Resigned to her fate, Camm pulled the twelve-gauge shotgun out from under her bed and started loading it with the new high-brass shells Cal had just purchased in Ridgecrest. He had warned her to brace herself before each shot; these new shells had a hot load with triple-aught buckshot and really packed a hard punch. She still had the bruise on her shoulder from a week ago and winced as she touched it. She wasn’t looking forward to firing these new high-powered shells—for more than one reason.
XVI
Tonight, it had permission to leave its cell early to feed prior to the gonging of the clock. Hunger consumed it. It left the mansion through its own hidden passage and went in search of its tormentors. They had come to its stronghold too often, and they were bringing others, strangers, with them. It had failed to kill and eat the female with the last effort—too much light, too many strangers—but it would not fail again.
It reached the female’s safe house only to watch her leaving with the male. It had marked the car that smelled most like the male—that car was easy to find, to follow. It watched its prey get into that car and leave. It knew where they were going. They were going back to its stronghold. They were going to invade its safe house again. It would find them there—it would feed there.
Camm always enjoyed driving Cal’s car, but tonight, as she drove to the mansion, the general atmosphere in the car was heavy and foreboding. Camm had spent her last minutes at home reading the last chapters of Luke in the Bible, and after that, the prophecies of Revelation about the beast. Reading about the beast and the great destruction it would bring left Camm with a deep sense of gloom.
Heaving a lengthy sigh, she decided she couldn’t stand the tension. She needed to focus on something more lighthearted. “So, Cal, have you come up with a better battle cry?”
Cal scratched his unshaven chin. “Yes, I think you’ll like it. I’m going to use the one from True Grit.”
“From the old movie with John Wayne, or new one with Jeff Bridges?”
“Both. It’s in both and in the book too. It goes, ‘Fill your hand, you son of a—’”
“Feel your hand?” Camm interrupted. “Why would you say ‘feel your hand?’ That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Not ‘feel your hand.’ You say ‘fill your hand.’”
“Yeah, that’s the same thing, ‘feel your hand.’”
Cal gave her a look of exasperation, “Not ‘feel’ like touchy-feely, but ‘fill’ like ‘fill ’er up.’”
“Well, you say them the same way, so they sound the same.”
“No, you hear them the same way. I say them right.”
“I hear them the same, because you say them the same.”
“Whatever! My battle cry is, ‘Fill your hand, you son of a—’”
Camm interrupted again. “You know, I’m not crazy about the ‘B’ word. Can you come up with something without that?”
Cal looked at her incredulously. “I don’t believe it. You’re disapproving my newest battle cry?”
Camm nodded her head matter-of-factly. “Yes, I’m just trying to be helpful. Please, come up with something better?”
“All right! Outta sight! You got a fight! You might be a tight white tonight, but I bite . . . I fight . . . quite right . . .”
“Cal!” Camm impatiently cut Cal off before he got all worked up. “Don’t be rude. I’m just asking for something better.”
Cal thought for a second. “Maybe I will lay a serving towel over my arm and ask it in my best British accent, ‘Excuse me sir, I would like to blow your brains out. Please, prepare to die?’”
Camm pretended to consider it. “No, it’s too long. It would bite your head off before you could finish.”
“You’re a tyrant! You know that, right?”
For once, Camm couldn’t think of a comeback. She reached over and took his hand instead. He laced his fingers through hers and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. She felt a little better.
Arriving at the mansion, Camm parked the Camaro behind the trees where she had hidden her Bug before. She climbed out to stand by the trunk, organizing her arsenal. The contents of the black box went into her windbreaker jacket—the shells in one pocket, the pistol in the other. Cal had reluctantly agreed to let her hold the derringer. She hadn’t loaded the small pistol yet because she didn’t want it to go off prematurely.
Extra shotgun shells went into the front pouch of a hoodie she wore underneath her windbreaker. Then, resting the shotgun over her shoulder, she gazed up into the moonless night sky. For some reason, it reminded her of the night Hughie disappeared.
Tonight felt cool. There would not be many cool nights left before the arrival of summer with its intense heat. She found herself hoping the coolness of spring would last longer this year, and that she would be around to enjoy it.
Cal had also been rummaging around in the trunk, but was now standing quietly in the darkness. Following his gaze, Camm saw the dark shapes of the Argus Mountains backlit by the glow of Los Angeles on the southern horizon. When Cal turned to look east toward the Slate Range, she turned with him. She wondered if he, too, was relishing what he might never see again.
Cal’s low voice broke the silence. “The moon will be rising soon over the eastern mountains. If the Vegas casinos weren’t so bright, we’d see the moon’s first glow, announcing its approach. It won’t be long, and we’ll have some moonlight.” He gave a little shake, as if coming back to himself, turning again to the car.
He tucked the .357 Magnum into the front of his belt, but on second thought, pulled it out again to flip on the safety. He then replaced the gun, saying quietly to Camm, “You can’t be too careful about the family jewels.” Reaching into the trunk, he hauled out a bulky, heavy duffel bag.
“So, Cal,” Camm asked, “where is this key to the mansion that you told me about?”
