Hands of Lucifer

by John Tigges

  “All right, already. So we won’t get married,” she said, sharply. “I was merely thinking out loud. If you don’t want to get married, we won’t.”

  “I … I hope you understand,” he said.

  He made a mental note to call Nicole the next day. Considering the close call he’d just had with Eunice, he was convinced that Nicole was better suited to him and that he had made a gigantic mistake by walking out on her.

  He felt Eunice’s hands kneading his shoulder muscles and turned slightly to see her head close to his. Her tongue flicked out along the back of his ear before jabbing him above the lobe. He felt his resolve withering again as his passions reawakened. Leaning back, he gave himself to Eunice Brooks.

  Tomorrow, he’d call Nicole. Tomorrow—or the next day.

  11:10 P.M.

  The music heralding the imminent return of the eleven o’clock news filled Nicole’s living room and she refocused her attention on the TV set. She looked forward to the half hour broadcasts each night, thinking of them as a late rendezvous with Myles. And that was exactly what they were for her. She had hoped she might detect a change in his appearance-one that might indicate a loss of weight or sleep or something showing that he had made a mistake leaving her, that he missed her, that he was miserable without her. But there was nothing. No sign of any kind. He looked as fit and healthy as ever, without that haunted look around his eyes that Nicole had thought she had found around her own. Perhaps he didn’t care.

  A commercial from a supermarket chain came on, showing Halloween candies and treats for sale. The scene cut to a front door opening and little masked ghosts and goblins screaming, “Trick or treat.”

  Nicole thanked heaven for one of the advantages of living in this adults-only complex. Such invasions of privacy were nonexistent, excluding the possibility of that scene taking place at her front door. Halloween at best was a stupid, dumb event whose only purpose seemed to be to sell candy and make merchants rich. She hated the thought of the approaching holidays beyond. What would Thanksgiving be like without Myles if Halloween was going to prove to be a problem for her? She didn’t even want to think of Christmas.

  She’d have to find some way to occupy her thoughts for the next few months until the holidays were over. Thank goodness she had her new job and the publicity campaign to keep her busy. She would simply work that much more diligently and not even think about Myles or what they had meant to each other.

  A slapping sound from behind brought her out of the chair. Turning, she saw nothing. Then she heard the scratching again. And the sound of slapping once more, this time from the direction of the TV set. Spinning around, she found nothing out of place, until she looked at the floor. Beneath the TV table, almost out of sight, lay the red book she had used in that stupid ritual. And Myles’ picture was on top of the TV set. When had she moved it there?

  The scratching grew louder.

  Nothing had happened to make her believe the rite or the book or anything else she had done that night would ever bring about the change she so desperately wanted. She had felt sick with desire for Myles, but he was a washout. She didn’t want him anymore.

  The room seemed chillier and the scratching continued, spreading to all four walls and to the ceiling. The book skittered across the rug until it lay at her feet.

  Nicole felt the hackles on her neck move. What was happening? Was she dreaming? Things like a book moving across a carpet by itself simply didn’t happen. Bending down, she picked up the small volume and concentrated on Myles, who was about to give the last news story before the end of the telecast. The book could wait.

  She tried analyzing what he was saying but found she could not.

  “At any rate,” he said, flashing his toothy grin, “the dog is back with his owners after following his family from Dubuque, Iowa, to their new home in Augusta, Maine. Until tomorrow night, this is Myles Lawrence. Have a good night and a better tomorrow.”

  The book quivered of its own accord in her hand, and Nicole stared at it. It was her imagination. It had to be. Things like this couldn’t happen. Incantations and mystical ceremonies were for stupid people hundreds of years ago. Not today. Not today’s people. Smiling to herself, she stood. She returned the book to its shelf above the TV, before reaching down for Myles’ picture. After replacing it on the shelf she turned off the set. The sudden quiet emphasized the fact that the scratching sound had disappeared as well. It was all her imagination. She wanted to get to bed so she could spend the next day finalizing her basic publicity campaign before presenting it to Doctor Claypool and his associates the day after next. The last thing Nicole thought of was Rose Tunic trying to interfere with the publicity proposal. Then she thought of Myles returning to her again. She closed her eyes, falling asleep immediately.

