Slowly, she turned around to face the gathering. “He . . .” She pointed, her mouth working, but producing no words. She cleared her throat and shook her head, finding her voice. “That postman. He ... had to have heard all that. My God. The sound was deafening. This is all a trick. You’re tricking me. He had to have heard it!” she shouted.
“Calm yourself, Miss Hammel,” Bud said, speaking in a low steady voice. “The postman heard nothing. As I tried to tell you, the postman is one of those who is functioning, but who will remember nothing.”
Vickie sat down in her chair. Her face was very pale. She looked at Marc, then at Heather. “What . . . what did you mean, Heather, when you said I haven’t lost it? Haven’t lost what?”
Heather told her.
Vickie looked at the adults. “You people accept that?”
They did.
Vickie rubbed her hands together, producing a dry, rasping sound in the room. “All right.” Finally she spoke. “I’m not convinced, but count me in.”
“Welcome aboard,” Jerry said with a grin.
Voyles watched as the doctor absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck.
6
Claire Bolling sat in her house, gazing southward as if she could see through the south wall. She looked like someone out of a grade-B western.
But she was strangely content.
She had traveled out of Sikeston to a store that specialized in western wear. There she had purchased a new outfit. She now wore a red satin shirt with mother-of-pearl snaps. A dark silk scarf was tied around her neck and a beaded leather headband circled her forehead. She wore a dark denim Western skirt. She had altered the skirt, slit it up the sides. She wore high leather moccasins, their leggings mid-calf high. They, too, were adorned with beads.
At a sporting goods store in the town where she had purchased the clothing and footwear, Claire had told the clerk she wanted the sharpest knife he had in stock. The clerk had sold her a Gerber Mark 11 with a five-inch blade. True to his word, the double edges were razor sharp. She carried that in a sheath, inside the top of her right legging.
Claire wasn’t certain why she had bought the clothing and the knife, but she did know she had a mission. She didn’t know what that mission was, as yet, but it would come to her.
She waited.
She waited for the night. Something was going to happen at night. Something that would change her life. Maybe not this night, but soon. Night.
She waited.
Claire felt . . . different. As if some new strength had suddenly surged through her veins. As if some new purpose, some new meaning for living had manifested itself within her. She felt vital, alive, needed, and important. She knew she was going to be called upon to play some important role—soon.
There was a language in her mind, now. A language she had never studied, had never heard . . . before Monday. Yes. That was when she had discovered the language. And she did not question how it had come to be. It was natural, that was all. As natural as her new mode of dress. She was returning to ...
To what?
No matter. It was right.
A knock on the front door interrupted her mental machinations. She grew very angry at the interruption. She jumped from the chair, ran across the room, and threw open the door.
“Hi, Claire. I . . .” Scott Haswell’s mouth dropped open. He stared open-mouthed at her. “Claire, what in the hell have you done to yourself?” Then he started to laugh.
Claire stood patiently in the doorway, her face impassive. But her thoughts were savage and dark and bloody.
“Jesus Christ, Claire! You look totally stupid!”
Her eyes flamed with heretofore hidden hate. “Is that all you have to say to me, Scott, that I look ridiculous in your eyes?”
“Well,” he said, still chuckling, “no. You might let me in. You might explain why you haven’t been answering your phone. And you might explain why you have suddenly decided to dress up like Pocahontas. How about it, Claire?”
Claire felt the press of the knife inside her legging. Ancient stirrings welled up from deep inside her. Long-dead scenes of dark rituals played through her mind. The screaming and moaning of tortured men echoed in her ears. Savageness built up in her as the breath of Sanjaman blew hotly through her body, ever changing her.
She stepped back and opened the door wider.
As Scott walked past her, she took a quick look up and down the road. Scott had come alone. His car was parked at the side of the house. It could not be seen from the road. No one was in sight. Claire smiled. Claire rented a home outside Sikeston, on a county road off highway 61. The nearest neighbor was a full half mile away.
She closed the door and turned to face the young man she had been seeing for more than a year. The sight of him was offensive to her. She curled her lip in a snarl.
“All right, Claire. What’s with that stupid getup?”
She walked toward him. Her eyes were unusually bright.
The afternoon stretched before the little band gathered at Doctor Jerry Baldwin’s house. Vickie had ceased arguing with Lieutenant Voyles. She no longer knew what to believe; so much had been thrown at her so fast, her mind was still reeling.
Jerry said, “I think we should all stay together from now on. How about it? Let’s have some comments on that.”
“What about the kids?” Janet asked.
“I’ve been giving that some thought, as well,” Jerry said. “With the permission of Marc and Heather, I think they are both about to come down with a very mysterious ailment. They are going to have to be quarantined, by order of the local doctor and with the help of the state police.”
Voyles sighed. “Shoulda been a cop,” he muttered.
“I like it,” Maryruth said. “But where will they be quarantined?”
“Right here,” Jerry said. “Right here in this house.”
“What have they contracted?” Vickie asked. “Let’s work it out.”
“Well, the medical profession isn’t really certain. But it’s going to be highly contagious, whatever it is. It . . .”
