Moondeath

by Rick Hautala

  He reached into her stall, grabbed her water bucket, and placed it on the floor beneath the faucet. As the water sputtered, mostly into the bucket, he waited patiently, running his hands along the tines of the pitchfork.

  “Are you comin’ sometime tonight?” his mother called from the house.

  “Just a minute.”

  “And have you seen Frank? He’s late again!”

  “Who gives a shit about Frank?” he said, not loud enough for her to hear. He reached out to turn the faucet off and, grunting, lowered the pail back into Tillie’s stall. “’S probably with Julie getting his rocks off,” he said, letting his voice trail away as he became conscious of a dull ache in his crotch. He reached down and scratched himself.

  Before going into the house, Ned paused to survey the barn. There was still more than half a bale of hay spread across the floor; there was a big puddle of water on the floor where it had sloshed from the bucket; there was the loft trap door gaping open like a hungry mouth.

  Ned coughed a ball of spit from deep within his throat and sent it sailing off into the darkness of the barn, then he turned and went into the house for supper.

  .V.

  Inside the doorway, as he untied a bootlace, Ned kept glancing at his mother, who was sitting at the kitchen table, her arms across her chest. Her mouth was set in a firm scowl; her eyebrows arched questioningly.

  “I asked you,” she said, voice iron-hard, “if you know where Frank is. He’s late again.”

  Ned dropped a boot to the floor, unmindful of the mud and manure that smudged the tiles. “I haven’t seen him since morning.” He kicked the boot over into the corner and then began untying the other. He noticed that his hands were shaking as he wedged the boot off and dropped it.

  “I wish you wouldn’t make such a mess,” his mother said, rising and moving over to the stove, where she began stirring the pot of baked beans. Ned studied his mother’s shoulders as she worked. He heard her puff as she blew her hair from her face and then began scooping beans onto a plate. Ned dropped into his seat with a groan.

  “Something the matter with your eyes?” his mother asked as she placed the plate of beans before him.

  “No.”

  “Well, they look pretty bloodshot.”

  Ned glanced up at the fluorescent light on the ceiling and winced. “Maybe the dust and stuff in the barn,” he replied, reaching for a slice of brown bread. They were stinging a bit.

  “You getting enough sleep?”

  “Sure.”

  His mother filled a plate for herself and sat down opposite Ned at the table. He ate in silence, knowing that if the silence were to be broken, she would be the one to do so.

  “Oh.”

  She paused for effect. Ned tensed.

  “I see you didn’t get the henhouse cleaned out. I went out while you were at work, and it looks like you haven’t hoed it for months.”

  Ned stared down at his plate, swirling the beans with his fork, and replied softly, “Mr. Pomeroy had a big delivery. I had to get there early.” He felt as though he were pleading.

  “What’s more important, Pomeroy’s I.G.A. or your family’s henhouse?”

  Suddenly she fell silent, and they both turned to look out the window when they heard Frank’s truck coming up the driveway. Ned smiled slightly when he heard a spark plug misfire. A beam of light swept over the kitchen wall. The brakes groaned; the tires skidded in the loose gravel. When he heard his brother’s heavy clumping feet on the doorstep, Ned turned back to his supper, swirling his beans again.

  Frank walked into the kitchen with merely a nod of his head as greeting and sat down at the table. “Well,” he said, leaning his .308 Mustang against the table, “I’m starved. Smelled them beans halfway home.” He rubbed his hands together.

  “Frank, will you please not bring your rifle to the table? How many times do I have to tell you?”

  Frank reached across the table and placed a hand lightly on his mother’s shoulder. “Now you don’t have to worry; it ain’t loaded,” he said. “I’ve been out hunting all day and I’m beat and starved.”

  His mother rose and walked over to the stove where she began serving another plate of beans. “It ain’t hunting season. What ’ave you been up to?”

  “Ah, ah, ah,” Frank said, waving his index finger in the air. “We’ve got permission from Granger to try ’n’ track down that wild dog that’s been causing so much trouble.”

