by Lee Moan
“Prize?” he said after taking a deep swig. He could hardly remember her face, let alone some stupid prize she was due.
“That thing you said you were going to get me. Some voodoo trinket?”
He remembered. He had gone to Mexico to find her a talisman, something to impress her full-of-shit friends in New York. She gave him a blank cheque.
The Mexican girl…
The old woman…
Oh God, that wretched old woman . . . He looked at the bundle once more and felt an overwhelming surge of emotion. Tears came without warning.
“Carter? What’s happening?”
“I made a mistake, Jasmine,” he said. “I’m not strong enough. I never realised how strong you had to be. That old woman, I thought she was just some stupid old hag, but she knew, she knew how much strength it took.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The bones,” he said in a strangled whispered, as if just naming them would bring about some terrible cataclysm. “I can’t think about anything else. Oh, Jas, I just want to touch them so much. Can you understand what that feels like?”
He recalled the need to touch her, the ache of passion, but even that most powerful of desires had never been as intense as this. This was like drowning slowly, and knowing the only air left in the world is cradled in your arms. This was like the vampire’s craving for blood.
He held the bundle up, trembling. “I’m going to touch them, Jasmine. I know I am. But I can’t, you see. If I do . . . I don’t know what’ll happen. I need help, Jas.”
She was silent for a long time. “I’m going to come down,” she said eventually.
He was gripped by a sudden panic, the thought of her here in this dangerous place, here with him and these deadly bones . . .
“No, don’t do that,” he told her.
“Too late,” she said. “It’s already done.”
Then the line was dead, and the tone drove into his brain like a nail. He slammed the receiver back in its cradle.
He had to sleep. Sleep and dream. But somehow the constant presence of the bones robbed him of the ability to switch off. When they were near he sensed a tiny insistent voice in the back of his brain, always talking, always convincing him of their need to be together, united.
I am yours and you are mine…
Summoning all his strength, he turned over and carefully, reverently, placed the bones onto the floor beside the bed. He stared down at them for an unknown time, as if staring down at a beloved child; then, with great willpower, he slid them under the bed and out of sight.
When he rolled over, he felt a vast weight fall away from him. He closed his eyes and was asleep in seconds.
***
Day into night, night into day.
Outside his apartment rooms the world rumbles by like the distant mournful sound of a slow-moving freight train. His dreams are lurid and fragmented, the images appearing in a flickering blur, like a movie reel showing in a darkened theatre: a moving canvas of writhing flesh, a tableau of bottomless carnal lust and depravity, of sex and brutality and everything in between. Occasionally, the moving kaleidoscope focuses on a moment in time, lingering over it with voyeuristic pleasure: a girl, no more than eighteen, naked and tied to a filthy mattress, snot and blood running from her nose, her eyes streaming with tears, not in ecstasy, but in pain and fear. Another washed-out image from the same point of view: the man, the bastard they called the Devil, standing over a man and woman, forcing them at knifepoint to have sex. Somehow their grief-stricken faces tell Carter everything: they are not a couple, or strangers even, but brother and sister, and the man is getting off on their enforced incest, smiling his gleeful smile as he pleasures himself in the shadows . . .
In the midst of this grim carnival, he realises that these are not just troubled dreams, they are memories. Not his, but that other man’s, the man whose bones had once been the framework on which choice cuts of mortal flesh had performed those long-forgotten acts of depravity.
The bones call to him from their resting place below, tempting him, enticing him to return them to their rightful place at his side. There is a moment when he almost wakes, ready to do their bidding . . .
But he fights it, encouraged by the old woman’s caustic accusation:
I know you are weak . . . I see it in your eyes . . .
Not anymore, he tells himself. Not anymore.
When he descends back into the deepest recesses of sleep, the nightmares fade into the background and he begins to dream good dreams. And they soothe his aching spirit . . .
***
He surfaced from the depths of sleep, vaguely aware of a figure standing over the bed. He felt a momentary stab of fear, before the figure leaned over and placed a finger across his lips.
