by Dan Dillard
CHAPTER 3
JACOB BURST OUT the back door and fell to his knees in the muddy alleyway. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He vomited powerfully, heaving all he had consumed followed by foul tasting bile when it was all that was left. It burned his throat and he spat on the ground multiple times trying to clear the taste.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and wished to pass away. The cool air soothed his nausea. When it finally faded, he propped himself on one knee and tested his steadiness. It took a moment, but he stood and dusted himself off, freezing in the cold without his coat. Jacob staggered back to the tavern, unknowingly following a line of footprints in the mud. They came from the alley and followed along the side of the tavern. Not foot prints, but hoof prints, cloven prints as from a large goat.
There were plenty of goats in the village, but those prints had a different gait to them, as if from a bipedal creature. They dug into the wet soil deeply as if caused by an animal much heavier than a goat. The hoof prints, and Jacob oblivious to them, turned left at the end of the alley and marched straight to the door of Corrigan’s Pub. His head pounded.
Brushing the mud from his hands and knees, he pushed through the front door and walked in cautiously. He was relieved to see his wool jacket still hung from the back of the chair where he was seated. Tension built in his chest in anticipation and embarrassment of seeing Mr. Harrison only to find him absent.
Had he caused his mischief and fled? Jacob ran back outside looking for anyone walking but saw not a soul. He ran to the alleyway and peered as far as he could see in the darkness finding the same. Below his feet, the hoof prints leading from the alleyway were gone, but a fresh set had taken their place and led off to the north.
Back inside, he wandered to the bar and picked up his empty glass. It sat alone on the bar. He checked his pockets and found his money still there. Then he waved to the barkeep for a drink which he only wanted for its warming ability and to rinse the vomit taste from his mouth. After clearing his head, he would leave.
The other patrons looked familiar. Even the prostitute, Love, was still passed out next to the fat, bald man. He sat in the same corner staring out the same window.
“False alarm then, Lad?” Corrigan said with a grin, “You rushed out in quite a hurry. I figgered you’d be out there losin’ your guts for a while. Never had that problem with the drink, myself. Usually it just tugs on me ol’ fart strings if ye know what I mean.”
His eyes lingered on Jacob wanting for any response.
“Aye,” was all he managed.
Still there was no Harry. Jacob didn’t understand. He was only outside a few minutes. Had Harry left? And no one seemed to care that he was gone. Corrigan was wiping another mug.
“Where is Old Harry?” Jacob asked continuing to look around the place.
“Who’s that then?” Corrigan asked with sincerity that made Jacob nervous.
“The man that was here buying me drinks, where did he go?”
Corrigan looked at him as if he spoke another language. His brow furrowed and his mouth drew into a grin that showed his one snaggled tooth. Jacob was in no mood for games. He reached over the counter and grabbed the old man by the shirt to reinforce the question.
“Where did he go?” Jacob repeated through clenched teeth.
Corrigan winced as if expecting to be pummeled and then opened one eye and looked a Jacob.
“Old Harry ya say? You been drinkin’ with Old Harry?”
“That’s right,” Jacob said.
Corrigan laughed.
“Folks!” he announced. “This fool says ‘eez been drinkin’ with Ol’ Harry!”
The other patrons laughed along with the toothless proprietor.
“Why? Do you know ‘im?” Jacob asked.
“Do I know…no, son. And I don’t want to.”
“Who is he, then?”
Jacob was desperate, finished with all the cryptic nonsense.
“Who is he?”
One drunken man’s eyes grew as round as they could stretch and he let out a shriek of laughter. Jacob looked at him and then, embarrassed, looked at the others who were joined the man, roaring with drunken glee.
A gruff man of advanced age stood up and approached the bar.
“If you been drinkin’ with him, then you’re in more trouble than I care to know.”
Corrigan nodded in agreement.
“Perhaps you’ve ‘ad a bit much, lad. Maybe you could use some sleep, or some grub? Then you’ll stop seein’ demons.”
Jacob let him go.
“Demons?” asked Jacob.
“Ol’ Harry is the Devil, lad. The one and only,” said the scraggly drunk.
“The what?” Jacob said.
The drunk man put one hand on Jacob’s shoulder and with the other, he picked up Jacob’s mug.
“I think you’d better give this a rest,” he said, and finished Jacob’s drink.
Jacob’s mind boiled with possibilities. Suddenly he wondered if he had seen Harry at all. Their conversation was a blur, like a dream, but he remembered shaking hands with Harry and how his skin made him…made him what?
It made him convulse and vomit in the alley. He remembered Lizbeth. How she had changed in his eyes. How he had felt her breast, seen her green eyes, seen her go from the shy lamb to sultry goddess…how she had recoiled from touching Harry’s face, but she was gone. Was there anyone else who had spoken to or touched the man? He scanned his memory, but everything was hazy through the liquor and the anger.
Bald-and-Fat.
He looked and the pig was still in the corner. Jacob rushed over to the corner and slid into the chair across from the man. Bald-and-Fat didn’t seem to notice or care. Jacob snapped his fingers at the whoring slob to draw his attention from the window. The man’s head turned slowly, eyes glazed and still mumbling. He was looking at Jacob, but he wasn’t seeing him.
“I saw ‘is face. I saw ‘is face…I saw ‘is face,” was all he said.
The words came in a stutter, spoken involuntarily as if he’d been repeating them until he couldn’t stop. Jacob saw in his eyes that this man was somewhere else.
“Who’s face? What did you see?”
Bald-and-Fat’s eyes centered and he looked into Jacob’s eyes.
“The darkness.”