He climbs the familiar branches of the familiar tree, the mewing bundle strapped to his side.
The nest: tiny bleached skulls, bones, the new offering.
“I was trying to tell you, Rachael,” he whispers, as he places the child in the nest. “But you wouldn’t listen. Now it’s too late. He twists his body, falling forward, arms outstretched; a perfect swan dive toward the dark forest floor. Eagles pounce, shrieking.
Rachael exits the house on a run, screams echoing across calm water: “BILLY! Dear God, somebody help me! BILLLLLY . . . !”
DARKNESS
It’s all yours now. You own it. . .
The man did not know what that phrase meant any more than he had four days ago when he had come awake in the woods injured and afraid with it cycling through his head.
It’s all yours now. You own it. . .
He raised his head up and sniffed the air. For one brief moment of pure exaltation he thought he smelled smoke. He tried to scream into the forest but he was weak and the sound that it made choked in his throat and died there.
He sagged down onto the old railroad bed and sobbed. It had been too good to be true. The wonderfully sweet aroma of wood smoke was now gone, if it had ever been there in the first place.
The wind was moving in the trees and the sound it made was similar to that of a rushing stream. Another of nature’s tricks. The wilderness was rife with them. There was no reason to anything here. He was lost in a lost world where rationality had taken a permanent vacation. He would most likely die out here in this great chameleon forest where unspeakable shapes roamed, where the unimaginable could materialize at any moment and become tangible, where creatures of wickedness and dread would swiftly rip the flesh from ones bones, feast on it, and leave the rotted remains for vultures and worms. There was no discrimination out here, no distinction between man and beast, good and evil. It was the ultimate class system. The fit survived, the weak simply did not. It would be easier to put a gun to one’s own head and pull the trigger. Certainly more humane. If only he had a gun.
He limped his way along an abandoned railroad spur, giant trees towering above him, his right hand plastered over the infected wound in his side.
He stole uneasy glances over his shoulder.
Nightfall was imminent.
The prospect terrified him.
He feared the night even more than he feared death.
He had no idea how long he’d been in the wilderness or how he’d gotten here. He did not know his name, where he had come from or where he was going. He only knew that he had come awake in the woods four days ago injured and afraid.
He was wearing running shoes, blue jeans, and a short-sleeved sweatshirt that said Los Angeles Lakers on it. The once white sweatshirt was now filthy with mud and blood, there was a deep puncture wound in his side and his feet were swollen and aching. His jeans were torn in several places revealing long gashes in both his legs.
He carried no identification. In his pocket he had discovered a butane cigarette lighter. There were no cigarettes. He could not remember if he smoked.
He had a dim memory of some sort of tragedy, but every time he tried to focus on it his head would ache violently.
He assumed the worse, of course. He was probably a madman running from the law, guilty of some heinous crime. It was the only thing that made sense. How else could he explain his predicament? He was experiencing an insidious breakdown of all normal sensory perceptions. Rabbits had become wolves, deer had become mountain lions . . . and . . . there was something else out here stalking him, he was certain of it, something he did not want to think about, but in the terrible darkness of night he was unable to think of little else.
“I’m cracked!” he moaned. “Loony tunes! Toys in the attic!” And although a part of him still retained a measure of rationality he understood that most of his sanity had deserted him just as surely as rats desert a sinking ship. How else could the dead become the living? How, other than in the exclusive community of true madness could one actually believe that the dead stand right up and walk?
But how could he know the woman was dead?
How did he know the woman?
Somehow he did.
Maybe he knew her from the dreams. Dreams he believed happened as much from sleep born out of exhaustion and infection, as madness. Dreams where the thing he saw wasn’t the walking dead; it was somehow worse than the walking dead. In some of the dreams the demon woman was so close he could actually feel her hot, prickly breath on his face and smell the raging decay of dead flesh. They were dreams from which he would wake with a searing scream stuck in his throat like a red hot poker.
He walked all day long, every day. He wasn’t sleeping much. The nightmares would wake him before dawn and he would start a small fire with dry twigs and crouch there by it shivering and sobbing until it was light enough for him to walk again.
His rational mind, what was left of it, did not want to believe that the woman was real, but what were the alternatives? He had seen her in the night bathed ghostly in the flickering shadows of his campfire, gesturing for him to follow her. Her face was sunken and destroyed, covered in specks of blood. She was nearly naked; what was left of her clothing appeared to be torn and burned, the flesh beneath scorched red. The eyes that burned out of that ruined face were the eyes of a tormented thing. They were filled with so much hellish malevolence that if you stared into them long enough you would almost certainly go . . . well . . . go, he reasoned, where he’d already gone. Stark-raving, rubber-room mad. Mad beyond one’s wildest nightmares. Somewhere on the flip side of loony tunes.
He lifted his face up to the sky and howled like a wounded animal. “Come and get me, you dead bitch!” he screamed. “Show yourself in the daylight. I fucking dare you!” But of course she didn’t come. She only came at night. And in amongst the hysteria he realized that he was weeping again. He fell to his knees, his fists pressed to his mouth as great alligator tears coursed down his cheeks. He wondered how long he had been like this, and he guessed probably from the beginning. Whenever and wherever the beginning had been.
