Nephilim Genesis of Evil

by Renee Pawlish

  Got to stop thinking bad thoughts, she chided herself as she went back into the kitchen and poured herself a steaming cup of coffee. She sat at the table and finished reading a book, unable to shake a vaguely upsetting feeling.

  CHAPTER 8

  When Anna opened the general store at eight, the dry air inside the building felt hot and cramped. Odd, she thought. It’s been almost unbearably hot the last week or so, so unlike mountain weather. Travis Velario had been joking that the weather was much like it had been when the town disappeared over a hundred years ago, hoping to scare her with the town rumors. Please, she thought. I’ve heard it all before. But goose bumps rose on her arms even as she turned on a small rotating fan by the cash register in the hopes of stirring away some of the heat as well as a faint sense of dread that whirled within her. Sunlight filtered through the front windows, catching the dust in the air to create luminescent beams from the glass to the floor. As she bustled around the shelves and racks, preparing for a day of customers, Anna’s thoughts again turned to Rory Callahan, and the anxiety went away.

  When she was showering earlier that morning, she found herself hoping Rory would show up at the store again. She’d heard he was going to be around for at least a month, and the excited feeling she got about this surprised her. Maybe she should flirt with him, she thought as she straightened the magazine rack. But oh, it had been a while since she’d been attracted to someone. Not since Paul’s death. Maybe I’m finally moving on, she thought with a smile.

  “You need anything, Dad?” she called, poking her head out the door, where her father was sitting in his usual spot on the porch, watching cars go by on their way to the lake or to other businesses. It was Sunday, one of the busiest days of the week at the Crossing, so Jimmy should be kept entertained all day.

  “You notice a coolness in the air?” he asked.

  “No,” Anna replied. It was hot outside, too. Any early morning chill in the air had made a hasty retreat, but he had a blanket draped around his shoulders. She worried that her father’s health was failing faster than she realized.

  “Something peculiar in the air,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “Like it was then,” he muttered.

  “Then?” She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob.

  “It didn’t feel right then, and it doesn’t now.”

  She knew what her father meant. He always talked about the accident in the same way. “Let’s not discuss it.” She was abrupt, more so than she meant to, but she didn’t want to talk about the past right now. Especially that piece of the past.

  “I’m not trying to make things harder.” Jimmy pursed his lips at her.

  “Uh huh.” Anna held the door open for a couple of customers and followed them back into the store.

  Ten minutes later, Rory Callahan walked in, his face gleaming with sweat.

  “Whoa, it’s getting warm out there,” he said, smiling at her. Then he winked and held her gaze, his eyes dancing.

  “Sure is.” She smiled back, pleased that he was paying attention to her.

  “Need to pick up a few things.” He went to the back of the store and grabbed a few miscellaneous items, humming softly to himself.

  Anna watched him retreat behind a row of shelves, but then had to focus her attention on helping some fishermen. She rang up their items, thinking about what she would say to Rory when he came up to the counter.

  “You sell maps here?” a hiker poked his head in the door.

  “Yes.” She pointed to a rack next to a glass-faced refrigerator that held cold sodas and water. The hiker came in and began browsing. Two women came in after that, then Travis Velario.

  “Hey, babe,” he leered, as he grabbed a package of Little Debbie donuts from a display. He handed her a couple of bills.

  “Travis, stop it,” she hissed at him, slapping his change on the counter. She glanced over his shoulder at Rory.

  “What?” He followed her gaze. “What’s this?” he said, drawing the words out. “My competition?” He hefted his jeans up around his bulky waist.

  She grimaced at him. “If that’ll be all?” she asked, dripping with mock politeness.

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll come by later to chat.” He whistled as he left the store.

  Anna let out the air she’d been holding. Thank goodness Travis left, she thought. She wanted to talk with Rory, and she didn’t want Travis around when she did.

  She frowned as Ed Miller, one of the year-round locals and the proverbial town drunk, entered the store. He set his fishing pole and tackle box by the door and sauntered up to the counter.