Jerry stopped speaking. He stared at Voyles. Large red blotches had appeared on the man’s face.
Voyles met his eyes. “What are you staring at, Doc?”
All heads turned to Voyles.
“Jesus, Dick!” Janet said. “What in the world is that all over your face?”
Voyles looked at her. She looked as though she had suddenly contracted a bad case of chicken pox. He said as much.
Suddenly everyone in the room, except Bud, was scratching. They all shifted in their seats.
“Sit still!” Bud shouted, startling them into a stationary position.
They looked at the old Indian.
“The Manitou is obliging you all. You wanted some mysterious malady. Very well. Now you are experiencing it.”
“Bud!” Leo said, panic in his voice. “What is this stuff all over me?”
“Nothing,” Bud replied. “Your mind has produced some childhood illness. Sanjaman is merely playing with you.”
Heather sat very still. She forced her mind to reject what she was seeing on her arms and bare legs. She concentrated very hard. The splotches began vanishing.
“Force your mind to reject the bumps and marks,” Heather told the group. “It’s working for me.”
Vickie shuddered as she gripped the arms of her chair and forced everything out of her mind except the thought that what she was seeing on her body was not real.
Within seconds, the bumps and blotches were gone from everyone.
“I see it but I don’t believe it,” Vickie said.
“That was a mistake,” Bud softly scolded her.
The blotches reappeared on Vickie’s arms and face.
Vickie closed her eyes and concentrated. I believe it’s happening, she thought. She repeated that over and over in her mind.
She sensed more than felt the marks on her body had gone away.
“I see what you meant ab
out believing,” she said.
“We have won a very small victory,” Bud said. “But in doing so, we have angered the Manitou. Be prepared for anything, for he will vent his rage in some manner. Brace yourselves.”
“What’s going to happen now?” Vickie asked, her eyes wide.
“Only Sanjaman knows,” Bud said.
“I’d give anything for a drink,” Leo said
A bottle of whiskey and a glass appeared on the small table by Leo’s chair.
“Sanjaman knows your weakness,” Bud said. “The rest is up to you.”
Leo’s system was calling out for alcohol. Cold turkey is rough on a young person, but it’s pure hell for an older one who’s been drinking for years.
Leo licked his lips and reached for the bottle. Then jerked his hand away and gripped the arms of the chair.
Laughter echoed through the house.
“You must resist, old friend,” Bud told Leo. “To give in to him means endless servitude.”
Leo wanted a drink so badly his whole body was trembling. He grasped the bottle by the neck, and picked it up.
Everyone in the room was watching his actions.
Leo pulled the bottle to him, looked at it for a few seconds, then savagely hurled it across the room. The bottle shattered against the wall.
“Good man,” Voyles said.
Jerry looked up, his heart hammering. His dead wife had appeared out in the hall. She was naked, floating effortlessly toward him. She held out her arms and called to him.
“Jerry,” Lisa called. “Come to me, Jerry.”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Vickie murmured. She crossed herself.
“Jerry,” Lisa called.
Jerry stared at the misty apparition. He forced himself to remain calm, to slow the hammering of his heart. He stared at his dead wife as she hovered under the archway between the den and the hall.
Slowly, Lisa’s shape began to fade.
Then she was gone.
“The Manitou is testing you all,” Bud told them.
“What would have happened had I gone to Lisa?” Jerry asked.
“You would no longer be with us,” the Indian told him.
“Dick!” a woman’s voice came to Voyles. “Oh, Dick, help me. It hurts, Dick.”
Voyles’s face paled. “That’s my little sister,” he said.
Images appeared by the front door. Images of a naked man and a young girl. The man was raping the girl, laughing at her struggles.
“Shut your eyes,” Jerry told Marc and Heather. “Don’t look at this.”
The kids obeyed him.
“I can’t take it,” Voyles hissed the words.
“You must,” Bud said. “To do otherwise is to die.”
The young girl screamed as the man fully penetrated her. The sounds of his panting were heavy in the shocked silence of the room.
Voyles stared at the awful scene. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He willed the vision to vanish.
Slowly the cries of the young girl and the panting of the man faded.
An old graveyard appeared, like a movie, on the wall of the den. Mountains loomed in the background. Maryruth lifted her eyes to look at the scene.
“I know that area,” Maryruth said. “From . . . a long time ago.”
“When?” Jerry asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever personally been there.”
The ground opened above a grave. A bony hand pushed up the rotted lid of a casket. The skeleton sat up, grinning at Maryruth. He waggled a bony linger at her, beckoning her to him.
“It’s a dream I used to have as a child,” she said. “I remember it now. Go away!” she yelled at the scene on the wall. “I’m not afraid of you.”
The wall returned to normal.
Vickie began praying, her eyes downcast. She was looking at a bloody mass between her feet. She kept repeating: “Oh, God-Oh, God-Oh, God.”
“What is that . . . disgusting thing?” Voyles asked.
“It’s a fetus,” Jerry said. “In its first trimester.”
“I had to do it,” Vickie said. “I was only fourteen years old when that man ... when he raped me. I had no choice in the matter.” She began crying hysterically.
