While Annie's screaming filled the small torch-lit valley, Wilder asked each new member, beginning with the children, "Do you renounce your parents, all blood relations, all friends not of this unholy Coven, God, Jesus Christ, the Holy Ghost, the Saints, and the Holy Cross?"
"Yes," the children said.
"Do you wish to serve Satan with all the growing blackness in your hearts?"
"Yes," they replied in unison, conviction growing stronger in them. They had been introduced to all the sexual perversion known to humankind, and they were anxious to experience more.
"Do you know who I am?" Wilder asked.
"Yes. And we are your servants."
"You are firm in your renunciation of all the weakness of God and Christian religion?"
"Yes!" the children shouted.
"And while I am here on this earth," Wilder's eyes flashed evil, "I am?"
"Our God!" they screamed.
Wilder opened his robe, holding his penis, as the young people rose from their prostration to kiss the icy member. Wilder turned, and they kissed his red buttocks.
He repeated the pledge to the adults, and they agreed, doing as the children had done. The woman lingering at Wilder's maleness, loving it.
Wilder nodded to the beautiful witch standing by the upside-down cross, a knife in her hand, the curved blade gleaming in the light from the torches.
"Nydia," he said. "Let it begin."
The woman with the hair the hue of night smiled as she stood by the tortured young girl, hanging upside down on the cross. Slowly, very methodically, savoring the girl's wailing, Nydia began cutting her flesh. She cut obscene tracings on Annie's skin, until the girl was nothing but a bloody rag, screaming out unbearable pain. Nydia chanted as she worked, calling upon all the forces of darkness, of evil, of filth. The ancient rite, as old as humankind, as old as evil, took a long time to conclude. Finally, Nydia cut out Annie's heart, still pumping, and the awful screaming ceased its echoing around the valley of The Digging.
The members of the Coven, hundreds, strong now, old and new, droned their chant in a tongue formulated in the depths of Hell. They danced around the blood-drenched cross. Dropping their robes, they pranced naked, one by one falling to the ground, to couple as animals; women with women; men with men; adults with children, engaging in every deviant sex act known to exist.
The disgusting, macabre celebration continued for hours, the lustful calling, screaming, grunting filling the night air. The howling of the Beasts, jaws leaking drool, the moaning of the Servants of Satan, all mingled with the glare of the torches jammed into the earth, casting leaping shadows about the valley of the circle, the valley of the tablet, the valley of The Digging.
At predawn, just as first light faintly tinted the eastern sky, the faraway sound of a cock crowing brought the night's abomination to an abrupt close. Black Wilder and Nydia looked about them, fear on their faces. The Beasts huddled together in fright. The devil lives for darkness, afraid of the light, and the devil and his servants are filled with dread at the sound of a crowing cock. Satan can do only quiet, unobtrusive evil in the light of God's sun. It is only in the darkness that the unholiness is nurtured, where it thrives and grows, where the evil is the personification of all that is vile and wicked.
A large owl, perched for hours during the night, beat its wings and hooted, suddenly flying away, its eyes unblinking and evil. It vanished in the dim light, its tiny brain receiving a message from its Master.
As roaches do when the light is clicked on, the members of the Coven scurried away in the dimness of predawn, the evil on their faces mixed with fear, for they know it is God's sun.
The altar had been washed clean. The cross removed and hidden. The body of Annie Brown was not to be seen. The Beasts were disappointed that she could not be used as a breeder, but they knew some things were beyond their grasp, so they accepted without question.
After selected older members of the Coven, those who, although they did not at this time know it, were well on their way to becoming the Undead, had sucked their portion of blood from Annie's still-warm body, the Beasts ate her. Growling, they stripped the flesh from her, snapping the bones to suck the marrow, as they had done with Tim Bennett, weeks back. As the full glory of God's day filled the valley of The Digging, the Beasts slipped into holes in the earth, making their way back to the caves at Tyson's Lake, past the chosen Sentinel.
