Nephilim Genesis of Evil

by Renee Pawlish

  Samuel smoothed his mustache. “Burgess Barton was a miner who lived here in the 1880’s.”

  “Was he the one that named the town?” Duane interrupted.

  Dee rolled her eyes at Samuel, as if to say, “Look what I have to deal with.” She patted Duane on the cheek patronizingly. “Sweetie, the town was named for a man named Taylor, not Barton.”

  Duane stared at her in surprise. “How do you know that?” he said angrily.

  “It’s true,” Samuel interjected, trying to avoid the argument brewing between Duane and Dee. “A man named Taylor capitalized on mining traffic in and out of these mountains. He made a mint without ever putting a foot underground.” Samuel could appreciate such business acumen.

  “So what’s the deal with Burgess?” Dee was not giving up.

  “He was a miner who lived across the lake,” Samuel continued.

  “There’s a cabin over there? I don’t recall seeing one.” It was Dee’s turn to look surprised.

  “If you head out on a boat and get toward the middle of the lake, you can see the place. It’s tucked into a little clearing in front of a cliff, and it’s hard to see.”

  “Why would anyone want to live out there?” Duane asked. “It’s pretty remote, isn’t it?”

  “Yep. But I guess that’s what ol’ Barton wanted.” Samuel smiled. He leaned his arms on the counter. “Supposedly he did some mining out there. Even had some gold ore that he showed around town. But there’s no mine out there that I’m aware of.”

  “So what’s the scoop?”

  Samuel pursed his lips. “The way I heard it, Burgess Barton came from the East Coast. He was a professor, or teacher, I forget which.” He wrinkled his brow, thinking. “Anyway, he moved out here and built himself that place out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “But why would a professor want to try his hand at mining?” Duane asked.

  “There was a lot of money to be made,” Dee pointed out.

  “But not if there’s no gold there.” Now Duane acted like Dee should’ve known this.

  “You build out there if you don’t want to be found,” Samuel said. They both looked at him questioningly. “The way the story goes, Burgess Barton had a secret he was running from. What better place to hide than on a patch of land that’s so difficult to get to, the only way you can get there is by boat.”

  They nodded in understanding.

  “Sure, that makes sense,” Dee said.

  “Of course,” Duane added.

  “But why would that Brewster guy be telling us about him?” Dee asked.

  Samuel shrugged. “Now that’s the real mystery.” He tugged at his moustache and winked at Dee.

  Dee shook her head and pushed Duane. “Okay, enough of this. Let’s check out that antique store. Thanks very much.” They headed out the door, bickering about Samuel’s story as they went.

  Samuel watched them go. Then his mind flashed to Old Man Brewster. He’s been on a roll lately, he thought. Giving everybody a run for their money. Must be something in the air.

  He grabbed a rag and cleaned the couple’s table, tidied up the dining room, and sauntered back to the kitchen. The small radio on a shelf belted out “Surfin’ Safari” by the Beach Boys. Samuel loved the oldies, and his head nodded in time with the song. He went to the sink and turned on the water, and began to tackle the pile of dirty dishes. Pots and pans stacked on a metal counter next to the sink waited for his attention.

  He had a habit of talking to himself, his way of keeping his mind occupied. “Could use your help, Joan,” he muttered, pouring soap onto the dishes. He attacked them with zeal, scrubbing while he talked to himself. “I should be drinking a beer right now, instead of serving them up here while you’re gone. That’s all I do is serve: serve drinks, beer, get people sodas, or water. Yep. I serve and what do you do, Joan?”

  By the time he’d finished all the dishes and started on the pots, he had worked himself into a righteous indignation.

  “Did she ever think I might want to take off for a while?” He slid pots into the sink. Soapsuds billowed up into his face. “Fishing’s probably great today.” More pots into the water. He scrubbed at one. “This grime’s really sticking,” he said to no one. He straightened up and stared at the mess before him. “It’d be better if I let this soak for a bit.” He nodded once to himself. “I can get this before dinner.” He looked around the kitchen. Everything else was put away, and Joan should be back soon. It wouldn’t hurt if he left. The town knew that he and Joan operated the place casually, sometimes leaving during off-peak hours.