He felt oddly hollow, as if he’d suffered some great loss. It was a predilection that seemed to reach far beyond his present circumstance, an emptiness that tormented his insides like a great hunger.
It’s all yours now. You own it. . .
That phrase surfaced in his mind again, but he had no idea what it meant. Whenever he tried to focus on his circumstances, the phrase always answered him back, and it was always accompanied by a headache so severe he was certain his skull would crack open and his brain would leak out.
It’s all yours now. You own it. . .
He groaned softly. Unconsciously he fingered the ring that hung on a gold chain around his neck.
The old railroad spur with the rusted rails and the rotted ties stretched through the wilderness like a dead umbilical. He had been lucky to discover it. Or so he kept telling himself. Even though it was obvious that trains no longer ran here, it gave him an unobstructed path on which to proceed and a small glimmer of hope on which to focus his thoughts. Something other than that hellish forest where cedar swamps threatened to swallow you whole and mosquitoes and black flies sucked the very life blood out of you. The rails had become, in some small way, a bastion of sanity in an otherwise insane situation. He kept telling himself that eventually they would lead somewhere, even as his rational mind told him that wasn’t necessarily so. There were lots of old spurs that had once led into mining country and towns that were now abandoned. Although he was fairly certain that he was in the United States, he had no idea what state this could be. When he’d stumbled across the tracks he’d had two choices: west or east. He’d chosen west for no other reason than . . . what? What was the reason he’d chosen west? He could not remember now.
He got to his feet, swayed dizzily and nearly fell over. Darkness was close and promising and once again he became aware of the faint scent of wood smoke, and along with it,
a small, dim hope arose.
The smell triggered something else within him, however. It filled him with thoughts of death which seemed to trigger a vague recollection of conflagration.
It’s all yours now. You own it. . .
He groaned. What the hell did that mean?
A puff of wind swirled around him, carrying away the odor of wood smoke. The forest became still. He stood like a statue, keenly aware of some foreign presence. The hair lifted on his arms and he was aware of a tingling sensation on the back of his neck, like hot breath whispered from a dank mouth. The fetid odor of decay suddenly invaded his olfactory sense.
“Oh, Jesus, no,” he whispered. Like a fool he had invited her and now she was here. He spun around and stumbled to his knees. Blood pounded in his temples and his heart fluttered shallowly. There was nobody there, of course. Nobody he could see, at least. He suspected she had been there, however, somehow, and she was playing with him, taunting him, trying to drive him mad. He stayed on his knees for a long time, but now he could no longer sense her. Struggling to his feet he nearly screamed at the searing pain in his side.
He needed to eat. Painful as it was to forage food in his condition he knew that if he did not get something substantial in his stomach he would die, and soon.
The wind came up again, lasting longer than before, swirling around his feet and legs like ghostly fingers. When the gust ended abruptly, night was coming down and the forest seemed to have been left in a vacuum, as though the departing turbulence had taken with it every wisp of breathable air.
He left the railroad bed and stumbled down into the dark wood. For days he had stayed alive on plants and bugs and stagnant water. Amazing what one will eat, and drink, when the prospect of starvation looms. Two days past he’d gotten hold of something bad, however; perhaps it had been the swamp water, and had nearly shit himself to death. There was a part of him that wished he had died.
In the days since starting his journey he’d come across an abundance of small animals, but did not have the speed or the skills to catch one. In his fevered dreams they seemed to morph into other more menacing creatures which usually signaled the arrival of the demon woman. He wasn’t sure he could go through another night of terror like he’d experienced last night. He’d build a big fire tonight, stay awake for as long as possible and keep feeding it. Perhaps that would keep her at bay.
After searching he found enough bitter roots and green edible plants to sustain him for another night. After choking them down he went about the task of gathering firewood. It was easy, there hadn’t been any rain in days and the forest was dry. It offered up an abundance of deadfalls and more than enough dry leaves and twigs to kindle them. He worked for nearly an hour, deciding that he would build this night’s fire directly on top of the railroad bed. If a plane happened over perhaps its occupants would spot the fire and send rescuers.
Later he sat shivering by the fire. Even though the days were hot, the forest was cold at night. The stars above him were clear and bright, like cold diamond chips, and with every breath he took a cloud of white vapor puffed from his mouth. The forest was alive with its usual night noises: peeping tree frogs, distant coyotes howling at the moon, owls hooting, whippoorwills calling forlornly. Well into the night, however, he realized that he had not gathered enough wood to last until dawn. And he was afraid to go searching in the dark. Besides, he was weary with fatigue and the pain in his side was stiffening him to the point of immobility. Perhaps the demon woman would leave him alone tonight. This was his final thought as his eyes closed and he slumped forward in unconsciousness.
It’s all yours now. You own it. . .
