Nephilim Genesis of Evil

by Renee Pawlish

  Materializing next to him was his mirror opposite, wearing the same overalls as he had on. The man gestured at the hole in the ground, then looked straight at him. As he watched, the man’s skin shriveled up on his face and body, then disintegrated, and he turned into a skeleton. His jawbones and crooked teeth formed a hideous smile at Rory, then snapped at him, and his right hand, bones like sticks, pointed at him. His mouth worked, and even though words didn’t form, Rory knew what it said: beware. Then the skeleton evaporated, leaving a rotten, polluted smell in the cavern.

  Next he was running through tunnels, carrying the book in his hands. And ghouls chased him, wailing at him, hands like claws clutching at him, wanting to destroy him.

  The dream went on like this in some form every time he managed to sleep. Then he’d wake up, sweating. And he thought he could hear voices, coming from the living room. Morning hadn’t come quick enough.

  He rubbed his tired eyes and stared out the window. It is time. Time for what, he thought. He brought the cup up to his lips, noticing that his hand shook slightly. He finished the coffee and set the cup down with a clatter. Time for what?

  And what of the other voice? Beware, it had said. Just like the miner in Rory’s dream.

  Weary of coming up with no answers, he grabbed some of the articles he’d copied from the University of Colorado library, scanning ones that referenced Taylor Crossing. He read a general article about the town growing, how good the mining was; how there had been a murder in Nederland that remained unsolved. Then he found an interesting article. Renowned journalist comes to Taylor Crossing in search of gold, the headline blared. The article related how Burgess Barton had left his prominent post at a Boston newspaper to come to the Colorado mountains to try his hand at mining. It went on to discuss his stellar reputation in the journalistic community and included a snippet of biographical information.

  For the first time since he’d heard the name Burgess Barton, the miner was not just a name related to the mystery of his cabin. Rory flipped through more pages until he saw the miner’s name again. Burgess Barton had left The Boston Globe, and according to the newspaper account, a recent article he penned had cast a pall over his reputation because of its speculation about the possibility of supernatural forces visiting Boston, and himself in particular. Some had wondered if Barton had gone crazy, as further evidenced in his sudden departure to Colorado, where he intended to mine.

  Rory felt himself go cold. Barton had a similar kind of experience as he had in New York. And he ended up in Taylor Crossing. What forces were at work in this town? he thought. He read another headline: Mysterious happenings in Taylor Crossing. He read the article.

  A murder and a series of disappearances have the sheriff in Taylor Crossing puzzling over what has been described as prowlers in the woods. “Joseph Connelly, a new miner to these parts, was found dead outside his claim on Saturday. It appears that a wild animal might have got him because his throat was torn out. And a number of residents have just up and disappeared,” said Sheriff Wayne Tucker. Tucker seemed genuinely puzzled over events that he has no explanation for. “I can’t understand why someone would leave right in the middle of the day. Ennis Slade, the town blacksmith, just left, his tools right there.” Emily Graves, at the post office, said she’d noticed a drop in the number of miners coming through the town in the past week. “It’s downright spooky how quickly they’re leaving,” she said in a soft British accent.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” he muttered as he finished the article. “What happened to them?”

  He read a few more articles from the same time period, one talking about a drought that had fallen over the area in recent days, and a couple of others citing how more town residents were disappearing, with no explanations for their departure, and no evidence of foul play. Some residents of Taylor Crossing were voluntarily leaving, fearful of the strange happenings.

  The words on the page began to blur as his eyelids drooped. He pushed the papers away, got up from the table and walked slowly back to the bedroom. He needed to go into the Crossing and see if there was more news about the missing boy, but his body was sapped of energy. He sprawled down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Dreams about miners, voices speaking to him – what next? The miner in the dream had to be Burgess Barton, but where was this mine he kept seeing? What was the object he found in the cavern? And what was it that Barton had seen in Boston?

