A Desolate Hour

by Mae Clair

  “We don’t know that. According to this”—he tapped the paper with a forefinger—“Preech must have seen it, and so did the author of this letter.”

  Leaning back in her seat, Eve fiddled with her fork. She poked the rich meringue layer on her pie. “It’s vanished again, hasn’t it?”

  She didn’t have to identify the “it” for Caden to know she referred to the Mothman. He considered telling her how the creature had reacted during their last encounter—agitated, hostile—but saw no reason in making her worry. Better she think the cryptid had simply vanished into the wooded domain of the TNT. For something so large and grotesque in appearance, the creature had an uncanny ability to disappear when desired. He wondered if it had powers he didn’t realize. Lach Evening was certainly an untapped source of supernatural abilities, and he was descended from the same alien race as the Mothman.

  Caden swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “I didn’t see it.” He regretted the lie, but until he better understood why the creature had reacted the way it did, he wanted to keep everything low key. Even from his wife. The fewer people who knew, the better. Some of the townspeople had a habit of taking matters into their own hands when they thought the Mothman was on the prowl. “How about this letter?” He motioned to the paper again. “Does Shawn know about it?”

  Eve shrugged. “According to Sarah, he was pretty clueless Suzanne had given her anything. Sarah dropped off a box of stuff earlier, and Shawn loaded it in his car before he started drinking.” She frowned, obviously thinking of the story she’d heard from Tucker and Caden about how Shawn had to be driven home by the Bradley brothers. “I wish he’d get his act together. He seems to be drinking more now that Suzanne left him. I really hate the fact he started to get huffy with a guest.”

  “Marsh seemed okay. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “Hmm.” Eve looked down at her plate. Another poke at the pie.

  Caden laughed. “Are you going to eat that thing or not?”

  Eve’s gaze flashed to his face and she smiled tightly. “I was imagining it as Shawn. That jerk could use a poke or two.”

  He didn’t disagree, but Shawn was young, not quite twenty-five. Preech could be a class-A douchebag, but he still had time to pull it together and learn from his mistakes. Hopefully, he’d pass out when Duncan and Donnie got him home, and wake up tomorrow with a different outlook on life.

  Assuming he didn’t have one hell of a hangover.

  * * * *

  Shawn clutched the knife tightly in both hands. He wandered from the porch and the plastic tub that lay open on the grass. From the papers and photographs strewn across his lawn. His sneakers scuffed against macadam as he blundered into the driveway. He licked his lips, suddenly dry, his throat tight with emotion he couldn’t explain. His thoughts had been jumbled before, muddled and fogged by alcohol, but now they were sharp, brittle like glass. He could almost taste them in the back of his throat, an acrid smoke that lodged there, whispering of a time long ago.

  Of a thing that had taunted him. A creature of evil.

  Hate.

  Oh, yes, how he hated the demon. From that first moment he’d seen it blot the sun from the sky. His heart had faltered, his innards coiling up inside him. Unable to move, he’d gazed up at the monster, terrified beyond reason. It had bewitched Willa, brought the fever on her. His bladder had released and the warm stream of his shame trickled down his leg. He, a man who had stood before the savages in Lord Dunmore’s War, who’d faced the heathen and survived. How could a thing born of sorcery and chaos turn him into a whimpering craven?

  Shawn blinked, confused by the memory. It didn’t belong to him, yet it did.

  Anger warred with shame.

  You are my descendant, a voice whispered in his head. Do what I could not. Kill the demon.

  The spirit that possessed him, awakened by the knife, had no name for the demon it sought. But Shawn did.

  Mothman.

  He wrenched open the car door and dropped inside.

  Chapter 4

  His head was pounding. God, it hurt.

  Shawn dragged his tongue across his lips, tasting sour alcohol and last night’s cigarettes. He cracked his eyes, willing the incessant drubbing silent. His body was stiff, corkscrewed behind the wheel of his car. Someone beat on the driver’s door, the relentless hammering magnified by a shrill female voice.

  “Shawn! Shawn! What the hell are you doing in my driveway?”

