by T. M. Wright
Ryerson approached the church from the street side, up the twenty wide stone steps to the great oak doors—the only wood in the building that had survived nearly unscathed the awful kiss of the flames—stopped there, and whispered to himself, "I'm a fool!" He meant it. Because he knew that if he were not a fool he'd have called Detective Andrews, or he'd have flagged down a passing patrol car—and indeed, one had passed on its way to Edgemont Street, which paralleled Lake Avenue, as he'd made his way to the church from the Samuelson Guest House—or, at the most, he'd have hidden somewhere near the church, waited for poor Douglas Miller to reappear, and then would have decided what to do next. But he knew what he was going to do. He was going to seek Douglas Miller out in that maze of stone passageways. He was going to follow the monster underground.
He knew the passageways were there because, for whole seconds at a time, he could see them through what served as Douglas Miller's eyes: he saw two vague, gray planes that were cut by the dark horizontals and verticals of doorways that had once led into rooms where church school was held, and benefit suppers eaten, and Bingo played. And Ryerson could hear, too, the slight, muted echoes of past events—the Bingo games, the suppers, the church school—which lingered for decades in places like this.
"Miller!" he called through the half-open front doors of the church. Beyond them a wide section of charred oak floor remained. Several yards to the right of the doors, a stone stairway led into the snakelike maze of passageways beneath. Again Ryerson called, "Miller!" but heard nothing. He sensed someone watching him from the street and turned his head. A short, thin, dark-haired man wearing horn-rimmed glasses was watching him with passing interest. The man called, "You'd best not go in there. It's dangerous. Damned kids!" Which was a reference to the fact that although the authorities regularly boarded up the doors, children in the area had consistently broken in.
"Yes," Ryerson agreed. Then he pushed on the doors, and with Creosote snorting in his arms, went into the ruined interior of the church.
B-three. That's B-three. . . . I-nineteen
And bless this man and this woman. . .
And make His face to shine upon thee
"Miller!" Ryerson called. He expected no answer. He expected that Miller—the creature which had once been Miller—might look up at him from the maze of passageways beneath, and that at the moment the creature looked up, he would see what it saw, and so would know in what part of the maze it was hiding.
What God hath joined together let no man put asunder. . . .
The muted echoes of past events came and went from Ryerson's mind like swiftly flying night birds.
Welcome to St. Januarius, Welcome to St. Januarius-
And if that were to happen, if he saw himself through this creature's eyes and knew then where it was hiding…
The lousy bum ate my chiffon pie but totally ignored the beans-
... then he would have to decide what to do next.
N-twenty-three; N-twenty-three!
"Miller!"
And it happened.
He saw himself at the lip of that narrow, charred section of oak floor; he saw Creosote. He saw a pale blanket of clouds above.
And he knew where the creature was in that maze. And he knew this, too: he knew that the creature wasn't hiding.
It was waiting.
B-eight, 0-forty-five, G-thirty-three: Bingo! Bingo!
"Shut up!" Ryerson screamed.
And from beneath, in the maze, he heard, "Greta!" in a voice that was torn, and piercing, and tremulous, like a tree splitting. "Greta, Greta, Greta," again and again, until it was little more than a dense screeching noise, a noise of fatal resignation: This is done; this is done! And at last nothing.
Ryerson saw the steps that led into the maze, and he took them quietly, Creosote silent in his arms. He heard behind him a heightened noise of traffic on Lake Avenue as people started their evenings at theaters and restaurants and shopping malls.
And when he reached the bottom of those stairs, he realized that he'd forgotten to take one awful fact into account: at night, in darkness that was several shades down from semi-darkness, as this place was, he was as blind as a bottom-dwelling fish. Sure, now and again glimpses of this place pushed fleetingly into his brain from the eyes of the creature he was pursuing. But his own eyes were all but useless here.
And what, he asked himself, am I going to do when I find him? If I find him? And he answered almost at once, I'm going to be his supper! which made him grin tremblingly.
He called, "Mr. Miller, I can help you. I want to help you." It wasn't a lie. It was simply an embellishment, he supposed. He did want to help him; he simply wasn't sure how he was going to help him—that was a bridge he'd cross when he came to it. But wasn't this poor creature pretty much the same as the darkly laughable spook in the Vermont cellar who spent his existence shouting creative obscenities at whoever might be listening? And wasn't this creature essentially the same as
No, Ryerson answered himself. This creature was different. This creature had an overwhelming need, a consuming lust for Death gobbling it up.
And that's when Ryerson started backing away, toward the stone stairway he'd just come down. Because he'd realized, at last, that however noble his intentions might be, he was powerless to help the creature that called itself Douglas Miller. He might as well, he realized, have hoped to reason with a disease.
Then he saw himself briefly through that creature's eyes; he saw the tall, athletic body, the square, intriguing face, the quiet baggage that was Creosote under his arm; and he saw the trembling, the fear. And he saw it all with a harsh, black-and-white reality that was as jarring as a slap in the face.
