by Rain Oxford
“C.P.R.,” Dr. Hillard corrected. “Cardiopulmonary resuscitation.”
“Oh. Whatever.”
“What happened, Doc? Did he drown?” Mike asked.
“Apparently.”
“When?”
“My guess is about two hours ago, at least. Could have been a lot more.”
“Anything else wrong with him, like cuts or bruises?”
“I haven’t done a complete examination on him yet, but as far as I can tell, there’s not much. His right hand is burned, though.”
“When can you give me a completely report?”
“No later than in the morning. Would that be okay?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Parker cleared his throat and shook his head. His age hung from his skinny shoulders like an old coat, faded and over worn. “Guess I’d better go back there and get our gear. You want to come along, son?”
Derek nodded, not looking away from the boy. “Might as well, I could use some air.”
“You going to be around for a day or two?” Mike asked Derek. “I’ll probably have a few questions, since you were the one that found him. Just routine.”
“Sure. I’m staying at the hotel. I’ll tell you anything I can, but I’m afraid it won’t be much.”
“Okay. This looks like an accident, but I’ve still got to check everything over. Hope you understand.”
Dr. Hillard had been looking at the sad, small body on the table. He raised his eyes to Mike. There were tears in them. “You know, I brought this boy into this world. Now I’ve got to…” He sighed. “What are you going to tell John?”
Mike shook his head. “God knows. I don’t.”
* * *
Dull grey clouds gathered in the late afternoon sky, stealing the beauty from the last of the sun’s rays. A slightly chill breeze had sprung from somewhere and began drifting through the open window of Derek’s room. He stood in front of it for a few minutes watching the town light blink on one by one. To the left he could see the outline of the mountains, purple and ominous.
Was it life that was unfair, or was it death?
He sighed and lay down on the bed, his mind as tired as his body. Too many things were happening too fast, almost dreamlike; but not a pleasant dream. Except for Ann. He thought of her and sighed. Someone had once said, “You’re no good for anyone if you’re no good for yourself.”
He could hear the ticking of his watch. Gradually, the shadows on the cracked ceiling faded into an even darkness.
* * *
Richard Jarman stood in the front hall of the big house, listening to the faint, distant thunder and the first few splatters of rain. It had been dark for only a few minutes, but already that darkness had taken on a tangible denseness; it was something a man could feel, thick and black and clinging. Richard stretched his arms wide in welcome of the night.
His wife watched him from the bottom step of the long staircase, her pale blue eyes shining from a mixture of fear and fascination. He was a merciless, even sadistic man, but she worshipped his every word. She stepped back when he turned toward her.
“This night will be good to us, Cathy.” His voice was deep, hypnotic. “All the forces are coming together. I can feel it! I’ve waited so long… Better get ready. The kids too.”
“Are you sure you…?” Cathy hesitated, watching her husband’s face. “Yes, I’ll get them.” She turned and went up the stairs.
After a few moments, he too began to climbing the stairway, slowly, until he reached the entrance to his private study. It was where he spent most of his time, researching and studying, all in preparation for the right time.
He crossed the room to his desk and lit a candle, then undressed slowly. The bookcases lining the walls were overflowing with books; many of them were old, leather-bound works of considerable value. More books and papers were piled on the floor. In one corner of the room rested a large metal-clad chest of polished mahogany. From the hasp hung an ancient iron padlock.
He removed a thick gold chain from his neck, letting the old key on it dangle in the dim light. It glimmered softly as he smiled. He placed it into the lock and twisted, then set the opened lock and key on the floor beside him. Slowly he lifted the lid on the chest. The odor of narcotics and something subtly worse filled the room.
Carefully, one by one, he placed the contents of the chest on the desk. It was a collection of pure evil, one that had taken years to gather. These were the tools of the Black Arts.
He ignored the smaller objects for the moment and clutched the black cloak to his body, savoring the sensuous feel of the silk on his skin. It always made him feel powerful and potent, but tonight it fed fire into his veins.
“The fools,” he hissed to the empty room. “Tonight the Power will become mine, and the world will grovel at my feet!” He smiled to himself, an ugly, sneering smile. He had come close, a long time ago, but never had conditions been so perfect; he could feel the nearness of the other, the dark force, from which he would succeed, and there would be none to stop him.
As he had been stopped before.
No, there would be none to stop him this time, none of those laughing fools that could see nothing but their own miserable, petty little goals. They had made him lose his position at the university when their laughter had turned to fear.
But he had continued his work, living on an inheritance from his parents, until twenty years ago. He had been forced to leave his home in New York because of people’s fear. Somehow they had found out. They had been afraid of what he had done and what he might be able to do. Rumors of human sacrifices are not healthy to those who deal in the Occult.
He slipped the heavy cloak over his shoulders and smeared oil from a small jar on his chest. When he was done, he picked up a dagger from the desk. It was his sacred Athame, the witches’ knife, and he murmured strange words over it before he kissed the blade and tucked it into the cord at his waist.
He gathered the items from the desk and went down the stairs. His family was waiting for him.
