Gateway

by David C. Cassidy

  “No.”

  “And you remember the word you said?”

  Kit did his best to pronounce it.

  “Enterrar, that’s right,” Jared said. “It means bury.”

  “Did someone die? Was someone buried? I told you it was bad.”

  “No one died,” Marisa said.

  “The Greenwoods did. Everyone was talking about it at school.”

  “This has nothing to do with the Greenwoods,” she said. She glanced at Jared when she said it.

  “Kit,” Jared said, “is there anything else you remember?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Any strange sounds? Did you feel anything?”

  When Kit hesitated, Marisa prompted him. “Did you feel something?”

  “The Bad Words,” Kit said. “They felt bad.”

  Jared assumed this was Kit’s way of expressing that sensation of dread. When he looked at Marisa, he could tell she shared in that thought.

  “Anything else?” Jared said. “Did you feel me in any way?”

  “You?”

  “Never mind. That’s not important. Did you see anything?”

  Kit reached into his pocket. He drew out his calming stone. His small fingers seemed to tighten around it.

  “Kit?” Marisa said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Did you see something, baby?”

  Kit swallowed. “I saw a shape.”

  “A person?” Jared said.

  “Yeah. It had eyes.”

  “Was it a man?” Jared said. “Or a woman?”

  “It was like a man.”

  “What do you mean?” Marisa said.

  Kit’s fingers began to rub the stone faster and faster.

  “It’s all right,” Marisa said. “Deep breaths. Deep breaths.”

  “Is he okay?” Jared said to her. “Is he having—”

  Kit closed his eyes and counted slowly from ten to one. He opened his eyes, clearly frightened. “It was like a man. But it was more like a monster. Like the people you write about.”

  Jared stiffened. He glanced at Marisa, who had cupped a hand to her lips. “What do you mean, Kit?”

  “The Bad People.”

  ~ 66

  Jared stirred in his seat. He held Marisa’s hand and turned to Kit. “Did you see someone the other night, too? During your event?”

  Kit hesitated, then nodded.

  “Was it the same?” Jared said. “The same monster?”

  “Mostly,” Kit said. “It was the same shape. But it had different eyes.”

  “Different?” Marisa said. “You mean a different color?”

  “No,” Kit said. “They looked the same. But they were different. They felt different.”

  “Like a different monster?” Jared said.

  Again the boy nodded. His fingers worked the stone. “Don’t let them get me.”

  “Nothing’s going to get you,” Jared said.

  “Nothing,” Marisa said. She said it again, as if to convince herself.

  “Kit,” Jared said. “Why do you call them the Bad People?”

  “They want to do bad things. Like the bad words in their heads. I can hear them.”

  Jared’s eyes met Marisa’s. And stayed there.

  “Honey, I think that’s enough for one day,” she said. “Look at the time. It’s past your bedtime.”

  Kit rose, visibly fearful. Marisa gave him a hug and kissed him on the cheek. “Off you go. Sweet dreams, baby.”

  “Goodnight, Kit,” Jared said.

  Kit gave Jared a hug.

  Marisa put a hand to her lips as her eyes grew misty. She watched her son go upstairs, and then she turned to Jared. “Say something. Anything to make me feel better.”

  “I’m just as freaked out as you are,” he said. “And I love you to pieces.”

  Marisa shed a tear and hugged him. When she let go, she reacted to the grayness in his face. “What is it? I mean, besides the fact that my son is seeing monsters and hearing monster thoughts.”

  “He’s not the only one,” he admitted. “On both counts.”

  “What?”

  He paused. “Like Kit.”

  “And I’m just hearing about this now?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “No. No excuses. When the hell were you going to tell me? When the hell are you going to stop lying to me?”

  “I didn’t know what was going on,” Jared said. “I still don’t. Not really. It’s too crazy, all of it. Besides, would you have believed me? Even with all that’s happened, you said yourself you were still on the fence.”

  “Don’t try to turn this around on me. You know damn well you should have told me. Just like your blackouts. Everything.” She folded her arms. “Same old Jared.”

  “Listen,” he said. “Honestly, until your son told us what he’s been experiencing, I thought that maybe this zany brainy of mine was going off the deep end. I needed to be sure that I wasn’t going crazy.”

  Marisa shook her head. “From now on, I want to know everything—no matter what. No secrets.”

  “No secrets.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “No secrets,” she repeated. “Comprende?”

  “Comprende. I got it. But I think we’ve had enough Spanish for now.”

  “Do you see me laughing?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So … what did you see?”

  “I don’t know. But it scared the hell out of me. I can’t even be sure that I did see something. It was more like a dream. I saw this shape in my head. Like a man. Like Kit said.”

  “Did it have eyes?”

  “I want to say yes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I don’t know. I think I saw eyes. Or at least felt them. Felt them looking at me. It’s all so weird.”

  “And the words? You heard them, too? The same ones Kit spoke?”

  “Yes. I’m almost sure of it.”

  “Again with the ‘almost sure’ stuff.”

  “I know I heard something,” he said. “And the more I think about it—and after what your son told us—I’m pretty sure it was the same thing.”

