A God in the Shed

by J-F. Dubeau

  “Remember, backs to the wall,” she repeated, and pushed the door open.

  Before she could nervously hit the light switch, Venus was assailed by the stench of rotten eggs and spoiled meat. Her first thought was that the god wasn’t immune to starvation or thirst, and that, being held prisoner for so long, the lack of nourishment had finally led to its demise.

  That hope was quickly dispelled as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The god was still alive, and for some reason the veil of shadows around it had been lifted. The god was crouched on its haunches, ignoring the teenagers as they filed in. Penny and Abraham stifled gasps as they saw the thing. Venus took note of its strange, inhuman proportions. Thin limbs, too long to be human. A genderless but sinewy frame with a body that defied anatomy. There was fresh blood at its feet.

  Then she saw the source of the stench. Behind where it was crouching, the mural had grown ever larger. The beautiful and morbid design now extended to cover most of the walls and even the corners. How had it lured so many animals here? The bones and organs seemed too big to be from any local forest critter.

  Finally deigning to acknowledge its visitors, the god rose to its feet in a single graceful movement, both standing and twisting to face them. Venus took a long, hard look at its face. High cheekbones, a lipless mouth, small ears. But most striking of all were its eyes—shining, red, and completely dead. No soul reflected out of those twin orbs. Nothing but the raw power of a god, ancient and alien.

  “You’ve returned, Venus McKenzie.” The whisper screamed into their minds. All three teens recoiled at the voice. “And you bring me . . . gifts.”

  Venus steeled herself, determined to keep her fears in check.

  “No,” she said firmly, taking a step forward but remaining behind the imaginary line that separated her from death. “We’re here for answers.”

  “You lied to me. You don’t get to make demands,” the god said, dismissing her. “Your friends, though . . . a deal with them, perhaps?”

  “We were warned about your deals.” Abraham also stepped forward, keeping his body in line with Venus’s. “But I’m curious: What are you?”

  “Peterson . . . no. A new iteration. You don’t know me? How interesting.” The creature took two steps of its own, graceful and terrible. As it moved, it revealed more of the strange anatomy that clothed it. “I am purity of purpose, ageless and vast.”

  “Self-aggrandizing bullshit,” said Venus, nodding in the direction of the dead birds. “You’re just some beast that enjoys torture and death.”

  “You smell familiar.” The thing addressed Penny, ignoring the younger girl a second time.

  “Hey! Wait! I have more questions,” Abraham interjected, nowhere near as scared as he should be. “Why is it you can’t leave the shed?”

  “A god keeps its promises.”

  The thing turned back to Penny, taking two more steps forward, until it was almost within arm’s reach. The older girl stood firm, her face a mask of stoicism. Both of her arms were held behind her back, as if to keep them from straying within reach of the monster. Though it had no nose, the god cocked its head forward and mimed sniffing at air.

  “Yes, I remember,” the soft, screeching whisper echoed in their minds. “I killed you just recently, didn’t I?”

  Venus’s mind raced. The impossible amounts of blood that surrounded the god. The atrocities perpetrated on her cat and the birds. This thing, which couldn’t tell the difference between generations of human beings, had killed Gabrielle LaForest. She’d brought her best friend face-to-face with the monster who had made her friend an orphan.

  “Oh God . . . ,” Venus turned to warn her friend, but she was too late, the scene was already playing out without her.

  “Step forward. Let me kill you again,” the beast demanded of Penny, getting as close as the camera would allow it. “I’ll be quick this time.”

  “How about I kill you instead!” was Penny’s answer. In one swift, hate-fueled motion, she took out a large kitchen knife from the back of her jeans and rammed it into the god’s midsection, giving the blade a nasty, wet twist. Tears finally broke free of Penny’s eyes as she gritted her teeth into a smile of bittersweet revenge.