“Shh. It’s me,” Jasmine whispered. “You left the door unlocked, stupid.”
He watched her undress in the dim light, the sight of her supple body acting as a curative to his aching senses. When she slipped between the covers, he shivered at the feel of her warm breasts pressing against his narrow chest, her honey-scented hair, her expensive perfume, her soft skin. He pulled her close, kissing her carelessly, overcome with passion.
She climbed on top of him and held up something long and silky in her hands, smiling down at him with her secret lustful smile.
“Just like old times, honey,” she said in a husky tone, reaching for his willing hands.
In the ensuing passion, he never once thought about the poisonous relic beneath his bed.
***
Snik. Snik-snik.
He opened his eyes, blinking. The room was still dark, the ceiling above him dappled with bizarre shadow-shapes. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.
Snik.
He tried to sit up but found his hands still bound to the bed by her neckties. He was just able to peer over the end of the bed, where he could see Jasmine, still naked, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the balcony window with her back to him. She was holding something in her hands, but he couldn’t see what it was.
“Jasmine?” he said.
Snik-snik.
He heard a low guttural laugh.
“Jas? What are you doing?”
“Are these for me, Carter?” she said; but her voice sounded odd, different, so deep and coarse that it was only barely recognisable as being female.
“What?” he said, but then he realised what she was holding. An icy finger of dread slid through his gut.
With unnatural grace, Jasmine stood up and turned towards him. Her hair, still damp with sweat from their passion, fell down over her face in a ragged veil. From the shadowed area within, she peered out at him with narrowed eyes, pupils like charcoal pits. The bundle of rags rested in her cupped hands.
“Jasmine,” he said slowly, trying to maintain his composure. “Put them down.”
She shook her head, a grim smile stretching her features. “No. They’re mine!” Her voice was deafeningly loud, filling the chasm that yawned between them. She raised the bundle of filthy rags out towards him. Then, deliberately, she unwound the rags and exposed the bones. They seemed to glow in the moonlight, to bathe in the silver rays spilling in through the window. His eyes were drawn to their dull white tone. They seemed to speak to him as before:
I am yours and you are mine . . .
“Jasmine,” he said. “Please don’t…”
Still smiling, she placed her fingertips on the smooth length of a short, thin bone—he thought it might be a rib—and recoiled suddenly. She threw her head back and let out a short gasp of ecstasy. When she looked back at him, her eyes were wide and dancing with naked desire. She touched it more fully now, running her open hands over the different bones: a broken femur, a phalange, a section of shattered skull.
There was a flash of white light from the window, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. The light was so bright Carter was forced to look away. Jasmine’s laughter filled the room; not her light, feminine lau
gh, but the ugly cackle of an insane creature. When Carter looked back, her eyes had rolled up into her head, exposing the whites.
The bones were gone. In her hand was the empty, dirty rag. She let it drop slowly to the floor, the first leaf of autumn. Disbelieving, he looked around for the missing bones, but he knew intuitively what had happened, and his fear gave way to acceptance. The man was invading her now, but in a different, more fundamental way.
She cried out in a mixture of ecstasy and pain. Then she exhaled long and slow, her hands running over her body, cupping her breasts, stroking each nipple, sliding down into the shadows between her legs. She moaned loudly, before chuckling in that deep, unfeminine way.
“Hmm, I like this,” she said, looking down at her body with a stranger’s eyes. “I like this a lot. I am going to have so much fun with this body.”
“Jas?” Carter said hopefully, but he already knew it wasn’t Jasmine any longer. He knew who had taken her place.
She looked at him now, as if seeing him for the first time, her eyes full and black and filled with monstrous glee.
“Please, Jas,” he whispered. “Don’t hurt me.”
“Now, my sweet,” she said, delicately removing the Boker stag-handled hunting knife from his bag on the dresser. “I’m not going to hurt you. We’re just going to have a little fun.”
Inheritance
(For Louise.)
