by R. E. Klein
I had booked a reservation on the 12:30 flight to Decatur. What time was it now? I glanced at my watch, but my watch had stopped. How long had I been inside the cabin with Scotty? Had I time to get down the mountain and reach the airport before my flight left? What time was it now?
I tried the car radio but found only static. I pushed button after button, but only the same eerie static.
Then a voice came over the radio, a horrid voice between a croak and a whisper, a voice that said the same thing, over and over:
“Go back and see Crotan!”
I switched off the radio and floored the gas pedal. I drove recklessly, maniacally. I wanted only to reach the bottom, find the airport, and get on a plane—any plane to anywhere.
A tunnel was coming up that marked the halfway point down the mountain, beyond that a long straightaway, then more twists and hairpin curves, all the way to the bottom, to the main highway, then on to the airport.
When I saw the tunnel I braked sharply.
Men stood outside, behind lighted barricades.
I knew then I could not get down, not on that road. What then? Suddenly I remembered the old toll road, abandoned now. I had hiked part of it some weeks back; up from the highway it ran past a long-deserted lumber camp. Was it drivable down from the highway? I had passed the junction a few miles back. A chain blocked the entrance from the highway, but I suspected I could get around it by going a few yards cross-country.
I drove back up the highway to the junction, then eased the car over a dirt mound and down onto what remained of the toll road. Most of the asphalt paving was gone. I threaded my way down, zigzagging to avoid potholes and fallen boulders. The surface grew so bad I barely crawled over what remained of the road.
Abruptly it thinned to a mere asphalt strip that terminated in an infestation of growth. I could go no farther. I had either to return to the highway or abandon the car.
I craned my head out the window as I backed uphill in search of an area wide enough to turn around. The sputtering tires kicked up a cloud of dust. Still, I made progress. I backed onto an island of pavement and was about to start my turn. I faced forward and peered through the windshield.
Something tall and lean and with a perfectly round head was loping toward me. No time to turn around. I backed recklessly up the hill. The tires threw up a wall of dust as the car fled backwards. Though the headlights seemed to blind it, the thing came after, its long, thin arms flapping as it dove for the hood. That’s when I ground the gears and gunned the engine. The car shot forward. With a dull thud the creature hit the pavement and lay still.
In a frenzy I shifted to reverse again and turned the car around. I could drive forward now. Just before I rounded a curve I braked a moment to look back. The creature lay like a broken insect, slightly shining in the starlight. Was it Crotan’s, I wondered? Or—what was that other name I overheard in the forest?
I returned to the highway junction. I had two choices. I could try to crash through the blockade in the tunnel. Or I could return to Timberlake. The tunnel meant sure death. And Timberlake? By now they would be waiting for me. The highway would be watched. There might be more blockades.
What if I stayed on the toll road? What if I drove up the toll road? The paving seemed sound when I hiked the road a few weeks back. If I could get through to the Village, I could find the sheriff and ask his protection.
The sheriff? What was wrong with me? I had not thought of getting help from anyone except Joe. Did these beings wield such hypnotic power?
No chain blocked the toll road up from the highway. The surface seemed intact. I had another thought. If I could not get through to the Village, I could hide perhaps in the old logging camp till morning—and then take my chances in the tunnel along with the morning traffic. I drove on.
The trees grew denser as I gained altitude. After a while the road left the cliff side to wind beneath a pine forest. The headlights began to pick out dilapidated shacks, an indication I had reached the abandoned lumber camp. I hit the brakes suddenly to avoid hitting something.
A fallen tree blocked the road. I got out. The tree looked manageable. I hefted one end to drag it off the road.
“Hold it right there, Mister!” a voice cried out.
I found myself staring into the barrels of a shotgun.
V
“I got nothin’ against you, Mister; but don’t move. I got to shoot you if you move.”
It was a young voice, a nervous voice. I could just make out a skinny youth with a blond haystack of hair.
“I don’t know you,” I said. “What do you want?”
“Jest move, Mister—right over to that shed. You jest move, Mister.” The voice fairly shook.
“You’re an East Sloper, aren’t you?” I asked as we walked along.
“Never you mind what I am. Jest you move.”
We kept on till we stood in front of a ramshackle wooden hut.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I asked. “I’m human like you.”
He turned on me with hatred.
