by Emby Press
Davenport waited for a response, but in the ebbing sunlight only shadows whispered. After a few moments, he shook off his apprehension and approached the door to the cottage. Darkness could not shield him from the squalor. A dormant cauldron rested near the chimney and animal bones congregated in a cairn-like formation. Insects clawed along the rough-hewn logs of the four walls while serpents lay coiled in each corner.
He found her remains beneath a blanket on a mattress of dried leaves. The old woman had been dead for years.
*
As twilight engulfed the countryside, Davenport glided uneasily along the asphalt ribbon weaving its way down into the valley, his headlights sweeping the dense forest. He tried to discount the entire inexplicable incident, tried to dismiss it as a stress-induced hallucination. The things he had seen in recent days, the strain of losing a close acquaintance must have left him psychologically drained. For him, logic had always eclipsed the inherent impulse to lend credence to the supernatural.
He must have dozed off at the wheel, dreamed the whole thing without ever leaving the car – without ever setting foot into the damned Nantahala National Forest where sunlight only reached the ground at high noon and where shadows conspired to make practical men believe in the impossible. Still, he could not set aside the rush of memories from his childhood that continued to materialize. He began to attach names to the faces of the others involved in the ceremonies, recalled the participation of certain town elders.
Most disturbingly, Davenport recognized his father among those who committed themselves to carrying on the tradition. Knowing that as a child he had not yet fully developed the ability to discern fantasy from reality when he took part in the ritual, he still found many uncanny aspects difficult to reconcile. Had the dusk not pulsed with an ominous presence? Had the very stars not wavered in their configuration above the towering flames?
The rhythmic flash of hazard lights wrenched him from his thoughts. Just ahead, a panel truck had drifted off the two-lane highway and come to rest in a narrow culvert along the roadside. The adjacent vegetation seemed to slouch forward over the vehicle in distress as if the forest intended to absorb it. Davenport slowed down as he passed, one eye watching for oncoming traffic while the other scanned the truck’s cab.
He recognized the driver from the coffee shop parking lot immediately. Moreover, he recognized him from his childhood, from the fire circle. His name was Randall Bacon. A few years older than Davenport, they had attended the same school without ever really meeting. Had it not been for their mutual involvement in the ceremony, they might have gone a lifetime without speaking to one another.
Even before he opened the door, Davenport knew what he would find inside.
“Stay back,” Bacon said as the door swung wide. “Stay away …” Blood dribbled out onto the ground, splattering Davenport’s shoes. As he watched, Bacon’s body slowly disintegrated, torn apart by something inside of him – something unearthly and ravenous. Its voracious appetite exceeded any need for thoroughness as it worked its way through flesh, muscle, bone and even clothing. Its gruesome leftovers spattered the interior. “I thought she needed help … I thought I was doing something decent …”
“She did this? The woman you left at the café this morning?”
“She bit me … that’s why I kicked her out of the truck … the bitch bit me …”
Davenport backed away, staggering out into the middle of Baskin’s Creek Bypass. The infection had worked its way into Bacon’s abdomen, nibbling away at his organs and his ribs. A flood of syrupy tissue and blood pooled on the floor of the truck, cascaded out the open door and drained into the culvert. The trucker’s screams drifted into the folds of the forest where they gradually faded into ghostly whispers.
When nothing remained except a disembodied head, a thin rivulet of blood defied gravity, climbing out of the gutter and onto the pavement. Cryptic symbols formed at Davenport’s feet as if fashioned by some invisible scribe.
No rational explanation suited the situation. No known virus could accomplish such a grisly feat. No known natural predator could be blamed. No mass murderer spawned by civilization could so capably reduce its victims to scattered meaty bits. For the first time in his adult life, Davenport sensed what Weeks had called the “taint of depravity,” an oppressive external and preternatural evil defiling the immediate surroundings. It reminded him of his childhood.
It reminded him of the ominous presence looming in the dusk, long ago banished and persistently denied liberation by means of an ancient custom the origin and meaning of which had been forgotten.
Davenport knew what he had to do.
*
Davenport, parked outside the rundown motel, waited patiently for the woman … the witch … to make an appearance. What may have once been a reputable motor lodge for weary travelers, the tawdry establishment now mainly attracted underpaid truck drivers, illicit lovers conducting sordid affairs and transients who managed to earn paltry wages performing backbreaking day labor. Even before running across poor Randall Bacon, he had already identified the woman from the flowers she wore in her hair – flowers he recognized as trillium and bishop’s cap. He simply had allowed himself the luxury of ignorance.
He could no longer afford the luxury.
He had considered phoning Weeks, thought that the investigator’s atypical willingness to believe in extraordinary phenomena might make him more disposed to hearing the full story. Weeks might even be able to suggest analogous situations or provide a rational spin that would satisfy the FBI. He had, after all, admitted that he had seen similar crimes; he had suggested he had worked with the bureau on cases which somehow defied logical explanation.
Ultimately, Davenport knew he could not share the responsibility, could not make Weeks an accessory to murder – even if it could be established that the woman had been responsible for the recent deaths. How many others, he wondered, had she already killed? How many could he save?
