Evil Spirits

by Mark Lukens

  “It’s like I told Billy, I can’t see the killer; he’s just a shadow. But I know he’s there and I know he can see me now. I don’t think he could see me before in my dreams, but now that the Ancient Enemy is inside of him he can see me.”

  Begay sighed and finally shifted into reverse and backed up, turning around so he could drive down the bumpy trail that led back to the road.

  David stared at Begay as he wrestled with the steering wheel down the path through the weeds. “You know something about the killer, don’t you?”

  For a moment David didn’t think Begay was going to answer, but then he finally spoke. “The killer you’re dreaming about, he killed another couple in Colorado.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Do you remember Agent Palmer? The man I was with when I came to the ghost town, the one from the FBI?”

  David nodded. “He got bitten by the rattlesnakes at the church, and then the roof fell on him.”

  “Yes. He called me yesterday. He told me that he believed the Ancient Enemy was back.”

  “How would he know that?”

  “Palmer told me that he’d been at the scene of the murder earlier in the day. He said things had been done to their bodies that only the Ancient Enemy could do. He also told me that his last name was written on the wall in blood.”

  David realized that the agent’s phone call was one of the reasons Begay believed his story about the Ancient Enemy being back; Begay had already heard it from Palmer. David was happy to be right about his suspicions that the Ancient Enemy was back, but he was also terrified at the same time.

  “What else did he say?” David asked.

  Begay shrugged. “Not much. I told him that you believed the Ancient Enemy was back.”

  “I think it’s coming after me,” David said. “I think it’s inside that killer I keep dreaming about, and I think he’s coming for me now.”

  Begay nodded like this made sense to him.

  “But I think the Ancient Enemy wants more than me; I think it also wants revenge.”

  Begay seemed like he believed that, too.

  “I need to go to Costa Rica. I need to find Cole and Stella. It’s after them too, and I need to be with them again. You should come with me.”

  “I can’t go,” Begay said. “I’m too old and sick to go down to Central America. I don’t think I’d even be able to help much.” He looked at David as he pulled off of the dirt driveway and onto the paved road. “But maybe you should go.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. Have you talked to them lately?”

  David shook his head no. “I’ve been sending texts and calling Stella, but she hasn’t called me back in a few days.”

  Begay frowned, and David didn’t like that look from him. It seemed like Begay believed that Stella and Cole might be dead, but David was sure they were still alive. He couldn’t say exactly how he knew, but he just did.

  “It’s going to be dark soon,” Begay said. “I think you and your aunt should come and stay with me and Angie at my house.”

  “Okay,” David answered.

  “I think we should talk to your aunt when we get back.”

  David nodded in agreement, and then he pulled out his cell phone. It was time to send another text message to Stella. It was time to warn them.

  CHAPTER 17

  Palmer

  Denver, Colorado

  In the dream Palmer was standing at the edge of the road. He watched the killer walk down the other side of the road, dragging a head and parts of a body behind him. Beyond the road there was nothing but woods. It was night, but there was an unnatural lightness in the sky, like the moon was ten times brighter.

  Like in so many of his dreams, Palmer couldn’t move. All he could do was watch helplessly as the scene in front of him unfolded. He was rooted to the spot at the side of the road. All he could do was yell and cry out, but he knew the killer wouldn’t look his way.

  Even in the illumination from the dark blue sky, the killer was still a shadowy figure. Not blurry—the edges of him were clearly defined—but he had no features. He was dressed from head-to-toe in black: black sweater, black pants, black boots, black gloves, and a black hood of some kind, like a ski mask. He looked to be about six foot tall and lean, maybe a hundred and sixty or a hundred and seventy pounds. His movements were quick and fluid, suggesting youth. And he seemed confident.