  He came awake with a jerk, sitting upright so quickly pain splintered down the back of his neck. Blinking a gray morning into focus, he scrubbed sleep from his eyes. Suzanne’s angry face was plastered against the driver’s side window, her fist raised to knock again. Behind her, the sky was the color of used dishwater.

  “Did you hear me, Shawn? What the hell are you doing in my driveway?”

  Yeah, he’d heard the bitch the first time.

  He hitched the door open and stumbled outside. His stomach seesawed, and for a moment he thought he would hurl on her pink bedroom slippers. With her hair done up in curlers and her face bare of makeup, she wasn’t the beauty queen people envied. Hands fisted against her hips and her too-tiny mouth twisted into an ugly sneer, she looked more like a priggish troll. Hell, what had he ever seen in her?

  “I want you out of here, Shawn Preech. Get back in that bucket of bolts and get off my property!”

  Do not let her talk to you like that.

  “Bucket of bolts?” Bracing a hand against the Charger, he used the car to steady himself. He had to squint to see her. His vision was fuzzy from the excess of alcohol he’d downed last night. “I’ll park wherever I damn well please.” Why the hell had he driven here anyway? Suzanne had walked out on him, was in the process of divorcing him. She’d made him into a laughingstock. Even those twits the Bradley brothers had turned against him, saying he’d lost his moxie on the dirt track because of her.

  Show her she cannot push you around. The voice was in his head. The “other” voice of his ancestor. You did it once before.

  Yeah.

  He sucked on his bottom lip. Realized it was cracked and split.

  He’d been lit when Suzanne had shown up at the River last fall, intent on dragging him home. Like any woman was going to tell him what to do or where he had to be. He’d given her a hard shove, sending her sprawling to the floor. She’d banged into a table on the way down. So what if she’d been pregnant? It probably hadn’t been his kid anyway. She’d just been trying to get her hooks into him because he’d been stepping out with Belinda on the side. Hell, he was only twenty-four. He needed his fun.

  “Shawn, if you don’t get out of here, I’m going to call the cops.” Suzanne leaned forward, one fist clinging to her hip. It was her battle stance, an attitude she’d often flaunted during their short-lived marriage. Why the hell had he ever put up with it?

  Not happening today, bitch.

  “And tell them what? Maybe I just wanted to go for a drive last night.”

  She’d been the one to bail out of the house, sticking him with the rent. He should have tried to collect, but he’d never put her name on the lease, too proud to have a woman contributing to the roof over his head. “I never saw your new place before.” He nodded to the small ranch behind her. It was cute in a woman-y way, just the kind of thing Suzanne would like, with flower boxes trimmed out at the windows and a birdbath in the side yard. A few plastic sunflowers were clumped around the base of the birdbath and a wooden cardinal with revolving wings perched on a stake near a red maple. “Invite me in.”

  Suzanne’s mouth dropped. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said, you moron?”

  So disrespectful.

  “You shouldn’t talk to me like that.”

  “Really?” Her lips curled in an ugly grin. “I’ll talk to you any way I want, you worthless son-of-a-bitch. Especially when you’re on my property uninvited.”

  His head was throbbing again. Why had he come?
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  A test. Prove you are worthy of the task I demand.

  “Do you hear me, Shawn?”

  She pushed into his face, glaring up at him the way she’d done when they’d had screaming-decibel blow-out fights. She was hideous. A hag in a pink bathrobe and slippers.

  “Did you get drunk again? Is that it? If you think you’re going to show up here for entertainment, you can go pork one of your sluts.”

  His hand cracked across her face. He blinked stupidly, as if the appendage had a will of its own. Dumbfounded, he flicked his gaze to hers. The blatant fear in her eyes sent wild exhilaration streaking through him. His fingerprints stood out livid against her white skin.

  Backing away, Suzanne held a trembling hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. Choking on a cry, she pivoted and bolted for the house.

  Do not leave without teaching her a lesson.

  Shawn’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “My pleasure.”

  He caught up with her just as she reached the front door.