At 2:30 A.M., a man came stumbling out of room 107, a towel wrapped around his wrist as if binding up some awful wound. With his free hand, he dug through his pockets looking for his car keys. Distance and darkness concealed his identity. Davenport, slouching behind the wheel trying to conceal himself, wanted to confront him, wanted to warn him about the lethal venom flowing through his veins. Facing him, though, might somehow warn the witch of his intentions and undermine his efforts.
The man sped off into the night, obliged to meet his doom alone.
Overhead, the vault of heaven floated above the range of nearby streetlights, its countless stars overwhelmed by the kitschy flashing of the motel’s neon signpost. Inside the city limits, darkness seemed impotent and manageable. In the depths of night, tiny Daquwa duped itself into believing its culture and modernity could shield it from the chaos of the ubiquitous abyss. Though exposed to its occult influence as a child, even Davenport had rejected the existence of unseen forces and their dark designs. He, like so many others, had discarded tradition in favor of indifference.
Weeks was right: Chronic dispassion and detachment had emboldened some ancient enemy of civilization, provided it ample opportunity to gain a toehold.
Davenport stood outside room 107, his right hand concealed beneath his denim jacket. The GLOCK 22 felt peculiar in his grasp, its warmth beneath his sweaty fingers insinuating its impatience. Weeks had issued him the weapon without much fanfare or direction. Davenport paused, studied stains on the walkway at his feet. He imagined the blood of her hapless victims dribbling to the floor as they fled the scene, unaware of the power of her bite. Hours would pass, perhaps days, before the infection began its repugnant chore.
Sparkles of multicolored light seeped through the drawn curtains and the muffled sound of tinny voices emanated from a second-rate television inside the room. Davenport knocked three times. When no immediate response followed, he knocked again, more harshly. He looked over his shoulder, checking the road for passing traffic. The streets of Daquwa were
empty, its citizens all slumbering beneath warm quilts in comfortable beds behind locked doors. Even with the recent murders, they all believed themselves safely sheltered from all forms of malevolence.
Davenport found the door to room 107 unlocked.
Cautiously, he eased the door back until he could see the entire chamber. Inside, blood soaked everything – the carpeted floors, the drab bed clothes, the nightstand, the lampshade, the nicotine-stained walls, the television screen. Errant spatters speckled the ceiling mimicking a celestial star chart, its alien constellations somehow vivid and disquieting.
The woman Davenport believed to be the witch lay in a tangle of sheets at the foot of the bed, a bullet hole centered in her forehead. Someone else had recognized her. Someone else had remembered. The spectacle of her demise should have encouraged him, should have dispersed the emergent dread festering in his mind – and yet, he felt an inexplicable sense of failure. The malignity he had expected to feel corrupting the air around her was strangely absent.
Davenport knelt before her as a flood of remorse swept over him. As distant sirens drew near, he noticed a peculiar scar carved into the delicate flesh of her right wrist.
*
Agents Brunt Mason and Rex Routledge sat shoulder to shoulder across the table from Davenport, each seemingly calculating the effectiveness of prolonged periods of silence during an impromptu interview. Steadfast bureau men, they coordinated the tête-à-tête strictly by the book and proceeded carefully in their line of questioning. They assured Davenport he was neither a suspect in the string of murders nor even a person of interest. They had no cause to disbelieve any of his statements up to that point and felt certain he had no reason to mislead them or omit details about his involvement.
As an active member of the investigation, they said, they simply wanted to take an opportunity to solicit any insights he might have.
“So, you were simply following your instincts – linking the man in the truck to the woman at the motel. That’s why you went there, to confirm your suspicions before making any wild accusations?”
“Yes sir.” Davenport, staring at his hands, could not discern one agent’s voice from the other. “That’s why I went there.”
“Your actions put you in a sticky situation, Mr. Davenport.” Mason replaced the cap on his high-priced pen, carefully slipped it back into his breast pocket. “Don’t get me wrong – your proficiency in documenting crime scenes is admirable. Investigating these crimes, though … following up on leads – that is something best left to members of the law enforcement community.”
“I understand.”
“Perhaps your familiarity with Sheriff Choate led to your overzealous interest in solving this case.” Mason paused, gathered his notes together. “Officer Weeks should have foreseen that possibility.”
“And you’re certain you’ve filled us in on all the details?” Routledge, his notepad still spread on the table before him, seemed less inclined to conclude the interview. “You’re sure there’s nothing else that you’ve failed to mention?”
“I can’t think of anything,” Davenport said. Of course, he had trimmed all the fat off the story, excluding all references to witches and ancient customs and an omnipresent evil lingering in the shadows just beyond the scope of civilization’s collective perception. Even now, logic had begun to reassert itself, making all of his theories seem absurd. “Nothing at all.”
“Very well,” Routledge said. “If you’ll wait here a few moments, I believe that Officer Weeks also has a few questions for you. After that, you’re free to go.”
“Thank you.”
