by Rain Oxford
“Oh yes, I heard about him. Found the Tomalo boy.” Miss Cooper’s nose visibly lifted in the air. Gossip had been flying thick and fast and her ability to collect it was rivaled only by her ability to spread it. “The sheriff thinks he might be involved in a lot of things going on around here.”
“He thinks that or you think that?”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re not thinking about going around with him, are you?”
“Yes, but I don’t see---”
“I’ve known a lot of his type, and they’re no good. Take my word for it. If I were you---”
“But you’re not me.” Ann shook her head and smiled, not wanting to hurt the old girl’s feelings. “I’m sorry. I appreciate your concern, I really do, but there isn’t anything to worry about. I like Derek, and I won’t listen to anyone talking bad about him.”
Ann escaped out into the rain before Miss Cooper could continue with her well-meaning, but misguided intentions, or before she herself said something she would regret later. For one thing, this was the only job she had and she would hate to lose it over some silly argument. Still, she doubted if Miss Cooper could find anyone dumb enough to replace her with.
She glanced at her watch; it was almost noon. With luck she could drive out to the farm, take care of the livestock and what few chores that would have to be done, and get back to the hotel before it got too dark. Ann felt a chill that the cold, wet weather was not responsible for. No, this night would not find her anywhere but in a nice, warm hotel, with nice, safe people.
* * *
Derek woke late. He shaved, dressed, and descended the stairs two at a time. Mrs. Jameson was, as usual, cleaning.
“Good morning, Derek.”
“Morning, Ma’am.”
“Old Parker was by looking for you a little while ago. Said to tell you to drop by his store when you were up.”
“Thank you. I will.”
* * *
The sky was sullen lead-grey, oppressive, coating everything with a uniform drabness. Where the dirt of the road was packed hard from the passing of countless vehicles, it was extremely slick; the softer parts of the ground had turned into puddles of clinging jelly.
Parker was alone in the store, propped up in a chair by the stove, reading a tattered paper-back mystery. When Derek came in, he tossed the book on the floor and waved him over to the stove, pulling another chair closer with an outstretched foot.
“Whatch’a up to this morning, son?”
“Not much. Figured on checking with Ernie to see how my car’s coming along, but that’s about it.”
“Don’t need to. Saw him this morning.”
“That’s what I get for getting up so late. Find out everything second hand. What did he say?”
“He said them numb-nuts at the parts place sent the wrong dohicky, wouldn’t fit the whatsit, and he had to send it back. Said he was awful sorry, and if you want he’s got a car he can loan you ‘till yours is fixed.” Parker struck a match on the stove and lit a cigarette. “He’ll be looking to tell you himself, in case I didn’t see you.”
Derek sighed. “Thanks for the message. Any new developments on the Doc getting killed?”
“Not that Mike mentioned. Saw him this morning, too, but if he’s got any ideas, he’s sitting on them like an old hen waiting for them to hatch. He’s out checking on some of the people that live out of town. Static on the phone is so bad you can’t even use ‘um, and with all this dying stuff going on he’s really worried. I can’t blame him for that. He’s gonna be meaner than a sack full of shook-up snakes by the time he finds out what’s going on.”
“Did he say when he was going to be back?”
“No, but it shouldn’t be too long, unless he runs into trouble. Not too many people live that far out.”
* * *
Mike was about as tired and uncomfortable as he could be. He was soaked to the skin after running from his car to peoples’ houses all day. Twice he had got stuck where parts of the road were all but washed away, and while managing to get the car out, had covered himself boot to hip with mud. The car’s heater ran on full, but it wasn’t much help.
Four of the twelve farms he had gone to were deserted; two of those families were off vacationing or visiting, so he wasn’t worried about them. Most of the people locally would let him know if they would be gone for a while, just so he could keep an eye on their places for them. But that still left two families missing and unaccountable, and with the way things had been falling lately, that was two too many.
At both of those two places it was as if they had gone to answer the door, and just didn’t come back. At the Dobson’s place he found the front door open and the lights still on, while at the Stake’s place he found food on the table untouched. He had blown his horn repeatedly at both places, and ran a quick search around the houses, but there was nothing to be seen or heard.
Mike drove back into town on the back road, curving at the base of the mountains. There were a few houses scattered here and there, as well as the old Jarman place. He slammed on the brakes as it came into sight. As far back as Mike could remember, the old mansion had looked worn and run-down, but never this bad. Half of the windows were shattered and several large pieces of roofing were strewn across the yard.
He edged the car through the entrance-way, up the gravel drive, and parked next to the Jarman’s old black Mercedes. From here he could see that the damage was even more extensive than it had appeared from the road. He leaned on the horn for a moment and waited, drawing a muddy pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one. He tapped on the horn a few times more. The sharp blasts echoed flatly against the house.
Still no response.
He sighed, took a drag from his cigarette, and climbed out of the car.
Mike frowned. He didn’t like the Jarmans much, particularly Richard Jarman. A complaint from a neighbor had brought him out there one evening and Richard had informed him in hostile terms that he was not welcome, nor was anyone else. From that point on it had been a pleasure to see as little of Richard Jarman as possible. As for the rest of the family, they were almost never seen by anyone, anyway.