* * *
Dr. Timothy Hillard dipped his hands into the stainless steel surgical sink and splashed water over his face. He was tired and his eyes burned, but the cold water felt good. At the edge of the sink sat a fifth of Jim Dean, two-thirds full; he had cracked the seal less than an hour ago. He poured part of it into a water glass, swished it around, and took a small swallow. It felt good, too. It always had. For a long time he had treated it as a game, his own private version of spin the bottle, hating it and loving it. But it wasn’t a game anymore, it was a fact of life- his life- and he hated himself for his own weakness. Physician heal thyself? Shit. The doctor that treats himself has a fool for a patient. Hail to thee, old fool, let us drink and be merry, for tomorrow…
He took another swallow and sat the glass down, his fingers uncurling from its surface with reluctance. It would be nice not to resist, to empty the glass and fill it again and empty that one too, not stopping until the bottle was as empty as he felt. Anything that would help him forget that the body of a small boy was waiting for him on the examining table. A boy he had delivered red faced and screaming, a boy he had treated for cuts and scrapes and colds, a boy he had liked very much. And who now was very dead.
The hands of his watch pointed to seven twenty-three.
He turned and looked down at the boy, his mouth tired and hard. He had a report to fill out. Drowning? Maybe; he had thought so when he had first examined the boy, but now it didn’t seem right. The discoloration customary with drowning victims wasn’t there, and there wasn’t enough water in the lugs. And the odor… a sickening, sweetish smell, much, but not quite like that of decomposing flesh. Normal, if the boy had been dead for several days… But in a few hours? And it had become noticeably stronger in the last two hours.
There was something intangibly wrong with the face, too. As a doctor, he had seen death far too many times not to notice. Often in the faces of the dead, especially those of children, one coul
d see a calm, almost beautiful expression, as if death had erased the accumulated frustrations and worries that life provided. But in this nine-year-old boy’s face something had gone awry, leaving him subtly changed, distorted. As if the hand of evil had touched him and left him… unclean.
Dr. Hillard massaged his temples with his fingertips, frowning, the sharp edges of a headache beginning. Another examination wasn’t going to do shit. There wasn’t a mark on the boy that wouldn’t be expected on a nine-year-old… except for the burn on his hand… The boy had been fine the day before, so he hadn’t been sick enough to die. Poison? Unlikely; none of the tests had shown anything suspicious. No visible evidence of foul play of any kind. He pulled the sterile white sheet up, covering the small naked body. He’s dead. Why? Because he died.
He carried the bottle and glass to his small desk where the death certificate and report lay. They would read apparent accidental drowning if it stopped here, but it would be wrong. The Altura Coroner’s office would have to take care of it, put an official tag on the boy’s death. He hated the idea. The boy’s father was in bad enough shape, already, and having to go through all of this again was going to be rough.
The whiskey was working at last; he could feel the warm numbness seeping through his body and making everything a little soft and fuzzy. He began filling in the spaces on the transfer form, slowly, one by one. A few faint flashes of lightning came through the window beside the desk as if making comments on what he was writing. He drained his glass and refilled it again, not noticing that the temperature in the room had begun dropping. He had just finished the first page when he heard the sound of cloth falling to the floor.
* * *
It had been long, but now it was being called. The way had been closed and it had waited, dreamless and impatient. But now the way was opening, changing, and it was hungry for freedom and flesh and evil. It moved.
The waiting was over.
* * *
Beneath the staircase in the Jarman’s house was a doorway leading to a small room; inside, Richard Jarman’s wife, son and daughter waited. At the far end of the room was a huge block of carved stone that served as an altar. On it were black candles in brass holders, incense, and a human skull. On the floor was drawn the circle of protection with a five pointed star in the center, the pentagram.
His wife, son, and daughter were naked except for a few simple designs painted on their bodies. The children’s eyes were blank and glassy from the drugs his wife had given to them. He was proud of his children. They were pure. They had had nothing to do with any outsiders, and he had trained them himself. The boy was fifteen, the girl was sixteen; both of them untouched and beautiful.
He redrew the magic circle with his family inside, then drew a pentagram on the face of the altar. Two points were at the top, the invitation of evil. Chanting, he lit the candles and then the incense.
Next he placed a mixture of powders and greases into a meal bowl, lit the mixture with one of the candles, and placed the bowl in the center of the circle. A foul, black smoke began curling around his fingers, then twisted its way toward the low ceiling in a serpentine dance.
Richard motioned. His daughter rose and stood between the altar and the bowl, her feet wide apart and her arms raised. The smoke shifted its direction and began winding around her legs and hips, over her torso to caress her small breasts, and then up her arms to disappear into the gloom. Her hips began to move to her father’s chanting voice, sluggishly at first, then faster, as if encouraged by the black hands of smoke.
He slipped the black handled dagger from its sheath and knelt before her. With the razor sharp edge he touched one of her thighs, then the other, then the soft flesh between her breasts. Thin ribbons of blood slipped down her body and dripped to the floor. He smiled and stood, arms raised.
