The Wicked
Page 30
His catch of the night (what was the guy’s name again? he was pretty sure it started with a “G,” Glen or something) followed close behind, his fancy shoes making soft scuffling noises on the wet cobblestone walk. A light, early-morning rain hissed on the asphalt behind them and in the trees surrounding Paul’s massive home. Paul looked back at the other man, winked at him as they entered the house, and Glen nervously returned his smile. The guy was wound tight. He’d been that way the whole drive home. It was obvious this sort of thing was new to him.
Paul chuckled under his breath as he ushered the other man through the foyer. “Lemme show you around, maybe we’ll get a fire going a little later. I can’t wait to take advantage of you.”
“Promises, promises,” Glen replied, but he spoke so softly Paul barely even heard him, and his voice cracked as he said it.
—
“Holy crap,” Glen said, taken aback by it all. “Is that—no way! That cannot be an original...?”
“Wouldn’t be hanging there if it wasn’t.” With a wave, Paul dismissed the object of the other man’s attention, as if the hundred-thousand-dollar painting were nothing more than a child’s scribble, something thrown together with crayons and construction paper. “Forget about that. It’s nothing. Follow me...there’s something really cool I wanna show you.”
Glen’s mouth hung open (keep that up, you’re gonna draw flies, Paul felt like telling him). He was obviously struck speechless as they moved deeper into the mansion. Paul couldn’t blame him. The place was amazing. Crystal chandeliers, winding staircases, works of art that put the first one Glen had admired to shame. When they had first pulled up in Paul’s Mazarati, Glen had remarked that he felt like he just stepped into Gone With the Wind. He wasn’t the first to say such a thing, and Paul had promised him, “Honey, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Glen swallowed loudly as they walked down a plush-carpeted hallway lined with golden sconces shaped like muscular nudes, both male and female.
“Jesus. This is really something. What did you say you do for a living?”
“I guess you could say...I’m independently wealthy.” Paul shrugged nonchalantly as he led the way deeper into the heart of the manor.
“Ah.”
The men walked down a wide corridor that seemed to go on forever. Glen held his hand out before himself, feeling his way through the darkness using the back of Paul’s silk shirt as his guide.
“Could we maybe turn on some lights?”
“Shh. It’s not much further now, I promise.”
At last, they came to a large black door. Paul searched on his key-ring for the right key.
“If you have to know, Gary—”
“It’s Glen.”
“Right. Glen. Sorry. If you have to know, I inherited this place from my folks. They were self-made millionaires—my dad was into software, videogames, crap like that. They died in a car accident when I was thirteen.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
Glen reached out to touch Paul’s shoulder, but Paul moved away, pushing open the big black door and stepping into the room.
“Don’t be,” he said, inviting Glen inside the room. “On my eighteenth birthday, everything you see became mine.”
Finally, he turned on some lights. As if this were the only room in the manor that deserved them.
“Welcome to my favorite place in the universe. Well? What do you think?”
All Glen could say was: “Wow.”
—
The room took up at least a thousand square feet, and hardly an inch of the maroon-carpeted wall-space lay bare.
A multitude of glassy eyes stared the two men down. Animal heads were mounted everywhere, along with entire bodies stuffed to perfection, trophies as if from some insane taxidermist’s fantasy of paradise. Here were dozens of deer, elk, antelope, and caribou...a gray wolf, frozen in time as it howled at the moon...a sullen-looking moose...and a zebra. There was a huge black bear...a grinning crocodile...a slender heron with a fish in its beak...a shaggy mountain goat standing atop a slab of faux mountainside built into one wall...and a gorgeous bald eagle perched on a petrified tree-stump. In one corner a family of lions—two adults and an albino cub—cuddled together. Just inside the doorway a massive rhinoceros head glared at Glen as if he were the culprit for its condition.
“You, uh, don’t exactly strike me as the ‘hunter’ type.” Glen barely spoke above a whisper, as if this were a sacred place. As if anything louder would have been forbidden.
“Most of this was my old man’s stuff,” Paul explained. “He traveled constantly, when he wasn’t working. Kenya, the Rockies, you name it. All over the world. He really got into that shit.”
“I’ll say.” Glen nodded dumbly as he took it all in...