Davenport shrank into the welcoming darkness in the tiny interrogation room, fatigue and frustration weighing heavily on him. The memories which had been reawakened in him waltzed along the periphery of his consciousness. He wished his visions would subside, would drift back into obscurity so that he could put all this unpleasantness behind him.
He wished he could convince himself his memories were no more than lingering nightmares, bits of dark childhood musings that had no basis in reality.
“We’re alone now,” Weeks said, stepping into the room nearly an hour later. “No one is watching, so you can speak freely.” The investigator paced in the small space between the door and the table. He appeared distressed, agitated and angry. “I hope the two of them didn’t scare you. You were right not to tell them what was going on. They’re good men, but they wouldn’t understand.”
“You think I understand any of this?”
“More than they do.” His voice smoldered with unexpected irritation. “To them, individuals are good or bad. Sure, they recognize cyclical violence and realize that societal factors play a role in creating deviant behavior.” Weeks kept his arms folded, his gaze pinned to the shadowy corners of the room. “But they completely dismiss the possibility that other forces may influence our actions.”
“An external evil?”
“Yes – you’ve felt it. You know both its power and impatience. You’ve stood against it in the past.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Daquwa isn’t unique, Mr. Davenport. There are communities like this all over the world. Some remain vigilant … some have fallen under the sway of ancient darkness.” Weeks froze, his eyes finally falling on Davenport. “Daquwa is on the brink of moral ruin – soon, the wicked will walk amongst you. Only a handful of guardians remain. I know you’re one – I need to know the names of all the others so I can protect them, gather them together once more on top of the mountain.”
“It’s been so long since we performed the last ceremony …”
“You can remember. I know you can.”
“Not all … but some, maybe most of them.”
“Good,” Weeks smiled. He took out a little pad of paper and a pencil. “Write them down for me, quickly.” As Weeks tapped the pad with impatient fingers, the wound on his wrist fell beneath the lamplight. The loose bandage had slipped revealing not a bite, but a symbol not unlike those found near the slain guardians. The investigator recoiled almost immediately, burying his hand in his coat pocket. “We’ve little time,” he said, hoping the recent injury had gone unnoticed. “I can’t help you without those names.”
“I’m trying,” Davenport said, ripping a single sheet of paper from the pad. He skimmed through his memories, trying to piece together all the disjointed fragments. “Could I have a soda … maybe a cigarette?”
“Sure,” Weeks said, trying to be as convivial as possible. “I know you must be tired.” He left the door ajar as he walked out into the corridor and headed for the vending machines.
In his absence, Davenport rummaged through his pockets, pleased to find that the police officer who had conducted a spur-of-the-moment search had only confiscated his pocketknife. He took out his lighter and sat it neatly on the edge of the table. Waiting for Weeks to return, he busied himself by crumpling up several pieces of paper.
“Here you are,” the investigator said, walking back into the room. He froze when he saw the heap of kindling meticulously arranged at the center of the table. “What are you …”
“I remembered a song we used to sing. I thought you might want to hear it.” Davenport, lighter in hand, ignited the tiny bonfire. In the moments before the fire alarm sounded, before the sprinkler system activated and extinguished the blaze, Davenport chanted:
Her mortal servants bear the mark
Which binds them to eternal dark;
Their blackened hearts, so full of shame,
Are weakened by a single flame;
In fires of courage and concern,
Their withered souls are quick to burn.
Destabilized by the fire and the incantation, Weeks howled as he, too, burst into flames. He lunged forward toward the reawakened guardian, trying to eliminate one more obstacle for the next contingent in this ancient war.
“How long have you been collaborating with them, Weeks?” Davenport sidestepped the clumsy attack. “
Did she turn you tonight, or have you been doing her bidding all along? Why did you kill her?”
“My soul has always belonged to her and those she serves. The death of an obsolete host will permit her to take on a new guise. Knowing you might recognize her, I simply provoked her regeneration.” Weeks’ charred flesh tumbled from his frame. Water from the sprinklers pooled at his feet but had little effect on the flames engulfing his body. “Your protective fires have grown cold and weak,” he said. “More messengers will follow, drawing more disciples to the cause. The outcome is inevitable …”
“No,” Davenport said. He skirted the perimeter of the room until he had made his way to the door. “No, apathy is not endemic here.” Even as he uttered the words he questioned his own faith in them. “We will be resolute in our defiance.”
“Even now, the darkness surrounds you.” The disembodied voice reverberated until it folded into the shadow of a whisper. Weeks’ remains collapsed, burnt bones and blackened bits of muscle sizzling as droplets of water continued to fall.
“So long as I am able, I’ll keep the fires burning.”
*
DAQUWA – Following a fire at the local sheriff’s office that claimed the life a special investigator, officials from the FBI announced the arrest of local photographer Baxter Davenport in connection with a string of recent murders.
Killed in the blaze was Officer David Weeks, on loan from Asheville. Weeks had been participating in the investigation and was last seen interrogating Davenport.
At yesterday’s press conference, federal agent Rex Routledge explained that Weeks had named Davenport as a prime candidate in a rash of bizarre, ritualistic serial killings.