by A. I. Nasser
It’s a demon. It has to be. Kathrine Carter is dead.
Michael raised his gun and rushed forward, his weapon aimed at the little girl.
***
“Kathrine?”
Deborah stared at the little girl in disbelief, her mind failing to accept what her eyes were seeing. Kathrine looked no older than when she had disappeared, as if wherever she had been, time had stopped completely. The girl was right there in front of her, but Deborah couldn’t believe it.
The sound of a gunshot quickly brought her back, and Deborah turned around in time to see Michael Cole charging towards her. He fired again, and this time she could feel the bullet swish past her head and bury itself in the ground beside where Kathrine lay. The little girl scurried back. A rush of adrenaline burst through Deborah as she registered what Michael was trying to do, and she quickly jumped to her feet and charged.
Michael was taken by surprise, completely concentrating on the demon disguised as Kathrine Carter. He did not see Deborah until it was too late. The woman slammed into him with such force that the gun dropped from his hand and he was brought forcefully down.
Michael rolled away from his attacker and jumped back to his feet, frantically searching for his weapon in the dark. When Deborah charged at him again, he lashed out and grabbed her, flinging her aside and falling to his knees from the strain. She was protecting the monster, and for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. The woman was obviously delusional.
Michael felt about him for the gun, his head throbbing and his muscles cramping up. This was more action than he was used to, and although Deborah was half his size, the woman fought with such vigor that he could barely keep up. He was going to have to shoot her if he wanted to get to the demon she had just let loose.
Deborah raced towards Kathrine, calming her down as the girl scurried away from her, frightened by the sudden attack.
“Kathrine, it’s me, Debbie.”
Kathrine frowned at her, but Deborah could see the recognition in the girl’s eyes.
That was all she needed.
She grabbed Kathrine by the arm, pulling her to her feet, and raced away from Michael towards the woods. She had to get the girl out of here. She had come too far only to be shot by a lunatic with a gun.
A gunshot sounded in the air, and Deborah felt a sudden sharp sting in her shoulder where the bullet grazed her. She didn’t stop, the adrenaline quickly dispersing the pain as she led the girl towards the tree line.
Michael jumped to his feet, ready to give chase, when a hand suddenly grabbed him by the ankle and pulled. He fell face-first to the ground, crying out in frustration as he watched Deborah disappear with the little girl into the trees. He clawed at the earth, trying to pull himself away, but the grip on his ankle tightened and began to pull.
“You will not kill her,” the raspy voice cut through the darkness, threatening to drive Michael mad. “The Carters are mine.”
Michael fought with everything he had, kicking out in desperation as he felt the hand pull him into the ground. He screamed, his body sinking into the earth, and only when his head was buried under the surface of the soil did the open field fall back into its familiar silence.
Chapter 14
Officer Alexandra Bail pulled her cruiser into the motel parking lot and slowly climbed out. Her head throbbed from the beating she had been dealt by the Sheriff. Luckily, nothing had been broken, and after the doctors had declared her fit enough to leave, she had returned immediately to the rescue attempts in hopes of helping.
The call from the motel had come in only ten minutes ago, the deputy in charge tasking her with checking it out as soon as she had convinced him she could handle things on her own. Alexandra made her way to the motel room where the owner was waiting for her. He stood completely still, pale as a sheet.
“What seems to be the problem?” Alexandra asked, her hand quickly falling to the butt of her gun.
The man said nothing and stared into the room.
Alexandra followed his gaze and froze in horror at the sight of Stanley Turk’s dead body hanging from the ceiling beam.
***
David Whelm had the radio on full volume, singing at the top of his lungs along with the music of Aerosmith. He was on a natural high, Melington several miles behind him, the story of a lifetime in his pocket. He had called his editor the minute he had gotten a safe distance away, and had received the green light for a front page story.
This was it, ladies and gentlemen. This was going to get him his Pulitzer. He was going to have his face on every magazine in the country. Television channels would line up for a chance to interview him. He would finally be able to have his pick of which newspaper to write for, and even negotiate the contracts in his favor.
David Whelm felt like a newborn man, and he could already tell, he would never be the same again.
***
Alan Carter opened his eyes to darkness.
The room was cold, the stones against his back hard and the stench in the air unbearable. He knew where he was, and the realization of it almost made his heart stop. He tried to get up but couldn’t, as if a heavy weight were resting on his chest and suffocating him where he lay.
“It began with a Carter, and it must end with a Carter.”
The voice was close, from right above him, and Alan flinched as lips pressed against his, kissing deeply.
“Do not forget your promise, Alan Carter.”
***
Alan sat up with a start.
He waited for his eyes to focus, but he could already see that he was in his room, sitting in the same bed he had laid in when first crossing into the corridor. He could still feel the touch of soft lips against his, the cold stones against his hand, but as with any dream, the feelings quickly disappeared as his mind switched back to reality.
“Welcome back.”
Deborah was sitting in the small chair opposite his bed. In her arms, wrapped in a towel and fast asleep, was Kathrine.