  The killer held the woman’s head in one hand by a fistful of her blond hair, the rest of her long hair hid her face. Below her head, where the rest of her body should have been, there was a string of meat, strips of skin, a tattered piece of clothing, bones, and a section of spine—the vertebrae still held together somehow. The pieces seemed to be tied together by bits of slimy string (but Palmer knew they were small strips from tendons and ligaments). The bones knocked into each other like a bamboo wind chime as the killer walked down the road.

  And then the killer veered off the path, walking towards a huge tree. One massive, gnarled branch from the tree sloped down towards the road. He hung the woman’s head from the branch, attaching it somehow with more cords of stretched-out flesh, wrapping the string around the limb and then underneath the woman’s chin like a noose. The rest of the gore, bones, and strips of flesh hung down from the woman’s head like the tentacles of a jellyfish.

  And then the killer moved on down the road, disappearing into the darkness.

  Suddenly Palmer was moving across the street towards the remains of the woman hanging from the tree branch. It was like his body had been picked up by some invisible force and now he was floating across the road, faster and faster, helpless to fight the force, helpless to stop it. It was a strange and terrifying sensation.

  He was getting closer and closer to the woman’s head and the parts of her body that hung down below. Her blond hair was still partially hiding her face, a face that was bruised and battered. But even with the eyes swollen shut and the bloodstains, Palmer knew who the woman was—it was Teresa.

  Palmer was rushing towards Teresa’s face when her eyes popped open.

  That’s when Palmer had woken up from the dream.

  It was ten o’clock in the morning. He hadn’t slept much last night, and he’d finally fallen asleep around dawn. He felt like he’d only been asleep for a few minutes but he knew it had been longer, at least a few hours.

  His first thoughts were of Eliza and the kids, then of Teresa and Gary. He was out of bed in a flash, rushing for his cell phone. He called Eliza first.

  The phone rang five times and then she told him to leave a message in a chipper voice.

  “Hey, Lizzy, it’s your dad. Just wanted to see how things are going and make sure everything’s okay.” He tried to keep the tremble out of his voice. He tried to sound like he wasn’t scared to death. “Just get back to me as soon as you can. You can text me if you want. You don’t have to call if you don’t want to. I just want to make sure you’re okay. That’s all. Love you, honey. And tell the kids I love them, too.”

  He hung up and stared at his phone. Maybe he should call Teresa. His finger hovered over the contact button for a few seconds and then he touched it, the phone dialing her number. After several rings it went to voicemail, just like Eliza’s phone.

  “Hey, Teresa. I don’t mean to bother you.” He was probably the last person she wanted to hear from right now. “I called Lizzy and didn’t get an answer. I just wanted to make sure everything’s okay. If you talk to her, can you have her call me as soon as possible?” It was better to make the phone call about Eliza rather than about himself.

  He hung up the phone and went into the kitchen. He was thirsty. He popped a can of soda open and drank half of it down—the bubbly liquid felt good on his parched throat, the sugar and caffeine helping to bring him fully awake. He was still tired. He thought about trying to go back to sleep for a few more hours, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep now.

  After turning on the TV to a twenty-fo
ur hour news channel, something babbling in the background, Palmer took a shower. He spent ten minutes standing under the hot water, the dream coming back to him as he stood there. He saw Teresa’s dead face hanging from the tree limb in the dark, her blood coating the bones, organs, and strings of flesh hanging down from her head, the blood black and glistening in the luminescent moonlight.

  And then her eyes popped open.

  Palmer remembered stifling a scream as he’d awakened. He tried not to think about Teresa and instead concentrated on the killer. For some reason he was sure he had seen the actual killer in the dream, or at least the man the Ancient Enemy was controlling now, but he hadn’t gotten a good enough look at the man, especially with the black clothes and ski mask he’d worn. Palmer could tell the man’s height and approximate weight, but that was about all. He felt pretty sure the man was young, maybe mid to late twenties. But those were all details that Cardenelli and the FBI had already guessed at.

  Not being able to see the killer clearly in the dream was frustrating. It was like the killer was taunting him. Only it wasn’t the killer sending the dream to him, Palmer knew that—it was the Ancient Enemy, and the dream was either a warning or a portent of the future.

