A God in the Shed

by J-F. Dubeau

  HAGEN

  THE PHONE WAS cradled precariously between Hagen’s cheek and shoulder, while his hands were busy. This had been so much easier when he was a kid. The phones were bigger, huge plastic monstrosities that barely required him to angle his head at all. In those days, he could spend hours on the phone without any issue. Electronic companies made a point to brag about how thin their phones were. It was almost impossible to have a conversation without some headset or using the phone’s speakers. Chris didn’t own the former and the latter allowed too much ambient noise. For a moment he smiled, realizing how much like an old man he sounded to himself. Normally, this kind of minor annoyance wasn’t a big deal. After all, long conversations weren’t in fashion anymore. Nowadays, people used e-mail and text messages if they had anything of substance to communicate. But the discussion he was having now was too important to be held over text.

  “Of course I’m being careful.”

  He managed to squeeze in the words between two tirades from the other end of the line. Hagen wanted to put the phone down and give his sore neck a rest. Looking down at his bloody hands, he decided against it for the moment.

  “No one seems to know where it is, no.” By this time, Chris Hagen had spoken to almost everyone in the village, or at least anyone who might have a clue where he could find what he was looking for. There were certain people he had strategically avoided, of course. The Bergerons topped that list, as did Inspector Crowley. The former were easy to avoid, grieving as they were for their poor daughter. But Crowley worked in the public eye. So Hagen had pretended he was hunting the man down to “ask a few questions.” Predictably, the inspector had decided that any journalist who wanted to see him was probably best avoided as well.

  Hagen looked around for something to wipe his hands with. His immaculate suit was nearby, carefully hung on a wooden hanger. The pants were neatly folded, the white-collared blue shirt buttoned on top, his favorite red tie meticulously looped around the neck, his black jacket pressed. Beneath the ensemble sat a pair of polished black leather shoes.

  The ground was packed dirt. The walls, stained concrete. Apart from the single naked bulb that hung from the low ceiling, the cellar was completely empty. Well, empty except for what Chris had brought with him.

  Grimacing in disgust, he wiped his left hand on his naked leg before using his now mostly clean fingers to switch the side on which the phone was cradled.

  “No. No. You don’t have to explain to me how important this is,” he said, straining to remain courteous and patient. “But you’re going to have to trust me. Or do you want to drive down and take care of it yourself?”

  Hagen smiled as he listened to the expected answer, nodding along with the follow-up explanations, the details of which he was already intimate with.

  Knowing the conversation could go on without his participation for a while, Hagen looked appraisingly at his handiwork. He’d never fancied himself an artist, and he’d certainly never thought he’d be working in this particular medium, but there was no denying the quality of his work. The end result was very much in line with the sketch he’d brought with him. Every curve, every angle was meticulously reproduced to mimic the drawing. Instead of ink on paper, though, he was working with flesh on concrete.

  And there was so much flesh to work with. Blood and viscera and bones and sinew. Hagen would take a large fillet knife and slice out thin strips of skin or extract full lengths of veins. The tricky part was applying all these materials to the wall.

  The process demanded patience. Using the coagulated blood as a makeshift adhesive, Hagen would apply a thin coat of tissue as the base for his design. Whether muscle or skin, each material had its own viscosity. Bones and thicker organs were even more challenging. He needed to be careful laying down his foundation so that they would be properly supported. Everything had to hold together until the mural served its purpose.

  As tricky and unpleasant as the work could be, Hagen had had plenty of practice. Even as a child in Saint-Ferdinand, he had done terrible things to small rodents and the occasional cat. His curious mind pushed him to look beyond their adorable, helpless exteriors and wonder what was inside. What made them tick. What made them alive. It wasn’t long before he became creative with his dissections, disassembling animals in a manner similar to how his father would take apart his firearm and hunting rifles, laying each piece in an organized pattern neatly on a blanket.

  What he was working on today went beyond a child’s curiosity. This masterpiece was about ritual.

  The yammering on the phone died down a little, a signal that he should start paying attention again. Pausing in his work, he frowned with some amount of concern.