  The scratching inched close to her head, coming from behind the mirrors, and a coldness filled the bedroom. Both went unnoticed by Nicole. Then, the scratching and cold were gone.

  11:27 P.M.

  Eunice smiled vacantly at the television set and Myles’ image, periodically blowing kisses to him. She looked forward to weekends when he’d be off work all day Saturday and Sunday. Those two days they didn’t have to get up to do anything. He had said something about going out to dinner Saturday but she thought that would be a waste of time. If they got hungry between bouts of sex, they could grab a sandwich or something to sustain themselves.

  During the commercial break after the sports report and before Myles’ last story, she stood, stretching to her full five foot seven inch height. She stifled a yawn when Myles reappeared, listening intently as he told of a dog following its family from someplace in Iowa to Maine. When he finished, she clapped. She liked happy endings to stories like that.

  Then the set went out of its own accord.

  Startled, she stared at it for a long moment. A power failure? No, the lights were still on in the room. Did the set simply blow a tube or something? She stepped toward it and the lights dimmed until she could barely see anything in the room, heavy shadows clinging to the furniture and walls. Something had to be wrong with the electricity—someplace. She just knew that. Then, she thought she saw something move off to one side of her. Spinning in that direction she could see nothing. Something else moved in the other direction. Again, she turned, trying to see whatever it was.

  A raspy, whispering laugh filled the room and she froze, unable to move. What was going on? What was happening? She felt cold and gasped when she saw clouds of steam jettisoning from her nose as her breath increased in short, sporadic puffs. The laugh died down and came back again, only much louder this time. And she thought she saw something else, something about four feet tall, dart from one side of the gloomy room to the other, ducking out of sight behind a chair.

  “Who … who’s there?” she demanded weakly.

  Her only response was the dry chuckling. And scratching sounds that grew in volume with each ticking second. The noises seemed to fill the room, coming at her from all directions.

  Someone—someone she could not see-slapped her hard across the face. Slipping backward, trying to regain her balance, Eunice fell to the floor. What was that? What had happened? Who had slapped her? Straining her eyes, she peered into the gloom but could see nothing—no one. Her face stung from the blow. It had felt as if a hard, roughened hand, heavily calloused from manual labor, had struck her full force across the mouth. She struggled to her feet, tears pouring from her eyes while sobs tore at her body.

  “Come on! Stop it!” she wailed. “Who’s there?”

  Again the hand struck her. This time another hand, unseen, completely invisible, clutched her right arm while she was beaten unmercifully. Her head popped back and forth from the blows, tearing at her smooth complexion until blood mixed with her tears and vicious cuts spread open to the bone of her cheeks.

  She sensed herself screaming even though she doubted that she made any sound, when the hand holding her right arm began squeezing, tightening until she thought s
he would go mad from pain. Her eyes widening, she watched as her upper arm caved in where she felt the grip of the unbelievably strong hand closing on it. Why couldn’t she see anything— her assailant or whoever or whatever was attacking her? When blood erupted from her arm, the pressure continued until she heard a crunching sound and she passed out as her right arm was torn apart.

  Invisible blows rained down on the unconscious form of Eunice Brooks as a rage vented itself on the girl’s limp body. Little by little, her pummeled flesh fell from her bones. In turn they were pulverized into a yellow, soupy liquid, mixing with the bloody tissue that had, a few seconds before, been a living, breathing human being.

  Wednesday, October 15, 198612:01 A.M.

  Nicole slept soundly, unaware of the drop in temperature in her bedroom, oblivious of the scratching and the quiet, evil laugh that rippled through the air. She did not awaken when an unseen hand caressed her cheek, working its way toward her breasts where it touched her, fondling her. Then, quite unnoticed by the sleeping woman, the stereo and the television set in the living room turned on, filling the apartment with quiet, muffled sounds.