Each specimen was identified by a shiny gold nameplate beneath it, a plaque inscribed with the animal’s scientific name: Ursidae Carnivora, Aquila Accipitridae, Equidae Burcheli, Perrisodanctyl Rthinocerotidae, and on and on...
There were surely a hundred of them in that room—at least a hundred.
But the single trophy that demanded Glen’s attention above all else, the creature he slowly approached as Paul led the way, grinning with pride...was the boar’s head centered along the far wall.
The thing was enormous.
The boar’s great cranium was easily seven or eight times the size of most in its species. Its tusks were longer than the legs of most adult humans, and its glassy black eyes were as large as softballs. Its coarse brown fur was matted with mud, leaves, and dead insects.
The plaque beneath the boar’s head was inscribed not with the animal’s Latin name, but a single word in bold capital letters: LAMMASHTA.
Glen and Paul stood before the beast.
“Jesus Christ,” said Glen. “Where in the world did your dad bag that thing?”
“Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Beautiful? Not the word I would have chosen. God, it’s ugly.”
Paul shifted his weight from one foot to the other, shot what might have been an uneasy glance at the boar.
He cleared his throat and said, “To answer your question, my father didn’t ‘bag’ this one, actually. I did. Two years ago. Not far from here. Out near where the old children’s hospital used to be.”
“Oh. So you do hunt?”
“No. Well...sometimes. Not really. See, it’s...hmm...it’s kind of a funny story. She was an accident.”
“‘She?’”
Paul again eyed the boar as he spoke. He pinched nervously at his lower lip with two perfectly-manicured fingers. “I...I hit her with my car.”
“Ouch. This thing must have totaled your ride.”
“She did. Almost totaled me.”
Glen frowned, watched Paul, waiting for further explanation.
Paul seemed lost in deep thought.
Neither man said anything for several long, awkward seconds.
Then, Paul said softly, “She talks to me sometimes, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said...sometimes she talks to me.”
Glen slowly shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
Paul’s face was serious. He wasn’t joking. He stared into the boar’s dead black eyes, his head slightly tilted as if in reverence.
“It...talks to you?” said Glen.
“She. Yes.” Paul reached out to him. “Here...why don’t you step over here. Stand next to her. I want you to see her up close.”
“What? No thanks.”
“Come here.” Paul’s tone was impatient now. “Don’t be shy.”
“Paul—”
“You really should see her up close.”
“Look,” Glen said, “I’m starting to think this wasn’t such a good idea...”
“No,” said Paul. His bright blue eyes had grown cold and strangely distant. “That’s not true. This was a very good idea.”
And with that Paul pulled the long, silver blade from a secret nich
e hidden in the boar’s massive neck. A makeshift pocket designed for holding the weapon.
“What the fuck? What are you—”
In a single swift movement, Paul turned, slitting Glen’s throat from ear to ear without a sound.
He stood back, watched the other man die with a sad little smile on his face.
Glen made violent gurgling noises as his limbs flailed about and his blood soaked into the carpet.
After a minute or so, it was over.
Paul bent, kissed the corpse’s forehead. “Thank you.”
He hefted the body up on his shoulders, grunting beneath its weight.
“The sacrifice is made,” he said to the boar, his voice raised but his tone solemn in respect for his hairy idol. “Please offer up thy wisdom. Speak to me now...O’ mighty Lammashta, minion of Moloch.”
He leaned over, allowed Glen’s still-dripping blood to pool into the gargantuan boar’s slightly-parted mouth.
After only a minute or two, the blood began to disappear. It gradually soaked into the creature’s coarse pink tongue. Until the puddle was completely gone.
The boar began to speak to Paul then. Its voice filled his head, and at the same time vibrated through the foundation of the mansion. Yet its mouth, as always, never moved.
SO IT IS DONE. ONCE AGAIN, THY LOYALTY SHALL BE REWARDED. WHAT DOTH THOU WISH TO ASK OF LAMMASHTA?
The voice was a bizarre marriage of silk-smooth femininity and, simultaneously, a deep, demonic growl. Like two entities speaking at once. Perhaps more. It never failed to send chills up and down Paul’s spine, to stipple his forearms with goosebumps.
“Thank you, great Lammashta.” Paul swallowed loudly, took a step toward her. “If I may, I wish to inquire once again about the stock market.”