“Right here.” From the depths of the trunk, Cal pulled out a long metal pole, almost six feet in length and about two inches in diameter. One end flared out into a wedge shape and the other came to a point. He handed it to Camm to inspect, and she almost dropped it; it was surprisingly heavy. She hefted it. It was solid steel. She estimated its weight at twenty pounds or more.
She handed it back. “What the heck is that?”
“That is my key. It’s called a San Angelo bar. It’s used for digging post holes and breaking up rocks.”
“Are you going to dig a hole into the mansion?”
“Watch and learn, silly girl. Watch and learn.”
Cal walked over to the kitchen door, set the rest of his gear aside, and then jammed the wedged end of the bar between the hasp and the door. Using all six feet of leverage he pried the hasp and padlock clean off the door and doorframe with one fluid motion. The long wood screws that had held the hasp in place flew right out of the wood with hardly a protest.
Camm inspected the damage. “The door is still locked and the dead bolt is engaged, too,” she said needlessly.
“I’m not done yet.”
He motioned with his hand for Camm to step back. Again, he jammed in the wedged end of the bar, this time into the space between the door and the doorjamb in a spot about halfway between the doorknob and deadbolt. Grabbing the other end with both hands, he threw his weight back, pulling with all his strength. The wood around the door groaned for half a second, then with a screech and flying splinters, the door flew open.
“That was subtle,” Camm remarked.
“I believe the time for subtlety has passed.”
“You know, this can be seen from outside. They will see this in the morning and know someone was here during the night.”
“You don’t think the house will fix itself, like before?”
“I don’t know. This is outside damage.”
“Well, right now, let’s just worry about staying alive until morning. If we get that far, we can worry about this door then.”
Camm smiled. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”
“What
?” Cal asked as he gathered up his gear.
“Oh, nothing, just a Bible quote my dad says sometimes. It’s not long ’til midnight, we better go inside and get set up.”
Inside, they climbed up to each balcony, closing all doors into the main hall, and then set up battery-powered lamps around the main floor. With the doors closed, the lights wouldn’t shine out the windows. They knew the lamps would be useless once the creature came, but for now they could see what they were doing.
By pulling furniture out into the main hall, Camm built a jumbled barricade in front of the door leading down into the cellar. Cal lugged his duffel bag to the back of the hall and began working on his lighting project.
The small cheer they’d experienced in the car had vanished. The oppressive nature of the building, its massive and macabre décor, combined with its stone-cold deadness, weighed on them like a deep, emotional scar. The structure emanated a sense of depravity compounded by the thought that they might be dying there before the morning light.
When he had completed his task, Cal took one of the electric lamps and set it up directly in front of the grandfather clock with the main beam lighting up the clock’s face.
“What are you doing?” Camm asked.
“I want to see what this clock does, if anything, when the gonging starts. Right now, it is just an inanimate piece of old furniture. It should not be able to do anything.”
Camm eyed Cal. “So, did you lose your flock of sheep?”
Cal glanced down at himself, his brows in a puzzled wedge. He was standing in front of the clock with the San Angelo Bar in both hands as he leaned on it like a shepherd’s staff. Grinning, he raised the bar high above his head before setting it on the slate floor in front of the clock like an offering.
Camm consulted her watch. “It’s almost midnight.” Taking Cal by the arm, she tried to pull him away from the grandfather clock. “Let’s go get ready at the barricade.”
“No, wait.” Cal pulled back, holding onto her hand. “Let’s watch what the clock does. Something must happen when it gongs.” He stood engrossed in the mammoth clock.
A chill entered the hall and slid down her back. Camm hadn’t noticed until that moment, but it seemed colder in the mansion than outside. A lot colder. She shivered and looked about. Nothing seemed to have changed, but she felt like something was happening. It was as if the building was alive, its cold breath stealing warmth from her bones.
Even with bright lamps set around the hall, a deep sense of darkness prevailed. The hall’s sheer immensity made their carefully arranged floor lights seem totally inadequate as the walls sucked up all light; blackness flowed over the upper balconies and down on top of them like a malevolent waterfall.
“I’m really cold. Come on, let’s get over to the barricade.”
Cal started to respond, “Just a second—”
Suddenly, the hanged-man pendulum began swinging.
DONG!
They both jumped. Standing right in front of the clock made the gong sound much louder, more intense. The light reflecting from the swinging pendulum created a very curious effect because of the many different metals wrought into the hanged-man image. As the man swung back and forth, he appeared to be writhing in agony on the end of a rope. Camm could almost hear him gagging, struggling for air. She looked away, swallowing her own impulse to gag.
DONG!
A crooked second hand at the bottom of the clock face started ticking with each swing of the pendulum. The minute hand might have also moved, but only minutely. Camm cast one last look at the swinging hanged man, then grabbed Cal’s hand and began pulling him back toward their barricade at a fast walk. Their footsteps echoed loudly through the empty immensity of the hall. Camm fought a rising tide of panic.
DONG!
I should hear the stone door, Camm thought. I should hear the secret door scraping and grinding on stone as it opens. She heard nothing, their footsteps being the only sound. They continued to hurry toward the barricade. Camm hugged herself with her free hand, trying in vain to find some warmth.