  The dolls collectively nodded their heads in approval from their vantage point on the dresser.

  6

  Wednesday, October 15, 1986 2:26 A.M.

  Myles locked his car and looked up at the apartment building. Inside Eunice waited for him. Maybe he should just go home to his own apartment. He hadn’t spent a night there since leaving Nicole. What was there about Eunice and her insatiability where sex was concerned? If he ever told anyone about it, he’d be called a liar. He’d try to convince his listener that she truly did indulge herself in every which way, but it would be for nothing. No one would believe him. And what if she ever tired of him? Would she simply throw him out? He had to get his priorities in order.

  Slowly mounting each step leading to her fourth floor apartment, he wanted to spend an eternity on each riser. He could have taken the elevator but that would have been too quick. This way, he could take his time, and if he were lucky, the whole night would be gone by the time he reached her door. When he reached the fourth floor, he looked at his watch. Two thirty in the morning.

  Pausing before the door to Eunice’s apartment, he hesitated for an instant before easing the key into the lock. When he turned it, he didn’t make a sound.

  The hiss of the television set subtly filled the apartment, and he found the blank eye of the set lighting the living room and part of the entry way with its bluish light. Damn! Did that mean she had fallen asleep in the easy chair? If so, could he get away with leaving her there and going to bed by himself? He could tell her he tried to awaken her but she hadn’t responded.

  Slipping off his top coat, he dropped it across a chair and stepped to the doorway of the living room. His eyes widened at the bizarre sight, at first thinking it to be some sort of awful joke. But the look of absolute horror etched into the slashed face of Eunice Brooks told him otherwise. Only her head rested in the middle of the room, surrounded by a bloody, pink mess that must have been the rest of her at one time. The pulp spread out in a puddle that embraced the whole of the open space between the furniture. Chunks of her face had been torn away, and the flesh that remained was puffed, blackened with bruises. Her dead eyes held his, riveting his attention.

  “My God!” he managed hoarsely. It couldn’t be—couldn’t be Eunice. It had to be some sort of sick prank. It simply had to be.

  For the first time he noticed the bitter cold, shuddering involuntarily. It seemed to be freezing in the room. A small Boston fern, its leaves wilted and whitening, convinced him that the room was actually that cold. But it was nowhere near freezing outside. Still, he could see his breath puffing from his nose. How could it be that cold in the apartment?

  Forcing himself with a herculean effort, he turned away, reentering the hallway. The thermostat was set on sixty-eight degrees and the thermometer indicated that the temperature in the hall was sixty-six. Impossible!

  Picking up the phone, he instantly dropped it. Had he destroyed evidence? Fingerprints? If he had, it was too late. He’d have to call the police and tell them about Eunice. He’d also have to tell them that he had acted out of instinct to call for help, probably ruining any fingerprints that might have been on the phone.

  Carefully dialing the emergency number, he waited, and when the voice answered on the other end, Myles reported the death of Eunice Brooks.

  3:00 A.M.

  Nicole smiled in the embrace of Myles. Tipping her head back, he kissed her, not roughly but tenderly and gently. She wanted to scream, because of the pleasure this simple show of love created within her. They had been apart too long and …

  A chuckle snapped her attention away from Myles. A deep throated resonant chuckle.

  Who was laughing? She opened her eyes to the darkness of her own bedroom. Alone. Totally alone. It had been a dream. Turning over, she caught herself, ready to cry. That would solve nothing. It had been only a dream. She’d survive. She had to survive. She could not allow the thought of Myles kissing her turn her into an emotional wreck. She’d win him back. Snuggling down beneath the covers, she nodded and closed her eyes. She would win. She knew that.

  When her breathing steadied into sleep, she did not consciously notice the drop in room temperature again but instinctively pulled the covers up tighter around her neck.

  6:45 A.M.