The fetus began moving between her feet.
Bud rose to his feet, walked to the sobbing woman, and slapped her across the face, twice. Her crying abruptly stopped.
“Get a grip on your emotions,” he told her. “It isn’t real. You must will it to go away.”
He returned to his seat and watched and waited.
Vickie forced herself to look at the bloody mass. Slowly, the aborted fetus began to vanish.
“Now you see what I meant about weaknesses,” Bud said. “You are all strong enough to fight them; those serving Sanjaman are not.”
“It is over?” Voyles asked.
“Not yet.”
The evil laughter boomed through the house.
Janet suddenly sat up on the couch, her eyes riveted on the wall opposite her. There, a much younger Janet lay, with a man between her legs. Both Janet and the man were naked. The man ejaculated, rose from the bed, and laid some bills on a nightstand. Then he dressed and quickly left the small bedroom.
Janet rose from Voyles’s side and walked to the wall. She faced the sobbing young woman who now had her face pressed against a pillow.
“After my parents were killed,” Janet said. “I was flat broke. They had absolutely no insurance. I was a freshman at college. This guy talked me into doing that. It was my first and last time as a hooker. I got a job as a waitress the next day, working the night shift. Now you get this goddanmed disgusting scene away from me.”
The wall went blank.
“People do what they have to do, Janet,” Voyles said. “You faced it down, so we’ll forget it, O.K.?”
She turned and looked at the big cop. “You’re all right, Dick.”
He rose from the couch, walked to her, and kissed her.
Then, embarrassed by this out-of-character action, Voyles broke it off and said, “That thing has touched everyone in here except the kids and Bud. What happens to them?”
“Nothing,” Bud replied, “They are innocent. But it is far from over. The Manitou has reached the peak of his strength. He can now do anything he wishes. Be ready.”
The laughter began once more, its dark, ominous sound rolling through the house. The laughter was touched with madness. Jerry said as much, speaking over the roar.
“Yes,” Bud said. “Sanjaman is quite insane.”
Suddenly the house began shaking. It shook as though it were a toy in the hands of an outraged child. The people were thrown to the floor, literally lifted from their seats and hurled about like dolls. The windows began shattering, exploding like bombs. Deadly shards of glass flew in all directions. Chairs began spinning around and around, like awkward tops twirled by idiots. Crazy laughter roared through the house, the sound almost deafening.
“Grab something and hang on!” Voyles shouted. He grabbed Janet around the waist and pulled her to him.
Jerry grabbed Marc and Bud pulled Heather to him.
“I’m scared, Mr. Bud!” Heather cried out.
“I shall protect you,” Bud said—and then thought: As much as I can, as much as my power will allow.
The Manitou laughed at that.
Coffee cups and glasses from the kitchen sailed up the hall and into the den, smashing against the walls and narrowly missing the people.
The house began bouncing from left to right, rocking on its foundation. The front door broke free of its hinges and slammed onto the foyer floor. The fireplace disintegrated, sending bricks rocketing about the room, slamming against walls and covering everyone with dust.
The porch collapsed with a mighty crash, the support posts smashing through the front wall of the once expensive house.
Then it was over.
The silence was almost as bad as the violence that had raged for several minutes.
“Everybody all right?” Jerry called, sitting up and brushing dirt from his clothing.
“O.K. here,” Voyles called.
“We’re all right,” Bud called.
Jerry looked around him. The damage was almost beyond belief. It looked as though a tornado had struck.
“This area is on a fault,” Vickie said, speaking from her sitting-up position on the littered floor. “We were in an earthquake, that’s all. I can’t explain all those . . . other things.”
“Other things!” Heather blurted. “Earthquake? No, ma’am. I don’t believe that was any earthquake.”
“Neither do I,” Bud said. “In fact, I know it wasn’t.”
“Come here, Vickie,” Voyles said, standing by a shattered window facing the street.
Vickie crawled awkwardly to her feet and walked to Voyles, her shoes crunching on the broken glass that glistened like diamonds on the floor of the den.
A man was walking up the sidewalk, in the direction of town. Voyles pointed him out to Vickie and called through the broken window. “Good evening, sir. How do you do?”
“Very well, thank you,” the man replied. He stopped and looked directly at the ruined house. “Rather warm today, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is, sir. Was that a little tremor we had a few minutes ago?”
The man wore a puzzled look. “Tremor? Why . . . no, sir. I didn’t feel a thing.”
“I must have been mistaken,” Voyles called. “You have a nice day, sir.”
“Thank you, I shall,” the stroller said. “And the same to you, sir.”
“B-but . . .” Vickie stammered. She shook her head. “This . . . I mean, every window in this house is smashed. The porch has collapsed. There is glass and brick all over the yard. The house is leaning! That man, he ... didn’t even notice it.”
“He is in what you people call a time-warp,” Bud explained patiently, as if lecturing before a group of very stupid children. “Time—as you know it—has stopped for him. Everything he sees is what he viewed last week. A horse could drop dead in front of him and he would merely step around it, subconsciously seeing the dead animal, but not consciously aware of it. He cannot help us or hurt us.”
Sweet Dreams Page 18