  “The circus? What circus?” He listened to the answer. “No. I don’t care. I want to go see Harry Peterson.”

  Absentmindedly, Chris dipped a finger in the pool of blood he was using for glue. Finding it too thick, he cupped his fingers and retrieved more of the still-warm liquid from its original source. He stirred it into his mixture, all the while listening with interest to the person on the phone.

  “Yeah. I see how that could be a problem. You’re sure they’d recognize me?”

  Satisfied with his mixture, he started laying down the first few lines in a new portion of the pattern, painting broad, expert strokes of blood onto the damp concrete, like a child prodigy finger-painting a gruesome masterpiece.

  “What if I just . . . get rid of this Cicero?”

  His neck was again making him uncomfortable. This conversation would have to end soon.

  “I’ve already told you what I think about this whole ‘prophecy’ bullshit. Especially when it interferes with my responsibilities. Besides, what’s going to happen if Cicero recognizes me? He must be over a hundred years old.”

  Hagen listened to more admonitions. All things he’d heard a dozen times in the past. Impatient to get back to his work, he sighed loudly into the microphone, unleashing a stream of outraged anger.

  “Hey! Hey! Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. But I’m very busy here. No, I’m not done yet. Well, how could I be done if I’ve been on the phone with you for an hour?”

  More outrage followed, but this time Hagen took advantage of the time to apply ever-thicker layers of blood to the branches and spirals of his pattern. Getting to the center of a particularly steady and regular spiral, he took a step back. Bloody fingers dripped as he admired his craftsmanship. Nothing about his work was remotely pleasant, but there was no reason not to take some pride when the results came out better than expected. Pleased with the appearance of the portion he had just completed, he decided it would be a perfect place to apply one of the eyes.

  It always came back to eyes, didn’t it? The whole point of this activity was to see. The boy hadn’t been enough. Perhaps this would also be insufficient. It didn’t matter to Chris. As distasteful as he found the ritual, he would do it over and over again until it showed him where to find what he was looking for.

  “Are you calm now? Listen, I’m sorry for being flippant. I know how important this is, but you’re letting it get to you. You know better than I do what’s at stake, so if you say ‘no Peterson farm,’ then so be it. I’ll stay away. Anyway, my battery is running out. I’ve gotta go.”

  Chris wiped his right hand on one of the last clean spots on his naked thigh and shifted the phone back to his right ear.

  “Yes, of course I’m lying, but seriously I gotta go. My medium is going to spoil.” He waited for the answer. “Of course. You too. Love you, Mom.”

  Satisfied, he tossed the phone onto a pile of clothes puddled on the ground. Denim shorts and a white tank top.

  Again, he contemplated the work left to do. If all went according to plan, this elaborate pageantry would permit him to see where souls went in Saint-Ferdinand. Like dropped dye into water to observe the flow of a current, the sacrificed victims allowed Hagen to see where their essence would be drawn. The procedure was easier said than done.

 
; The “journalist” picked up his filet knife and leaned over the body from whom he’d taken the blood and flesh he needed for the mural. Bending close to her face, he placed the tip of the knife just under the teenage girl’s left eye.

  “Well, Sasha, looks like it’s just you and me again.”

  VENUS

  IT WAS THE TWITCHING that got to her most.

  Venus had been staring, paralyzed, into the tall, unkempt lawn of her backyard. Seconds, perhaps hours had passed as she stood motionless, her fingers shaking, unconsciously mimicking the jerking motions of her cat’s back leg.

  Sherbet was dead. He had to be. The unfortunate creature was lying on the damp ground, drops of dew surrounding his body like glittering jewels. At first glance, she didn’t recognize him. His smoky black coat of long soft fur had been removed. In fact, every bit of skin had been flayed from his body, leaving the cat a mass of glistening red sinew and muscle. His ears had been torn off. His eyelids and whiskers, removed. His tail, a glorious feather duster that he’d so proudly swayed as he’d walked through the house, had been reduced to a bony rope of pink and red strands.

