to hope for? That the good doctor would be here when the last call came? How fitting that would be! How salaciously seductive! The unkindest cut of all, yes. Karma comes calling, Doc, and you’d best not be standing in the way when it does.

  She went to the window and looked out. Harsh sunlight gave everything a sharp edge. The dark green leaves on the magnolia tree were leafy blades thirsty for blood-rain. The lawn below was a blanket of tiny blades, sunny green teeth to chew you up and spit you out before the ground drank your blood. The natural world was a cruel world. Red in tooth and claw. It demanded brutality. Survival depended upon it. Victory belonged to the quickest, the cruelest. That was the way it was, would ever be.

  Deal. And let the sacred cards fall where they may.

  She looked up at the westering sun, the all-seeing eye of fire.

  She didn’t have long to wait now.

  She could feel it coming on hot summer currents, riding waves of inevitability.

  “The goat-man cometh,” she whispered to the room, unable to keep a big grin off her face.

  * * * *

  Rourke was doing paperwork when Alice Marsh entered Gladstone’s office, saying, “I know it isn’t the end of the world …”

  He gave her a puzzled look.

  “Remember? You said don’t disturb you unless it’s the end of the world?”

  He nodded, remembering.

  “But I thought you’d want to know that two more women are missing. Marian Kemp and Charlotte Champion.”

  Rourke bit his lip to keep from cursing. He wanted to set a good professional example now that he was in charge and Sheriff Gladstone’s condition was not much improved. Seeing Alice in a tight uniform tailored to show off every seductive curve of her body, his thoughts were anything but professional.

  “Here are the call notes,” she said as she put two handwritten forms on the desk.

  He caught a whiff of her perfume and vividly recalled the musky scent that had assaulted the search party. “Thanks,” he said.

  As she headed for the door, he said, “Wait. I’ve been meaning to ask you. Have you heard any strange noises outside your home?”

  “No. Just the usual noisy neighbor stuff. Why?”

  He shrugged. “There’ve been reports. Some sort of weird wild animal cry.”

  She studied his face a moment, then came closer, leaned her thighs against the desk and spoke in a low voice. “Rob, what really happened on the mountain this morning? The guys aren’t themselves. They’re … sheepish. They all have this whipped-dog look in their eyes and it’s like they’re afraid to speak of what happened. I mean, I know a poor man was killed by a pit bull but this is … something else.”

  “When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”

  Her mouth fell into a deep frown. Her eyes misted.

  “I didn’t mean to sound so snappish,” Rourke said. “Things happened up there that I can’t explain, and I just don’t know how to talk about it yet. I’m sure it’s the same for the other guys. You had to be there, you know?”

  Alice nodded. “Well, if you ever want to talk about it, I’ll buy you a beer and you can give it your best shot, okay?”

  “Okay. Thanks.” He tried to smile and felt as if he’d suddenly grown heavy jowls that weighted down his lips.

  “You’ll find that I’m a good listener. If you ever take the time.”

  “I will,” he said. “Soon as all this has blown over. I promise.”

  “Good. It’s a date, then.”

  “Yeah, I reckon it is.”

  Pausing at the door, Alice looked back and caught him staring at her backside. She smiled, winked, and went out.

  As soon as the door snicked shut, Rourke felt his face flush flame-red with shame. Busted, you chickenshit hump. Thinking with your peckerhead instead of your brain. And you damn well know why. Because you’re shit scared. Because that monster on the mountain got the best of you. The rain-thing, the screechy-thing, the mind-fucking thing almost made you his bitch and you don’t know how to fight it. Because you’ve been avoiding the truth: you’re a poor excuse for a cop, much less Acting Chief. You’re clueless. Out of your league. Just sit back and lick your wounds, lick your balls, stroke yourself silly because you can’t fight this fiend with the unearthly power to control wildlife and cloud men’s minds with insane lust.

  He rubbed his face with his hands, the coarse stubble bristling and reminding him he hadn’t shaved since yesterday.

  “What the fuck can I do?” he asked his hands.

  You could shave. Or maybe you could get it up long enough to stick it in Alice Marsh but you’re impotent when it comes to fighting the monster. Face it, Deputy: You’re fucked.

  He had recovered one woman—poor Sarah Melton—and Judy Lynn Bowen had escaped on her own, but both women were, in very different ways, mental casualties.

  Rourke had considered calling in the FBI but hadn’t because the women hadn’t actually been kidnapped. How could he explain to a federal agent that a supernatural being was using some sort of mind-control to abduct area women? He couldn’t, not without sounding like a complete idiot or tinfoil-hat kook. The FBI was out. This was entirely Rourke’s problem. A problem he couldn’t solve. The ball was in his court but he couldn’t even see the net, much less take a shot.

  He reached down and drew the pistol from his holster. He stared at it. The so-called equalizer. Felt the gun’s cold dumb weight.

  If I could just get close enough. I could end the bastard’s reign of sick terror. Failing that, I could go out with a bang.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  * * *

  The bear moved through the underbrush with agility that belied its five-hundred-pound bulk. He was ranging far from his usual territory, moving toward the place into which the sun would soon sink for its dark sleep, answering the powerful call the wind had carried to his sensitive ears before sunup.

  The bear had never heard that sound before, yet it seemed familiar, resonating with internal thunder and spurring him on like thorns in his massive flanks long after the call had ceased.

  He had paused in his long journey only long enough to drink from
a cool stream and to eat small portions of sweet berries and tender roots. He had ignored the small female bear he encountered along the way and had gone on without mounting her.

  Now he was nearing the end of his trek. He sensed his destination before he saw it. He heard the weak chattering voices of humans in the distance, just over the next rise. He caught their fleshy scents. The few times the bear had come upon men, he had slipped away unobserved, instinctively knowing that the hairless creatures were best avoided. But now something stronger than instinct drove him. It was that thorns-in-the-flanks feeling that urged him on and angered him. To overcome his fear of men, the anger bloomed into rage.

  Even when the shrill noise of the shiny thing one of the men held in his hands started up, the bear did not shy away or change course. The ugly whining noise grated on his ears, infuriated him, and drew him toward the man with the noisemaker.

  The bear broke cover and charged the man making the offending noise.

  * * * *

  Liza Leatherwood sat slightly slumped in the passenger’s seat of the professor’s sporty little car and held her breath as the tree man touched the chainsaw’s speeding belt of teeth to the bark of the haunted tree. Thorn and the two boys from the college were standing about twenty paces behind the man with the chainsaw.

  Liza had seen many a tree felled in her time. Before Wilbur died, she’d watched him take down three pine trees behind their house with his new chainsaw, so she knew how it was done. She knew the tree man would cut a huge pie-slice wedge out of the trunk in the direction he wanted the tree to fall and then when enough of the trunk was sawn away he would cut through on the opposite side of the tree and then stand back and let gravity finish the job.

  “Lord, I hope this works,” she said, her words unheard over the chainsaw’s racket.