  Surprised, the god froze. Black blood colder than ice ran down Penny’s hands as she pushed the knife farther into the thing’s chest. For an instant it looked as if she had actually slain the powerful being. But slowly, the thing conjured up a soulless grin.

  “We kill each other and share our blood. What a beautiful dance,” the god said with morbid sweetness. Penny closed her eyes. She seemed to realize that this small act, this brief moment of defiance, was as good as it was going to get, and she welcomed what was to follow.

  But before the god could enact whatever terrible retaliation it had planned, Abraham shoved the thing away from his friend. Despite the large boy’s considerable strength, the god barely took a step back. Yet it was enough to move them out of reach of the shadow creature. As it swiped at the teenagers, Venus pulled her friends back to the wall. Penny blinked, looking down in surprise at the black, blood-coated knife in her hand.

  The god’s frustration rented their minds as it tried to reach them. As it continued to wail, the three teens stumbled out of the shed. Penny seemed dazed by what she had done. Abraham busied himself by making sure the shed was locked again. Venus sank to the ground, hands shaking. All this time, she’d kept the god hidden, thinking of the creature as a pet, a friend, and more. A wonderful curiosity that was all hers, when in fact it was the monster responsible for ruining her best friend’s life. The god she could outrun, but the guilt was already catching up to her.

  RANDY

  THE PEN CROWLEY had given him was running out of ink. It was already well past midnight, but his work was hardly complete. Randy was running low on both time and patience. While he doubted he would be in jail for long, things were coming to a head much faster than he’d anticipated. The accusations leveled against him wouldn’t stick in the long run. He had a solid alibi. Should that somehow prove insufficient, character witnesses and his clean criminal record would be sure to protect him. The inspector would do his best to keep him locked up as long as possible, but eventually the creature would strike again, providing him with yet another layer of deniability with which to prove his innocence. The worry was who the next victim would be.

  Crowley had been right, though. This rift between the two men was inevitable. He should have seen it coming and, like the inspector said, he should have prepared for it. While it was true that Crowley held all the judicial power in town, Randy was better equipped to understand and act upon the more arcane aspects of the situation.

  Even so, Randy didn’t regret turning down the inspector’s invitation to join his club. He often wondered if Stephen Crowley realized how similar his Sandmen were to the old Saint-Ferdinand Craftsmen’s Association. The rituals, the blood sacrifices, the attempts to find and control a living god . . . Crowley’s efforts had been as unsuccessful as his old adversaries, but he would never admit it.

  “What are you in for?” asked Old Man Finnegan.

  “Murder,” Randy answered flatly.

  “Ah. Tried to keep it contained, did you?”

  The two men were separated by a concrete wall, but the corridor that led to both cells bounced the sound of their voices nicely, making conversation easy. Randy hoped his new roommate didn’t snore.

  “No. It killed again. I’m just being blamed for it,” the medical examiner explained. “It, assuming we’re talking about the same thing, is still at large.”

  Finnegan clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Nah. It’s locked up somewheres. Ain’t no doubt about that.”

  “How are you so sure?” For the first time, Randy raised his head from the paper he’d been furiously scratching on for the past few hours.

  “’Cause I ain’t dead. It’s like I’m a livin’ barometer. That thing, when it’s free long enough, it’s gonna come straight for me, no hesitatio
n. If I’m drawing breath, then it’s locked up. I can guarantee that.”

  “Really now?”

  “It hates me, Doc. Oh, oh, ohhh . . . it hates me so much.” The old man’s voice was laced with amused regret. “Y’see, I wasn’t content just keeping it in that cave. I taunted it. Mocked it. Nothin’ makes you feel as powerful as taunting a god like yer pouring salt on a slug. In hindsight, that might’ve been a mistake.”

  Randy thought about that. Taunting a god. Just how it had been held captive, the nature of the so-called Cicero’s Curse, was a mystery to him. But how someone could mock an immortal being of such power for nearly twenty years, that was damn near inconceivable. Did Finnegan know the reckoning that awaited when the god finally caught up to him? The old man’s body would give out long before the creature got bored with torturing his soul.