  The only thing left to identify her pet was the nylon collar around his neck. Whatever had murdered and mutilated the animal wanted to make sure he was recognized when found. It wanted Venus to know what she was seeing.

  His back leg kept twitching. A tiny back-and-forth motion that was probably caused by some death reflex. Venus knew that. Any other number of postmortem bodily functions could occur: gasps, coughing, spasms in the extremities as rigor mortis set in. Despite that academic knowledge, the twitching punched at her heart with every movement.

  Eyes wide and unblinking, her vision blurred by tears, Venus crouched down to inspect her flayed cat. His big green eyes seemed to be staring at her, plaintive and confused.

  She observed his tiny chest, glad to see that he wasn’t breathing. She reached out, fingers shaking, to touch Sherbet’s neck. She held her breath for God knows how long, and sighed in relief when she found no pulse.

  Venus looked up. She had a vivid awareness of her surroundings. The low hum of a distant lawn mower, the smell of morning humidity, the wet dew on her knees: all of it cut through the haze of her distress to remind her exactly where she was. Her eyes settled on the backyard shed looming only a few feet away.

  Scottish blood from three generations past boiled in her veins. Her beloved but dim-witted pet had been attracted to the shed, probably by the smell of the birds that had perished inside. There he had met his fate, at the hands of a monster made of shadows and blood.

  Glad to feel something other than sadness and fear, Venus scooped up her dead cat. At first she was surprised at how dry his muscles felt. She’d expected them to be sticky with blood, but instead they had the texture of thin rubber. She paused, the feeling of his twitching leg muscles making her stomach lurch, but quickly, she surrendered to the rage once more.

  “What have you done?” Venus demanded as she burst into the shed.

  The girl had been careful to fling the door wide open, hoping the light of the sun would reveal more of the elusive monster that kept itself hidden in shadows. Maybe it would even suffer at the touch of light, like a vampire turning to ash under the sun.

  No such luck. The creature kept to its dark corner, its expression hidden in the shadows. Was it laughing at her? It was impossible to know.

  But one thing the morning sun did illuminate was the monster’s handiwork.

  The mural had grown. The baby birds had been joined by the larger anatomy of their mother. Delicate, hollow bones had been affixed to the wood paneling by dried blood, bile, and viscera that had been torn from the animal.

  Other body parts had been added too. Their level of dismemberment and decomposition made identifying the creatures difficult, though. Venus managed to pick out the distinctive ringed fur of a raccoon tail, along with the unique shape of a frog’s skull. All visitors to the shed that had met their unfortunate demise.

  This wasn’t just art, Venus realized, but something more. Something powerful. Something that demanded sacrifice. She couldn’t say what it was meant for, but her scrutiny was abruptly interrupted when her eyes wandered to the end of a spiral and were met with a patch of blood-matted smoky-black fur.

  Like an elastic pulled to its breaking point, Venus snapped back into her anger. Still clutching the skinless body of her beloved pet, she turned to face the shadows. The god was there, watching. Glowing eyes slowly split open, pierced the darkness, boring into hers. There was a human quality in them that didn’t belong.

  “Do I have your attention now?” Its voice crept out from the corner, worming its way into Venus’s thoughts.

  “You killed my cat.”

  “Yes. It was slow. And painful.” Each word stung at her heart. “And while the body may be dead, the soul is not at rest. Do you hear it? Of course not, but I do. It cries in agony from beyond the veil. All because I granted you a favor, Venus McKenzie.”

  The shadows shifted subtly. A physical form rustling among them. Venus checked that she was beyond the imaginary line that kept the god prisoner. She could feel her conviction waver with every moment. Her fist tightened as she clutched her own hatred. She had indeed asked for something from the god. But while she hadn’t been bullied since then, that didn’t mean it was because of any supernatural involvement.

  “I can end it, though.” Its voice had the sweetness of a rotting apple, tempting for but a second before the rancid stench of putrefaction ruined the appeal. “I can give the animal back to you. You know my price.”

  “No.”