  “Get me a pack of those,” he grunted, pointing at the cigarette rack hanging from the wall behind Anna. He was a scrawny man of average height, his skin sallow, coal-like eyes too close together and sunk into their sockets. A strong odor of smoke mixed with stale sweat emanated from his worn jeans and tattered shirt.

  Since Ed was in every day for a pack, she knew exactly which brand he wanted: Camels. No filter. Anna got the pack and slid it across the counter. Ed dropped a couple of bills at her and pawed the cigarettes with a grubby left hand that was missing the index finger, a mangled section of skin remaining where the digit once was.

  “Keep an eye on your father,” he said. “This heat’s hard when you get older.” Even though he was generally cantankerous, Ed still had a soft spot for the locals, especially for Anna and her father. And the locals liked him as well, as long as he wasn’t too drunk.

  “Yes, I’m watching him,” she said, but Ed was already gathering his fishing gear and heading out the door, mumbling about the tourists and how hot it was. If it had been anybody else, Anna would’ve given him a lecture about the dangers of forest fires, but Ed Miller, although often smashed, didn’t need to be told. For all his foibles, he was the consummate outdoorsman, and would never be so stupid as to start a forest fire with a carelessly tossed cigarette butt.

  The hiker came up to the counter with a map of the area. Behind him, Rory approached with a bottle of Coke, and flour, sugar, and baking soda. He stood patiently while Anna rang up the hiker’s bill.

  The hiker paid and stepped past Rory, who sauntered up to the counter, set his groceries down, and grabbed a paper from a bin on the floor. “Look at that,” he said, pointing at the cover photo. A picture of Mars took up most of the page, with a headline in big bold letters: Closer Than Ever.

  Anna turned the paper sideways, her hand brushing his. A bolt of electricity pulsed through her. She pulled her hand away and looked up. He was gazing back at her, his eyes deep and mysterious. She drew her hair out of her face and started to total his bill.

  “I thought I’d bake some cookies,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “Do you like chocolate chip cookies?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she answered, smiling.

  Behind them, one of the two women who’d come in earlier cleared her throat. Anna hadn’t noticed that they were waiting to pay for their stuff.

  “Excuse me,” Rory said. He pulled out his wallet and paid her, but instead of leaving the store, he stood off to the side, pretending to be engrossed in the selection of canned vegetables while Anna helped the women.

  “Finally,” she said, the store now to themselves.

  Rory moseyed back up to the counter and leaned against it. “I think I have everything I need to make the cookies.”

  “If not, we’re open until five,” she said, then immediately felt like she’d just put her hand in a basket and pulled out the lamest response she could’ve found.

  “Well, if I’ve missed an ingredient and they don’t taste good, it’s chef error.”

  Anna chuckled. “I know what that feels like.”

  Rory played with the grocery bag, rustling the paper in the silence between them. Anna opened her mouth, ready to fill the awkward void, when Rory spoke.

  “Hey, this might be forward of me, but would you like to go to dinner with me, and maybe to the movies? I’m
not sure where we’d go since there’s no theater here, but…” He held up a hand. “I promise I’m the perfect gentleman, and I’ll have you back at a reasonable hour.”

  Anna stood there, willing her open jaw to close. She had been so caught off guard that she was momentarily speechless.

  “I guess you’re busy,” he said, deflated. “I was hoping to get to know some of the locals, learn more about Taylor Crossing’s fascinating past.”

  “Yes,” Anna finally found her voice. “Dinner and a movie would be great. I’d like that. We could drive down to Boulder.”

  “How about if I pick you up after work?” He grinned.

  She nodded. “Five-thirty? You can come by my cabin.” She gave him directions.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “All right, then.” She smiled back.

  How do you like that, she thought after he left the store. He must be attracted to her, just like she was to him. It felt good. Really good.