  He had argued himself right into an afternoon of fishing. He’d go find Ed and get out on the lake for a bit. Let Joan deal with these dishes, he thought.

  “All right then.” He took off his apron, tossed it onto a butcher block in the middle of the room and headed out to the dining room. He retrieved a pre-made sign from under the front counter. “Be Back In A While,” it said. He hung it in the front window, bolted the door, and went back through the kitchen, grabbing his fishing gear from a closet by the back door. He tugged on his cap and went out the back door.

  Samuel glanced at the cloudless blue sky as he headed in the opposite direction from Ed’s cabin. This was the way Ed had been going to the lake, and he figured that Ed wouldn’t return home without stopping by the café to let him know how the fishing was, so it stood to reason that he was still out somewhere.

  Samuel passed Taylor Lake, and he thought about Burgess Barton, living on the other side. It would be a great place to escape to, he mused, shielding his eyes as he searched for his pal. Satisfied that Ed was not among the fishermen either out in boats or fishing along the shore, he continued on past the general store. The porch was empty.

  “Too blasted hot for Jimmy,” Samuel murmured to himself.

  He followed the road outside of town. Part of the Crossing’s charm was the abundance of outdoor activities, but the locals knew of a number of unused trails, and they guarded these undisclosed spots like gold. He soon veered onto a barely discernable trail through the trees, one that led up to a smaller lake with no name that most visitors to Taylor Crossing didn’t know of. If Ed wasn’t fishing Taylor Lake, he’d be there. The fishing wasn’t as good as Taylor Lake, but it was secluded, which was precisely why Ed chose to fish there. He hurried along, wanting to find Ed as soon as he could, so he’d have more time to fish. Joan was going to be irritated, but she’d get over it.

  After a few minutes of uphill walking, he came to a fork in the path. He took the right one, heading further from the Crossing. The path went around a gigantic rock outcropping that jutted from the mountainside. He walked around it and sat in its shade for a moment.

  “Man,” he said, wiping his face. He wished he’d remembered to bring some water with him. But Ed’ll have some beer, he thought. That’ll hit the spot.

  He started on, watching the path as he went. All he heard was the sound of his breathing and his feet hitting the dirt.

  “Ed,” he called out. His voice drifted away, lost in the trees. “I don’t have much time,” he said to the emptiness around him. “I got to get back before the dinner crowd, or Joan will serve me as the main course.” He cracked a wry smile at that.

  Sunlight streamed through the trees, burning the back of his neck as he walked.

  “Don’t know how much fish we’ll catch in this darn heat,” he said to himself. He swatted at a fly. “Why don’t you go find some shade?” he asked the annoying insect.

  He sidestepped a gnarled tree root in the path, laughing that he almost tripped on it. He walked on for a bit before coming to an abrupt halt. “What’s that smell?”

  As if an answer to the question, Ed Miller emerged from behind a huge evergreen tree. He looked more unkempt than a depression era bum. His wrinkled shirt stuck to him like a wetsuit and his scraggly hair was plastered to his forehead. His hands dangled loosely at his sides, motionless.

  Samuel put a hand on his chest, startled. “Gee
z, Ed. You scared me half to death.” He huffed, feeling the staccato thump of his heart.

  Ed stared at him, his dark eyes void of life. His face was as pale as aspen bark.

  “Where’s your gear?” Samuel held up his own tackle box and fishing pole to indicate what he meant.

  Ed continued to stare, saying nothing.

  “You all right, buddy?” Samuel could hear the uneasy edge that had crept into his voice.

  Nothing.

  The foul smell increased. Samuel crinkled his nose and realized the odor was coming from Ed.

  “You don’t look so good,” Samuel said. Or smell so good, either, he neglected to say.

  “Are you him?” Ed spoke in a monotone.

  “Him who?” Samuel asked, puzzled.

  “The one with water.”

  Samuel placed his hands on his hips. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Ed raised a hand slowly, the one with the missing index finger, and pointed with the other three at him. A horrible silence stretched out between them. “It is time,” Ed finally said. He sounded unreal to Samuel, in a way he would never be able to describe.