“Good morning, Sheriff,” Kyle Tippet said from the shadows of the general store.
“Good day to you, Mr Wade,” the grocer called from behind his stall.
Walking through town, Wade was always conscious of how the townsfolk kept a respectful distance. No one ever brought up the subject of the dark twist of night which clung to him every minute of the day, but they all saw it. The spectre appeared less tangible in daylight, more ethereal, but still clearly visible. The children were terrified. They didn’t understand it, and their parents couldn’t explain it. No one could. Ever since it happened the people he had sworn to protect had shunned him. Yes, they all wished him good morning and how-do-you-do, but when it mattered, when he really needed solace, there was no one there.
Not even Louise. And that hurt worst of all.
As he crossed the dusty main street a small voice rose above the early morning clamour.
“Sheriff! Sheriff!”
It was Saul, the blacksmith’s son. He stood on the threshold of the open-fronted workshop where his father was already hard at work, pounding his hammer in a glittering spray of orange sparks. The young apprentice wore a besmirched apron that was far too big for him, a smile frozen on his face. He lifted his hand in a hesitant wave then lowered it slowly when Wade failed to respond.
Wade felt a surge of self-loathing. Saul was only thirteen years old, the only youngster in Perseverance who wasn’t afraid of him . . . or the thing which clung to him like a shadow. If there was such a thing as hero worship in this town, it was there on Saul’s freckled face. But Wade didn’t know how to deal with that. When he looked in the mirror each morning, he saw no hero, just a broken man.
Seeing the growing disillusionment in Saul’s eyes, Wade decided on a compromise: he tipped his hat, a gesture which lit the candle of adoration in the boy’s eyes once more, then went on his way.
***
Wade approached the white picket fence surrounding the school yard and stopped. He didn’t dare go any further. The children didn’t notice him at first, lost as they were in their carefree games. Then a pigtailed girl stopped in front of him, eyes wide, sucking in breath in short gasps. She backed away across the yard, bumping into other children who, in turn, spotted the nightmare which stood on the boundary of their safe haven. The girl found enough breath to scream before turning and running inside. Wade held out a placatory hand, but it was pointless. He turned and began to walk away.
“Jeremiah!”
He stopped, captivated by that familiar voice. He looked back to see Louise running across the yard. She approached the fence and stopped. Pink roses bloomed in her cheeks after her short run. The sun gilded her blonde hair like a halo; her freckles looked beautiful in the morning light.
“Jeremiah, what is it?” she asked.
Before he could form an answer, he heard footsteps in the dirt behind him. He turned and found the figure of Randy Took hurrying towards him, pulling on his overcoat. Wade noticed the pronounced limp his old friend still carried since the nightmare at the Parnell homestead. The night everything changed. . .
Randy stopped his advance when he saw Wade. His face became rigid and his gaze faltered. He hurried past, giving him a wide berth.
“Louise?” he said. “I heard the children screaming. Everything all right?”
Louise touched Randy’s arm, a small sign of affection that cut Wade deep. The diamond engagement ring on her finger glittered, mocking him with its simple beauty.
“Yes, Randy,” she said. “We’re fine.” She turned back to Wade, eyes filled with pity.
Wade studied her face, struggling to recall the quiet, intimate moments they had once shared, but most of it was lost to him. He remembered the taste of her breath after a kiss, the scent of her skin, but that was all. That was enough torture.
Louise and Randy, the two people he cherished most in the world, stared back at him like strangers.
“Did you want to see me?” Louise asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I just wanted to see you. One last time.”
The black shape at his side let out a sudden mournful howl. The children yelped, clutching at Louise’s arms and the frills of her dress. Louise herself fought to contain her dread.
Wade grimaced, consumed with despair, then turned and walked away.