  Ned’s fingers jerked spasmodically at the mention of the dog. His fork left a trail of beans and sauce on the tablecloth as it fell to the floor with a clatter. His face flushed, Ned bent down to retrieve it.

  “Take it easy there, little brother,” Frank said with a laugh; then, turning back to his mother, “We’ve been out in the woods around Seavey’s place all day, hopin’ to get a shot at ’im. Man, you should see what that animal did to his chickens!” His mother slid a heaping plate in front of him and he interrupted his narrative just long enough to shovel in a forkful of beans. “Anyway,” he said, his voice muffled, “I guess he wants us back again tonight.”

  “Wait a minute, you know you can’t go huntin’ at night,” his mother said.

  “I told you, we got permission from Granger, and like it or not, he’s just not going to be able to stop us. We’re gonna get that animal!” Frank sopped a piece of brown bread in his bean sauce and stuffed it into his mouth. “Hey, little brother, you wanna come with us?”

  Ned shook his head with a quick snap. “Naw. I’ve got things to do.”

  “You don’t have to carry a gun or anything,” Frank said. Ned thought he heard a mocking tone in his voice. “We could use another pair of eyes.”

  Ned shook his head again and tried to speak, but something caught in his throat and he had to stifle a cough. He cast a quick glance at his brother as he reached for his glass of milk. He swallowed hard and felt his tightened lower lip begin to tremble.

  “I’m pretty tired; I was thinking of going to bed early tonight,” he said, surprised at how low and serious his voice sounded. He wanted to mention to his brother all the work he had done that day. Frank didn’t answer and continued to eat. Ned figured that because his brother couldn’t think of a quick insult or joke he had let the topic drop.

  After some minutes, Frank straightened up and swiped his sleeve across his face. “Good beans. You make ’em today?”

  “No,” his mother replied. “They’re canned.”

  “Hmm. B&M’s gettin’ pretty good.”

  His mother looked at him, not knowing whether or not to feel insulted.

  They finished their meal in silence, and then at eight o’clock Frank took his rifle and left in the pickup. While his mother was washing the dishes, Ned went up to his room to read a little before going to sleep. Saturdays were his busiest days, and he was beat.

  .VI.

  The stone walls of the room were cold and damp. Where water had eaten through the mortar, there were pale streaks of lime running to the floor. In the darkest corners, patches of mold grew. There were no windows, and the air was thick like honey, difficult to breathe.

  A single candle burned fitfully in the center of the dirt floor, making the low-hanging ceiling beams sway sickeningly. Small wisps of soot twisted up from the flickering flame, curled in the rising heat, and melted into the darkness. Bubbling wax almost guttered out the flame, but it continued to burn with a faint lapping sound.

  That was the only sound in the room, other than the short, gasping breaths of the woman as she bent over, tracing a pentangle in the dirt. When the star was complete, she erased the lines within the star, carefully smoothing over her footprints before stepping back to admire her work. After running her finger along the line another time to make sure the line was unbroken, she placed the candle in the top point of the star.

  She remained silent, absorbed in her work, aware only of the rising anticipation she felt. Tonight. The night of the full moon. The harvest moon. As she stared at the wavering lig
ht, she reached up and pulled a strand of dark hair from her eyes. With a deep sigh, she was just beginning to unbutton her blouse when she heard a quick, almost frantic scratching sound. It came from a wooden box that lay hidden in the shadows by the door. Beside it was a small, indistinguishable heap.

  “Patience, my dear,” she whispered, as her trembling fingers raced down the row of buttons. She shrugged her shoulders, and the blouse fell to the floor. Quickly, she stepped out of her skirt and slid off her panties and bra. She reached down, gathered her clothes, and deposited them near the box by the door. With a quick grunt she lifted the box, carried it over to the star, and placed it down in the center, just below the candle.

  Striding back to the doorway, she picked up a length of bright red cord and quickly wrapped it around her waist, tying it off with a loose square-knot. Then, her eyes staring almost unbelievingly at her shaking hand, she reached for the knife she had left on the floor. As she raised it, staring at the blade, it caught the candlelight and sent a shimmering splinter spinning around the room.