“Hound of Hell, Spirit, precipitated in the abyss of eternal damnation! Infernal powers, you who carry disturbance into the universe, I call you! I call you with blood! Leave your somber habitation and render yourself to the place beyond the river Styx! I give blood, I give you life! I command you to rise and do my bidding! Exurgent mortui et veniunt! Azathoth! Yog- Sothoth! I’a Cthulhu…”
Suddenly, the walls around them groaned and shuddered, the air filling with the sound of rending wood and showering glass. Richard’s voice rose in triumph, then trailed off to a whisper of fear. His daughter was rising into the air, screaming and clawing at some unseen thing. He tried to move, but found himself paralyzed. He watched as she was twisted into impossible shaped, then flung like a child’s doll against the altar. The sound of flesh striking stone seemed to hang in the air. Catherine Jarman screamed.
Everything was going wrong! A burning cold stung his body; he tried to scream his protest, but a horrible foulness choked him with searing pain. Wrenching his body to one side, he tried to move, to run, but his body was no longer his to command. Yet he had shifted slightly, and could see the door.
What little soul he had cringed.
Standing in the doorway was a vision from Hell, there to claim its piece of living flesh. Around the small body was a greenish cloud of light, a huge, evil aura that flowed and probed the wrecked room seeking a new host. The monstrous head was thrown back in horrible laughter.
The blackness that descended was a blessing.
It had begun.
* * *
The light but persistent pounding rose Derek from a shallow, restless sleep. He clicked on the bed side lamp and glanced at his watch. It was almost one o’clock in the morning. “Just a minute.” Derek unlocked the door to find the sheriff waiting impatiently in the dim hallway. “What?”
“Sorry, Mr. Hanen.” The apology in sheriff Dunns’s voice was not matched in his eyes. “Mind if I come in?” Derek waved him in and shut the door a little harder than was necessary. Mike glanced around the room casually, then drew up one of the straight-backed chairs and straddled it backwards.
“Won’t you sit down, sheriff?” Derek asked. It wasn’t a sociable thing to say, but then getting rousted out of bed at one in the morning wasn’t exactly conductive to sociability.
Mike chose to overlook Derek’s jab and lit a cigarette. He held it out in the front of him, not smoking it, but watching Derek over its glowing end indirectly. “You been here all evening, Mr. Hanen?”
“Yes, I have. I take it this is no social call.”
“Nope.”
“You pick odd hours for your questions.”
“Only when I have to.” Mike pursed his lips and blew at the curling cigarette smoke, studying its moving pattern carefully.
“You mind telling me what this is all about?”
“Sure. When I’m ready to.” Mike paused and Derek leaned against the door. “Where are you from, Mr. Hanen? And what are you doing here?”
“Oh, I see. I’m from L.A., an unemployed pilot, and I’m just passing through… I had car trouble. You can check.”
“I will. I don’t suppose you have any witnesses to back your story about being here all night?”
“I didn’t know I was going to need any. I’m sorry. And it’s not a story. Now will you tell me what’s going on?”
“There’s been a murder.”
“The boy…?”
“No. Another, little while ago.”
“And you think I might be involved.”
“I dunno. Are you?”
“No. But I’d like to know why you think I might…” A sudden fear flooded over Derek, and he felt a sickness in his throat. “It isn’t Ann?” The words came out in a whisper.
Mike’s expression relaxed fractionally and he took a first drag from his dying cigarette. “No, it isn’t Ann. It’s Doctor Hillard.”
“Doctor Hillard? How?”
“I don’t know how, but he’s dead. And the boy’s body is gone. Found the Doc’s body an hour ago.”
Chapter 3
Sheriff Mike Dunns sat behind his desk with a thermos of coffee and blood-shot eyes, working over a t
hin pile of papers and reports. Three hours of restless sleep had done little good; his stomach burned, his eyes hurt from cigarette smoke, and the back of his neck was stiff with knots.
He stood, stretching his aching body.
The main part of town was visible from his office windows. Usually it was a sleepy, good-natured scene, a little too warm and a little too dusty, but not today. The drizzling rain had not stopped with morning and showed no signs of breaking up. It was depressing, but it wouldn’t have mattered much anyway. When he’s been out the night before to tell a man that his son was dead, and had to stand there and watch that man curl up and die inside without being able to do anything about it, he just didn’t need much more of an excuse to be depressed.
And then he had to go back the next morning to tell that same man that somehow or other, his son’s body had disappeared during the night… that made him want to throw up.
He glanced at his watch and frowned; he couldn’t decide if he wanted it to speed up or slow down. In a couple of hours, men from the homicide division of the head department were going to show up to take over the investigation. That would be a mixed blessing; at last it would relieve some of the responsibility in this shitty situation.
Oddly, that didn’t make him feel much better.
Mike sighed, poured himself another mug of coffee, and prepared to attack the reports with grim determination. He had a lot to do before the press arrived.
* * *
Derek had just finished breakfast and was savoring his coffee when Parker stomped into the diner. The old man shook some of the water off of his raincoat and hung it on the coat rack, then joined Derek at his table.
“Weather sure turned bad in a hurry,” Derek said. Parker sat down and ordered coffee.