Evil Never Dies

by Mick Ridgewell

  "From vampire bites?" Roland asked.

  She nodded. "Yes, he wanted to make sure I wasn't some kind of food source to those demons."

  "Your father told me you were a force of nature," Bernhard said. "I see you may just be that and more."

  "You can say that again," Carol said, finally waking from her shock brought on by the screaming.

  "Who is this?" Bernhard asked.

  "I introduced Carol," Patricia went on, "there was a brief moment of casual nonsense, and Bernhard took charge of the house."

  "We must destroy them before the sun sinks below the horizon," Bernhard said.

  "Destroy them?" I shouted. "That is my mother and father, not some rabid dog.

  What makes you think you can come into our house and make these demands?"

  "In 1880, when I was not much more than a boy, the village in Germany where I was born had the same plague that inflicts this place," Bernhard answered.

  "We had heard rumors from far across Europe, so when the attacks began, we were not taken completely by surprise as is the case here. Every man and boy child more than ten years of age hunted those things until the scourge had been erased from existence.

  "I never would have thought they would be able to make the journey across the ocean. That is why I came to this country. I believed I would never encounter them here.

  "Now they are here, and no one will be safe until they are gone. Your mother and father are not sleeping in that bed. If we don't do what needs to be done, they will walk the earth tonight, and if they encounter you, they will take your life without remorse."

  "I knew he was right, but I protested all the same. He was talking about my parents, not those monsters I saw in the street attacking Daddy."

  "Girl," he said quite forcefully now. "Your father sent for me to help him do a job. He is not here to help, so it has to be you and your friend. Is she is able? We must…"

  "I didn't let him finish," Patricia said. "I was with Daddy at the cemetery. I knew what needed to be done."

  "This is my home," I told him. "You won't defile it."

  "Then we must bring them outside, immediately."

  "He was surprisingly strong for such a small man. He flung a blanket on the floor next to the bed, grabbed Daddy by the shoulders and hollered, "Well?"

  "I took Daddy's ankles, and we lowered him to the blanket. Bernhard wrapped him as best he could, then we carried Daddy out behind the barn. Bernhard took hold of the blanket at Daddy's big shoulders. Carol and I took his feet. He was a gentleman, Bernhard was. He sent us to watch over Mother while he did what he had to. He said I didn't need to see what he was about to do, and he was right."

  "I walked back to Mother's room, arm in arm with Carol. She tried her best to comfort me. Carol had been my friend long enough to know how dear Daddy was to me. Of course, I loved Mother, but Daddy was my beacon. Do you understand that, Roland?"

  "I understand fully," he said. "With me, it was my Mom. My Dad was not a very giving man with his emotions. He was a good father, and a great provider for the family."

  It was Roland's turn to take a moment. When he was ready he said, "Patricia, shall we go out to the porch?"

  "I think that would be nice."

  Chapter 37

  Patricia only got halfway to the door before deciding a nap would do her better than a chat on the porch. Roland didn't need to be asked. He extended his arm to her. They padded over to the couch where he assisted her to her seat then retrieved a pillow and blanket. She curled up on the couch, and he tucked her in like he would a child in a crib.

  "You're a sweet boy, Roland," she said, then closed her eyes.

  Roland was in no mood to sit in front of his computer. He didn't want to go for a walk, and the heat from the sun squashed his desire to sit on the porch. He carried the lunch dishes to the kitchen, washed what needed washing and put whatever didn't get eaten back in the fridge. That finished, Roland began to wander through the old place.

  He had seen most of the house, but across from Patricia's bedroom, a closed door held his attention. The door had been closed the whole time he had been there, and it called to him. It had to be her parents' room. He needed to see the room she had just described.

  He made his way to the stairs leading to the second-floor hallway. Roland stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up to the dim cave-like corridor above. It must have been a truly grand staircase in its time, but too many decades of foot traffic had left it worn and shabby.

  He placed a hand on the banister and marveled at the sturdiness of it. The wood, worn smooth from more than a century of hands gliding along its length, needed refinishing but was otherwise strong and sure.

  Roland looked back over his shoulder to the closed door behind which his host slept. His conscience told him to stop. If Patricia wanted him to see that room, she would have invited him to have a look.

  Curiosity, however, pushed him harder than his conscience held him back, and when his hand gripped the banister, his freedom of choice was taken from him. He had to go. He needed to go.

  Roland placed his foot on the first step and slowly put pressure on that lead foot. He was waiting for the groan of the old wood to wake Patricia, and he would be caught. He feared she would see in him as nothing more than a snoopy reporter looking to spice up his story.

  The stair gave no squawk, not even a mouse-like squeak. He tried the second with the same result, then the third. When he stood on the top step, Roland turned and listened for movement from the den where he left Patricia. The complete lack of sound in the house sent a shiver up his spine. His breathing seemed thunderous in the oppressive silence.

  He padded over the faded carpet, his footfalls making a dull swish, thump. Standing in front of the door to the master bedroom, Roland could feel his heart trying to pound itself free of his chest. Nervous sweat trickled down his back.