“You did it,” Deborah smiled. “I had a hard time believing it, but you actually got her back.”
Alan stared at his little sister as she slept, unable to believe it himself. The last thing he remembered was pushing Kathrine under the bed, and then darkness.
“We can’t stay here,” Alan whispered.
Deborah nodded her understanding. “We could wait a few more hours, let her get some rest.” Deborah brushed Kathrine’s hair out of her face. “She needs it.”
Alan climbed out of bed and walked to where Deborah sat, kneeling down in front of her and running his hand across his sister’s cheek. He looked up at Deborah and returned the woman’s smile.
“I’ll pack,” he said.
Epilogue
I know you.
Sure I do. I’ve seen you on TV before. I’d recognize that face anywhere! I saw you walk in here and knew who you were even before you ordered your drink. Here, this one’s on me. No, no, I insist! You’re in my town, buddy, and there’s no way I’m going to let you pay for your own drink. Not me, no way!
So, let me guess, you’re here to cover the aftermath of the riots. Oh, that was an easy one! We’ve been having all sorts of people rolling in and out of town, trying to get a shot of what’s left of Downtown Melington. Chairman Brewster’s been milking that tragedy like any good politician. I swear to you, I always thought Daniel Cole was bad, but Brewster? That man’s the devil!
Since we’re already chatting, how about I share a little secret with you? Something you can put in your story. Rumor has it, the man who started this whole thing, he was found dead in a motel room, hanging by a noose from the ceiling. Stanley Turk was his name, everyone knows him. But the police, they covered up what happened to him, said he died of a heart attack while trying to skip town.
My wife’s cousin, he works the motel where they found Stanley. Says the man didn’t die of a heart attack, that the reports are all bogus. Isn’t surprising, though. Melington Police’s been known to hide t
he truth more times than not. Like those missing children stories? Those were true. I knew it all along, nobody wanted to believe me.
Tell you what. While you’re here, let me drive you down to the police station where you could ask the Sheriff all about it. She’s a nice one, Sheriff Bail, much better than the one before her. Less trigger-happy. They say she’s the one who cut Stanley down, covered it up to give the man some dignity. Who knows? Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. When it comes to Melington, nothing’s really as it seems.
Nothing at all.
* * *
Bonus Scene Chapter 1
Joanne Pullici eyed the man at the far corner of her bar as he raised his glass to her. It was a gesture she had grown accustomed to ever since the gentleman had started to frequent the bar six months ago. Almost like clockwork, she would watch the man stagger through the doors at around sunset, seat himself at the far corner where no one could bother him, and cradle his whiskey well until sunrise.
Joanne knew the type, the men who were low on their luck and would piss away all their cash in her bar until she was forced to kick them out because they wanted a tab. It was one of the main reasons she had taken over the bar from her father, the elder Pullici being a more emotional man and more willing to lend a hand even when he couldn’t afford it.
The man raised his glass again, and Joanne sighed as she gestured to one of the other bar hands to take care of it. She looked back at the man, his coat folded neatly on his stool, his hat always placed to his left, and the cigarette in the ashtray, lit yet untouched. Joanne wondered how long this one would last.
Men like him had become so common out here that the bar usually had running bets on his type. Joanne had expected him to run dry a few weeks back, but he had proven her wrong. Every day, same corner, same drink. At one point, she had even offered to chat him up, figure out who he was and what he was doing in a town this far away from anything. But he had been extremely vague.
She had, since then, given up, and like the rest of her staff, was waiting for the breaking point.
“I really hope tonight’s the night.”
Joanne turned to her bar manager, giving him a brisk smile as he dropped a case under the bar and stretched his back. Derryl was quite the eye candy, and Joanne had always believed that her father had kept the man around solely for the reactions of the female guests, especially on ladies night. He wasn’t, however, the most empathic of people, and was always the first to bet on a recurring guest’s inevitable demise.
“I’ve got fifty bucks down for this week,” Derryl said, looking at the man in the corner, “and come this Sunday, I’m going to be fifty books poorer if that guy doesn’t roll over.”
“I don’t know,” Joanne mused. “He seems like he’s been saving up for the occasion.”
“Came to piss away all his money on booze?” Derryl asked, shaking his head, unconvinced. “No, that one’s running away. Something tells me he jumped ship in a hurry.”
Derryl’s gaze lingered on the man for a few seconds before he shrugged and went off to refill the bar.
***
“Would you look at that?”
Joanne was wiping down the surface of the bar when she turned to look at Derryl. The man gestured towards the television set, and Joanne followed his gaze to the late night news. The regular crowd had dwindled; the last remaining guests already paying their bills and collecting their coats as they trudged out, drunk and somber. Only the man in the corner remained, hidden by the shadows, barely visible except for the cigarette in his ashtray.
The news was broadcasting a riot in some town in Connecticut. The authorities running back and forth between fire and survivors. The tape raced with emergency numbers at what the newscaster was saying. It was one of the worst tragedies to hit the small town. Joanne had never heard of the place, but the sight of all the chaos made her stomach turn.