  CHAPTER 9

  The spirit hovered in the searing daylight air. It had been tracking Ed Miller for some time, ever since he had come up the road from Taylor Lake, lugging his fishing gear and lurching like he was about to fall. The midday sun burned like molten lava, sucking any moisture from the atmosphere. Ed was mumbling, his speech a litany of the errors of this world, how the lake was too crowded these days, and how hot it was, but the form in the air could not explain the action of sound being carried in the wind, nor the meaning in the words.

  Ed stumbled off the road onto a narrow path that cut through the trees, cursing as he fell to one knee. He wasn’t really old, but a hard life had left him scarred, and his bones groaned upon impact. Ed tottered back to his feet and retrieved the pole and tackle box, which had tumbled out in front of him. Swearing, he started up the path again.

  As the spirit kept pace with Ed, it could tell that he had become aware of something out of the ordinary. Ed’s pace, at first leisurely, had suddenly quickened, and he had stopped grumbling. The fishing rod in his right hand, that had previously dangled without threat, now pointed forward, as if Ed were wielding a sword.

  The presence knew Ed. The man’s ethereal past, his blood, his past generations, were calling to it. If the presence had familiarity with any good emotion, it would’ve experienced a sense of pleasure, or at least a sense of rightness. But the form knew only that it wanted release, and that the being down there, walking along a faint path in the woods, would help it achieve its goal.

  Ed began muttering again, the words still without a context for the spirit. But it sensed the fear stemming from the human below.

  “Damn spooks,” Ed said, his eyes darting into the trees. “’s like a ghost or somethin’.”

  The spirit moved closer, narrowing the gap between hunter and hunted.

  Ed stopped and pulled a bottle out of the tackle box. He put it to his lips and took a long swig. The maple-colored liquid slid down his throat, its fire easing his jangled nerves.

  “What’s that?” he whirled around, pointing the fishing rod at the empty trail behind him. “Who’s there?” He didn’t see or hear anything, but in a court of law, he’d have sworn something was there. He bent his head and used his shirt sleeve to wipe sweat from his brow, careful not to tip the bottle in his hand.

  “You ain’t getting none of my hooch,” he called out. His words echoed off into the trees with a hollow sound. The air stirred around him. It felt hot and toxic. And dangerous.

  “Samuel,” he said, referring to his friend, “I’m warnin’ you. If you try anything stupid, I…” He didn’t know what he would do, so he let the sentence hang unfinished along with the threatening impression that surrounded him.

  He turned back around and started walking again, gear in one hand, bottle in the other. “I gotta get back home and get some food. That’ll clear my head.”

  Suddenly a sensation of dread passed through him. He shuddered.

  Then in a swift motion, the dread turned into terror. He felt a crushing weight on his chest, felt his breath pushed from his lungs. His heart twisted coldly, the blood in his veins like ice. He bent backwards with the weight of the force thrust upon him. He looked up at the sky, and in a fleeting, pain-filled moment, he saw only an absence of light. A shadow enveloped him as the fishing pole, tackle box, and bottle dropped to the ground.

  He shrieked, but the black nothingness captured the sounds of his screams, and they died in the darkness.

  CHAPTER 10

  After Rory left the general store, he strolled down the dock to his boat, whistling as he went, thinking about his impending date with Anna. He was glad she’d said yes. He smiled as he bent down to untie his boat.

  “They’re coming.”

  Rory leapt into the air, one hand pressed to his thumping heart.

  “Geez, Brewster! You scared me half to death!” Rory had been so preoccupied with Anna that he hadn’t heard the old man approach. “What the hell?”

  Brewster narrowed his gaze and fixed it pointedly on Rory. The whites in his eyes looked menacing. “You watch out, boy. There’s danger across the lake.”

  Rory had regained his composure, and now his fear was surmounted by anger. “Yeah, right. Because Burgess Barton went crazy and disappeared. You think you could’ve picked a different time to tell me that?”

  “People thought he went crazy,” Brewster said carefully, his body erect, muscles taut. “But that’s not true.”

  “Oh no?” Just as quickly as it flared up, Rory’s anger dissipated. He put a hand on Brewster’s shoulder, but the old man shook it off. “Things are changing.” He stared out into the clear blue sky. “Can’t you tell?”