  “That must have been . . . something,” Randy mumbled, going back to his drawing.

  “It was. Ain’t sure it was worth it in the end, though.” There was a short pause. Randy could hear the old man walking up to and leaning on the bars of his cell. “Whatcha doing in there, scratching away like that?”

  “I’m drawing something. Or I would be if Crowley hadn’t given me such a shitty pen.”

  “I didn’t know you were an artist, Doc,” came Finnegan’s unsolicited comment. “My wife, she was an artist.”

  Randy looked up again. He didn’t remember Sam having a wife during his almost two-decade stay in Saint-Ferdinand, nor mentioning he was married during any of their conversations. Finnegan was full of surprises, but this might go some way toward explaining why he was involved with this whole grisly affair in the first place.

  “I didn’t know you were married, Sam,” the medical examiner said. “Did she paint or draw?”

  “She painted birds. Beautiful birds. Bright and colorful and vibrant.” Sadness and longing permeated the old man’s voice. “Oh, how they sang, Randy. You should have heard them fill our little farmhouse with song.”

  Randy wondered if he’d somehow stumbled onto the source of Finnegan’s madness. Most people knew that Old Man Sam once owned a farm, breeding ducks and dogs. He’d never spoken about his wife, though. And the mention of painted, singing birds teetered between the ramblings of an unhinged mind and the suggestion of another layer to the serial killer’s story.

  The medical examiner looked down at his papers. At first the drawings would have seemed meaningless to an outside viewer, but as time wore on, they began to resemble floor plans. Specifically, the floor plans of Sherbrooke University’s medical center. His place of work and the office where he conducted his studies.

  Randy was deep in concentration, trying to remember the number of rooms that separated his office from the main corridor. He didn’t know yet how he’d get these plans out or who was best suited to execute his plan, but he wanted to get as many details right as he could. The medical examiner tried to focus as the voice continued from the next cell. Only now, it didn’t sound like Finnegan.

  “I miss riding my bicycle, but I guess I don’t need it anymore. I don’t even really walk now,” an ethereal voice said, followed by a giggle.

  “Well, how do you move around, then?” the old man said in a gentle voice.

  “I don’t know.”

  Audrey. Randy recognized the cadence of her voice despite the thick veil she seemed to be talking through. The medical examiner had worked with the dead for many years and had performed a lot of strange rituals. He could read whole histories in the eyes of the dead and see if their souls were still inside them. He had even reanimated a few corpses for a short time. However, he had never heard voices from beyond the grave so clearly.

  “Y’know how when you want to go somewhere,” the dead girl continued, “and you have to travel to get there? I just kind of think of where I want to be, and a little later I’m just there. Poof.” She giggled some more.

  Randy pressed himself against the prison bars, but he couldn’t see into Finnegan’s cell. His scientific curiosity was aflame with questions about Audrey’s reappearance. It made sense that she could materialize here, in the police station. This is where her bear was. That had been the whole point of creating the totem for her.

  “That sounds fun,” the old man answered, adding his own laugh to the conversation. “But how is it where you are? Is it nice?”

  “Nah. It’s kind of . . . ugly? It’s dark, and I think it’s supposed to be cold, but I don’t feel it. It just looks cold. Also, there’s this shadow over everything, and once in a while the shadow gets really dark in one spot and then . . . something dies.”

  Randy heard Finnegan swallow hard. He didn’t blame the madman. This “shadow” must be what could be seen of the god on the other side. At least the medical examiner’s rituals seemed to have worked so far. Audrey’s soul appeared to be safe from the malevolent deity. Just as it had been written in his father’s notes, the postmortem acts that had been perpetrated on her tiny body anchored her to the living realm. Eventually Randy would have to set her free. Until then, perhaps this was something he could use to his advantage. Crumpling up his drawing into a tight ball, he cleared his throat.