  * * * *

  There wasn’t much Quentin could do on a Sunday. Point Pleasant mostly shut down, with the exception of its churches and a few restaurants that catered to hungry families. He ended up visiting Pioneer Cemetery, an old graveyard off Viand Street, in the hopes of stumbling over the burial plot of Jonathan Marsh. According to Penelope, Jonathan was an ancestor, though Pen’s details were sketchy. Probably because she’d gotten the information from a friend who also happened to be a psychic. Madam Olga had insisted Quentin could break the Marsh family curse by visiting Point Pleasant and unearthing his family’s connection to the town.

  At the entrance to the cemetery, he discovered historical markers for some of the earliest graves. Two Revolutionary War soldiers and that of a Dr. Jesse Bennett, a colonel in the Virginia Militia. A commemorative marker for John Roseberry read he was with Washington at Valley Forge. The grounds were well maintained, the setting peaceful, but a few of the older tombstones had toppled or broken, pitted with the earmarks of time.

  He spent close to two hours studying names and dates but found no connection to anyone named Marsh. Readying to leave, he was halfway back to his car when he spied a black Cadillac across the street. In the gray wash of daylight, the vehicle was spotless, looking like it had been driven off a showroom floor.

  “A restful place, is it not?”

  Quentin turned abruptly, drawn by the man’s voice behind him. Tall and slender, the man who faced him stood with his hands clasped behind his back. His expression was unreadable, but the glint in his coal-black eyes was intelligent and sharp.

  “Uh, yeah.” There’d been a few visitors to the cemetery while Quentin studied the graves, but he hadn’t noticed the man. With his light blond hair, black eyes, and dark clothing, he would have been hard to miss. Who wore black trousers and a long-sleeved shirt in July?

  “Do you have a relative buried here?” the stranger asked.

  “No.” Quentin might have pegged him as a caretaker if not for the cut of his clothing. He wasn’t dressed for grounds work, so perhaps some kind of administrator. Someone like that might be able to help. “Actually, I’m not sure. I’m looking for a tombstone.”

  “An ancestor?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so.” The man tugged at his chin, drawing attention to his fingers. Slender, but fatter at the tip, the unusual shape made his hands appear graceful and clunky at the same time. Quentin was reminded of the suckers on the tentacles of an octopus.

  “Does this ancestor have a first name?”

  “Jonathan.” Explaining his sister’s attachment to all things mystical didn’t seem like the wisest track to take, so he avoided mentioning how he’d come by the name. “Do you work here?”

  The sliver of what might have been a grin touched the man’s lips. “No. But I do not think you will find Mr. Jonathan Marsh buried here.”

  “Why?” A horn blared on Viand followed by the screech of tires on asphalt. Quentin pivoted, catching the near collision between an S-10 pickup and an older model Monarch. The drivers exchanged a few heated words through open windows then moved on.

  Shaking his head, Quentin turned back to address the blond-haired stranger. Only then did he realize he hadn’t mentioned the last name of the ancestor he’d been seeking. And yet the man had known it.

  Small wonder he’d vanished without a trace.

  * * * *

  Shawn cranked the radio, blaring “Centerfold” by the J. Geils Band through the open windows of the Charger. The whistling rush of air pumped his adrenalin, propelling him to a glittery high. His gaze dropped to his right hand where it gripped the steering wheel. Dried blood coated his knuckles, thicker in the creases.

  Her blood. She deserved what she got.

  His soon-to-be ex-wife would think twice before talking trash to him again. She’d had the beating coming. If she knew what was good for her, she’d keep her trap shut about what had gone down in her tiny living room. He’d left the place in shambles—her too. He’d made it clear the next time would be worse if she blabbed to the cops.

  Shawn licked his lips. The idea of a next time jacked his adrenaline higher. Rage was a new and dangerous beast with an edge like lightning when it poured out. How could he go back to his boring life? Working on the docks, drinking at the River. Even running the sprint track. Nothing compared to the giddy elation coursing through his veins.

  A gruff snort escaped him. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, tasting salt and copper. Suzanne had sunk her nails into him, even drew blood a few times. She’d put up a fight, leaving him the scrapes to prove it.