  “Just make certain you keep us apprised of your whereabouts, Mr. Lawrence,” Lieutenant Sandy Michaelson said. He had come to the apartment when the “black and white” had reported the murder after answering the summons put out by Myles Lawrence.

  Michaelson watched Myles. He didn’t believe for an instant that the TV news reporter could have been responsible for the gruesome sight that had met him when he entered the apartment. The investigating officers had tried to remain as quiet as possible to avoid awakening the entire building of sleeping tenants. Still, there were those who had peeked into the hall and had been, in time, questioned. No one had seen anything. No one had heard anything. The lack of eye witnesses was not surprising to Michaelson, but the fact that no one had heard anything puzzled him at best. How could a human being be demolished in the manner in which Eunice Brooks had died and not utter a sound? The lab man had said that the best he could do under the circumstances was to estimate the time of death somewhere in the last three to five hours. There was no body as such for an autopsy and the head would barely serve when it came to identifying the dead woman.

  Michaelson had been on the force for twelve years but had never seen anything remotely resembling this murder scene. Myles Lawrence’s reaction had been genuine. Of that, Michaelson felt one hundred percent positive. The fact that he had an air tight alibi from eight o’clock the previous evening until two that morning did the most to eliminate the anchorman from suspicion.

  Now Michaelson had no idea where he could start. Glancing at his watch, he winced. It was almost seven in the morning. When the examination of the apartment was finished and their primary investigation completed, he’d take the information and sift through it, chart it, file it, study it, investigate each and every facet of each and every detail—no matter how small. And somewhere deep inside him, Lieutenant Sandy Michaelson felt that he would find nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  11:00 P.M.

  Nicole took took her seat opposite the TV set, humming along with the heralding fanfare that announced the late night news. When Barth Galloway appeared on the screen, sitting behind the desk, she listened intently.

  “Myles Lawrence is off tonight,” Galloway began simply without further explanation.

  Nicole got to her feet, crossed over and flicked off the set just as Galloway said, “Police are investigating a murder which was reported by …”

  The screen went blank. So Myles had a night off. Big deal. She’d be able to go to bed half an hour earlier and get that much more sleep. It was probably better that he wasn’t on, since she had to put the fi
nishing touches on her publicity campaign the next day. Then, she’d be able to hit the streets, with the news releases that Doctor Claypool and his advisors had approved. She decided to call on the television station where Myles worked sometime after the campaign began. By waiting awhile, she felt she’d be much more knowledgeable and able to answer any questions the news media might pose. If she did see Myles, she wanted to be in complete control.

  She had no trouble falling asleep and did not awaken when what appeared to be the indentation of fingers suddenly pressed into the covers alongside her. In the living room, the television set came on and the late night news show continued without an audience in Nicole’s apartment.

  Thursday, October 16, 1986 7:03 A.M.

  The next morning she found the local early morning talk show in full swing when she entered the living room. Pouting, she angrily crossed the room, reaching out to turn off the TV set.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the Reverend Eddie John Stangood,” the host said, graciously standing to welcome his next guest.

  Nicole stopped for a moment, stepping back. Stacey Ford’s hero, the wonderful Reverend Eddie John Stangood, strode across the room, swaggering self-assuredly. Dark rimmed glasses gave the white-suited man a scholarly appearance.

  “We-yell, it certainly is a pleasure to be he-yere this morning with you,” Stangood said.

  Nicole half-expected him to launch into a sermon such as the type he delivered on Sunday mornings on one of the local stations. What did Stacey believe? Couldn’t she see that this man had to be a charlatan of sorts?

  “The Reverend Stangood has taken the position that unless one is reborn and brought into his church, there is no chance for salvation for anyone. Is that correct, Reverend?” the host asked.

  “Yeh-yes. Gee-zus has told me directly that …”

  Nicole turned off the set. She couldn’t take this hogwash at any time, much less this early in the day.

  The thought that the set had been on when she got up bothered her. She had to be losing her mind. That was the second or third time that she had found the television set on upon arising. What was making her do such absent-minded things?