  She smiled faintly and whispered, “Master, help me.”

  She looked over her shoulder at the wooden box when the scratching sound was repeated. Slowly, solemnly she walked over to the pentangle, hesitated for a moment at the line, and then stepped with the design.

  “Aquerra goity, aquerra beyty,” she began in a chanting voice. “Aquerra beyty, aquerra goity.” Sweat glistened on her arms, giving them an oily look. Still mumbling the chant, she dropped to her knees and held the blade over the flame until the silver was streaked with soot. She ran her thumb along the edge and smiled, then looked down at her breasts, heaving from her rapid breathing.

  Her mouth and throat were dry, and when she spoke again, the words came out crackling. “Ashtarorh, Admodeus, Princes of Amity, I conjure you to accept this sacrifice, which I offer in return for what I ask.”

  Quickly she snapped the hasp on the box and flipped the lid open. She held her breath, burning in her chest, as she grabbed inside the box and then slowly withdrew a black rooster. Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead, and she could feel tracks of moisture run down her side from her armpits. The thin tendons in her arms stood out from the effort as she held the bird aloft. The rooster struggled to escape, but her grip was firm. The woman felt a surging wash of dizzied excitement, and she felt as though she might faint.

  The light from the candle made the rooster’s dark feathers gleam with a deep blue iridescence. “This I give you,” she cried out, throwing back her head and reveling in the swells of excitement. The rooster’s eyes, thin golden rings, stared at her, dumb, unblinking.

  “Receive this gift from your servant,” she yelled as she lowered the rooster to the floor where she held it pinned with one hand. The other hand, holding the soot-smeared knife, rose above her head, and then, in one swift motion, she ran the blade across the exposed neck of the bird.

  A trickle of blood ran down onto the dirt floor and stained it. The bird continued to kick, trying to escape the pain that was draining its life, but the small hand remained tight. Again the blade ran across the throat, this time with more sureness, more power. The bird’s head was severed. With a quick flick of the knife, the woman knocked the head away, where it lay beside the wooden box. One gold-ringed eye stared back at her.

  The woman snatched the bird’s body to her chest and she let the sticky, warm river gush over her breasts. The bird’s rapid heartbeat was now stilled, but she could still feel an occasional twitching. A warm ecstasy, centered in her stomach, began to wash over her. Tangled scarlet streams ran down her legs to the floor.

  She dropped the now bloodless corpse to the floor. It landed on top of the severed head.

  “Ashtaroth, Asmodeus,” she whispered, looking down at her legs and letting her vision blur. Then, slowly and smoothly, in ever-widening circles, she began to smear the thick blood over her breasts. Her hands moved down to her stomach. Her breathing came in rapid, stinging gasps as she ran her hands still lower. “Come, and take this,” she rasped, “in exchange for what I ask.”

  Swaying back and forth, and then, as if in slow motion, dropping to the floor, she continued to run her fingers inside herself until she lost consciousness.

  .VII.

  It was after five o’clock in the morning. The full moon was riding low in the west. Frank was heading home along the Bartlett Road.

  He was pissed. He had wasted a whole night. He and his friends had scoured the area around Seavey’s, frozen their butts off, and hadn’t even turned up a pawprint of the animal they were chasing. Also, his bladder was hurting from all the beer he had been drinking.

  As he drove up the driveway to the house, he saw that all the lights had been turned off. The windows reflected the morning sky like polished marble. Out back, only the porch light had been left on.

  He pulled up into the driveway and then backed the truck into the backoff. He let the motor sputter and then die. For a long moment, he sat looking out over the field and listened to the morning birds. He opened the truck door and was just stepping out when his eye caught a flicker of motion.

  Just a little bit too tired, he thought, dismissing it after a close look at the barn and corral revealed nothing.

  He reached back into the truck for his rifle, shut the truck door, and turned toward the house. Again, from the corner of his eye, he saw motion. He turned and looked at the barn, but this time he saw something: a swift gray shape was moving along the edge of the barn toward the open field. It was vague and ill-defined, as if a patch of moonlight had detached itself and was moving through the early morning shadows.