He awoke with a start, panic causing his heart to hammer with adrenaline. He was lying on his side beside the dead fire. The night was still and quiet, and numbingly cold. He was shivering, his teeth clacking together. Nothing stirred, not even a breeze. The insects and animals had all ceased their gossip. It was as if the forest was holding its breath. The air around him seemed suddenly charged with electric energy, however. He felt hot breath on the back of his neck, screamed and twisted around trying to sit up. The searing pain in his side caused him to scream again.
It was the woman, or what was left of her, standing not six paces away. There was a glow about her, like phosphorescence, illuminating her grisly corruption in acute detail.
“Who are you?” the man asked, as his clawing hands and digging feet tried to put distance between him and the nightmare. “Please, tell me what you want.”
“You know what I want.”
“No,” the man said, shaking his head.
“You used to like my hot breath on your neck. You used to like it on your nipples, too, and down there.” The demon woman pointed a waxy-looking hand at his groin.
“No,” he said again. “You’re lying. I don’t know you.”
“Are you quite certain of that?”
He gave his head an emphatic nod.
“All right then,” she said. “You want to play games. I’ll play.” She fell to her hands and knees and began stalking slowly toward the injured man, halfway between a seductress and a beast. “You’re going to die out here, you know,” she said. “You’re going to die again and again and again. How do you like that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She moved closer. “Come here, I’ll show you.”
“What are you doing? Stay back.”
“I want you to look me in the eye when you lie to me.”
“I’m not lying!” he insisted. “I told you, I don’t know you.”
“Yes, I know that’s what you said.”
“Well, why don’t you believe me?”
The woman-thing stalked closer. “Because I know better.”
“If you know me then tell me who I am. Tell me who you are and why we’re here.”
She laughed and stood up. “Come, I’ll show you.”
“No.”
“Suit yourself. Do you want to wander forever and never know?”
“Will knowing get me out of this place?”
“Probably not.”
“Then why should I—?”
“Trust me, knowing is better.”
“I’m afraid.”
“I know. I’m glad. That puncture wound in your side is infected. I can smell the decay. You know how you got it?”
He shook his head.
“I do.” She crooked her finger again in that odd way. “Come, I’ll show you.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“I think you can.” She turned and began moving down the tracks. He watched her go. In some strange way he did not want to lose her. He was lonely. Yes, her appearance was unpleasant but at least she was someone to talk to. And she hadn’t tried to hurt him.
He began moving after her. He saw her far down the tracks, green and ghostly against the approaching dawn. His side ached beyond pain. His body felt like it was on fire. No matter, he wanted to catch her, so he upped his pace wincing with each step he took.
She stopped and turned toward him. “Hurry,” she called, then turned back around and continued on.
“Wait,” he said. “Where do these tracks lead?”
“They don’t lead anywhere,” came her wistful reply.
They walked for what seemed a very long time. By the time she left the tracks and headed down into the woods the sun had begun to rise. He followed.
A little further on he realized that he’d come this way before, perhaps on several different occasions, for he crossed over a swampy area that looked familiar and he saw several sets of tracks. When he compared his shoe print to a particularly well preserved specimen he was convinced.
Christ, he thought. I’ve been walking in circles.
Presently he began to see that areas of the forest were scorched. He wondered if there had been a recent fire. Up ahead in a large clearing the demon-woman stopped. When he caught up to her he saw the wreckage of a medium-sized jet aircraft, twist
ed and blackened by fire, and realized that the clearing was only there because the aircraft had taken out trees upon its contact with the earth.
“Well, at least that answers the question of how I got here,” he said to himself. “Must have been in an airplane crash.” But the more he surveyed the wreckage the more he realized that no one could possibly have gotten out of that mess alive.
“Now you get it, don’t you,” said the woman.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m beginning to see.”
“But you still don’t know why, do you?”
He shook his head.
“Let me refresh your memory. We were on our way to Lake Tahoe from Los Angeles. Or rather you were. You didn’t know I was on board. It was then that I confronted you with the affair.”
“Affair? I don’t understand. Who are you? Who am I?”
“You see that ring around your neck?”
He reached up and touched it.
It’s all yours now. You own it. . .
“You never would wear it on your finger. Instead you put it on that chain and you’d tuck it under your shirts. I guess you were ashamed. I don’t know. Why would somebody marry a person they were ashamed of? Maybe for money, huh?”
“No,” he said, backing away.
“But I knew the moment you began the affair. You thought I was stupid? I could smell her on you. You were going to leave me for her and I couldn’t allow that to happen.”
He was beginning to remember now. It had been just the two of them on the plane. He and Daphne. But she wasn’t supposed to have been there. She’d snuck on and had waited in the aft section until they were airborne. He was supposed to meet his lover in Tahoe, and he wasn’t just planning to leave Daphne . . . he and his lover were going to . . . kill . . . oh, God, could he really have been that heartless? They were going to make it look like an accident. That way he’d have all her money. But somehow Daphne had found out. When she’d come up behind him holding the gun to his head he knew it was over. No amount of explaining had been enough to quell her anger or change her mind. Her intent was to take them both down in a blaze of glory.
Feast of Fear Page 5