Jake crossed the road and disappeared into the darkening forest. Nighttime in the woods didn’t bother him. He’d been walking these paths most of his life. His feet knew where every root and vine waited to catch the unwary. He instinctively avoided the dried twigs and leaves as he moved ghost-like through the trees. His mind drifted back to his days in the army and his two tours in Viet Nam. Those were good times, although most might disagree. Politics were never Jake’s strong suit. The rightness or wrongness of war were for other folks. Jake was a hunter. Stalking a deer or a Cong were all the same to him. Most of those he served with thought him odd or worse. To them it seemed he actually enjoyed finding and killing the enemy. What they could never understand was that it wasn’t the kill he enjoyed. It was the hunt. He had no special dislike for the Viet Cong. In truth, he held them in high regard. Like him, they were hunters and, like him, very skilled at it. Silent Death they’d called him back in the ’Nam.
His superiors refused to let him bring his trophy ropes home when he rotated stateside. He’d had two of them. One held thirty ears, the other twenty-two. Each represented a personal kill during his tours with the Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols – the Lerps as they were called. It was probably just as well. He’d been young and foolish back then. There was no telling how much trouble they would have caused him stateside.
He reached the edge of the clearing and paused. He looked at his house, his barn, and his pickup truck for any signs of intruders. He didn’t really expect to see anything, but keeping good habits was what kept him alive and free. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he walked slowly into the clearing until he reached the truck. It was a ten-year-old Ford Ranger. He could easily afford something newer, flashier, but he loved the old truck. The original black paint was sun-faded and dull. Green, gray, red, and tan splotches of flat primer gave it a camouflaged appearance. Its light weight, coupled with the four-wheel drive, made it possible for him to negotiate the most treacherous mountain trails during the worst spring and fall weather. Winter was another animal, though, and no one could tame the ice. That added to the importance of getting this last shipment down from the mountain now.
Screened by trees, the house and barn were invisible from any road. Both structures had rough-looking barn board exteriors making them look ramshackle. The decrepit walls were an illusion, strictly camouflage for the solid construction beneath. The deception was an equal mix of paranoia and a deep-seated need for privacy. Besides, he’d seen what the Feds had done in Idaho and Montana and Waco. He felt he couldn’t be too paranoid.
Jake looked at the house and sighed. He was tired and really wanted to go inside, but the strangers’ arrival negated that plan. If he didn’t go up to the site and check on things one last time he wouldn’t sleep easy tonight. Billy Ray was pretty good about making sure the security arrangements were in place, but it didn’t hurt to check. Besides, as sharp as Billy Ray was, Bubba was his clumsy opposite. Jake didn’t think Bubba would be careless enough to deface the markings in the back, but this was not the time for complacency. With strangers in the area it might not be a bad idea for Granny to do her thing, too. This would be a very bad time to have him break free and start wandering the hills away from the cave. Very bad, indeed.
With that thought, Jake started the truck, turned on the lights, and headed down the driveway. He turned onto the road following the path Fred and his friends had traveled less than forty minutes earlier. Halfway up the mountain he slowed. He turned left through a gap in the trees that was nearly invisible in the darkness. A stranger – as well as many locals – would have had trouble following this path during the day. Jake had driven it so many times that light or dark made no difference to him.
The road wound down into a small valley and then climbed slowly upward, switching back and forth through the trees. He slowed near the top of the ridgeline. Moments later he stopped, turned off the lights, and shut off the engine. He cranked down the window and listened to the forest. He let his eyes adjust. He could hear the faint sound of an engine as it labored in the distance. Satisfied that all was quiet near him, he got out of the truck and made his way deeper into the woods.
Several paths, most no larger than game trails, led to his destination. One of the security measures protecting his operation was his insistence that no one trail was used more than any other. Even the thicket in front of the cave opening was maintained in such a way that only a determined and knowing search would reveal what lay behind.