  He needed to go into town. But rest first. Yes, just a little rest. His eyelids began to droop and the wooden beams on the ceiling began to blur. A mercifully dreamless sleep overtook him.

  CHAPTER 36

  By the time Clinton Truitt stopped at the general store for a cup of coffee, it was already almost noon. It had been a very busy morning, still searching for Mick, along with visits to the Hulls and D’Angelos. The Hulls were, understandably, still in shock, clinging to hope that their son would be found. They were trying to stay busy, packing up their belongings, having decided to go down to Boulder to stay. They had family coming in from the East Coast and they didn’t want to bring them to Taylor Crossing. The place had a bad feel, they explained. And Ellie was scared of the mountains since Mick had disappeared. Kenneth wanted to help search more, but Clinton had discouraged this, asking – no, telling – him to get some rest today. He could help in the search again tomorrow.

  Clinton shook his head as his mind went over everything. Then there was Gino D’Angelo’s behavior. It had been downright disturbing. He seemed so indifferent to the tragedy that had struck the other family and to his son’s own trauma. He refused to take Nicholas to a hospital, had said that after a good night’s sleep, his son was fine. But Gino wasn’t. He was tightly wound, and Clinton was certain he was beating his son. But without proof, there was little he could do. He hadn’t even seen Nicholas when he visited with Gino, nor did he see Mary D’Angelo. Gino definitely bore more scrutiny, Clinton thought as he walked up the porch steps of the store. Myrtle Hester’s dog, Boo, was resting on the porch. He wagged his tale at Clinton, who took a moment to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

  “Hey, Jimmy,” Clinton said with a nod at the old man in the rocker. How could the old man stand sitting out in the heat?

  “Any news?” Jimmy asked, the crow’s feet wrinkles around his eyes more prominent today.

  “Afraid not.” Clinton went inside, leaving Jimmy staring out at the lake.

  It was pleasantly cool inside the store. Clinton walked up to the counter where Anna was talking with Myrtle.

  “Hello, Sheriff,” Myrtle said. “Any sign of Mick?”

  “Not yet, but we’re still looking. Has anyone seen Brewster?”

  Both women shook their heads. “He hasn’t been wandering around the dock like he usually does,” Anna said, looking out the front window. She exchanged a wary glance with Myrtle. “That makes him look bad, doesn’t it?”

  “It doesn’t help,” Clinton answered.

  “So you didn’t find him yesterday,” Myrtle said.

  “No.” He took off his hat and scratched his head. “I went by his place but he wasn’t around. I stopped back by first thing this morning, too. He seems to have disappeared, too.”

  “Oh dear.” Myrtle put a hand to her throat. “That’s not like him at all.”

  Clinton leaned against the counter. “Anna, did you have two hikers come in here yesterday?”

  “That describes most of my clientele,” she said with a faint smile. “Can you be more specific?”

  “Sorry, I’m a bit tired. Two men, both in their mid-forties. One is stocky with a beard, the other tall and thin. They would’ve been wearing backpacks.”

  She thought for a moment. “That’s still pretty general, but it doesn’t sound familiar. I couldn’t say for sure.”

  “Why?” Myrtle asked.

  “I got a report this morning that they’re missing,” Clinton said. “The wife of one of them called it in. Howard Stein, goes by Howie, is a mortician and he was suppose
d to come home last night. His wife just arrived back in town herself, took a redeye from the East Coast this morning. When she got home and he wasn’t there, she made a few phone calls trying to find him and then contacted the police.”

  “What about the other one?” Anna asked.

  “Guy by the name of Lewis Pope. He’s a computer programmer, divorced, lives alone. Nobody to go home to. Someone checked around when he didn’t show up for work, and found out the two were camping, then got in touch with Lewis’s ex and asked her to call around. She can’t find him. We found Lewis’s truck parked down the road, locked up and waiting for them. As far as anyone knows, they were camping somewhere around here over a long weekend, but haven’t returned.”

  “Maybe they decided to stay out longer,” Myrtle suggested.

