Saltar's Point

by Ott, Christopher Alan

  In the basement the demon sat quietly, waiting to feel the power that flowed through the veins of Darrow’s next victim. There would be plenty. The death of a loved one at his own hand would yield much more power than the whores he had been bringing him. Still the task had not been as easy as he had anticipated. Darrow was weak and feeble minded, this much was true, but he cared for the woman deeply. This fact had shocked him above all else, to find love in a heart as dark and full of hatred as Darrow’s, but it was there, deep at the bottom, but there nonetheless.

  It had taken him much longer than he had planned to get Darrow to this point. He had been slowly poisoning his mind against her from the moment they had moved in, beckoning at him through the edges of his sanity that was slowly slipping away. But Darrow had held fast until tonight, and the demon was intent on having him finish the task once and for all, tuning into his thoughts and bolstering his courage with words whispered through Darrow’s mind’s eye. He could see him at the foot of the bed, wielding the knife, and then pausing. He was weak. The demon shrieked to him silently through the air from the basement below.

  Cut her Jack; draw forth her lifeblood so that we may become stronger.

  But he would not. He had made his decision. The demon struggled to control his rage. The last thought he heard Darrow think was: If he wanted her dead, then he would have to do it himself.

  The demon ground his claws into the rotten flesh of his palms.

  Very well Jack. Very well.

  He turned his thoughts away from Darrow, and towards the lady of the house.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Her dreams continued to torment her. Inside the labyrinth of her mind her subconscious played out a cruel chess game, awaiting her next move. Brenda was there again, pleading for help. It was so vivid that Abby felt as though she could reach out and touch her, feeling the charred flesh that hung in dry swathes around her skull. The little girl sat helpless atop a large mound of kindling, wood stacked together as though it were part of a funeral pyre, waiting for someone to toss a match and set it ablaze, searing the demons that abounded within this Godforsaken place.

  “Help me Abby.” The little girl pleaded, tearing at her heartstrings. “Please help me, I’m so scared.”

  She tried to reach forward, but the flames scalded her arms, leaping upward in a raging fury whenever she got close. The heat seared her flesh, raising blisters upon her skin, filling them with a vile viscous fluid that seeped from the wounds in a slow creeping manner.

  “I can’t!” Abby yelled, trying to raise her voice above the crackling of the flames. “I can’t reach you.”

  The pleas from Brenda screamed without voice from her eyes. “You must! You must help me Abby. He grows stronger, and when he is able he will trap me here for eternity.”

  The tears that flowed from her eyes stung her cheeks and they rolled downward, leaving blood-colored tracks that tattooed her skin. Oh how she wished she could help, but she was powerless against the awesome power of the beast, a beast that had existed before the boundaries of time. How could she combat such a foe? The fear welled up inside of her, like a balloon filled with too much air, threatening to burst at any moment.

  Once when she was a girl of ten, her dad had taken her fishing, and despite numerous warnings Abby continued to lean over the bow of their small boat, peering at the water’s depth below. The current was surprisingly swift on the narrow river, forming swirling eddies and rapid currents just beneath the placid surface. The boat hit one of these rough patches of water and tipped to the starboard, throwing Abby into the raging current. A vortex of swift running water pulled her under and twisted her body around like clothes in a washing machine. Swimming with all her might, Abby plodded through the dark water, only to be horrified when her hands gripped the wet muck of the river bottom instead of the life giving air above. She had been swimming in the wrong direction, paddling downward. There at the riverbed, beneath the swirling current she was sure that she was going to die. Her lungs strained under the immense pressure to gasp for breath. Only her strong will to survive combated her natural instinct. She braced her small feet among the muck of the river bottom and exploded upward, reaching the surface nearly five seconds later, gasping for air before feeling the strong hands of her father lifting her into the boat. It was the most terrified she had been in her entire life, the most until now. The flames sucked the oxygen from the room, threatening to suffocate her the same way the frigid waters of the river did back in her youth.

  And then she was there again, underneath the waters of the river that had almost taken her life nearly a quarter century ago. Abby felt as though she couldn’t breath and the horror that rose within the pit of her stomach rivaled the terror she felt that day, only now there seemed to be no surface in sight. She was stuck beneath the waves of a never-ending river of evil.

  Slowly another arm reached into the current, Abby could see the undulation of the ripples radiating outward from the disturbed surface of the tranquil waters above. Daddy! Thank God her father had to come to rescue her once again. Her lungs began to strain under the lack of oxygen, crying out to her brain to breathe, to just open her mouth and gasp, but Abby knew that would be certain death. Please daddy! Please hurry! Pleeeease! The last word stretched out from her mind in agonizing cruelty. Why isn’t he helping her? He couldn’t reach her, that’s why. Yes! She must get closer.