ALWAYS WITH THE STOCK MARKET. VERY WELL. ASK, AND YOU SHALL RECEIVE.
“Someone suggested Blair Pharmaceuticals. And I’ve heard good things as well about Pertwee and Saint. Tell me, mighty Lammastha...what should I do? Are these worthy investments?”
The boar was silent for a minute or more. As if she were considering his questions carefully.
Paul was patient. He knew she would reply. She always did.
PERTWEE AND SAINT SHALL PLUMMET WITHIN THE YEAR. ALL IS WELL FOR NOW, BUT MANY WILL SEE FINANCIAL RUIN.
“Very well. And Blair?”
FROM BLAIR PHARMACEUTICALS THOU SHALT PROFIT GREATLY. DO NOT HESITATE. ACT NOW, AND REAP GREAT REWARDS.
“Wonderful! Thank you, beautiful Lammashta. For everything. I am humbled by your wisdom. You are truly great.”
LAMMASHTA IS GREAT.
“We will speak again, within the year.”
The boar spoke one last time, and her parting advice to Paul was the same as it always was: FOR LAMMASHTA’S WISDOM, THOU SHALT BRING SACRIFICE. NEVER FORGET THIS. NOW GO, MAN-CHILD...FOR THAT IS ALL.
The room grew silent once again. Only the distant sound of the rain, like the whispers of lost children in the woods, could be heard upon the roof above Paul’s head.
The young man nodded, grinning widely. He let a high-pitched, almost girlish twitter slip out of him, covered his mouth, but another followed. He could not help himself. Things just kept getting better. Never again would he know the melancholy existence that had been his poverty-stricken childhood. Never again would he know what it was like to “go without.”
He was better than that. From now on he would always be better than that, thanks to mighty Lammashta, minion of Moloch.
Finished with the task at hand, Paul carried Glen’s corpse down into the bowels of the manor, down a winding flight of stairs lit by flickering torchlight, until he reached a secret chamber constructed entirely of stone. His soft grunts beneath the corpse’s weight echoed about the high rock walls of the place, and from somewhere in the darkness water dripped constantly, as if he were exploring the cold, dark stomach of some ancient, sleeping leviathan.
Paul wasted no time in disposing of the body, tossing it into a pitch-black pit at the bottom of the stairs.
He felt a chill, but grinned nonetheless as the dead man tumbled into the abyss.
They were all so gullible. They deserved to die. Take this guy Glen. Such a fool, lured in by his own libido like a fish lured to a worm. All too easy. Truth told, Paul wasn’t even gay. Hell, he wasn’t entirely sure he was hetero, for that matter. He often thought the best word to describe himself might have been asexual.
Because the only thing he had ever truly cared about was money. Material possessions.
And Lammashta, she did provide.
He listened, waited to hear the body hit the bottom. Of course, the sound never came.
He wondered briefly how many lay down there...how many had amassed, rotting, somewhere deep down in the earth.
And how many more were still to come? How many until Paul was truly where he wanted to be, till he was satisfied that he possessed everything he had always desired?
He started back up the stone staircase, thinking about all she had done for him.
Oh, how he loved her.
One day he would show her the extent of his love.
Because Paul knew, somehow—although she had never said as much, not yet, he simply knew—that one day this would not be enough for her. There would come a time when sweet Lammashta would demand more from him.
And he would have no choice but to obey.
On that date, Morganville would know true tragedy. Again.
JAMES NEWMAN lives in the mountains of North Carolina with his wife, their two sons, and two Chihuahuas. His published works include the novels Midnight Rain and Animosity, the short-story collection People Are Strange, and the novellas The Forum, Revenge Flick! and Olden. When he's not writing, James enjoys horror films, loud rock ‘n’ roll, and UNC Tarheels basketball. He is currently finishing up his latest novel, a tale of “white-trash noir” called Ugly As Sin.
FULL TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
Foreword
by Mark Allan Gunnells
Prelude
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
PART TWO
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
PART THREE
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
&n
bsp; Chapter 71
Epilogue
SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES (AGAIN)
Afterword
by James Newman
BONUS STORY
The Boaracle
by James Newman
Digital Edition Copyright © 2012 by Shock Totem Publications, LLC.