The stench hit him before he even reached the front door. Cursing between gasps and gags he retreated to the front walkway, looking back at the house with a new- if nose wrinkling- respect.
Damn, this stinks. Worse than something dead. Even while the thought ran through his mind, another part of his brain became aware that there was something familiar about the stench, something…
Mike pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it in a puddle of water beside the walk before advancing on the house again. With this protection on his nose he felt relatively safe; a few careful sniffs were enough to tell him that though the smell was still strong, at least he could stand it. With any luck, he could even keep his lunch down.
The heavy wooden door hung crooked and half open. Mike stopped at its edge.
“Hello, anybody, here?” Mike called loud, the wet handkerchief on his nose making his voice hollow. It echoed in the gloomy interior of the house. He leaned inside the doorway and called one more time. “Hey! Is anybody here?”
No answer.
Mike edged through the doorway into the huge hallway, pausing to let his eyes adjust from the gray outside to the almost black interior. It took a moment, and he flicked the glowing butt of his cigarette outside before looking around.
A stillness covered the inside of the mansion; even the sound of the rain seemed afraid to venture very far inside. Mike felt the wall until he found a light switch not far from the door and tried it without luck. He advanced carefully in the darkness, finding another switch by the staircase. Nothing.
He went from room to room quietly, not really expecting to find anything, but searching for the sake of thoroughness. Most of the rooms were empty, somewhat littered, but the worst by far was the small room under the staircase.
It was literally destroyed. Piles of debris were stre
wn on all sides, and a stone block lay at one end, shattered into fist-sized pieces. He nudged some of the litter with his foot. In the glow from his lighter, he saw that it was nothing but torn, scorched cloth and a few pieces of pottery. He sighed and turned to leave.
His foot bumped something.
It was a book, or half of one. He peered at the pages in the poor light. It was hand written in a thin, spidery script, and as far as he could tell, gibberish. Without any clear idea why, he stuck it into his pocket with his cigarettes and walked out into the rain.
It wasn’t until he was halfway down the drive that he braved a glance back at the old, empty house. It was like something dead. He was glad to be leaving.
* * *
Mike was back in his office only a few minutes when Parker burst in, stomping his feet and muttering foul invectives about the weather. The old man tossed his raincoat on a chair by the door. “You were gone quite a while. Find anything?”
“Nothing good.” Mike gave him a sour look. “Just a few more missing people.”
“Just what we need. Who’s missin’?”
“The Dobsons, the Stakes, and the Jarmans. Have you seen any of them?”
“No, I haven’t. Damn! The Dobsons were some of the best people around here. I could care less about the Jarmans.” Parker shook his head. “No ideas about what’s going on yet?”
“None. The Jarman place was torn up, but I don’t know if that has anything to do with anything. The place stunk, too.” Mike dug into his pocket, fished out the piece of book, and dropped it on the desk.
“What’s that?” Parker picked it up.
“Found it out at the Jarman place, too. Don’t know what it is, but I wouldn’t mind finding out.”
Parker thumbed through the pages, then sat it back on the desk. “I dunno, but it looks like some loony wrote it. It sure ain’t English. You ought to show this to Derek.”
“Why Derek?”
“He did some fightin’ overseas, and he’s a smart kid. He might have seen something like this over there.”
Mike shrugged. “Why not? It’s worth a try. Where is he?”
“Over at the hotel, I think.”
“Let’s go.”
* * *
Derek was in the hotel lobby talking to Ann when Mike and Parker came in. Mike drew a chair up close to Derek’s and handed him the book.
“Ever see anything like this before, Derek?”
“Couldn’t say so. Why, what is it supposed to be?”
“That’s just what I want to know. Can you read it?”
Derek leafed through a few pages, pausing over certain words for a moment, then shook his head and handed the book back to Mike. “No, I can’t, but it’s in Latin. I’m sure of it, for what it’s worth. And old. You’ll have to find someone who can read Latin.”
“Who in hell can read Latin around here?”
“Sometimes a priest or minister is trained to read dead languages for their work. Do you have anyone like that living here?”
Parker broke into the discussion with a snort. “All we’ve got out here is the preacher, and he can barely read English, much less some fancy Latin stuff. He’s got an I.Q. a two-year-old can count. Forget him.”
Mike was getting irritated. “Who then, dammit?”
“What about Doctor Wittakin?” Ann suggested. She smiled and shrugged meekly as the three men looked at her.
“She’s right, Mike,” Parker agreed. “Like I said before; a loony wrote it, maybe one can read it.”
“He’s not a loony; he’s just a lonely old man,” Ann said. “He used to be a professor at a college or something, and he wrote a couple of books.”
“Did you ever read one?”
“No,” Ann sighed. “I tried to one time. It was about history, and it was very deep. And very boring.”
Mike picked up the book and studied it, cradling it in his hand as if it might suddenly open and tell him what he wanted to know. He had too many questions and no answers, nothing but a lousy half of a book that couldn’t be read and was probably an old cook book written by some nut. What the hell. He sighed and stood up.