Slim Wesson, the cowboy, who, until this moment, believed he had seen everything God meant for him to see, lay on the cool ground of the hill overlooking the valley, and wept unashamedly and openly, something he had not done since childhood. He felt soiled and threatened by what he had witnessed.
After a time, he rose to his feet and staggered down the hill to his horse, still waiting for him. Mounting, he rode off, speaking to the animal. "Bullet, I think we'll get the hell out of this state—pronto!"
The owl soared high above him, watching, waiting.
Slim rode carefully, recalling what he'd seen during the night of sickness. Slim was no prude, but he was physically ill in his recall. He had seen his foreman, Lou Parker. He had seen the owner of Little River, Ray Zagone. He had watched the two men fondle each other, love each other, and then mate with the other's wife.
Slim shook his head. Sick, sick, sick!
And that awful crucifixion of the young girl. God! they cut out her heart.
Slim drew up, dismounted, and vomited on the ground. He did not see the owl swooping down toward him, long talons poised. The owl's charge knocked him down, blood pouring from Slim's ripped forehead. The owl arched in the sky, then made another pass, the talons ripping out Slim's eyes. The cowboy screamed in his sudden red-darkness of pain, falling back against his horse. The animal panicked at the smell of blood and the fear of man, kicking out with steel-shod hooves, catching Slim in the hip, breaking the big bone. He fell heavily to the ground. The owl dipped down, quickly sinking its talons into Slim's throat, ripping the flesh. The blood spurted.
The cowboy quickly bled to death. His horse throtted away, fear rolling its eyes white. It stepped on its reins, annoying the animal. The leather finally broke, and the animal trotted away. Late that afternoon, the horse would wander back to the ranch corral. The men there would look at each other, smile, and remove the saddle. They would rub the animal down, feed it, and stable it.
No one would mention Slim Wesson.
Herman Alario, Slim's best friend, was not present when the horse wandered back. When he asked about Slim, he was told Slim had drawn his pay, sold his horse to Little River, and pulled out. But Herman did not believe that. Slim wouldn't cut out without telling him goodbye. But he kept his suspicions to himself.
The next day, cowboys would ride out, find Slim's body, and take it to the Beasts.
The Beasts would feast.
Sam had driven slowly home after leaving Chester's. The streets were deserted. He did not see a dog or a cat. But he did feel the evil hanging over the town. His fingers touched the cross hanging around his neck.
He was thankful the parsonage was empty. He had some things he wanted to do, and he could not do them with Michelle there.
Turning on all the lights in the house, leaving each room blazing with light, Sam went up to the attic. A half-remembered phrase had come to his mind during the drive home; something from his days at the seminary. THE KISS OF LIFE AND DEATH. What was the rest of it? He had to find that old textbook. Yes, now he remembered. ONCE TOUCHED, FOREVER HIS. That was it! That secret sect of the devil. Unproven. Not mentioned in the Bible, so professors tended to scoff at it.
Sam prowled the attic, in the dim light from the one bulb hanging from its cord. He searched through the boxes, ripping open the tops with his powerful hands until he found the textbook he sought. A slim volume on Ancient Witchcraft and Devil Worship. He had not looked at this book in years, but he had never really forgotten it, such was its impact on him.
Sam looked at the dusty volume. "Do you hold the secret
to this mystery?"
The dust and the cobwebs of the attic clung to him; the attic boards creaked under his weight. A chill fell on him as summer winds blew against the frame house. Sam shivered.
"Don't get spooked, Sam," he verbally reassured himself. "Not this early in the game."
He resisted an impulse to rush from the attic, then forced himself to move at a normal pace as he turned out the light, closing the door, just for a moment engulfed in darkness. But he breathed a bit easier when he was downstairs in the light.
A practiced speed-reader, Sam went through the slim volume in less than an hour, not wanting to read the words, but forcing himself to do so, liking none of it. The words were disgusting. Vile.