  Rory shook his head.

  “One has to gather them first. He’ll call them, bring the rest together.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  Brewster ignored the question. “Your cabin,” he said cryptically. “He was there, and he knew. Just like I know.”

  “Who?”

  “Burgess Barton.” Brewster suddenly leaned closer, studying Rory. “When they come, they’ll try and get you. They’ll call for you, but you gotta fight back, like Barton did. You fight back, you hear?”

  Rory felt a pressure in his chest, anxiety looming within him. “Who’ll come?”

  But Brewster went on. “He tried to stop them. He chronicled it. You look for that, because it’s there. Maybe in the mine. But it’s there. You find it.”

  “Find what? What am I supposed to look for?”

  “It’s there,” Brewster said. “People think I’m a fool. But I’m not.” He suddenly looked like the old man he was. His face sagged as he gazed at Rory before turning on his heels.

  “Wait,” Rory said, grabbing at him. But Brewster ignored him, shuffling off down the dock, his shoulders hunched, strands of his white hair flowing around his head.

  Rory’s good mood drifted off across the lake, swept away by Brewster’s outburst. “What was that all about?” he asked himself. He got into his boat and rowed back to the cabin, the air hot and still around him. The lake looked as smooth as polished marble. By the time he arrived at the cabin, he was exhausted. “Whew. I’m out of shape,” he muttered as he went up the path from the dock. The long road trip west had caught up to him.

  He took a stack of articles that he’d gotten from the University library, went out onto the porch and sat in the sun for a while, taking pleasure in the fact that no boats ventured this far out, that he had some solitude from the tourists of the Crossing. He tried to concentrate on his research, but his encounter with Old Man Brewster kept interfering. What did Brewster mean about looking for something? Look for what? And what was that business about a chronicle? He read a few pages, wondering if they would hold a clue to what Brewster had said, but his eyes began to droop. He finally stopped reading and decided to take a nap. With a huge yawn, he dragged himself into the house and into the bedroom. He sprawled on the bed, thoughts of Brewster mulling around in his head.

 
He stared at the ceiling, aware of the complete silence. Soon the heat enveloped him. His eyelids closed and he fell asleep.

  He awoke an hour later with a start. He’d been dreaming. Not a good dream that left you wishing it was real. This dream was vividly real and a true nightmare.

  He was in the woods north of the cabin, picking his way through the rough terrain that was so familiar it was as if he’d lived here before. He knew exactly where he was heading and he couldn’t stop himself from going there. Walls of green trees surrounded him, and he knew that he shouldn’t have any idea which way to turn, but paradoxically, he did know where to turn.

  He arrived at a mineshaft, nothing more than a gaping hole in the side of the mountain, so covered with underbrush that it was impossible to see unless you knew it was there. Just behind the foliage, huge beams, so new that sap oozed from cracks in the wood, supported the opening, which beckoned like the black mouth of a ghoul. The mine was unfamiliar to Rory, but he found it as if he had been there a thousand times.

  Then he was inside the mine tunnel, floating down, down, down. He kept falling and he couldn’t stop himself, nor could he see. He landed in a cavernous underground room, holding a pickaxe in one hand and a burning torch in the other. His faded overalls were covered in dirt. He began to search. The cave concealed something and it was imperative that he find it. Tributary tunnels forked out in several directions and he had to choose one. But just as he made a decision and was about to enter one of the passageways where he knew the object was, an evil-smelling gust of wind snuffed out his torch. Yet the shallow glow from the torch remained, pale light bouncing off the rock walls. Shivers of fear ripped through him. He tried to scream but he couldn’t make any sound.

  He turned to run and plowed right into a tall man who blocked his way. The man was almost a mirror image of himself, with the same wavy dark hair and blue eyes, dressed in the same dirt-covered overalls, with the pickaxe and torch in his hands. The man was talking to him, his puckered lips moving quickly, his jaw working furiously. But no sound came out of his mouth.