  Or it had already happened.

  That was what Palmer didn’t want to face. Deep down inside, he couldn’t help feeling that Teresa and Gary were already dead and the Ancient Enemy was just showing off to Palmer what it had done to them.

  Palmer shut the shower’s water off and got out, drying off quickly with a faded towel. He dressed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, his movements panicky and jerky. He wanted to call Eliza again. He needed to hear her voice, make sure she was safe. She might get annoyed if he kept calling, but he didn’t care. He darted across the living room to grab his cell phone, but as soon as he reached it, the phone rang. The name on the screen was Cardenelli.

  Palmer didn’t want to answer it. He didn’t want to make the dream real. The phone rang a third time and Palmer picked it up and swiped the screen.

  “Palmer. It’s Cardenelli. There’s been another murder.”

  Palmer felt his stomach convulsing. He hadn’t eaten any breakfast, but the can of soda he’d had earlier wanted to come up along with bile and stomach acids. He didn’t want to hear this, but he was powerless to stop it. He remembered the dream, how he had floated across the road towards Teresa’s remains hanging from the tree branch, rushing forward through the night air, trying to fight against the force that paralyzed him yet propelled him forward. He felt like that now, like he was being propelled forward towards something he didn’t want to face.

  “I’ve got some bad news, Palmer.”

  Here it comes.

  “It’s your ex-wife Teresa. She and her husband were murdered last night. And there are two new names painted on the wall in blood.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Palmer

  Denver, Colorado

  Palmer stared at Teresa’s head and the wind chimes of her bones, the dreamcatcher weaving of her intestines, the lengths of flesh and entrails that hung down from her head like the tentacles of a jellyfish.

  Just like the dream.

  And just like Cardenelli had said on the phone, two more names had been written in blood on the wall in large, looping letters: Cole and Stella.

  Palmer felt sick to his stomach, afraid he might vomit at any second. His head was light and he felt weak and unsteady on his feet. The coppery smell of blood and the rotting smell of roadkill filled his nostrils. It had taken years to get that smell out of his nose, out of his mind, and suddenly it was back.

  He had the sensation of being watched by Cardenelli, every action of his being scrutinized and studied. Was he a suspect in this?

  Forensics was already in the house, getting set up, taking photos and jotting down notes. They were dressed in their protective clothing, gloves, and masks. Palmer had a pair of papery booties over his shoes, latex gloves on his hands, and a dust mask over his mouth and nose. The dust mask felt like it was cutting off his breathing, the gloves too tight on his hands. He needed to get outside.

  Palmer walked away from the thing that used to be his wife that hung from one of the ceiling fans in the living room. The rest of her parts were in the bedroom with what was left of Gary. Palmer walked to the front door and stepped outside, ripping off his mask so he could breathe in a lungful of fresh mountain air, the air he had come out west for. But now that air felt tainted. He could still smell the scent of blood and fresh meat and shit in his nose, the smell of torture and pain, of fear and misery.

  Cardenelli caught up with him. “I’m sorry. I imagine you and Teresa weren’t that close anymore but—”

  “We were still close,” Palmer snapped, not sure why he was defending their relationship, not sure why he was lying. “We were close in our own way.”

  “Well, I’m sure this is hard on you.”

  Palmer thought of the dream he’d had only hours ago. Teresa’s head and what was left of her body had looked exactly like that in the dream. And then he thought of Eliza. He’d left three voicemails and three text messages, but he hadn’t heard back yet. He needed to make sure she was safe. And now he also needed to let her know that her mother was dead.

  “Palmer? Do you know why this guy would go after your ex-wife?”

  Palmer gave a slight shrug. “I don’t know.”

  Cardenelli scrunched up his face in a theatrical expression of confusion. “You see, that doesn’t make sense to me because the first two murders had nothing to do with the Dig Site Murders.”