He read: Without the Beasts, the earth-bound agent of Satan would be hampered in his efforts to secure a home for his Master. With the Beasts, and the Undead, whom he may call out at will, the agent of Satan is almost all-powerful. It is rumored that Satan—with the help of the Beasts—overpowered a small village in Spain in the fifth century and held the townspeople under his control for more than fifty years. (Not substantiated).
The lights in the den browned out for a moment. Sam looked around, exasperated. The lights brightened.
He read on: It is reported that the people in a nearby village, with help of the Lord God Almighty, wrested the powerful tablet from the hands of the devil's agent and the witch, Nydia, bringing the reign of terror to an end. The witch, Nydia, is reported to be most beautiful; tempting—one of Satan's favorites. She is rumored to have birthed several Demons, her favorite male partners rumored to be men of God whom she seduced.
Tablet? Sam pondered. What tablet?
A witch?
He read on: The devil's agent, who was named Blakkr Villr by the peoples of Scandinavia, surfaced again in the 9th century, in what is now Norway. It is rumored that Satan himself brought down the curse, producing the plagues that decimated that country in the 12th century, so great was his anger at being repelled some three centuries before. (Neither the plague nor Satan's presence can be substantiated, since the sickness hit only very isolated areas).
The tablet was not seen or heard of again until the 17th century, in France, when the devil's agent, now assuming the role of a Forgeron—a blacksmith—converted the peoples of a village to Satan. The Beasts, surfacing from their holes and caves, ravaged the countryside for several years. Mounted soldiers are said to have disposed of the agent and destroyed the tablet, (the author strongly doubts this claim).
It is said the agent draws much of his strength—in part—from the tablet. Should the tablet be destroyed, so will much of the devil's powers here on earth. For a time. The tablet is inscribed: HE WALKS AMONG YOU. THE MARK OF THE BEAST IS PLAIN. BELIEVE IN HIM. ONCE TOUCHED, FOREVER HIS. THE KISS OF LIFE AND DEATH.
And Sam knew than he must not allow Michelle to touch and kiss him.
He returned to his reading: The French trapper, Duhon, reported sighting Beasts in the new land, shortly after his government found the tablet had not been destroyed and empowered Duhon to bring the tablet to America, thus forever removing it from France. Sam had to smile as he read the name of the Priest who accompanied Duhon. Dubois.
Things were beginning to fall more concisely into place.
Sam put the book aside. He had to admit, grudgingly, the devil, or his agent, certainly picked an ideal spot in Whitfield. The town was all but isolated. One airstrip, owned by Karl Sorenson. No night lights. The spur rail line was thirty miles away, and used only at roundup. No bus service. A state highway that could be easily blocked—as was going to happen very soon—and no one would notice for a week or more. One phone call to the bread and milk companies: bring in enough for a week and forget us. By that time, the deed would be done, leaving, during the day, normal-acting citizens. At night, however, they would be free to prowl, slowly taking over smaller surrounding towns.
Nice and neatly packaged, tied with a red ribbon. Red for Satan.
Communications would be easy for them; the phone company personnel would be among the first to be possessed. Calls could be easily monitored—blocked, rerouted. No one in town had the equipment of a ham operator. The radio station was closed down, all the equipment sold, including the antenna. They could not put out a signal for help.
But how, Sam mused, could the people— hundreds of them—be so easily possessed.
Of course, he smiled: the radio station. Mind implantation. It would be easy over a period of time. The government had experimented with it in the early fifties, both in radio and TV—and it worked. Subtle little messages, sent so fast they could only be perceived by the subconscious mind. Sure, it would be easy that way.
The lights began to flicker, browning out, again and again. Sam looked at his watch. Midnight.
The Black Mass had begun.
Sam took a long, very hot shower, then went to bed, falling asleep almost instantly, his exhaustion finally catching up with him. He was sleeping at dawn when Michelle entered the house, her slight noise at the door awakening him. Through slitted eyes, he watched her stand over his bed, the stench of her almost overpowering. He watched her lips pull back in a snarl, her dark eyes flashing hate at him.
Don't let her kiss you! he silently cautioned.