Then it was gone. And the smell of the creature whose eyes he had used replaced it.
And he thought, No pain! Please, no pain!
Creosote whimpered, snorted, growled deep in his throat. And the smell of the thing that had been Douglas Miller fell over him like black water.
No pain, please, no pain!
B-six, 0-sixty, I-sixteen
No pain, please
Turn, now, in your Catechism to the story of Lazarus—
"Mr. Miller, I can help you, I want to help you—"
The bum ate my chiffon pie but never touched the beans
Cresote belched, snorted, growled.
Then fell silent.
Because the smell had dissipated. The creature that had called itself Douglas Miller had retreated. Into the maze. And Ryerson thought that if Creosote could have talked, he would have used one phrase to describe the reason for his momentary revival—"That disgusting smell!" he would have said.
"Mr. Miller!" Ryerson called. "I can help you, I want to help you," and he stopped backing away from the stone stairs that led up out of the maze and into the city.
This is it! he thought. This is it! It's time to do my job! It's time to help this creature! And he moved blindly forward into the maze. And walked face first into a wall. He stepped back, instinctively turned slightly to the right, moved forward again, slowly, feet barely lifting from the stone floor. He had a pair of eyes to use, after all. He had the creature's eyes to use.
"Mr. Miller, let me help you. I'm here to help you!"
And in his mind's eye he saw Douglas Miller and Lila Curtis lying naked together. And he saw a strange dull glow come into Lila's eyes, as if something smoldered deep within her. He saw her head move quickly forward into Douglas Miller's shoulder, saw her head come back, saw blood there at her mouth, heard Douglas Miller say, "Jees, what'd you do that for?"
Again he walked face first into a wall; he felt a gash open on his cheek. He winced, let a small grown of pain out, and supposed, distractedly, that that would probably be the very smallest pain he'd experience that evening.
Then, like an old coat being thrown over him, the suffocating smell of the creature in the maze with him was around him again, and again Creosote snorted in disgust.
&nb
sp; But then fell silent. And still.
And in his mind's eye, Ryerson saw himself standing blind, as if naked, as if offering himself. And he saw, too, the corridors stretching to his left and right, corridors he could not have seen with his own eyes.
And with a speed borne of panic and desperation, he turned to his right and ran hard.
And through the eyes that watched him, he saw himself running, saw the wall coming fast, saw the corridor branch yet again to the right and left, turned left, saw himself falling closer to the creature in hungry pursuit, heard himself whispering raggedly, already out of breath, "Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus!"; heard around him the louder echoes of the past pushing at him, saw the soles of his shoes rising high from the stone floor as he ran, saw the back end of Creosote, his own elbows pumping, his shirt collar, the back of his neck--
He smelled the sickening, suffocating odor of the creature, heard its own thudding footfalls-
Chapter Twenty-three
AT HIGHLAND HOSPITAL
Tom McCabe said, "He was our murderer, I know that." He nodded at the room's one window. "Close the curtains, would you? It's too damned bright. "
Ryerson Biergarten went over to the window, closed the curtains. He sat down in a pale green vinyl armchair that he'd placed near the bed, bent forward, lowered his head, shook it, sighed, and looked up at Tom McCabe, who was regarding him quizzically.
McCabe said, "What's on your mind, Rye?"
Ryerson smiled ruefully. "Him. Our murderer. Douglas Miller. He's on my mind, Tom." He paused, sat back, let his hands dangle over the front of the arms of the chair. "Werewolf," he whispered, and sighed again.
"Werewolf, my ass!" McCabe said.
"Yes," Ryerson agreed.
"I wish to God I hadn't seen anything, Rye—it'll stick with me the rest of my life. I think I can look forward to four decades worth of bad dreams."
Ryerson nodded. "It took the form that was convenient, Tom. It poked around inside Doug Miller and it found that . . . idea, that myth, that fear. And it fed on it, and moved with it, while it grew. And I guess—" He stopped, faltered, searched for the right words, went on: "I guess this is like . . . running in the dark, Tom"—he smiled—"and maybe I'm way out in left field, but I'd say that Miller fought it, for a while. I'd say he knew there was something very wrong, and he tried hard to hold on to what humanity was left in him. But hell, it was probably like trying to fight an orgasm. After a while, you have to give in to it. So for a month, two months, he gave in to this thing whenever the opportunity presented itself. 'Full Moon' equals 'Werewolf,' so whenever he saw that mural at The Park, it was an excuse to let the thing inside him take over."
McCabe shook his head incredulously. "That's a damned wild theory, Rye."
Ryerson shrugged. "It's the only theory I've got, Tom." He paused to change subjects, went on, "When are they going to let you out of here?"
"A week, ten days," McCabe answered wearily. "I was lucky, Rye. I guess that thing was . . . on its last legs when it got around to me."