***
The spectre had once been a Native American Sioux called John Parnell, who came to the town of Perseverance with an English wife and a beautiful daughter. Under the name Far Rider he had been a great warrior back in Wyoming, but his tribe banished him after he betrayed them to the Federals, or so the story went. The majority of Perseverance’s citizens were immigrants, with pasts and secrets they wished forgotten or buried, so no one questioned him about the scandal, and the town was happy to let it slide into history. The Parnell family seemed to fit right into the close-knit community of Perseverance . . . until the night Parnell brought terror to their peaceful little town.
He remembered his deputy, Randy Took, jostling him from sleep.
“Injun gone crazy in town with a gun”, he’d said, and Wade was out of bed and strapping on his guns in no time at all. They were both new to the post, both full to overflowing with youthful vigour. Looking back, Wade found it hard to reconcile himself with the idealistic, gung-ho young man who had stormed out into that sultry night, filled with arrogance and the certain belief that no matter what happened out there, he had the law on his side and was thereby free from recrimination. But the law is a manmade thing. What happened that night, the outcome, turned the law on its head and made a mockery of it.
It did not take them long to reach the Parnell residence. They crept past the rickety wooden outhouse into the deep shadows at the eastern side of the house. With a silent gesture, Wade sent his young deputy round the back of the building. Wade crept along the eastern wall until he was able to peer round the edge of the house.
In the front yard he found Parnell’s daughter sitting in the dirt, bound with chicken wire to a wooden stake in the earth. Moonlight turned the bloody scratches on her dark skin into silvery curls. She was crying, tears glistening on her cheeks. Sitting on the porch steps only a few feet away was John Parnell. He was dressed in his nightgown, a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over his eyes. His arm rested on his knee in a relaxed manner, a silver pistol in his hand.
“Papa, please,” the girl sobbed.
Parnell’s arm rose, as if independent of his body, and fired a single shot into the stake inches above the girl’s head. She screamed and tried to twist herself away from further shots, but the chicken wire tighte
ned, cutting deep into her arms.
The retort of Parnell’s gun was like a thunderclap in the night. The echo seemed to last forever. Wade’s earlier bravado wilted in the face of this very real, very unpredictable threat. After firing the shot, Parnell resumed the same relaxed pose.
Wade placed his back against the wall and closed his eyes. He had to steady his breathing, control his fear. Think what to do.
A bloody hand fell on his shoulder. It was Parnell’s wife. Her face was a mass of bruises, her lower arms dark with fresh blood.
“Don’t kill him!” she screamed. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing!”
Whatever advantage Wade had hoped to gain was gone. He shoved her away and rushed out into the open yard, gun pointed at Parnell’s head. The big man hadn’t moved, and Wade found that more terrifying than if he’d found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. He held Parnell in his sights and glanced quickly at the girl. She was staring up at him with the blazing light of hope in her eyes.
The mother remained in the dirt, wailing like a banshee.
“Please, Sheriff!” she cried. “He’s just had too much to drink. The drink makes him crazy, that’s all. Don’t shoot.”
“I don’t intend to, ma’am,” Wade hollered. “Just as long as he drops that weapon, and—”
Randy appeared around the western edge of the house, creeping cat-like towards Parnell’s static figure. His gun was drawn, but Wade could see he was intent on disarming Parnell by hand. Wade tried to halt his advance with a shake of his head.
At the last moment, Parnell twitched. In hindsight, Wade figured he must have spotted Randy’s moonlight shadow edging across the dirt. Parnell’s gun hand whipped round and the pistol went off. There was a cloud of smoke which obscured Wade’s view of Randy, and in that split second he didn’t know if his deputy was dead or not.
So he pulled the trigger.
The shot went clear through Parnell’s left temple. For a long time, Parnell just sat there on the steps, blinking like a man waking from a dream. A thin rivulet of blood ran down the side of his face and soaked into the cloth of his night robe. Then the gun slipped from his grip, clattering noisily on the bottom step before settling in the dirt. To everyone’s surprise, Parnell stood up on trembling legs, groaning like an old man rising from his bath chair. He turned, took one step up towards the front door of his house before stumbling sideways, hitting the steps and tumbling to the sand.