She walked to him in the dim light, bending down, her mouth only inches from his. Sam deliberately turned over on his back, the silver cross laying on his chest catching the light from the outside, pouring through the open and uncurtained window. Michelle's hands flew to cover her eyes.
Sam felt sick at his stomach.
Quickly, quietly, she backed out of the room, away from the sight of the Holy Cross.
In her bedroom, she carefully locked the door behind her, pulling the heavy black drapes, filling the room with darkness. She stripped naked, her body bearing the bruises of a dozen hands upon her flesh.
She did not wash herself, the thought of water repulsed her. She fell naked on the bed, stinking, her evil permeating the room. She drifted off to sleep as the sun climbed from out of the east. She occasionally snarled in her sleep, drippings from her mouth wetting the already stained pillow. Her dreams were of Sam—always of Sam.
She dreamed of cutting out his heart, listening to him scream. She smiled in her sleep, teeth flashing white in the darkness—like fangs on a snarling animal.
Nine
After Michelle left the room, Sam was wide awake, his heart pounding. His nose wrinkled at the odor of unwashed flesh, the musky scent of sex, and of evil, he was sure. He lay still for a time, the smell assailing his nostrils. He now knew the truth, and he did not know what to do with the knowledge.
His wife, Michelle, was one of Them.
He blamed himself for not realizing sooner. He should have known; should have put it all together weeks ago, when he first suspected the evil in Whitfield. The pranks that were played on him; the phone calls with heavy breathing and cursing.
Kids, he had thought. Playing games with the preacher.
Now he knew better.
He rose from his bed, padding softly to the bathroom. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, and ran a comb through his hair. In his room, he dressed quickly. Jeans, pullover shirt, rough-out boots. He checked his watch. Seven-thirty. He wanted to see five people this day: Dubois at the rectory; Haskell at the Episcopal church; Lucas Monroe; Wade Thomas; and Miles Lansky.
If Miles, a Jew, who really did not believe in Heaven or Hell—so he professed—sensed something evil in Whitfield, then something was evil in Whitfield.
And Sam had made up his mind to visit Tyson's Lake. Somehow, he believed, everything was linked to that area. If there was something evil out there, he was going to find it, and if possible, kill it!
Sam pulled a trunk out of his closet, rummaging around in the bottom until his hand touched the cold metal of what he sought. He pulled out a .45 caliber automatic pistol, a box of shells, three clips, and the leather that went with them. He had not touched the weapon in almost fiv
e years—except to clean it occasionally. Not since 1953 had he thought of using it. Since Korea.
In the living room, he field-stripped the weapon, cleaning it, oiling it, working the slide action back and forth. He filled the clips, inserted a full clip into the weapon, and left the chamber empty.
Sam suddenly remembered the Thompson Submachine Gun Chester had in his shop. In a vault. Sam made a mental note to speak to Chester about that weapon.
Am I being silly? he questioned.
No! he answered the question.
He put the .45 into leather, fitted the full spare clips into their pouches, attached holster and clip pouches onto the web belt, and wrapped the belt around the holster. He carried it outside.
He was a bit confused for just a few seconds at seeing the pickup in his drive, then the memory of the trade came to him. Peter Canford. He wanted to see Peter, too. Peter sensed something wrong in town.
He looked up and down the street. Nothing moved. Nothing at all.
Sam drove out into the country, into the sand hills, where he practiced with the .45 until he was satisfied he had not lost his eye for shooting and could hit a man where he aimed to hit him.
"Hit a man!" Sam said aloud, shocked at his thoughts. He glanced heavenward, seeking some advice.
None came.
"Is that what it will come down to?" he asked the sand hills. "Man killing?" Only the wind sighed as it moved endlessly across the rolling plains.
Sam drove for a time, crisscrossing ranges. He was stopped just after intersecting with a range road that would take him back to Whitfield.
The cowboy who blocked the road with his jeep was not friendly. "This is Rocking-Chair Range, Balon. Stay off."
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