  He reached for the doorknob. It was a gaudy, ornate brass thing. The heat in the upstairs hall dried his throat, giving him an urge to cough.

  When his hand made contact with the knob, he drew it back with a start. It felt like ice compared to the searing heat of the ambient air.

  Taking a deep breath, exhaling slowly, he grabbed the knob, twisted it and pushed the door open. It swung freely, the hinges making no protest at being called into action.

  Stepping into that room was like stepping back in time. The fabric of the drapes and bed covering were dull but sturdy looking. The paisley pattern on the bed complimented the floral wallpaper. The four-poster bed made of oak, or maybe cherry, sat unchanged since the spring of 1912, when it last gave rest to warm bodies.

  This room was a shrine to Patricia's parents. The bed was made but other than that, it looked like she hadn't changed a thing in the one hundred years since it was last used. The only tell-tale sign that it hadn't been completely abandoned was the cleanliness. Not a speck of dust on any surface and the air, although hot, was not any more stale than the rest of the house.

  Roland left the room. He pulled the door closed doing his best to be quiet. When the latch clicked into place, it occurred to him that the knob was no longer ice cold. He wondered, was it cold when he first grabbed it, or was it his mind playing tricks?

  Satisfied that whatever evil that might have existed in this room had been taken out with the bodies of the Owens, Roland retreated.

  When he stepped down from the last step to the ground floor, a clap of thunder erupted causing Roland to cry out. He felt his heart pounding in his chest and silently scolded himself for the childishness of his reaction.

  "You were right again, Patricia," he whispered to himself. "The storm is here."

  Chapter 38

  Patricia found Roland sitting on the porch. He had nodded off, his chin rested on his chest without grace. His breathing had a rattled sound as he struggled to get air through his pinched airway. Sweat beaded on his cheeks.

  Between garbled snores, he moaned and uttered unintelligible sounds. His left han
d dangled at his side, his right curled in his lap, clenched in a fist and shaking.

  He woke with a start when she placed her hand on his shoulder.

  "You'll give yourself an awful stiff neck like that, Roland," she said.

  He patted the hand that woke him, amazed at how cold it felt. "You might be right," he said, massaging his neck with his other hand. "Did you just wake up?"

  "I've been up for a bit," she answered. "I fixed us a snack. Are you hungry?"

  Roland followed her to the kitchen, where they ate in silence. He was still a bit bleary from his nap, but he suspected Patricia was trying to build up the courage to continue where she left off.

  "I think you were dreaming when I woke you," she said.

  "Really?"

  "You were moaning, and trying to talk."

  "I hope I didn't say anything embarrassing," he said with a smirk.

  Patricia shook her head. "It was just some mumbling."

  Roland didn't remember dreaming, but would not be surprised if he was plagued by nightmares when Patricia finished telling her story.

  Without preamble, Patricia said, "I stayed."

  "Sorry?"

  "When Bernhard told me to go tend my mother. I stayed and watched him long enough to make sure he knew what he was doing. I couldn't leave Daddy to this man. Even if he claimed to be Daddy's friend, I had not heard of him before that day. So I stayed.

  "He was carrying a small satchel, and he took a long knife from it. It happened so fast. He pulled back the blanket, exposing Daddy's head and neck. Daddy had time for a half scream, and Bernhard swiped that blade across his throat. Just like the boy, black gore surged from the wound. Bernhard drew the knife back through the gash, and Daddy's head detached from his neck. I must have made a noise. A gasp, or maybe I screamed, I don't know for sure.

  Bernhard spun to look at me.

  "I am sorry you had to see that, girl," he said. "It is the only way to give them peace."

  "That was when I went back to the house with Carol. I turned and ran, Carol trying to keep up but she couldn't. I think I was at Mother's side before Carol managed to join me.

  "He did the same to Mother. Afterward, we took them to the cemetery. The three of us dug those graves with no help from anyone.

  "We don't have time for ceremony," Bernhard said. "It will be dark soon."

  "He pushed Daddy into one hole, then Mother in the other. A body makes a dreadful sound when it falls into a hole like that. I know they could feel no pain, but I know I winced as though it were me falling down into the earth."

  "I will give you a moment to say goodbye," Bernhard said.

  "I walked away from him, and I knelt between the two open graves. I prayed that they would find peace, wherever they were. He was back as soon as I stood. He tossed a cup of kerosene in each hole and dropped a flaming piece of cloth.

  "I will remember the sound always. Whoosh. Then billowing black smoke and angry orange flames spewed from the holes. The smell made me want to vomit, and the heat, I have never felt heat like that.

  "We let the flames and smoke die out, then took to the shovels. There was nothing dignified about my parents' burial. It was fast, brutal, and without compassion.

  "I didn't cry at the graveside. There was no time to grieve. We had a task to complete, and we had a deadly time limit. When I was alone, I cried myself to sleep. I have shed tears almost every day since. Tears for what was taken from me. Tears for the awfulness that was left behind."

  Patricia's Journal—Wednesday, July 3, 1912

  A man came today. He claims Daddy sent for him. Bernhard, Carol and I buried Mother and Daddy. I dare not close my eyes for fear I will relive the day.

  I can't stop crying.