  “He was arranging their bodies like the ones we found in the caves,” Palmer shot back with.

  “Yeah, I get that. He’s a copycat killer. But why suddenly start going after you and your family? Or ex-family, I should say. Why paint your last name on a wall? He didn’t do that the first two times.”

  “Those might have been warmups for him,” Palmer said. “Practice runs.” Cardenelli knew as well as Palmer did that a lot of serial killers bumbled their way through their first few murders, developing their patterns and rituals along the way. Even famous serial killers like Jack the Ripper seemed to evolve as he killed more.

  “So what’s this guy’s agenda?” Cardenelli asked. “Track you down? Your family? Revenge?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You didn’t even catch him,” Cardenelli said, letting those words sink in for a moment. “Revenge for what?”

  Palmer did his best not to lose his cool. “Who knows what’s going through this guy’s mind.”

  “Well, I’ve got a theory,” Cardenelli said.

  Palmer didn’t say anything.

  “At the last crime scene, I told you that there might be two killers, a copycat killer and the real killer. I believe the person who killed the first two couples wasn’t the original killer. I think it was some copycat that wanted to pay homage to those murders, especially with the cult following they’ve got now. And after he started, I believe the real killer came out of hiding and started killing again. First with Harold and Marcie Watson, and now Teresa and Gary.”

  Palmer stared at Cardenelli. “That’s a pretty interesting theory. Except you said before that these killings all seem to have been done by the same man. Same size shoe, same type of hiking boots, same way he walks. The same lack of fingerprints and hair left behind.”

  “Yeah, those are the similarities. But what about the differences? The first two old couples were cut up with saws and tools. But these last two, they seem like they were ripped apart. Like the killer pulled them apart with his bare hands. Just like the bodies at the dig site in New Mexico. Not a copycat—this is the same guy.”

  Palmer didn’t say anything. He could see the hope in Cardenelli’s eyes, the hope that this might be the original killer, that he would be able to do what Palmer couldn’t do and catch the Dig Site Killer. It would be one gigantic feather in the cap of his career. He’d be able to silence all of those conspiracy theorists and internet blo
ggers with their wild theories of monsters, demons, cults, and aliens. Some compared the dead bodies at the New Mexico dig site to reports of cattle mutilations. Others drew comparisons to other mysterious murders and disappearances. Cardenelli would be able to catch this killer and show everyone what fools they were for believing in monsters, for believing in a bogeyman.

  “Look, Palmer, I hate to ask this, but can you tell me what you were doing last night? Where you were?”

  Palmer felt like he’d been punched in the stomach, which wasn’t helping his nausea.

  “It’s just standard procedure,” Cardenelli continued quickly, his hands up in surrender for a moment. “You know that. You knew the victims.”

  Teresa. Her name was Teresa, the mother of my daughter. “I was at home. At my condo.”

  “All night? You didn’t go anywhere?”

  “I was there all night. I ate dinner there. Watched TV. Fell asleep. I didn’t sleep well, and I fell back asleep at dawn. There are security cameras in the parking garage. I’m sure you could check them if you wanted to.”

  Cardenelli looked away for just a moment, squinting his eyes just a little like he was deep in thought, or like he was trying to mimic a person deep in thought. He looked back at Palmer. “It’s just that the security alarm in the victim’s house never went off. It’s like the killer got in without triggering the alarm, or like he turned it off. Like he knew the code.”

  “And what? You think I knew the code to my ex-wife’s home?”

  “You said you and Teresa were still close.”

  “Not that close. She wouldn’t have given me the code to her security alarm. And neither would Gary.”

  “You know I have to ask those things,” Cardenelli said. “You know it’s just procedure.”

  Yeah, wasting time on these questions when the real killer was still out there was just procedure. But they were never going to find the real killer, because the killer wasn’t a man, it was some kind of demon.

  “What about the names on the living room wall?” Cardenelli asked. “Cole and Stella. Weren’t those the two suspects you chased down to New Mexico seven years ago?”