“It’s the end of the world, boss,” Derryl said, “and it’s starting in some shithole out in the middle of nowhere.”
“That’s Melington,” a voice said from behind them, making Joanne jump. She turned to face the regular from the corner, the man looking a lot older than she remembered. She hadn’t waited on his table for a week or two, but she could have sworn his hair had been jet black, and his eyes had gleamed a bright blue, even in the dim lights of the bar.
Now, there were strands of white in his hair, and his eyes were sunken as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. With all the drinking he was doing, she guessed she shouldn’t have been too surprised.
“Can you turn it up, please?” the man asked, his eyes fixated on the television.
Derryl looked at Joanne and waited for her to nod her approval before turning the volume up. The newscaster’s voice echoed through the empty bar, and Joanne concentrated more on her guest than what was being broadcasted. Something in his eyes told her he was deeply bothered by what he was seeing.
“You know the place?” Derryl ventured, breaking the silence and asking the question that was on both their minds.
The man nodded but said nothing. Joanne could see tears collecting in his eyes.
“Do you have relatives there?” she asked.
The man hesitated before breaking his stare and shifting his gaze to her. “Not anymore,” he said.
Joanne turned back to the television and stood in silence as all three of them watched the events unfold. She could only imagine what all those people were going through, the fires raging behind them as police carried the injured to waiting ambulances.
“Hey buddy, you okay?” Derryl asked, bringing Joanne’s attention back at their guest.
The man was openly crying now, the tears on his face an alarming touch to the regular composure they had gotten used to seeing from him. Until this very moment, he had been just another stranger, but now Joanne felt like she was watching a close friend break down.
“Sir?” she asked, leaning forward and touching his hand.
He surprised her by holding onto hers, squeezing gently as his shoulders shook. He stepped away from the bar, his eyes still on the television, then turned and went back to his table. She watched as he collected his coat, dropped a few bills on his table and walked out.
Joanne stared after him, unsure as to how she was supposed to react.
“That was odd,” Derryl said.
Joanne nodded silently. She had a feeling they would not being seeing the man again.
***
Three weeks had gone by before the man walked back into the bar.
Joanne was surprised to see him, certain that his disturbed look about the news that night would have sent him packing for good. She nudged Derryl and gestured towards the man as he made his way to his regular spot and sat down, hands crossed in front of him as he waited to be served.
“I got this,” she said to Derryl, pouring the man’s regular drink and carrying it out to him. She placed it squarely in front of him, and as usual, he did not look up nor reply. He fished in his pockets for the pack of cigarettes, lit one and rested it in the ashtray, then quietly wrapped his hands around the glass of whiskey.
Joanne waited, and it took a few seconds for the man to register that she hadn’t left him alone. When he looked up at her, she noticed the dark rings around his eyes and how the skin of his face had given into wrinkles. He looked as if he had aged a decade in the past weeks.
“We missed you,” Joanne said with a smile, hoping she sounded genuine enough. The truth was, she had been more curious than anything. The man intrigued her, and his sudden disappearance had left her wanting. It was rare for her not to know a regular’s history, and the fact that this one had become so elusive only made her more curious.
The man stared at her for a beat, and then looked down at his drink. She watched him take a sip, slowly, then set the glass down and stare off into space.
“We were worried after you left that night,” Joanne pressed, insistent to get him talking. “Did you call your family?”
The ma
n looked up at her again, as if lost, and attempted a smile but it came off creepier than it should have. “I did,” he said. “Thank you.”
“And everything’s okay back home in Middleton?” Joanne asked.
“Melington,” the man corrected, “and yes, I suppose it is. I can’t be sure.”
“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about what happened there,” Joanne said. “It’s a shame to see that much violence.”
The man cocked his head to one side, studying her. “Why would you be sorry? You weren’t the reason for the riots.”
Joanne shook her head. “I know, but it’s still a shame,” she said. “I did some reading up on it. They say the man who started it all died?”
“Quite so,” the man said, sipping from his drink. “It’s how most things end in Melington. Death is always around the corner.”
Joanne felt the comment came from somewhere dark within him, and it only spiked her curiosity. “Looks like a pretty peaceful town,” she said. “Couldn’t imagine that much violence being commonplace there.”
“No,” the man said, “I suppose you couldn’t.”
Joanne felt a pang of frustration race through her at the man’s elusiveness, and for some inexplicable reason, it began to seriously bother her. She pulled out the chair in front of him and sat down, leaning in on her elbows.
“What’s your deal?”
The man only stared at her, unblinking, not in the bit surprised that she would ask a question like that. It only served to bother her even more.
“Seriously,” Joanne pressed. “You’ve been coming in here every day for the past six or seven months. We call people like you drifters in this town. Usually just people who are down on their luck and walk in here to drink the rest of their money away, wrapped in their own self-pity. You don’t strike me as one of those. Although buddy, it’s clear you’re not in here for the ambiance. You light a cigarette you hardly smoke, drink the same dry drink, and then you leave.”