  “Audrey?” the medical examiner called out.

  “Uncle Randy?” The bell chimes of her voice rang between the two cells.

  Her appearance, though it could not be called “physical,” was so similar to the ghosts he’d seen in movies that, at first, Randy wanted to think it was a trick. The reality of what he was seeing only sank in once he’d noticed the subtle details of the apparition. Though she was glowing and translucent, Audrey didn’t behave like a cinematic specter. Her hair and gown did not flow as if untethered by gravity. Instead there seemed to be some wind, but it was only enough to put a light ripple to her clothes and locks. She didn’t float above the ground, either; her feet looked like they were sunk half an inch into the floor. The girl was clearly subject to the rules and physical restrictions of another reality, while he and Sam were somehow able to see her image projected into their world.

  “Audrey.” It was his turn to swallow as he saw the iron nails piercing her eyes. His handiwork. “Tell me more about this shadow . . . ”

  CROWLEY

  THE INSPECTOR OPENED the door to the studio. He felt like a man walking, uninvited, into a funeral. The loft of Harry Peterson’s renovated barn was immense, littered with easels of various makes and sizes. The western wall was made up of tall windows that allowed for copious amounts of natural light to flood in during the daytime. Powerful neon tubes hung from the ceiling, bathing the room in a white, neutral glow in the evening.

  Tiptoeing through the forest of paintings, each covered by an off-white linen sheet, Crowley wondered what each canvas in this private gallery had to show. The inspector was the kind of man who’d say he didn’t know art, but he knew what he liked. The honest truth was that he didn’t really like anything. Not that he couldn’t appreciate beauty. In fact, that was one of the most painful memories from his past life. How Marguerite would sit with him simply enjoying a beautiful sunset. Before the kids, they’d take the small boat they owned, a much more modest vessel than his current craft, and they’d simply row to the middle of the lake to bask in nature’s quiet beauty.

  Art, however, was something he neither understood nor appreciated. A lot of it simply didn’t make sense to him. All that postmodern, abstract, paint-splatter bullshit was better meant for wallpaper patterns than framed canvases. Impressionism just looked lazy. As far as his tastes were concerned, the closer to reality an illustration was, the better. Maybe that was why, despite some fundamental differences in opinions and personality, Crowley had always had a soft spot for Harry Peterson.

  Both were single fathers trying to raise boys in a small village. Both had gone through the hardship of losing their wives (though to completely different circumstances), and both were heavily involved in the town’s ancient, secret history. Before the cancer that was slowly killing Harry had done too much damage,
the two would run into each other at high school sporting events, both there to encourage their sons.

  But more than anything else, it was Peterson’s paintings that brought Crowley back to him over and over again. Harry painted the kind of things the inspector could understand. Birds, trees, flowers: all in as realistic a style as was humanly possible. Sometimes, even a little more than that.

  “Crowley?” came a raspy voice, echoing through the studio.

  The inspector didn’t bother answering. Instead he emerged from between the easels to stand in front of the windows. The sound of his boots reverberated through the room.

  “Looks like old times, doesn’t it?” the inspector said, crossing his hands behind him and looking out into the fields.

  Outside, the circus was almost done setting up. Tents formed a makeshift village, crowding themselves around the big top. A bonfire was lit near the trucks, and Crowley could see a dozen or so people eating and relaxing around it. A few tents had light pouring out of them, and someone was testing out the Ferris wheel that had been assembled during the day.

  The sight was a painful reminder for the inspector, of days that were better not only by virtue of their quality, but also because of how much simpler they had been.

  “They’re here legally,” Peterson said, ignoring the inspector’s nostalgia. “You can’t kick them out.”

  That much was true. The circus had slid into town, filling in all their paperwork and getting all their permits behind his back. One more way in which the Sandmen had failed him. How could they see this happening and not notify him? By the time Crowley had been made aware that the cockroaches had crept back from the shadows, it was too late to stop them without breaking a few laws.