  She was impressed by the stability in her voice. Usually it was Penny who was the strong one. But even as she took pride in her answer, Venus began to wonder what she hoped to accomplish by being in here.

  “Listen . . . ,” the voice said. In between the folds of its words, the sounds of a cat could be heard, screeching as if it were being boiled alive. Venus recognized that sound. It was like the time Sherbet’s tail had gotten caught in a closing door. A terrifying and heart-wrenching yowl, stretched out to a torturous length. “I can end this . . . I want to end this. For you.”

  “No,” she repeated.

  “It was a mistake. I didn’t know he was yours.” The screeching could still be heard under its voice. “Let me bring it back . . . for you . . . if you free me.”

  “Yes.” The words fell out of her mouth uninvited. She hadn’t planned to agree, but there it was. What she truly wanted.

  The glowing eyes narrowed and Venus felt the creature smile. She could almost hear the sound of teeth sliding over one another in the darkness.

  There was no flash of light, no grotesque display of reconstituted body parts. Instead she felt a thrum move through the mutilated corpse in her arms. Eyes wide, she looked to the wall and saw that the pelt of matted black fur still clung to the bloody mural. The texture of the thing she held was still dry and rubbery to the touch. Half-dreading what she’d see, Venus slowly looked down at the body of Sherbet and, in accordance with her darkest, unspoken fears, it moved.

  The god had brought her cat back, all right, but his body had not been restored. Sherbet looked up at her with watery, lidless eyes and mewed. Furless, skinless, he didn’t seem to know what he was. He squirmed in an effort to be put down. There was no doubt that this was her beloved pet and that he was alive, but he had been stripped of warmth and had no heartbeat.

  “There,” the shadow whispered. The screech beneath the voice was replaced by laughter. “Are we friends again?”

  Venus didn’t answer. Struggling to hold on to both Sherbet and her sanity, she walked backward and out of the shed. Even in the warm sun of the Saint-Ferdinand summer, she could feel every fiber of her body shivering and every hair standing on end.

  DANIEL

  IT COULDN’T POSSIBLY be earlier in the morning, thought Daniel as he stepped out of his car. The sun was barely above the tree line, casting a warm and pleasant pink glow be
hind the silhouettes of evergreens and maple trees. To the west, the sky was still dark and some of the brightest stars were still visible. It was an odd balance, and Daniel was surprised to notice how beautiful the contrast was.

  Closing the door to the Civic, he took stock of his surroundings. He was no stranger to the Peterson farm. He’d once worked here for the summer, helping to tend the wheat fields. More recently, he’d had an unpleasant discussion with his father deep in the forest at the northern end of this very property. This morning, however, the usually empty fields were alive with activity. A small fleet of old, decrepit trucks was parked on one of the fallow fields. At least two dozen people swarmed around the vehicles, emptying them of a variety of materials ranging from large tarps to folding chairs to sacks of food to crates of decorations. Judging from the garish colors, the rickety Ferris wheel, the strange people, and the sounds of exotic animals, the circus was in town.

  Daniel walked among the roadies, watching as they put together a small city made of canvas, wood, and hard work. Men and women of all ages worked feverishly to assemble their places of business from things that could fit on a flatbed truck. The sheer variety of their tasks was dizzying to behold. Brand-new portable toilets were juxtaposed with a wooden trailer so old, the paneling was nearly worn through in places. Antique games of chance were erected next to modern vending machines. A young boy who looked a little like a rat, dirty and twitchy, was helping an impeccably dapper old man put up a poster that advertised “Katrina the New England Oracle.” Everywhere Daniel looked, a sense of familiarity assailed him.

  On every surface was the symbol of the Craftsmen: the eye with a spiral iris. The icon was painted on chipped signs, printed on posters, and stenciled on each of the attractions. The eye was omnipresent. Watching.

  No one bothered Daniel as he strolled around the fairground, drinking in the oddities. A man almost two feet taller than he was walked past, carrying a post as long and as thick as a tree trunk. For a moment Daniel thought he would drown in the strange sea of activity, but suddenly he stopped.