  “Time for what?” He met Ed’s hollow gaze. Fear gnawed at his guts, but he wasn’t sure why. He just knew he was afraid. Deeply, intensely afraid.

  “I call you.” Ed’s eyes narrowed in menace. It was like looking into a bottomless well. Samuel felt a tingling that comes with lightheadedness.

  “Yes.” Even as Samuel answered, his voice seemed to come from someone else. It was him talking, and yet it wasn’t. What is happening? he thought from somewhere deep inside his being. He was quickly losing touch with himself as he continued to stare into Ed’s blank eyes.

  “Our time is now.”

  “Yes.” Samuel stared.

  “Come.” Ed’s arm swung slowly, pointing up the path.

  “Yes.”

  In that last place of his own sanity, he tried to scream. But the sound was lost in Ed’s hypnotic gaze.

  CHAPTER 17

  The needles on the pine trees around Taylor Crossing were brittle, and the aspen leaves were mute in the stillness. But far up a hillside, the sounds of teen-age singing poured out from an abandoned mine shack, breaking the tranquility of the early afternoon.

  In the cool shadows inside the dilapidated building, Nicholas D’Angelo sat on the dirt floor and belted out a song. His fingers snapped a steady rhythm and he rocked his head to the beat. Mick sat cross-legged in a corner across from him, watching him sing. His drug-induced haze was easing with each passing minute, and he suddenly recognized the tune. “The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B”.

  “The flaming guitar is playing with him,” Nicholas sang. He had a wonderful tenor voice and he was perfectly in key. Only he was slaughtering the words.

  “It’s bass and guitar, you moron,” Mick said, flinging a rock at him. “Man, I hate it when people can’t get the words to songs right.” He paused reflectively. “And why the hell are you singing that stupid song? It must be a hundred years old.”

  “I dunno,” Nicholas mumbled, rubbing his arm where the rock had hit. He pulled his Yankees baseball cap down over his curly black hair. When sober, he was a timid, reserved boy, his features somewhat delicate, but overall so average in appearance that he usually went unnoticed, just a studious teenager from affluent Upper Saddle River, New Jersey, who struggled against pimples and shyness.

  “I think you toked up a little too much,” Mick said, his mouth stretched into a toothy grin.

  “No, I didn’t,” Nicholas said. “As a matter of fact, I’m coming down. You got any more?”

  Mick stared at the pipe he held. “No, it’s gone.” He paused. “Boogie woogie bugle boy. Where’d you come up with that?”

  “Heard it on TV,” Nicholas shrugged. He couldn’t help it if songs got stuck in his brain.

  “Time Life presents ‘Songs That Your Grandparents Listened To’,” Mick intoned, sounding very much like the late night television commercials they’d all seen so many times.

  They laughed for a moment, then lapsed into a bored silence.

  “We need a jukebox out here,” Nicholas said. Anything to take his mind off the morning he’d had. His stupid father. When that jerk got going, there was no stopping him. He fingered the lump on the back of his head where his father had walloped him with the frying pan. That ended breakfast and got Nicholas sent to his room for the morning. He didn’t even know what he’d done to piss his father off. “Or a piano like they had in the saloons. Can you imagine what it must’ve been like to live here in the old days?”

  “Yeah, we wouldn’t be smoking pot,” Mick said pragmatically. “But we’d have whiskey. Plenty of it.”

  Nicholas had convinced his father to let him leave the cabin after lunch, and now he was relaxed and feeling good. He didn’t care about much else at the moment, and that was the way he liked it.

  Mick got to his feet and grimaced. “Ouch!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I fell down going home last night.” Mick explained what happened and the spooky feeling he’d had, ending by showing Nicholas his bandaged knee. “Doesn’t hurt much,” he said, going for the tough guy routine. “Probably needs stitches, but I don’t care.”

  “What’d your parents do?” Nicholas asked. In his world, getting caught for sneaking out would get him in big trouble. No way he’d be out here with a friend.