“Don’t talk that way!” he cried. “Jes’ don’t you talk that way! I ain’t got nothing ’gainst you.” He was almost pitiful. “Don’t y’ see? I got orders.” His voice dropped.
“Who gives the orders?” I shouted. He could have shot me. I would not have cared. “Who? Who?”
“Monsters, that’s who!” he shouted back. Then he caught himself and peered fearfully into the woods. “No.” His voice dropped. “I didn’t mean that. They’s good. They’s real good.”
“Who is Stendec?” I demanded.
“Don’t say that name?”
“Who is he?”
“The—the other side.”
“Then you’re with Crotan!”
“You got no right to name ’em like that. It don’t pay to name ’em.”
“What was that thing guarding the bottom of the toll road? It had a round head. I killed it.”
He nearly dropped the shotgun.
“Gads!” he whispered. “You killed one? You killed one o’ their devils?” He spoke in awe. Then, “Wouldn’t wanna be you, Mister. No, sir, wouldn’t wanna be you.”
“Who are they?” I was whispering now.
“My boss,” he said meditatively. “My boss don’t look like none of them. He looks like you ’n’ me.”
“But on the inside; what is he on the inside?”
“Don’t, Mister. He looks like you ’n’ me.”
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Tommy—just a poor fella—’n’ they pay; they pay good, if you can stand ’em. My daddy worked for ’em, till he got taken. Say, I’m tellin’ you too much.”
“What are they? Where are they from? What do they want?”
“Listen!” He made a motion as to stop my mouth. From somewhere in the darkness came a snapping of branches as of some big thing moving toward us.
“A bear,” I said. “It’s a bear.”
“T’aint no bear.” He was almost chanting. “They heer’d, they heer’d me tell you they was monsters’ now they’s comin’ to git me. They took Pa, you know. They took Pa. Now they’s comin’ for me!”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “It’s a bear. It won’t hurt you. It will go away.” It was closer, a crackling of undergrowth, something rushing out of the densely packed darkness.
The boy stood staring at the forest, straining his eyes to see.
“Oh, Gawd,” Tommy cried. “Oh, Gawd!” He broke from the clearing and ran yelping through the trees. I made for the car, swung round the fallen tree, floored the gas pedal till the lumber camp was far behind.
VI
The toll road proved passable all the way to the Village. I resolved to tell the sheriff everything. He would not believe such a fantastic story, but at least he might offer protection.
Why was I so sure he would not believe me? These beings can hypnotize; maybe they put it in our heads that we will not be believed. The sheriff might help, maybe not. In any
case, there was Joe. He at least would tell them I no longer had the ring.
What time was it getting to be? I turned on the radio.
And got the news. The announcer was speaking of a disaster. An airplane had crashed just minutes after takeoff. Flight 17 to Decatur.
For a second I lost control of the car, then wildly steered to avoid leaving the road. Flight 17 was my flight—the plane on which I had a reserved seat. They were taking no chances in case I made it down the mountain.
The early-morning light was just breaking when I reached the silent, empty streets of Timberlake. I drove halfway across town to the sheriff’s station.
Joe was leaning against the wall of the brick station house.
I parked and walked over to him.
“You need to tell them I no longer have the ring,” I said.
“What ring?”
“The ring you took from my cabin!”
“I never took no ring.”
“Joe! Don’t you understand? You need to tell them I don’t have it.”
“Won’t do any good.” He yawned. “You took it. You’ve got to give it back.”
“Give me the ring then.”
“I killed the sheriff,” Joe said simply.
“What?” I stared in disbelief. “Why?”
“Had my reasons. His body’s hung up in the office if you care to see it.” I shrank from him.
“You horror,” I said. “You crawling, murderous horror. Whatever you are—whatever you all are—you do not belong here.”
He yawned again.
“Your kind don’t see things right. Usually you see only what we want you to see. Look.” He put his arm through the solid brick wall, then withdrew it. The wall was unmarked.
“Illusion!” I cried.
“No.” His voice was bored. “The wall is the illusion. Your kind sees only bits and pieces of things; we put it all together. Don’t you get it?”
“No.”
“Mister, when you think you’re sittin’ safe in that cabin of yours, you’re thinkin’ blind. There’s things in there with you—things so terrible your stomach would stretch right out of your mouth if you saw ’em.”
He reached into a coat pocket and brought out my wrapped towel.