  Clinton nodded. “I would’ve thought that too, but Howie’s wife is insistent that he wouldn’t do that. He was supposed to be at work today for a viewing, and according to her, if he says he’s going to be at work, he is. He’s totally reliable.”

  “I wonder what happened,” Myrtle said, a hint of worry in her tone.

  “What about the reporter from New York? Rory?” Clinton changed the subject.

  “He’s not missing, is he?” Anna asked quickly.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” he said. He watched the color rise in her cheeks. She likes the guy, he thought. “Has he been in town today?”

  “I haven’t seen him,” she answered more slowly. “You don’t think he’s a part of this?”

  “No, but he might’ve seen the hikers.”

  A loaded pause ensued. Both women appeared shaken up. Strange things were happening in the Crossing, things that left a person feeling on edge.

  “Well, I just stopped for coffee,” Clinton said, going to the machine near the counter and preparing a cup. The aroma perked him up some. “I’ve got a lot to do.”

  “It’s on the house,” Anna said as he reached for his wallet.

  “Thanks.” He put on his hat and headed for the door. “You two take care. And watch out.”

  The closing door shut out their response. He waved goodbye to Jimmy and got in his car. He was headed back to the office where too many things waited. He should’ve bought some lunch before he left the store. The car’s air conditioner drowned out his heavy sigh.

  CHAPTER 37

  “I just don’t know what’s going on in this town,” Myrtle said after Clinton had left the store. It was bad enough what happened to those poor boys, but now other people were coming up missing. She didn’t like it at all. Not at all.

  Anna shrugged. “I don’t ever remember such bizarre things going on around here.”

  “Not for a long time.” Myrtle’s stomach stirred a bit, thinking about the last time such strange occurrences happened. She’d only heard stories of it, spoken in an offhanded manner, and she always thought of them with a touch of humor, dismissing the tales as silly. But if the stories were true, could it really happen again?

  “Have you seen Joan?” Anna asked.

  Myrtle shook her head. “No. I checked with Lillian before I came over here, and she hasn’t seen or heard from Joan either. She’s probably worn out from worry. I’m going to go check on her now.”

  Jimmy was slumped in his rocker when Myrtle walked out to the porch. He’s fading fast, she thought sadly. She left him undisturbed, retrieved Boo, and walked up the road toward the café. The temperature was as bad as yesterday, and she was thankful she’d remembered her bonnet. As she passed the antique store, Travis came out. He locked the store, attaching a handwritten ‘Be Back Soon’ sign in the window.

  “Lunchtime?” Myrtle asked him. Boo growled.

  Travis nodded. “That dog’s never liked me,” he said, falling in stride with her. “Too bad the café’s not open. I’d rather eat there than try and scrounge something up at home.”

  “Joan’s too worried to think about opening the café.”

  “Have you seen Douggie and Pam?” he asked, waving a hand at the art gallery. “They haven’t been around since yesterday.”

  The gnawing began in Myrtle’s stomach. “They’re not at the gallery?”

  “Nope. I checked earlier today. I didn’t see them.”

  She halted and looked at the store. “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t see them close up last night either. And they’re not at home. I checked on my way here this morning.”

  The uneasiness that had been eating at her for the past couple of days had grown into a full-fledged worry. She’d been coming to the Crossing for so long she’d lost track, but she couldn’t think of a stranger summer. “The store is locked up, right?”

  “Yep. Not that they’re missing much business on a weekday, as slow as it’s been…”

  “I hope nothing happened,” Myrtle grimaced, starting down the road again, Boo plodding along beside them.

  Travis laughed. “They probably took off for a couple of days and didn’t say anything. You know those ex-hippie types.”

  “I’m going to check on Joan,” she said as they reached the café.

  “Have a nice afternoon.” He continued on up the road.

  Myrtle went on the porch in front of the café. The front windows were shut tight, the blinds drawn. It was graveyard quiet. It seemed odd that the picnic tables were empty and that no one was coming or going. Boo made a low noise deep in his throat.