Jake paused as he studied the thicket and the area around it. Satisfied that there were no signs of more human traffic, he approached the tangle of brush and thorny bushes and eased his way through. A dark opening, roughly five feet high by four feet wide, lay behind. He ducked and entered. The cave’s roof rose quickly as the opening traversed first left, and then right before it widened into a large chamber.
Light from the low fire burning beneath the cooking tank illuminated the copper coils and thumper can. Rows of bottles, some full of clear liquid, lined one wall. Bags of sugar and sacks of corn lay on pallets along the other. A large circular fan stood behind the still. Its blades turned slowly as it drew smoke and fumes deeper into the cave. A small Toyota generator hummed quietly nearby. Five olive green jerry cans stood a short distance away. Jake walked over to them and lifted each one. Two were empty. Three were full. Three were gone, so Billy Ray must have taken those with him. Bubba should have taken the other two with him to fill for the weekend. Jake thought for a moment. Three should be enough to make it to Friday, especially if Billy Ray brought the other three back full tomorrow night.
Jake stepped deeper into the cave. The sides and roof closed in once more until there was only a narrow, nearly circular passage. Faint silver-blue phosphorescence lit the floor, ceiling and walls. He looked closer at the silver tracings on the rock. None appeared to be disturbed. He nodded to himself. The light from the argent characters was as pale as the luminescence of a watch dial. Either he was deep in the cave or the sigils were weakening. Jake decided he would definitely bring Granny up here to recharge the wards – just to be on the safe side.
As he watched, the glow faded until it was gone completely. A chill enveloped his body. His mind raced. There was one other entrance to the cave. Only one thing could make the glow fade. Someone disturbed the markings at the other entrance. The wards were no longer up.
He backed slowly, his head turning in every direction, his eyes straining against the dark. He had to get out. He had to find Granny Truly. Only she knew how to set things right.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fred sat silently on the bed, his head bowed. He stared at his hands lying folded together on his lap. Quiet filled the room. The half full whiskey bottle lay on the bed next to him. He’d hardly touched it during his narrative. Amanda fidgeted in the chair. The legs scraping against the tile floor sounded like splintering wood in the room’s silence.
“Dave asked me about the marks. Trouble was I didn’t know anything about them ’til I read the journal on Saturday. By then, it was far too late. Too much shit had already hit the infamous fan. Things were movin’ to a head, but none of us knew it.” Fred looked up. He blinked and then wiped one hand across his eyes.
“That first day at the cabin, Thanksgiving, was good.” He glanced at the bottle. He picked it up, looked at the label as if trying to decide whether or not to drink, and then laid the bottle back on the bed. “Probably the best day of the whole damned weekend.”
Fred picked up the bottle again. This time he opened it, took a couple of swallows, and then closed it and set it on his lap. “I’m tired. It’s close to my supper time and I just don’t feel like remembering any more today.”
“How about I treat you to supper? Then, after we eat, you can tell me more.”
“How about you go back to your motel and eat while I stay here and do the same? We can talk more tomorrow.”
Amanda sagged back into the chair. “Okay. How about this? I treat you to supper
and we talk more tomorrow.”
Fred lifted the bottle by the neck. “You already did, girl. Well, lunch, anyway. I’ll be drinking my supper and I don’t think it would be good if you was here while I did it. I really don’t.”
“Mr. Kyle, that’s not a good idea.”
“I never claimed to be a genius when it comes t’ good ideas.” He swirled the bottle around. The contents gurgled. “There’s enough whiskey left in here to help me sleep tonight. Might even keep the dreams away. That seems like a good enough idea t’me.”
“But…”
“But me no buts. I’ve been dealing with these memories long enough to know how to make them keep their distance once in awhile. Go on back to your room. If you still want to hear more, be here at noon tomorrow with another bottle.”
