A moment later, the pair were on the porch, watching the Sheriff’s light diminish into the darkness of the yard as best they could. Their view was partially obscured by the peeling trunk and low-slung limbs of an ancient cedar tree that stood just ten feet from their roost.
They heard the car door slam, saw the headlights blink on, and heard the engine start. As the car pulled into sight, the clergyman sighed with relief and stepped forward, nearly overturning the lantern at his feet.
The lamplight eerily illuminated the lowest branches of the huge cedar as the Sheriff exited the car, having parked some five yards from where the others waited on the porch. When he had crossed half of that distance, he slowed his pace, then stopped to look up. He tried to determine the source of an odd rustling disturbance emanating from the upper boughs of the tree.
“Must be a raccoon up there,” he assured the waiting pair.
As if on queue, three milk-white appendages, each as big around as a man and at least eight feet long, dropped nearly to the ground before him, their far ends lost amongst the cluster of leafy foliage from which they had come. Startled, the Sheriff drew back, his hand now at the holster on his hip.
The strange, featureless forms bobbed up and down like yo-yos, their motion diminishing with each subsequent bounce. As they came to rest, looking rather foolishly like enormously thick ropes, the Sheriff inched forward for a closer look at one of them.
“Don’t!” the frightened Reverend whispered aloud.
The lawman cocked his head to one side. Unexpectedly, he grinned broadly, chuckled and turned to his human audience. “Nice try, Walraven, you had me going there for a minute,” he said. Next, he reached out to touch one of the pale, taffy-like extensions, adding, “If this is some kind prank you and Luke are pulling, I swear I’ll have both your heads.”
At his touch, the lower end of the swollen hanger drew back, retracting several inches. The sight emboldened the officer as it reminded him of a shriveling penis, until, that is, that same end twisted upward abruptly to direct its now-blunt tip at his face.
Immediately, the tip unfurled like a gigantic flower blossoming at extraordinary speed. The Sheriff only had time to moan, “Well, I’ll be a son of a …,” before the petals rolled back to allow a terrible parrot beak to emerge. The beak’s upper and lower halves yawned nearly two feet apart. The snakelike apparition shot forth at lightening speed to envelop the dumbstruck policeman’s entire head. With a sickening crack the beak’s jaws clamped tightly shut, slicing through the Sheriff’s spinal column with ease. The dangling horror seemed to wither as it retreated, unhindered by the pumpkin-sized lump in its throat. Along with its two ropy companions, it shot back and withdrew upward, vanishing into the unlit bulk of the tree’s foliage. They were gone before the headless torso teetered forward and toppled lifelessly to the ground.
Suddenly looking far older than his age, the stunned Reverend stood frozen in place, paralyzed with disbelief, his hands clutching his shock-ridden face so intently that his fingers were nearly imbedded in the flesh.
Walraven casually turned to the minister, offering, “Have you noticed the frogs and their compatriots have fallen silent.” He seemed totally unperturbed by the violent slaying that had taken place right in front of him.
Very slowly, the incredulous Reverend lowered his clawing hands. Turning to Walraven, he inquired in weighted tones, “Who … are you?”
A sardonic smile crept across the teacher’s face. “So you’ve finally realized I’m not Richard Walraven, although I wear his body or, rather, what remains of it.”
Sneering, the Reverend mumbled, “The story you told us, it was ….” “Totally accurate to the point where Walraven passed out upon maggot bed. I related it precisely as he would have done.”
“What are you?” screeched the distraught minister.
“I will answer your questions, but first I suggest we step back inside,” Walraven remarked offhandedly. “We should be comfortable for our little chat.”
The Reverend docilely complied with the request, despite the menace his companion offered. The two returned to the parlor and their respective seats, the Reverend steadfastly holding the lantern between them as if it were a charm to ward off the other’s evil.
Walraven smiled. “You’re frightened and confused, I know, and that’s to be expected. Regardless, we can still have a nice, relaxed conversation as soon as you get a hold of yourself. Take a few deep breaths if you think that will help or maybe say a prayer. I promise you have nothing to fear from the worms. I am quite enjoying this little masquerade and I would like to continue our little communion, if you can forgive my play on words. I look upon this as an opportunity to study your species from a more intimate perspective.”
It was not until Walraven — or whomever or whatever replaced him — left the room to brew a fresh batch of tea, that the minister was finally able to breathe freely once more. His sixty-five-year-old heart was pounding at an alarming rate. While sipping two subsequent cups of tea, he managed to regain some of his self-possession. The reassuring yellow glow provided by tallow candles now burning on the mantle provided a certain solace in itself. He longed for a gentle flame within the fireplace but could not bring himself to request it.
Finally, both men sat facing each other. Unable to bear the muted standoff, the minister summoned all his courage in order to speak. “And now, sir, if you would kindly answer my question — what in the name of God are you?”
A snide chuckle escaped the other’s lips.
“In the name of God? And what name might that be? Better yet, to which god do you refer? I have seen countless gods and groupings of gods come and go in my time. In each instance, the devout proclaimed their deity or deities to be the only true supreme beings, still, before long every single one fell by the wayside, discarded like so much trash, forgotten — exactly as your god soon will be.” He leaned forward, causing his companion to draw back instinctively. “On the other hand, I might well claim godhead myself, dear Reverend.”