  “Shush, you’re giving me the willies.”

  She stepped to the door. A ‘Closed’ sign hung in the window. She knew that Joan and Samuel rarely locked the door, but she knocked anyway, not wanting to surprise Joan, or her helper Manuel, if he was around. After waiting a minute, she turned the knob.

  Boo growled louder. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked him. He answered by plopping his behind squarely on the porch.

  “Fine, then. You can stay out here.” She patted him on the head and went inside the café. A wall of hot air hit her as she stepped into the café. “Joan?” Myrtle called out softly. No answer.

  The main dining area was bathed in shadows, dust dancing in the shafts of light that seeped through the cracks in the window blinds. She went on through the empty room and into the kitchen. Overhead fluorescent bulbs brightened the room with unnatural light, but no one was around. The faint smell of something burning lingered in the air, but she saw no signs of recent cooking. She stifled a sneeze as she went to a door that led into the lodging part of the bed and breakfast.

  The deathly quiet pulled at her, and her arms broke out in goose pimples. She called out Joan’s name again, this time softer. She stood still for a moment, but heard nothing. She wondered if Joan was asleep somewhere. The poor woman was already worn thin, and the rest would do her good. Myrtle tiptoed through a small entry area and to a door marked ‘Private’, where Samuel and Joan had their personal living quarters. It was hotter in here, and the burning odor was stronger, and fetid. Beads of sweat popped up on her forehead. The hair at the base of her skull began to tingle. She was about to go through the door when she heard a voice.

  Myrtle hesitated, not wanting to interrupt. The door was partially open, and she began to back away when she saw Samuel through the partially opened door. His back was toward her. Her heart flipped in her chest, and a chill running up through her spine cued her to some kind of danger. She threw a hand over her mouth before she could say anything.

  Samuel turned part way around and she got a better view of him. He looked like a beggar. Hair and mustache tousled, clothes wrinkled. And a foul stench emanated from him. It assaulted her nose, reminding her of the smell of Ed Miller’s cabin. She was about to say something when Samuel spoke.

  “I call you.”

  At first Myrtle thought Samuel was talking to her. Dread gripped her, and she stayed where she was, too cautious to move. But his eyes stayed focused straight ahead. She shifted quietly and saw Joan, who was standing in the middle of the room, staring at Samuel, her face impassive. She appeared hypnoti
zed.

  “I call you,” Samuel repeated. His voice sounded disembodied, not like the good-humored Samuel everyone knew. Joan nodded her head in response to him. Joan stood immobile, her features expressionless.

  A wave of fear shot through Myrtle.

  “It is time.” He raised a hand and pointed toward a door at the far end of the room. Joan did not protest, but began walking in that direction, her steps slow and plodding. He fell in behind her, never looking the other way. If he had, he would’ve seen Myrtle standing on the other side of the door, terror etched on her face.

  Joan and Samuel disappeared from her view. She stood rooted to the same spot, her hand still covering her mouth. She wanted more than anything to let loose her screams, but she knew that it would draw attention to her. And she did not want to address the unspeakable evil that she had seen in Samuel’s face.

  She finally slumped back against the wall, tears blurring her vision, her thoughts racing. She needed to tell someone about this. Sheriff Truitt? He would think she was insane. Who would believe her? It only took her a moment to settle on an answer.

  CHAPTER 38

  “You get your stuff ready to go, you hear me?” Gino D’Angelo stared hard at his son.

  Nicholas nodded silently, twirling his fork in his hand. The spaghetti on his plate was barely touched.

  “Answer me,” Gino raised his voice. “And stop playing with your food.” He slapped at Nicholas’ hand. Noodles went flying across the corner of the table and onto the floor. Nicholas sat rigid, unable to move for fear of his father.

  Mary D’Angelo coughed nervously, then got up quietly from her chair and went into the kitchen, returning with a rag. “Now see what you’ve done,” Gino said as she cleaned up the food.