•
Amanda sat at the small table picking at her room service salad. The aroma of her dinner filled her nostrils, but the food lay mostly untouched on her plate. She stared into space. Fred’s voice filled her mind as she replayed the narrative. Memories of her father and his friends as they were then filled her mind.
Charlie Dobbs, who always wore a hat of some kind – mostly gimme hats and baseball caps – to hide the growing bald spot he tried so hard to pretend wasn’t there. Peete Davis, who looked so much like Wayne Brady, the comedian, that she always expected to hear him sing some kind of parody song every time she saw him. Dave Willets, with his sandy red hair always brushed straight back. She didn’t remember if he was a car salesman or just looked like one. He always smelled like a mix of Brut cologne and freshly-smoked cigarette. Dave was the only one of the five who smoked. Amanda didn’t count the occasional poker night cigar the others might enjoy.
Fred Kyle always had a ready laugh to go with his dancing blue eyes and shiny black hair. He was the brother her father never had as well as the favorite uncle who always had some kind of treat or present or something for her and Kevin. He was her father’s best friend – the family’s best friend. Her mom tolerated the others – even Amanda could see that – but she had a tender spot for Fred.
Her father, John – Johnny to the others – the dark haired gentle giant who laughed with her and cried with her. The hazel-eyed, stubble-chinned man who read to her and listened to her read.
Amanda choked down the lump that the nostalgia raised in her throat. Instead, she smiled at the parts of Fred’s story about the drive through the mountains. It was obviously a happy time. There was no hint of trouble, except maybe with the brooding Charlie Dobbs. What Fred had said about Charlie was no great surprise. It was all in the news before they’d heard about the outcome of the hunting trip and her father’s death.
The parts he told about the locals hinted at something darker. What really happened up there? What was the secret that Fred was so afraid to discuss? She thought about Fred and how he’d degenerated from the cheerful, happy-go-lucky man she still saw in her teen-age memories. What could have caused such a radical change? Could it all be laid to that weekend trip?
She looked at her supper as if seeing it for the first time. Salad, fish, vegetables, scalloped potatoes. Fred was in his room with only half of a bottle of Jim Beam for supper. Did he have any food in that room? Suddenly, she was no longer hungry. She pushed her chair back from the table.
•
Amanda stood at the top of the steps facing the door to Fred’s room. The hot, greasy aroma of hamburgers and French fries rose from the bag in her left hand and filled her nostrils. What seemed like a great idea when she was in her room now seemed foolish or worse. She debated knocking on the door. From the other side she could hear the TV. It sounded like some kind of police drama.
She raised her hand, hesitated for a moment, and then knocked. She waited, but there was no response. She knocked again, this time harder. Still nothing. She sighed and started to turn away. Without thinking about it, she grasped the doorknob and turned. The door opened slightly. What little view it gave was of a room lit only by a glowing TV screen.
“Mr. Kyle?” She pushed on the door, opening it a little more. Still no answer. She opened the door further and stepped inside.
“What do you think this is?”
Startled, she looked up at the television. CSI: Miami was on the screen. Horatio Cane, the show’s lead detective, pointed at something on a body lying on a gurney. Amanda turned her attention to the one lying on the bed.
Fred lay tightly curled in a fetal position. The whiskey bottle lay open on the floor. A thin layer of amber liquid barely covered the bottom pane of the square bottle. The cap stood upright on the tile near the bathroom door. The room smelled of bourbon and bed farts. It was too late to bring him solid food.
She closed the door behind her and walked softly across the room. She opened the refrigerator. The shelves were filled with packaged sandwiches, fruit, half-eaten fast food, and some things whose identity she could only guess. She cleared a space on a shelf, set the bag inside, and then closed the door. She turned, trying to decide what to do next.
“Hnnmm. No. Don’t say that, Mama. No. How can you say that? It’s not true. It can’t be true. No.”
Fred had uncurled and now lay on his back. His head turned slowly to and fro.
“Mr. Kyle? Are you all right?”
“Dave! What did you do?”