“Blasphemy,” uttered the offended pastor.
The other continued undaunted, “No, not really. I am immortal, at least for your intents and purposes. Also, I came here from heaven in the beginning, when your world was but newly born. I am forced to admit that I was neither the first nor the most powerful of those of us who came here, but, unlike my more powerful compatriots, I managed to avoid the catastrophe that hurtled the most powerful into their present dormant state. Thus, I can boast that I have had more than a little influence upon the course of this planet’s entire history.
“You might go so far as to recognize me as a farmer of sorts, like Walraven himself. The difference being the scale, for my herds consist, at times, of whole populations. Agreed, my sphere of influence has dwindled over the millennia, but I once held sway over vast multitudes and entire species, some sentient and some not, and empires that rose and fell long before anything remotely resembling your kind came to be.”
Leaning back in his chair, he added, “Oh, now I’ve confused you, haven’t I? I apologize. I keep forgetting your science knows nothing of the Old Ones in the frozen Antarctic wastes, the subterranean-dwelling men-serpents or any other of humanity’s numerous predecessors.”
The clergyman protested, saying, “Were these ‘predecessors’ of any import, we would know of them. We would have stumbled upon some sign of their existence, their cities fallen to ruins or some other evidence of their having been.”
“Oh, my poor, ignorant Reverend, you haven’t the slightest concept of how extremely limited is your knowledge of history! The others of which I speak did indeed exist. As for what they left behind, well, the artifacts of some of the mightiest cultures that have existed would prove far too alien for a mentality as narrow as man’s to recognize in the unlikely event that you should stumble across them. The remnants of others lay entombed far beneath the earth’s surface, and legacies of still others have long since been ground to naught, erased by the end
less shifting of lands and glacial masses.”
Unrelenting, the minister declared, “God gave the world to man and man alone, whom He made in His own image.”
“Very well, then you must indeed agree that I am most godlike for, soon after I came here, I created an entirely new species of my own. Its members reflect, albeit in miniature form, every aspect of my early development until, in the end, each and every one perfectly duplicates my own physiology. They are all inferior to the original, yet I did create them in my own image, of my own flesh, and … they have become legion.”
“Oh, yes, the worms you spoke of earlier. Can I assume then, that your true form is that of some sort of worm like those depending from the tree outside?” begged the Reverend. Receiving no answer, he continued his prodding. “Maybe I could better understand if you were to explain what has become of the real Richard Walraven. Are you some kind of disembodied spirit inhabiting his physical form?”
Walraven poured himself a fresh cup of tea. “No, no, no! I’m not a spirit, disembodied or otherwise. I shall attempt to explain. Once here, I realized my form was proportionately impractical for the scale of this world, my body being what you would consider quite mammoth. Thus, I elected to create thousands of tiny, but otherwise nearly identical, versions of myself. I chose, however, not to disperse my consciousness within my spawn as such minute brains proved incapable of retaining information for but a short time, information gleaned from the minds and bodies of those my little ones have consumed. I devised a method, therefore, by which the thoughts of each were instantaneously transmitted to the central reservoir of my personal consciousness, where they are assimilated and retained.
“In this particular instance, admittedly a very special one, my warriors devoured Walraven from within after entering his body through variously accessible orifices. Thus the appearance of his outer form was preserved to allow for this most excellent impersonation. I thereby obtained the entire contents of his mind, right up to the very moment of his death. Thus have I recreated him from within after secreting my physical form within his skin.”
The parson, taking into account the fact that his challenge regarding the other’s true form had gone unanswered, began to doubt the truth of all he was being told. A means to defeat the demon might well be gleaned, he prayed, from what the demon chose to withhold from him. With silent prayer, he begged his maker for the insight and strength required to thwart this monster and abort its deadly plans.
“You see,” the paladin went on, “being a good farmer, I interfere with my herds only when they go astray. The Shawnee faithfully keep my larder stocked with food in the form of their dead, as did the builders of mounds and countless cultures before them. The great Serpent Mound was, by the way, constructed by the Adena in my honor. Its form mimics the worm stage of my development. The so-called egg in the jaws of that effigy actually symbolizes my authority over a world that even they recognized as being round.”
Ignoring his opponent’s obvious hubris, the Reverend queried, “But didn’t you say your influence embraces a limited area at present, not the world?”
Walraven smiled at his companion’s flippant remark, his annoyance apparent. “That is correct, but only because I no longer desire to lord over great tracts of land.” He paused momentarily as if lost in thought, then said, “Walraven’s memory tells me you hail from somewhere in Arizona originally. Is that correct?”
Cautiously, the Reverend confirmed that fact.
“I am allied with he who holds tenure over that area. You may have heard the name of Yig whispered by those around you as you grew up. Yes, I see you are familiar with that most infamous Father of Serpents. He is even less tolerant of his charges than I; when those you call the Anasazi discovered the pleasures of cannibalism and thus neglected his minions, Yig eradicated them without mercy. That is our way, you see, our means of controlling the cattle should they displease or defy us.