DONG!
Camm tried to run, but Cal slowed her down, his head tilted, listening. Camm was listening too. It should be coming up the cellar stairs by now, Camm thought. Hearing nothing, a quiver of fear ran through her like an electrical shock. This isn’t right! Something is not right! Reaching the barricade, she stood over the loaded shotgun that she had placed within easy reach behind the barricade and turned to face the cellar door.
DONG!
The door from the cellar . . . she thought, that door should be opening. The door did not move. The clock was gonging, but all the battery-powered lights still shone. Nothing had changed, except the air in the hall had become so stifling cold and dry that Camm could see her and Cal’s breath in white wisps.
DONG!
Still, no noise. Still, the door to the cellar did not move. Still, no sound of claws clicking on the stairs or floor. The silence between gongs was deafening, and Camm noticed the smell was absent; there should be the nauseating smell of rotten eggs, but only the cold, dry staleness lingered in the main hall.
DONG!
Camm could no longer stand it. “Cal, we should be hearing it coming, like we did before. I don’t hear it. Can you hear it?”
Cal had his head cocked at a strange angle, straining to hear any sound besides the clock. “Not only can’t I hear it, I can’t smell it either, and the lights are still on. This isn’t right.”
DONG!
Camm looked wildly around her, trying to understand. Had they missed something? Had the rules changed? Nothing moved except for the swinging hanged-man pendulum. “Something has gone wrong! That thing is playing games with us, trying to trick us.”
DONG!
“Where is it, Cal? Why can’t we hear it or smell it? Why isn’t it coming up from the cellar like it did before?” Panic rose in her throat. “Cal, where is it?” she squeaked.
Pulling Camm closer, Cal held her tight with his left arm. “Quiet—just listen.” Turning slowly to scan the hall, his eyes strained to pierce the darkness beyond the lights. After several tense moments, Cal bent slightly. Camm heard something drop to the floor before Cal straightened to slide his fingers around the grip of his .357. Extracting the gun from his belt, he pulled the hammer back, ready to fire, and held the gun pointing upward.
DONG!
Camm’s heart was pounding so hard she thought her ribs would crack. Get a hold of yourself, she thought. You’ll have a heart attack. Lightheaded and dizzy, she knew she was hyperventilating and needed to control her breathing.
DONG!
Why wasn’t it here? Why wasn’t it making noise? What new game was it playing? Was it hiding nearby? Camm looked at Cal. He was surveying their surroundings, looking as perplexed as she felt. Camm asked, “How many times has the clock gonged?”
Cal shook his head. “I don’t know. Stop talking. I can’t hear.” His body next to her was rigid, on edge, trying to be ready for any surprise. “Stay alert!”
DONG!
“I think that may be the last one.” Camm cringed into Cal’s side, trying to make herself smaller. “Where could it be?”
“I don’t hear or smell it.” Cal’s eyes were narrow slits, carefully scanning the hall.
“The cellar door never opened—it never even moved.”
They stood in silence, pressed close together as long moments passed. The hall seemed to be getting colder and colder.
“Maybe,” Camm offered, “those feds—those NSA guys—maybe they took care of it. Maybe they got rid of it.”
“Nah,” Cal said without looking away from the darkness. “That’s not what they were doing. They weren’t here to help Trona. All they were doing was keeping everyone away from the mansion. I didn’t see anything that could have been a special weapon, and we know their handguns are no good. Anyway, it was daytime. They were here only during the day, and they didn’t have the black box. We have that. They couldn’t have kille
d it.”
Camm knew in her heart he was right. She watched her breath misting out in spurts. Then it hit her. We have the black box! “Cal!” she exclaimed, “I haven’t loaded the derringer yet!”
She stepped away from Cal and fumbled in her pocket for the small gun, and then in the other pocket for the weird little shells. Before she could locate the crystal bullets, the battery-powered lights went black and an overwhelming stench of rotten eggs filled the hall.
It was here. It had come to the hall by its own way and according to its own rules. But where was it? In the blackness, they played a listening game. Camm and Cal listened for the creature, for the sound of its claws on the floor. It no doubt listened for them. Whoever moved first, whoever breathed the loudest, was the loser. In this game, losers paid the ultimate penalty.
Camm couldn’t see Cal, but knew he was next to her. She could sense him, but knew she shouldn’t talk. In the pitch black, she couldn’t load the derringer, so she put it back in her pocket.
Holding her hands out in front, she carefully bent over and felt along the floor. She had left the shotgun on the floor somewhere nearby, but did not find it for several long seconds. She straightened back up with the shotgun in both hands.
She had loaded it, but remembered now that she had not cocked it. Not wanting to make any unnecessary noise, she would wait until the thing manifested its location before cocking the gun.
A puff of air blew by her face; the smell made her sick to her stomach. She reached through the blackness, trying to find Cal. She wanted the reassurance he was still there, next to her.
Her fingers slipped through nothingness. He had silently moved away. Where to, she didn’t know. She did not want to call out, not even in a whisper. She feared to make any noise. Even the sound of her heart beating was too loud. The beast would hear and know where she was, and the barricade no longer protected her.
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