  God, please take them into your house.

  Patricia closed the book with shaky hands. She sat silent and motionless for a moment, then removed a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes.

  "Silly isn't it?" she said. "It's been one hundred years. After all these years I still cry for their loss."

  Roland having led a more or less charmed life had little to offer with words, so he put his arm around her and sat in silence with her.

  He felt her quiver and knew it was not cold that caused it. Patricia Owens needed to cry, and Roland would make sure she got whatever she needed from here on.

  Chapter 39

  When Patricia finished shedding tears for her family, she rose from her seat without assistance and trod to the porch steps.

  Roland looked after her without moving. He didn't know if she needed some separation to finish with her grieving or just wanted to stretch her legs, so he sat, waiting for his cue.

  "Well," she said. "Are we going to walk, or are you going to sit there like an old man?"

  He sprung to his feet, and in a second, Roland stood beside her, hand extended to assist her down the steps.

  "By the time we finished with the interment of Mother and Daddy, it was getting dark. Bernhard rushed us onto our horses, and we rode like the wind. His horse was a ratty-looking nag, but that ugly horse could run like no other horse I have seen.

  "Twice he had to pull up in order for us to catch him. If you believe what you see in the movies, I was just not a good rider, and that is why I couldn't keep up, but that wasn't it. I can tell you there was no one who could ride a horse better than I could when I was a girl. Others might say he had a superior horse. My horse was the fastest in the county. Daddy bought him from a thoroughbred farm in Kentucky. Can you imagine that? For all I know, my horse shared bloodlines with Man o' War. But for all that, he couldn't hold a candle to the ugly-looking animal that Bernhard rode.

  "I could hear Carol calling from a hundred feet back to wait for her. We did, but Bernhard did so like a fawn in a wolf den, his gaze darting this way and that.

  "It was full dark when we thundered up the main road. There wasn't a single person to be seen. No lights burned in the windows. The stained-glass windows at the church sparkled with color, but there was no joy in the sight of them. Not for me anyway.

  "Carol's husband came running out to greet her. He just dropped the reins to the ground and pulled her into the church."

  Patricia went into one of her trance-like stares, and Roland stood and shuffled his way along the edge of the road. He looked in the direction of the abandoned farm with the dead well.

  Death lived in that well, and the strength within was growing. The ring of barren soil had doubled when he saw it last. He wondered how much more life had been consumed since then. How far could it go? Did the evil beneath that rock have the power to swallow the whole county? Could it get to the lake, and if it did, would it suck the life from the water, killing the fish and fowl that called Lake Huron home?

  "You must promise to stay away from there, young man," Patricia reiterated her earlier warning.

  Roland spun at the sound of her voice. He didn't notice Patricia had rejoined him.

  "It pulls at me," he said.

  "I know all about that pull. I have battled it for a century. You have to be stronger than the pull." Patricia took his hand and squeezed it, emphasizing her point.

  "I promise," he said.

  "What happened after you got back to town?" Roland asked.

  "Aunt Maggie was standing in the doorway to her house," she said, with a giggle. "She was so angry with me."

  Roland's heart lightened a bit at the sound of her laugh. Each day that went by, Patricia had gotten months older. At least to Roland it looked that way. The giggle she let out while confessing her arrival had peeled away some of the years the last few days had etched into her.

  "Bernhard rushed the horses into the stable behind the office, while I tried to calm Auntie down. We heard him slam and latch the door, then he came running around the building to meet us.

  "I made a fuss when he tried to usher us inside. 'We have to put the horses away proper,' I told him."

  "I bet he didn't have the horses' well-being set nearly as high as y
ou, did he?" Roland asked.

  That brought on a gale of laughter from the old woman. Roland looked on with some amusement as Patricia's face turned three shades of red. After all those years, she still went into hysterics at the thought of causing grief for poor Bernhard.

  "You're right about that, Roland," she sputtered through her laughter. "He hurried us into Auntie's. The last thing I saw before Bernhard slammed the door was Carol's horse walking down the road, untethered."

  "Did Carol get her horse back?" Roland asked.

  "Oh, sure. It seems the creatures can feed on livestock, but they preferred not to." She was still giggling at the thought of that horse wandering around town all night without a worry in the world while the people cowered in their shelters.

  Chapter 40

  After Patricia regained control, she took his hand to lead him back toward the house. He accepted with grace.

  "You are too kind, good lady," he said, tipping an imaginary hat.

  She grinned, hooked her hand on his elbow, and they began the walk back.

  "Tell me about Bernhard," Roland said.

  "Well, it took some aggressive convincing to get Auntie to allow him beyond the small foyer. Not that she could have stopped him. He was a little man, but deceivingly strong and equally agile. He was inside before Auntie could put up too much fuss."

  "She wouldn't have left him out in the street with all that was going on. Would she?" Roland said.

  "As far as Auntie was concerned, Bernhard could have been one of those monsters."

  "I guess he could have," he said. "But if he were, he could have killed you anywhere on the road."

  "It's easy to say that now, but back then with all that was going on, we didn't trust family and friends, so this funny little stranger definitely got more than his share of sideways glances."