  A glance in the mirror revealed a nearly unrecognizable face. His hair stuck up on either side, his eyes overly bright like shaved glass in sunlight. For a second he imagined another visage superimposed over his features—dark-eyed and hooded with a sharp nose and sunken cheeks. A fat worm burrowed into his gut.

  You should release your rage again. The voice was seductive. Not his voice but the words of the “other.”

  How? It wasn’t like he had another wife he could slap around. Steering the Charger around a bend, he sobered as his adrenalin ebbed. The odd knife he’d found rested in the passenger’s seat, the blade gleaming with the cold appeal of onyx. Would it severe muscle and sinew? Leathery flesh?

  You are not ready to face the demon.

  Another bend in the road with houses falling away behind him. Fields sprawled on either side, postcard squares of green and gold.

  “When?”

  A mailbox jutted at the foot of a dirt lane. Will Hanley’s place. A house and barn stood in the distance, set back on a gradual slope.

  When you prove you can kill.

  He slowed at the lane. Hanley was a righteous SOB, always talking church then dissing him at the track when he didn’t make the winner’s circle. They were all like that. All the badasses that came out to see him risk his life. Not a single one with the balls to get behind the wheel and drive.

  Before Shawn knew what he was doing, he’d turned off the road and headed up the dirt lane to Hanley’s house. Will’s wife used to teach him spelling in grade school, but she’d died three winters past. He’d liked her. She’d smelled of lilacs and rosewater and sometimes brought home-baked cookies for her class.

  Put those memories aside. She is not why you are here.

  Course not. But why was he?

  Shawn stopped at the top of the driveway and killed the ignition. Hunched behind the wheel, he stared through the open window toward the house and the red barn looming in the background. Despite the dingy gray haze of the sky, the setting resembled an artist’s rendition.

  He and Suzanne might have had a place like that. If his father hadn’t been a drunk and his mother had ditched her church meetings long enough to do something about it. They should have provided better for him instead of leaving him to fend on his own. Was it any wonder he’d started filching his dad�
�s Jack Daniels when he was twelve?

  You have been cheated too long. Now is the time to take what you desire.

  A flicker of his earlier adrenalin returned. He remembered battering his fist across Suzanne’s face; her screams and tears fueling his anger. The sight of curlers tumbling from her hair, a ripped bathrobe, and one lone slipper clinging to her foot had made him feel powerful.

  We have never been afraid.

  We. When had he become two identities?

  Even with the extra thoughts crowding his head, he knew bullshit when he heard it. There had been a time when the entity inside him had been afraid. A time of pulse-pounding terror that had sent a stream of shame trickling down his leg.

  Never think of that vile moment again!

  Rage filled him, pulsing with the blood-thump of his heart. Breathing heavily, he slipped the knife through his belt, careful of the sharp blade. It bore a deadly belly, a detail he covered with his T-shirt.

  Shawn trotted for the house.

  This one will be easy. This one is already terrified.

  “Where?”

  The back. The door is open.

  He followed the path of a curving walkway around the side. Pink peonies and black-eyed Susans paved the way to the rear yard. A clothesline stood sentry between the barn and the house. Various tools were stacked on the porch, along with a twenty-pound bag of birdseed and a stainless steel water dish.

  “Hanley has a dog.”

  Do not concern yourself. She is elsewhere.

  Licking his lips, Shawn slipped the knife free. He passed it from hand to hand, patiently gauging its weight. When he had the measure of the weapon, he concealed it behind his back and crept toward the porch. Rickety boards creaked under his sneakers as he clambered up the steps. An old wind chime suspended above the kitchen window tinkled in the breeze.

  “Will?”

  Shawn opened the screen, then tried the knob on the main door. It gave easily, opening without protest. He moved slowly, slipping into the house with a careful glance for his surroundings. The kitchen was tidy, the countertops bare except for a Mr. Coffee, and three brown canisters marked Sugar, Flour, and Tea respectively. A square drop-leaf table was pushed against the far wall and a braided oval rug covered the maple floorboards. The place smelled of lemon furniture polish and pipe tobacco.