  Mick looked at Nicholas like he was an imbecile. “I didn’t tell them I snuck out, you moron, or I’d be grounded. I went out this morning before my mom saw me, and came back and said I’d tripped and cut my knee.”

  “Oh,” Nicholas said. He still would’ve been in trouble. Just about everything he did set his father off. “You musta been pretty high, seeing stuff.” He laughed nervously.

  “Yeah, it was whacked.”

  “Man, it’s hot today.” Nicholas stretched his legs out. “Feels good.” Mick noticed a couple of long bruises on Nicholas’ leg, just below the frayed edge of his cut-off jeans. “So what’d you think you saw?” Nicholas asked.

  “I didn’t see anything,” Mick said. “Just a shadow.”

  “That’s something.”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t a shadow, not like this.” He held one hand up to a strand of sunlight streaking through a crack in the wall and pointed to the dark outline on the ground with the other. “You can see that.”

  “Was it like that movie, Ghost, with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore, where those things would come out of the street when they got that bad dude?”

  “Sort of,” Mick said, remembering how in the movie the bad guy died and was pulled into hell by black shapeless specters. “Man, it’s hard to describe. I don’t even know if it was real or my mind just playing games with me.”

  “But it was cool, right?” Nicholas’ expression was half awe, half fear.

  “Yeah.”

  “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” Mick kicked at Nicholas’ leg.

  “What for?”

  “I’m bored. Let’s find some of the other mines. There’s supposed to be one called The Matchless Mine somewhere near here.”

  “What’s wrong with this one?”

  Mick looked at his surroundings. “Who would call their mine The Luckless Lady? What a dumb name. C’mon, let’s try and find The Matchless Mine.”

  Nicholas got slowly to his feet and heaved a sigh. They stepped outside the shack and into the sunlight. “Can you imagine what this place was like before they decided to make Taylor Crossing a tourist trap?” Mick shrugged. Nicholas continued as they took off through the forest. “There were a bunch of saloons here, a bank and jail, a church, and a post office. And of course they had an undertaker. The towns would pop up wherever people found gold or silver, and then when someone found ore somewhere else, everybody would leave.”

  “I thought all they mined was gold.”

  Nicholas snorted. “Don’t you know anything? They mined a lot of precious metals:
mostly gold and silver, but also lead, copper, zinc, uranium, and tungsten.”

  “What’s tungsten?”

  “It’s used to harden metal and for filaments in electric lights,” Nicholas intoned like a professor, “only the tungsten was mined over near Gold Hill at the turn of the century, after Taylor Crossing had died out.”

  “You actually remember that stuff?”

  “It’s kinda fun to know,” Nicholas mumbled. “I read about it in a book about Colorado ghost towns at the general store.”

  “No kidding.” Mick’s interest had waned. They soon came to a path and walked in silence for a bit.

  “That’s weird,” Nicholas broke the silence.

  “What?”

  “I don’t hear anything.” Nicholas stopped and listened.

  Mick stopped as well. “Me neither.”

  “Exactly.”

  Mick stared at Nicholas for a moment. “C’mon!” He grabbed Nicholas’ arm. “Let’s go this way.” He left the path and sprinted through the trees.

  “Wait up,” Nicholas called after him. Something wasn’t quite right, but he didn’t want to get left behind. Mick disappeared over a rise.

  “Hey!” Nicholas ran after him. With mounting alarm, he thrashed through the trees and burst into a clearing in the woods. He turned around, momentarily disoriented by the abrupt sunlight. The trees created a tall fence surrounding the open area. Most of the clearing was covered with dried grass, almost a foot high where it wasn’t trampled down. Mick was standing nearby, staring at the ground. Nicholas moved forward slowly, noticing the center of the clearing. As he approached, he saw a blackened patch of dirt where the brush had completely burned away, leaving a scorched spot about two feet in diameter. He bent down, but there were no wood embers or ashes to indicate that a fire had been there. A smell like burning hair lingered.

  “What’s this?”

  Mick shook his head. “Campfire?”

  “No fire would make a perfect circle like that.”

  Mick stuck a foot out and nudged at the dirt. “Ouch!” he yelped, pulling his foot away.