  “Monster thoughts. In Spanish.”

  Jared sighed deeply. And nodded.

  ~ 67

  Jared woke on Tuesday morning not to the sound of his alarm clock, but to the irritating ringtone of his smartphone. Only now was the dawn breaking.

  The phone’s display read JACK HENNEMAN.

  “Yeah,” he grumbled, picking up.

  “Mr. Cole, sir. Jack Henneman.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Phone told me.”

  “Huh.”

  “Mr. Henneman, it’s … Jesus. It’s not even six-thirty.”

  “You still writin’ that book?”

  Jared sat up. His body ached, and he stiffened against the throbbing in his bones.

  “You there?” Henneman said.

  “Yeah,” Jared groaned. “What is it?”

  “You best get out here, son.”

  ~ 68

  It took less than thirty minutes for Jared to get to the Henneman ranch. He was wolfing down his fourth chocolate-glazed donut when he parked the Land Rover beside a black Dodge RAM. The rancher was waiting for him on his front deck, reading a newspaper.

  “Another horse?” Jared said.

  “Sure enough.”

  “Show me.”

  Henneman led him through a rocky field to the edge of a gulley. They were less than fifty yards from where the colt had been mutilated.

  “Down there,” Henneman said, pointing.

  Jared eased down the slope through the waist-high grasses. “Where? I don’t—”

  He nearly threw up.

  The mare’s severed appendages were set in their precise positions, bound and crossed like the previous mutilation. Unlike the colt, the decapitated head crowned the carnage. Flies crawled all over it.

  Jared forced the swill in his gut back dow
n. The last thing he wanted to see was his undigested donuts all over the ground. He drew out his smartphone and took the usual photographs. When he finished, he slid his phone back in his pocket.

  The cross on the forehead was exact; clearly the work of the Phantom.

  But not.

  Jared looked up the slope to Henneman. “How’d you find him?”

  “He’s a she,” Henneman said. “She shoulda been inside the stable this mornin’. She wasn’t.”

  “Someone broke in and took her?”

  “There’s no lock on the doors. Just a bolt.” The old rancher made his way down and scanned the remains. “Guess I was wrong. It ain’t him.”

  “The Phantom, you mean.”

  “Way too early for this,” Henneman said. “Six months’ early, I figger.”

  Jared agreed with a nod.

  “Looks like we got ourselves a copycat,” Henneman said. “One sick son of a pup.”

  Jared took a closer look for as long as he could stomach it. The placements were perfect, the forehead cross exactly like all the others before it. All of it perfect, right down to the hemp baling twine.

  It had to be the Phantom—didn’t it?

  But why now?

  “You should report this,” Jared said. “Phantom or not, whoever’s doing this has to be stopped.”

  The rancher nodded. Gave Jared a look.

  “Something wrong?” Jared said.

  “You don’t look so good, son. Your eyes look like a coupla piss-holes in the snow.”

  “Allergies,” Jared said.

  ~ 69

  As he left the ranch, Jared found it impossible to drive that horrific image of the mare from his mind. No matter how many photographs he had seen of the Phantom’s handiwork, they held nothing against the crippling power of the real thing. Death—vile, barbaric death—stuck the heart like a shiv.

  So the Phantom was dead, after all. But who had picked up the torch? Whoever it was, they had learned their lessons well, had mastered their black art.

  But if that were so, then why had they broken the pattern of killing? Why go to such great lengths to emulate the Phantom in every detail, only to abandon its most predictable trait?

  It made no sense. But then again, did any of it? This was just another crazy, just like the despicable creature that had spawned it. At any rate, it was a matter for the authorities, not an author. He only hoped they would catch this sick individual before it got out of hand—not that it wasn’t already—before this born-again Fantasma turned its thirst from animal to human.

  The fact that this new Phantom had broken the pattern suggested it. He wrote horror with a deeply psychological bent, and knew enough about serial killers to know that a good deal of them began their dark journey with animal cruelty. Thirst became hunger.

  ~ 70

  Jared had to rely on the GPS to find his way home, parking the Land Rover in his driveway just past eight o’clock. He felt ragged, as if he’d been up all night.

  Still hungry—despite the donuts and death—he made a big breakfast and finished it quickly. He did the dishes and went upstairs. Thunder boomed, startling him. A flash of lightning made him pause. The rain started slowly, growing quickly into a shower.

  He’d been feeling the change in pressure since his trip to the ranch, had felt the first pangs of a killer headache. He took two aspirin from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Brushing his teeth, he had to stop. He placed a hand to his jaw. Toothache.

  He spat out the toothpaste. The white-green sludge was mixed with blood. He opened his mouth and checked himself in the mirror. There was a small reddish patch on the right side of his gums. An abscess. It was slightly inflamed. He fingered it and squirmed at the pain.

  Another thunder-boomer struck as he finished up. His phone rang, and he took the call in his study. He stood at the French doors, watching the storm.

  “Mar? What’s wrong?”

  “That’s a fine good morning,” Marisa said.