“Let’s give ’em another try at it.” He handed me the bundle. “I’ll tell ’em you’re comin’. Know the old lumber camp?”
“I just came from there.”
“You come from there? Man, they’re playin’ with you. Just you go on back now and give ’em the ring.”
“When will you send them the message that I’m coming?”
“What?”
“When will you send the message?”
He looked closely at me.
“I’ve already told ’em,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Your kind never does. Tell you one thing, though. Me and that fella you call Scotty may be on different sides, but at least we can mix with your kind. Those others—those ones at the lumber camp—it don’t pay to look at ’em.” He started to go.
“Wait!” I said. “You are with Stendec, aren’t you?”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Is Stendec,” I asked, “the right side?”
He looked at me quizzically. “The right side?” he repeated. He turned to walk away.
“Then tell me this,” I cried. He turned around. “Joe, are you and Scotty from—another planet?”
“Some things,” he said, “are real, and some things only kind of real.”
“I don’t know what you mean. But, tell me, is this village real?”
His eyes were strange.
“I do not see a village,” he said, and disappeared into the wall.
VII
I drove back down the toll road to the lumber camp. I drove automatically, without feeling. All was still. Besides Joe, I had seen no one on the streets. Yet it was morning. It was as though the world was in suspension. The only sound I heard was the noise the car made traveling over the bumpy road.
Eventually I came to the clearing where I had met Tommy, the East Sloper. I stopped the car and got out, the bundle in my hand. From somewhere in the bush came the sound of trickling water.
“Here, over here,” said a voice.
“Where are you?” I cried.
“Here. Here.”
It came from deep in the woods. I trekked through the gloom toward the voice.
“Which way do I go?”
There was no reply.
“Where are you?” I called.
Then I went on a little farther and saw a sight.
Bound to a tree was Tommy, his eyes staring, his mouth gaped open in a silent shriek. That was all of his flesh. The rest was skeleton.
Scotty stepped from behind the tree. He wore his short-sleeved dress shirt and black tie. His eyes twinkled behind his black-rimmed glasses.
“Hi!” He grinned. He took out a red bandanna and began to polish his spectacles.
“Right over there,” he called cheerily, “into what looks like a nice little cave.” He took the bundle from me, plucked off the towel, and presented me the hand. It looked horrible in the sunlight. “Don’t be shy.” He grinned. “Just walk right in and say ‘Hello’!” His red face seemed to burn beside the dead white one on the tree.
I walked on. What kept me going was a new thought. Don’t be so quick to condemn what you don’t understand, said something deep inside me. I have Crotan’s ring. Crotan wants it back. What harm has Crotan done me? How do I know the men in the hotel or even the creature in the woods would have harmed me? It was Joe working for Stendec who killed the sheriff. Maybe the forces of Stendec shot down the plane. Maybe they killed Tommy. It is Stendec who is evil; Crotan is Stendec’s enemy; Crotan must be good, maybe even benevolent. I will find out, for Crotan wants his ring.
I walked over to what looked like a cave in the hillside, though it wasn’t there the last time I hiked the area. The surface seemed made of metal. “Just walk right in,” Scotty had said, “and say ‘Hello’!”
I stepped into darkness. Once again the blood sang in my ears with the weight of intense pressure, as I felt my way along a wall textured with protruding knobs of hard leather. My ears were popping with the pressure. I had the odd, impossible notion that I had been there before.
From somewhere ahead I heard that unmistakable buzzing. Suddenly I saw myself talking to Scotty inside my cabin. But the pressure—that buzzing—that extra room! Where had that conversation taken place?
In total darkness I carried the hand toward whatever was making the sound, feeling my way along the leathery fixtures on the wall. Abruptly I felt emptiness and knew I stood upon the threshold of an inner chamber. Something large moved in the darkness a few feet away. The buzzing stopped.
The ring gave off a violet light, bright enough to show the silhouette of two arms—one terminating in a hand reaching for the one I held, the other ending in a stump.
And the light lit up the leather fixtures on the walls, and I saw what we meant to the beings haunting Timberlake. They decorated their walls with human parts. So might a fisherman adorn his hut with spoils of the sea.
I dropped the hand and hurled myself outside. I ran a ways, then walked quietly to the car. What was the use? I drove down the mountain slowly. No one hindered me.
What is it all about? Is it a war? Can it be a game?