Amanda took two steps closer to the bed, unsure of what to do. Fred was obviously having a nightmare. Should she wake him? Didn’t people said it was bad to wake someone from a nightmare; that it was dangerous? Or, was that warning just for sleepwalkers?
“Can’t you see him?” Fred sat bolt upright on the bed, eyes wide, as he stared at someone beyond the room where he lay. “Goddammit! Can’t you see him?”
“See who, Mr. Kyle?” Amanda knelt beside the bed. The next utterance chilled her to her core. “See who?”
“The tentacles! The dammed tentacles! It’s not Michael, Johnny! Watch out!” A pause. Then, “Oh, God, Johnny. What has he done to you?”
She watched as Fred, his cheeks shiny with silent tears, settled back into a fetal position on the bed. She knelt there for a long time, uncertain what to do, her arms wrapped tightly across her belly. Her own tears flowed down her cheeks. Silent sobs shook her body.
•
Fred lay on his back, eyes closed, his body climbing to wakefulness in slow jerky stages. His headache had already started, a dull pounding behind his eyes as an unseen vice threatened to crush his temples. A burning sensation filled his nose. A noxious, fuzzy carpet covered his tongue. The back of his throat burned.
His stomach weighed in next as a sour belch worked its way up and out. He felt the building of another, this one threatening to carry more than gas with it. His distended bladder informed him of its urgent need. His bowels offered their own liquid concurrence to the overall protest. With a groan, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He sat there for a moment, holding his head against the wildly gyrating sensation that threatened to drop him to the floor. When the room finally stopped moving, he stood and staggered to the bathroom. He barely made it to the toilet. He sat there, his shorts around his ankles and his head in his hands, as his body emptied itself.
“Damn. Looks like I lived through it again.”
As the tank refilled behind him, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. Grimacing, he brushed his teeth to rid himself of the furry growth. As he rinsed, he debated whether to shave or not. Since the president wasn’t stopping by today, he decided it probably wasn’t necessary. He turned, opened the door, and stopped. He stared at the bed for a long time as he tried to remember what had happened the night before. Try as he might, all he could recall was crushing out a cigarette and flipping the remote to some TV show.
So, why was there a woman lying on his bed?
•
“You gave me quite a turn, you know,” Fred said around a bite of biscuit and gravy.
When Amanda first suggested that they go somewhere for breakfast, Fred had dec
lined. Just the thought of eating anything made his stomach recoil. As he sat there, however, with a large glass of tomato juice inside of him and a platter full of scrambled eggs, biscuits, gravy, sausage, and hash brown potatoes before him, the idea gained merit.
“I apologize, again, Mr. Kyle.” Amanda sipped at her coffee. “When I came over last night, I only intended to drop off some food and go back to my room.”
“What changed your mind?”
Amanda took a bite of egg as she considered how to answer. “I started to leave. All at once you sat up in the bed. You were talking and screaming. It sounded like you were having a nightmare. I didn’t know what else to do.”
A chill washed over him. He looked at his plate for a moment. “What was I saying?”
“Most of it didn’t make any sense.” She shrugged and then took a bite of egg. “Something about tentacles.”
Fred sat back, looking at her intently. “Tentacles?”
She nodded. “And then you called my dad’s name. You shouted for him to look out.” She stopped eating and peered back at him. “Then you started crying and asking what had he done to him. What did you mean by that, Mr. Kyle? What had who done to my father? And, who is Michael?”
Fred looked down at his plate. “I don’t know. I don’t remember dreaming anything last night.”
Amanda stared hard at him. Finally, she looked back at her plate. “You went back to sleep. I decided to wait to see if you said anything else. I guess I just fell asleep.”
“Did I?”
“Did you what?”
“Say anything else.”
“Not that I remember. If you did, I was already asleep and didn’t hear it.”
Fred nodded. He turned his attention back to his breakfast. The silence between them grew until, finally, she broke it.
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