Ryerson nodded. "George Dixon and Jack Youngman weren't quite so lucky." A pause. "And I'd say that poor Doug Miller was on his last legs, sure. I'd say he'd just about had it when he got to me." And Ryerson, like McCabe, wished fervently then that he could forget what he'd seen in the Church of St. Januarius. When he had stopped and looked back after hearing that awful, liquid-sounding Phump! behind him—just seconds, he knew, before he and Creosote were due to become one with the carrier pigeon and the dodo bird. That terrible, liquid-sounding Phump!, like a plastic bag full of wet laundry falling to the pavement. That pitiful Phump! of a once-strong-and-athletic body that's been all but turned inside out, gobbled up, and discarded—vomited, really—by an entity that, in Ryerson's "special brain," had revealed itself only as an amorphous, dirty-cream-colored tide. He finished, "So I'd say, Tom, that we've seen the last of Douglas Miller, anyway."
"Meaning?"
"Whatever you want it to mean." He nodded at McCabe's arm. "Does that bite still hurt?"
McCabe rubbed it; it was heavily bandaged. "No. It never did, really; the thing didn't have any teeth to speak of." He shuddered, remembering the face of his attacker—Like an orange that's sat around too long and some little kid has painted eyes on it, and a nose, and a mouth; but none of it fits, he'd told Ryerson. Like some fuzzy, ten-day-old, dried-up jack-o'-lantern, for Christ's sake!
"And how about the stomach?" Ryerson went on.
McCabe glanced at it; Ryerson thought he smiled a little, pleased, perhaps, that his previously round belly had deflated a bit during his hospital stay. "Ah, it gives me some pain now and again, Rye. Nothing I can't handle. If I'm lucky, it'll mean I can stay out of work for a while."
"Uh-huh," Ryerson said, "that'll be the day." He stood, took a breath. "They're keeping what's left of Miller's body on ice for you, Tom. I guess they're hoping you can identify him as the man who attacked you."
McCabe grimaced. "Jesus, I don't want to look at him—"
"We've all got jobs to do, Tom," Ryerson said, smiling. He started for the door, stopped. "I'll be back up this way in a week or two. I'll drop in."
"I'll probably be right here, Rye," McCabe said, again wearily. "Where are you going? Vacation?"
"Don't I wish. No. Creosote and I are going back to Edgewater. I've got to find this woman named 'Joan,' Tom." He paused, continued, "And if I can't, well, maybe I'll find something else."
"Rye," McCabe quipped, "I hope that whatever you find, it feels good."
Ryerson smiled, nodded, went to the door, opened it, stepped out. He stopped, looked back in, "Uh, Tom?"
McCabe had already started to nod off. He snapped awake, blinked a few times, as if to get his bearings, and said, "Yes? Something wrong, Rye?"
Ryerson nodded. "I didn't get paid, Tom. They won't pay me."
"What do you mean, they won't pay you? Just tell them that I said to pay you—"
"Yes, I told them that. They want to hear from you personally. Heck, Tom,"—Ryerson smiled feebly, "I wouldn't even mention it, but I really do like to keep these things on the up and up. Besides, I'm afraid the Ford's having some transmission work done, and the garage doesn't take cards—"
McCabe cut in, waving away Ryerson's concern, "I'll call them, now, Rye. No problem." He grabbed the phone on a nightstand near his bed, began to dial, hesitated; "You sure that bucket of bolts will take you to Pennsylvania, Rye?"
Ryerson nodded, "It has once; it will again."
"I hope so, Rye. Hate to see you get stuck down there." And he finished dialing.
In Erie, Joan Mott-Evans, twenty-three, single, attractive in a willowy, sixties-flower-child way, was feeling good for the first time in months, ever since her friend, Lila Curtis, had killed herself. Joan knew that she wouldn't feel good for long, that a lot of it, anyway, was due to the Valium she'd started taking on the advice of her doctor after Lila's suicide. But at least for now, for the next several hours, she could enjoy herself. Maybe she'd do some shopping. Buy a sweater. A hat. A record album. Buying things had always helped keep her spirits up.
Poor Lila, she thought. Poor, poor Lila. At least she was at rest now. At peace. At least the frenzy, the need, the thing inside her was gone—Joan had seen to that—and her soul could fly.
The eyes, Joan maintained, are the mirror of the soul. Lila had proved that. Because, Joan remembered, looking into Lila's eyes had been like looking into a pit filled with oil. It was a pair of eyes she thanked God she would never see again.
But she was wrong about that. Because when she bought her twice-weekly copy of The Midnight Examiner, and she saw the eyes of Larry Wilde staring back at her—under the bold black headline, "BOY SAYS `JASON' KILLED HIS MOM"—her mouth dropped open, she sputtered a string of incoherent curses, threw the paper down, and ran in terror and disbelief the full mile and a half to her home.
To be continued in:
THE DEVOURING