“Well, I guess I’ll take a run out there. Anyway, it can’t hurt. Anybody want to come along for the ride?”
Parker accepted quickly, and when Derek said he would go, Ann agreed to go, too. They gathered their coats, piled into Mike’s car, Mike and Parker in front, Ann and Derek in back, and began the muddy drive.
* * *
Dr. Wittakin’s house was a one story brick dwelling set a short distance from the road. Smoke drifted from the chimney, beat low by the clouds and driving rain, and the smell of burning wood was thick in the air. Mr. Wittakin answered the door at the second knock. Leaning heavily on a wooden cane, he led them inside to the cheerfully burning fireplace.
“Sit, sit, sit.” Mr. Wittakin gestured toward the couch and easy chairs crowding the fireplace. The old man’s voice was deep. Ann helped the Doctor settle into his surprisingly overstuffed chair before she joined them on the couch. Derek took the opportunity to glance around. It was impressive.
The large room was dim and filled with dancing shadows from the fire. Most of the furniture was mahogany, massive and carved. Heavy drapes of a deep blood color hung at the windows. Two iron chandeliers hung from thick beams stretching across the ceiling. There were books everywhere.
Wittakin lit his pipe, fussing with it until it was drawing to his satisfaction. He eased back in his chair, directing his attention at Mike. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of the company of these fine people and yourself, sheriff?”
“Well, you know the rest of us, and this is Derek Hanen.” Derek nodded and Mike continued. “We’ve got a problem and thought that you might be able to help.”
“By all means, continue, and we shall see.”
“You have heard about the deaths of the Tomalo boy and Doctor Hillard?”
“Yes I have. And?”
“There are more people missing now, too.”
“I see. It might help if you tell me just how it is I might be able to assist you.”
Mike gave him an account of the last few days, beginning with Derek finding the boy’s body, though his own exploration of the Jarman place. He told of finding the book, and their discussion of it, (leaving out, of course, the questionable reference to Wittakin’s state of mental health), and ended by handing the book to Witakin.
The old man wandered almost absently through the book for the first few moments, then began examining certain passages with growing interest. He asked Ann to get him a particular book from a crowded bookshelf, then began comparing parts of the two.
“Can you read it?” Parker asked.
“No, dear merchant, merely looking at the pictures.”
Parker said no more.
Half an hour passed before Wittakin set the book down, taking time to relight his pipe before releasing those around him of their suspense.
“This, basically, is a grimoire.” Wittakin smiled at the blank looks. “A grimoire is a black book, a book of the sorcerers. There have been many famous ones, such as the Grimorium Verum, the Grimoire of Honorius, the Fourth Book of Agrippa… All of which I have copies. This is one-half of one that I am unfamiliar with, unfortunately. It appears to have been written between five and six hundred years ago, probably in England, by person or persons unknown. It deals with the subjects of magic, sorcery, and necromancy. Very interesting. It contains some information and statements that I have never seen before.”
Mike’s face flooded with disgust. “You mean devil worship and voodoo and all that? That stuff is a bunch of horse shit. Parker was right, that book was written by a nut!”
“That is a matter of opinion. The many unfortunate victims selected for sacrifice, or hunted down and burned alive because of their beliefs since the dawn of history, and before, found the matter to be very real indeed. Nine-tenths of humanity believes in god, demons, and things that go bump in the dark. Agnostics are the mi
nority. Even though man’s beliefs may change, two things he has been consistent about are the destruction of his fellow man, and the worship of his gods and demons, in one form or another. It is as inseparable from man’s being as his heart is from his body.”
It was Parker’s turn to be disgusted. “You mean, you buy in all that stuff?”
“Many intelligent people believe in god. If one is to believe in one supernatural being, he can’t deny the possibility of others.” Wattakin smiled. “Please don’t misunderstand me when I speak of the supernatural as a fact. It is still a matter of opinion. I have never held up a test-tube and said ‘there, if you look closely, you will see a supernatural being’, nor have I ever been given absolute proof of their existence. There are books filled with documented cases of possession, poltergeists, necromancy, ghosts, and almost everything related to them. Many of them can be explained away as hoaxes, but there is always a small percentage that cannot.
“It has been man’s belief throughout history that death is not ‘the end’, but merely a transitory state between this life and the next. Many of the ‘demons’ and ‘evil spirits’ were believed to be mortal men of sufficient power to continue their evil deeds even after death, and that their life-force, or spirits, call them what you will, continue on indefinitely.”
“But how could something without a body have any effect on anything?” Ann asked. “And what do you mean by ‘power’?”
“According to classical literature, the spirits would often take over the bodies of a living form, such as a human, and do what it will. It is not difficult to imagine, considering the powers locked in the human brain. I have seen people move physical objects with nothing more than their minds. I have seen people who could see through solid material, or read other people’s minds, or tell you what will happen tomorrow.
“Under the name of witchcraft or the occult, men and women for thousands of years have been building up charges of emotional power that can kill or heal. They channel those forces at the ones they chose, and it works, unless the subject resists and has the power and knowledge to fight back.