“Returning to more immediate history, Walraven’s ancestor, Adodiah, swore to uphold the tradition of pacifying my warriors with offerings of his own people’s dead. He accepted that term in exchange for becoming the caretaker of this land and the caverns, yet he betrayed that trust by abandoning us who, to him, were already buried in the ground. Foolishly, he was convinced that we would simply die out; instead, we thrived. He underestimated the great horde of plague-ridden corpses that had accumulated in the cavern. Why, those corridors contained all but the last vestiges of the once proud Shawnee tribes of this territory. When those supplies were finally exhausted, we supplemented our diet with wild game and the occasional domestic beast. But now, as Walraven discovered, the larger worms turn on their smaller brethren for sustenance, and this is a practice I cannot long tolerate.
“They are grave worms after all, therefore they naturally prefer the taste of the moldering dead. Desperation, however, makes the consumption of the living a necessity in times like these. I might add that, having gotten to know you as I have, I feel I should direct my warriors to feast upon your very own congregation first, Reverend.”
To mask his abject horror at this latest proposition, the clergyman posed the further question, “Then the day of Dar has nothing to do with your seeking revenge for the way we whites treated the Indians?”
Walraven scoffed, “Don’t be foolish.”
Angrily, the Reverend growled, “Do you really believe a bunch of maggots, even ones as big as those we saw outside, could bring this county to heel? Yes, there would certainly be casualties, but your so-called army wouldn’t have a chance against guns, fire, explosives and all manner of weapons in our possession. Much has changed since the days of your Old Ones and snake men! I have no doubt that we will make short work of you and your pit worms.”
Walraven laughed aloud. “How sure of himself my humble servant of god has suddenly become!” he shouted. “Had you been paying attention, you might have realized the worm is but one small phase in my development and, thus, in the development of my warriors. You are absolutely correct; worms are far too slow and conspicuous to successfully do battle with your kind. I have something far more insidious in store for you!”
Tiny beads of sweat had formed on the parson’s forehead by the time the speaker elaborated.
“Surely you are familiar with the Black Plague to which nearly a third of Europe’s population succumbed during the Middle Ages. Ah! I can see that you are catching on at last!”
“You intend to inflict some dread disease upon us by means of your minions?” stuttered the Reverend.
Nodding his affirmation, Walraven further stated, “Picture, if you can, tens of thousands of tiny messengers, nurtured on pox-riddled carrion for centuries, spreading death far and wide, messengers of form so ordinary as to hardly be noticed … until it is too late, that is.
“You look surprised, Reverend. Have you never wondered at the mysterious, inexplicable disappearances of whole peoples recorded in your histories? The means vary from place to place and time to time, but my cohorts and I can claim responsibility in most of those cases. The majority of the victims weren’t even aware an outside source was the intentional cause of the terrible misfortunes that befell them.”
“Have you no pity for those you condemn to incalculable misery … and hellish death?” begged the cleric.
Walraven’s head turned from side to side as his negative response.
The Reverend fell silent, at a loss for words to either soften the devil’s heart or refute his terrifying boast. The room and everything about him faded. His mind blurred, then seemed to refocus by its own volition, his total vulnerability giving way to a surreal vision of himself as a holy crusader, the blessed one chosen by God Himself to end this age-old blight upon creation.
In the meantime, Walraven rose, exalted that he had finally shaken the clergyman’s faith in his god. “You still don’t know me for who I really am, do you?” he taunted.
An unexpected sound from beyond the house caught the impersonator’s attention, causing h
im to turn his back to his solemn companion.
Deeming this unexpected opportunity a sign from God, the Reverend rose as quietly as he could, tiptoed to the fireplace a few feet away, and grasped a heavy, wrought iron poker firmly in both hands. “I condemn thee to Hell!” he cried as he slammed the cold, black metal rod down with murderous intent upon his opponent’s head.
At the force of the blow, Walraven staggered forward before turning fully about to confront his attacker. Blood spurted generously from a foot-long gash in the crown of his head, but the flow instantly subsided as Walraven regained control. Smiling sardonically, he whispered, “Your Holy Bible forbids man to gaze into the face of your god, least ye be blasted by its power.”
The flesh of Walraven’s face instantly cracked in a steady line from forehead to chin, then further still; the shriveling skin began dropping away in bloodless strips that reminded the dumbfounded minister of the dry parchment leaves of some ancient biblical text. Adroit hands stripped the clothing from the ribboning flesh as the hideous transformation continued.
The Reverend stepped back, falling into a chair. He fought desperately that his newfound resolve not give way to absolute horror at the sight of the human body literally unraveling before him in the yellowed glow of lamp light.
“I am your new god!” declared an echoing voice from somewhere within the disintegrating physique. The last shred of resemblance to anything human dropped away in a deteriorating gurgle. “Behold my face!”
The Reverend could only stare as the naked corpse reduced to naught but a hazy, undulating cloud of a darkness, its contours flowing indefinably like a confined liquid. In a fruitless attempt to divert his gaze from the abomination, the parson lurched forward, only to stumble into the table that bore the nearest of the hurricane lanterns.
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