  Abby began to fight for her life once again. She kicked her legs with all her might, surprised to find them working once again, but they were weak, decayed by time, and atrophied from lack of use. They burned now, screaming out at her lungs to supply them with the precious oxygen they needed so badly. She kicked again and pulled her arms down through the water, cupping her hands and propelling her body upward. Slowly she felt her body begin to rise, along with her spirits. She was going to live! Her father’s arm was just out of reach now, swirling around beneath the surface of the water looking for her. With one final lunge Abby felt herself rise a bit more and the comforting grip of her father closed about her shoulder. Abby began to relax, and then he shoved her deeper. Down through the water she descended watching the surface fade from her sight. Why? Father why? As if in answer to her question she saw not the arm of her father, but the arm of a beast, long and corded with black sinewy muscles, and fingers that formed into hooked claws at the tips.

  Abby opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling above her. The air squealed from her lungs in a high-pitched wail like a hog being slaughtered, whistling and gasping through the slit in its neck before falling silent.

  In the cold dark night, all alone, Abby struggled to catch her breath. She had stopped breathing in her sleep; she had simply stopped breathing, the horrendousness of the situation shocked and flabbergasted her. If she had not gasped for that last breath… Did she want to die so badly that her own subconscious now threatened to kill her? Was that possible? And would death even bring her relief at all? Not in this place she ventured, not here. Here the dead lay crawling about the halls helplessly, like hermit crabs searching for a larger shell in a fishbowl filled with only tiny blue aquarium pebbles. A sick bile taste filled her mouth and then she realized that she had vomited within her sleep. She placed her index and middle fingers in her mouth and swept them across her tongue, digging at the back of her throat and clearing her airway. As she did this she heard the sheets squishing together like two halves of a lemon being squeezed of their juice, and she knew then that she had not only vomited, but lay completely engulfed in her own excrement. She had defecated upon herself, not once but twice, feeling the sticky mess pressed between her buttocks and her nightgown. Her urine had broken, spilling down the sides of her legs and pooling about her, combining with the sweat that had spilled forth from her pores.

  My God she thought. Was it possible for someone to be so terrified from a dream that they could do all of this to themselves? No, that was not it. Deep in the basement the pipes rumbled once again. He was angry. Abby had gotten accustomed to
the sound and knew now why it occurred. He was angry because he had failed. This was no ordinary nightmare. The demon had been trying to kill her.

  No, that is not possible.

  Not for anyone sane anyway.

  And are you sane Abby?

  Yes.

  Are you sure?

  Yes.

  They why are you speaking with yourself?

  Because…

  Abby struggled to finish the thought, telling herself that she would not cry.

  Because you’re all I have left.

  The following day Randall, Cletus, and Aiden all decided to go fishing, or rather Randall decided and the other two agreed. He hoped that the sunny day would brighten their spirits. The last rays of summer were filtering through the tops of the Olympic Mountains and soon the Pacific Northwest weather would assail the peninsula with a steady nine months of drizzling rain. It was not the hard rain you found in most other parts of the country, but it was relentless, swirling about in miniscule droplets in the frigid winter air, darkening people’s moods and threatening their happiness. After all it was the suicide capital of the world, and what better reason to end your own life than a few months of shitty weather? Randall thought. He envisioned the local weatherman, adorned in his 2000 dollar Armani suit standing in front of his green screen motioning about and saying something about low pressure systems and a falling barometer, all the while the residents of the Pacific Northwest sat glued to their television sets begging for just one day of sun breaks, practically praying to their modern day weather God. Come on Steve please, just one day free from this drizzling shit. What’s it going to be? Sorry ladies and gentlemen five more months of rain, better go buy a shotgun and brush your teeth with it, don’t worry about your wife and kids, or who’ll pay the mortgage, just one little squeeze of the index finger and all your cares are blown away, or something like that. It just didn’t make any God damn sense to him.

  They had ridden in relative silence, even Aiden was having a difficult time getting jazzed up about tossing a few lines in the water. Randall pulled the Cherokee up the steep dirt path and soon they were leveling out near the banks of lake Sequoia, a little known local lake with a stocked supply of 100,000 farm raised trout that practically jumped into your frying pan. As soon as they were stopped Randall opened the back and began removing their tackle and poles from the truck. Aiden and Cletus had exited slowly and stood gazing out at the tranquil water with sullen looks upon their faces.

  “Come on champ, why don’t you give me a hand with this stuff?”

  “Coming dad.”

  Aiden droned with mock enthusiasm, and then shuffled his feet through the dirt kicking up tiny dust clouds that coated the lower legs of his Tough Skins. Randall pulled out a large plastic tackle box. Aiden’s eyes focused on it immediately, he hadn’t seen this one before. It was bright orange on top and solid black on the bottom creating a striking contrast that would catch anybody’s eye. It seemed to shine in the sun and didn’t have a superficial scratch or speck of dirt anywhere on it.

  “Wow dad, is that new?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “Big 5 Sporting Goods.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Of course little buddy, in fact why don’t you carry it over to our fishing spot? That is if you think you can handle it.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “I don’t know it’s pretty big and full of tackle, I think we might even be able to fit you inside of it whenever you throw one of your temper tantrums.” He tickled his ribs playfully.

  “Awe come on dad, you wouldn’t do that.” Aiden smiled for the first time in days.