  “Sorry. Got a bit of a headache. A small toothache, to boot. Good morning. But something must be up for you to call this early. Shouldn’t you be off to work?”

  “I was just about to go when the phone rang. One guess who it was.”

  “Sonia.”

  “She wasn’t too pleasant. She wants to know why you dumped her in front of her followers. And she wants another interview.”

  “Or else, right?”

  “That was pretty much the gist of it. She hung up before I could get a word in. Like telling her what a bitch she is.”

  “I can’t do it, Mar. She’ll rip me apart.”

  “She’ll rip you apart if you don’t.”

  ~ 71

  After the call, Jared watched the hard rain through the French doors. A bolt of lightning streaked across the dim morning sky, illuminating the thick forest on both sides of the choppy river.

  Pain shot to his temples, and he rubbed them gently. He shut his eyes a moment, and when he opened them, staggered back in fright.

  He saw a face in the glass; a horrific face. Saw its eyes, deep and cold and dead—could have sworn he did—but then they were gone.

  All he saw was a hint of his own reflection now. He put a hand to the glass, only to draw it back at the thunder.

  A chill raced up his back. He couldn’t explain it, but that face in the glass wasn’t his.

  It was a monster.

  Get your head straight. Fuck.

  He stared blankly at the phone in his hand. He was supposed to call someone.

  Marisa?

  He just spoke with her. Didn’t he?

  Yes … not a minute ago.

  He tried to tell himself that his absentmindedness was due to the storm, only that change in pressure that could turn his brain into a thicker mud than it usually was. But the fact was, like everything else—his eyes, his aching bones, his hunger and thirst—his mind seemed just as susceptible to ill effects from whatever it was that had taken root inside of him.

  You’re tired. It’s just the storm.

  He shook his head in frustration.

  Finally, it came to him. He dialed the number that Marisa had given him, and after several rings, Sonia Wheaton picked up.

  “H-hello,” she said. She sounded out of sorts, the way a woman does when she’s trying to hide the fact she’s been crying.

  “Sonia? It’s Jared Cole.”

  “Oh. Yes. I see you got my message. Good.”

  “Did I catch you at a bad time? I know it’s early—”

  Sonia paused to blow her nose. She sniffled. “Sorry. I’m fine.”

  “Listen, I’d like to apologize for what happened.”

  “I see. What, exactly, did happen?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess I didn’t like the way the caller was acting. I know, I shouldn’t have reacted that way, but—”

  “It was Bobby Duncan. You know it was.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Of course you did. I may be just a small town hack to someone like you, but don’t insult me.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Let’s cut the shit, Mr. Cole. I want another interview.”

  “And if I don’t agree?”

  “I think you know the answer to that.”

  “Why would you do that to me?”

  “What are you hiding?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why not just let me post the video?”

  “Because it’s nobody’s business. I didn’t do anything wrong. And I certainly didn’t kill Bobby Duncan’s son.”

  “You seem awfully defensive about nothing.”

  “How do I know you won’t post the video anyway?”

  “That’s up to you. I expect an answer to every question. No matter who asks it.”

  “I won’t talk with Bobby Duncan. Or about what happened with his son. It was just a tragic accident.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “What does that mean?”

&nb
sp; “Same time tomorrow. Don’t cross me again.”

  “Sonia—”

  She hung up.

  ~ 72

  Marisa finished her shift at the library and made her way to her car with her umbrella. The drizzle stopped as she picked up Kit at school. She knew right off there was something wrong.

  “You okay, kiddo?”

  Kit clicked the lock on his seat belt. “I’m okay.”

  “Are you sure? You—”

  She paused, looking past him through the side window. Parker Brooks stood on the front steps of the school, chatting up a couple of girls. They hung on his every word. He looked over and waved his iPhone smugly. Contorting his face, he made his eyes roll up and let saliva dribble from his lips. The girls laughed.

  “Did he do something to you today?” Marisa said.

  “Same as always,” Kit admitted.

  “What did he do? Did he tease you again?”

  “Can we just go home?”

  Marisa stroked his hair. “Sure, baby. I’m sorry.”

  She went to give Parker Brooks a nasty look, but he’d already moved on, the girls with him. They met up with Brooks’ buddies, Nelson Kurtz and Darren Philips, and headed down the sidewalk.

  Marisa pulled away from the curb and took the opposite direction. She crossed over a few streets onto Main and stopped at the Eight-Ball across from the theater. The repairs were still going on. The blood in the street was almost gone.

  “I’ll just be a sec,” she said to Kit. “I need some bread.”

  She got out and took another look at the blood. She could still see that video of Kyle Duncan in her mind; could still see Jared’s disturbing grin. When she turned away to go into the store, she thought of Tom Greenwood. For such a quiet and sleepy place, it seemed that death was alive and well in the Falls.

  She stepped inside, and when she saw the MISSING poster on the convenience store pin-up board, she gasped.

  Arthur “Red” Fisher was missing.

  ~ 73

  Marisa called Jared from outside the store. She put up an index finger toward the car, telling Kit she’d only be a minute.