  Frank squinted, trying to see better. His hand gripped his rifle until it began to hurt. His thumb flicked the safety catch and he brought the rifle up to his shoulder.

  Just then, the shape coalesced into the form of a large dog. Frank grunted his pleasure, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. The gunshot shattered the peace of the early morning, echoing from the hills.

  “Damn you!” Frank hissed when he saw the shape cringe and then bolt for the field. Frank took aim and shot again, but he knew he had already missed his best shot. If he brought the animal down now, it would be more luck than skill. He squeezed off two more shots and then watched in frustration as the silent gray shape crossed the field and melted into the forest.

  “Frank! What in the dickens are you doing?” his mother shouted from her bedroom window. She looked wide-eyed, half-crazy, with red hair in curlers and a nighttime coat of Noxzema on her face.

  “I missed the damn thing, that’s what!” Frank yelled, stamping his foot on the ground with frustration. “We spend the whole goddamn night out at Seavey’s place, and the damn thing’s right here. Shit!”

  His mother disappeared from her window and ran outside. She pulled her tattered bathrobe around her against the night chill.

  “I’ve never seen anything move that fast,” Frank said, glancing off in the direction the animal had taken. “Christ, it was big. Bigger’an a German Shepherd, I’d say.”

  “Too bad you missed,” his mother said simply. “Did he get into the barn?”

  “Oh, Jesus!” Frank shouted. He ran to the barn door and flung it open. The door spring stretched with a loud twang. Inside, the barn was warm with the heat of the animals in their stalls. They started to bellow as soon as Frank entered the barn. He hoped to hell it had only been his gunshots that had scared them.

  “Oh, Christ!” he said when he saw that Tillie had kicked one of the boards out of her stall. The splintered pieces lay scattered on the floor on top of the broken bale of hay.

  Frank moved over to the cows’ stalls and patted each on the head. As he bent down to stand up the pail Tillie had knocked over, he saw the legs of the calf, Ginger, sticking out through the railing. Frank could tell immediately that she was dead.

  “You bastard!” he hissed.

  He walked over to the workbench and felt around for the flashlight he knew was there somewhere. He f
ound it and flicked the switch. He was surprised when the light came on.

  He ran the pencil-thin beam around the barn. He saw that one of the windows at the back of the barn was broken; not just one pane, the whole window had crashed inward. “That’s how you got in, you son of a bitch!” Frank whispered.

  There was a bad taste in his mouth as he slowly edged his way over to Ginger’s stall. The small circle of light played along the floor until it came to rest on the dead calf. What he saw there almost made Frank vomit. The calf’s throat had been torn open. A wide, gaping hole spilled blood out onto the floor, where it mixed with the hay. The calf’s lifeless eye threw back a dull, silvery reflection that sickened Frank. After a moment, he realized that the calf’s head had been torn completely off; it lay there beside the lifeless trunk.

  Frank wiped the sweat from his forehead and angrily thumbed the trigger of his rifle. “I’m gonna get you for this, you bastard,” he hissed, his eyes riveted to the dead calf. “I’m gonna make you pay for this!”

  He left the barn and stood out in the middle of the driveway, wondering what to do. He wanted to try to track the animal but realized that he had better wait until the sun was up. He saw that the light was on in the kitchen and he cupped his hand to his mouth and shouted.

  “Hey Ma! Ma!”

  After a second, his mother appeared on the back porch. “What in the blazes is it now,” she yelled.

  “Give Granger a call, will you. Granger and Ted Seavey. Tell ’em to get their butts over here right away. That damn dog’s killed the calf.”

  His mother gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.

  “If they get over here right away, maybe we can track it. And get Ned out of bed. Tell him to get down here. Someone’s gotta bury the calf.”

  His mother went inside. Frank walked over to the side of the barn and carefully scanned the ground. It was still too dark to see much detail. He straightened up and walked around back to where the window had been broken in. In the soft mud underneath the window, he could clearly see the animal’s tracks. He studied them under the beam of his flashlight and noticed that they didn’t look quite right; they almost looked like some other kind of animal’s track.