  “Well don’t press your luck.” Randall smiled too for the first time in the same period. “Well go on now, get a move on.”

  He lowered the tackle box down to Aiden who grasped the plastic handle with both hands, like a weightlifter preparing to perform a chin lift. He leaned back trying to offset the weight in front of his body and then took several wide legged shuffling steps.

  “Careful now, I told you it was heavy.”

  Aiden made slow progress over the twenty yards to the lakeshore. He set the tackle box on the ground and beamed up at his great-grandfather. Look grandpa, check out dad’s new tackle box.

  “Wow, that sure is a big fancy one.”

  The enthusiasm had spread to him as well. Randall couldn’t help but think that in some ways boys never grew up no matter how old they had become, like the way ninety-year-old men still giggle when one of their buddies rips a large fart. Randall followed up with their poles just behind and handed one to each of them.

  “No trouble carrying it?”

  “Nope.” Aiden said with pride. “Told you I could do it.”

  “Well that’s good, a man should always be able to handle his own tackle box.”

  It took a second to set in. “Wow! You mean this is mine?”

  Randall nodded. “Yup. After all a serious fisherman’s got to have his own tackle box.”

  “Thanks dad!” Aiden wrapped his tiny arms around Randall’s thighs, giving him the tightest bear hug his arms could muster.

  “Well go on now, open it up.”

  That was all it took. Aiden dropped to his knees and unlatched the two large snap locks on the front of the box. It flayed open at both ends like the fish it was designed to catch would do just before hitting the frying pan. Four shelves on each side rose out steadily forming a stair pattern to display an assortment of lures, lines, weights, and bait.

  “Wow!” It seemed to be the only word left in his small vocabulary.

  “You’re going to spoil that kid rotten.” Cletus grinned. “I thought that was supposed to be my job?”

  “Oh I don’t think any kid should grow up without his own tackle box.”

  “Yup, I ‘spose you’re right.” He let a fresh loogey fly from his parched lips, watching the spittle arch to the ground before his look turned serious. “You know Randall, I guess I never got a chance to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything you’ve done. For Ellie and Aiden I mean.”

  “They’ve done a lot more for me, believe me.”

  “Even so, I just wanted to say thanks.” His eyes were a bit misty now. He took his old red handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his cheeks. “Damn, sure does get dusty this time of year.”

  “It sure does Clete. It sure does.” He paused for a second, and more words were said between them silently at that instant than could have been spoken. “Well then, why don’t we catch some trout?”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Cletus threw his arm around his soon to be grandson in law and the two of them walked down the few paces to the lakeshore where Aiden was still going through his newly acquired treasure chest.

  “Okay champ,” Randall said, “which type of bait and line do you want to use today?”

  “Twenty pound line and stink bait!”

  “Well you can use the stink bait, but we’re not fishing for Chinook salmon today, so I think the four pound line is all you need.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you remember how to tie up your own line?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Randall and Cletus watched as he painstakingly set up his own line, determined to do it all himself. His small fingers worked vigorously to tie the tiny knots like Randall had shown him. It took him almost an hour, but soon he had his line all ready to go. Randall inspected his work, tugging on the line and inspecting his knots, and then he took out his pocketknife and cut off the excess slack for him. He was not ready to entrust Aiden with his knife.

  “Looks pretty good champ. Now cast it on out there.”

  Aiden reared back and fired, trying to manipulate the large pole to do his bidding. His cast went about four feet before plopping into the water in front of him. He gave Randall a pitiful look over his left shoulder.

  “That’s okay. Here le
t’s try it again. Reel her in.”

  Aiden did as he was instructed. When the line had been reeled in and the casting lock was set Randall knelt down behind him and placed his large hands around Aiden’s, then together they hoisted a cast that zipped out forty feet before plopping gently into the lake.

  “That cast will catch some fish dad!”

  Aiden’s comment made them all laugh. Randall had been right; a sunny day fishing was just what they needed to take their mind off their problems, if only for a little while.

  TWENTY-SIX

  He sure as hell was not going to worry about her. Stupid chick probably found someone to shoot up some speedballs with and was on a binger, that was all. Nope no use worrying about it, Jimmy thought to himself as he paced back and forth on the living room carpet, listening to the crusty fibers crunch under his bare feet and wearing a path from wall to wall. Nope not worried at all, not at all, nosiree, not me. I’m not worried.

  But he was. In fact he was worried shitless. It had been two days since Sheila had gone out for tacos and possibly to turn a trick, and she had never been gone this long before. His thoughts were like a leaky faucet, constantly dripping and driving him batshit.

  Drip.

  She’s dead, went and got herself killed.

  Drop.

  Naw man, don’t be stupid. She’s just turning a few tricks, trying to make rent. Probably blowing some old fart for a quick fifty in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Underwear aisle five, batteries aisle nine, blowjobs around back.

  Drip.

  She’s in real trouble or she would have called, or maybe she left. Got tired of your shit and decided to just bail. No, no, she wouldn’t do that.

  Drop.

  She’s up shit creek as they say, hurt real bad or worse. I gotta call the pigs.