by Joshi, S. T
At that moment, Madame Jechiel appeared from the rear of the gallery to greet them. She took Evelyn’s hand. “My dear. So nice to see you again.”
She was dressed entirely in black, with her graying hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her eyes were shadowed in dark make-up.
“This is Philip Dexter,” Evelyn stated. “He’s a writer.”
“Ah, yes. I have read some of your work, Mr. Dexter. You are, one might say, an enemy of the supernatural.”
Philip smiled. “You might say that.”
“He wants to ask you a question,” Evelyn said, glancing at Philip.
“Regarding what?” Madame Jechiel was suddenly guarded, crossing her arms.
“Regarding Alex Court,” Philip replied.
“Yes. Of course.” The dark woman nodded. “I have several works of his here at the gallery. Are you interested in a purchase?”
“What I’m interested in is information. From what Mrs. Court has told me, he made you a special promise. I’d like to know what it was.”
Her face tightened. “That was a personal matter between us. It doesn’t concern you. Or her.”
Philip put his hand up, silencing the older woman. “Mrs. Court believes her husband is alive, that she’s seen him.”
Madame Jechiel stared at them. “In his studio?”
Philip’s tone was sharp. “How did you know where she saw him?”
Her reply was measured. “I know he often worked there. Perhaps his presence remains.”
“No presence,” declared Philip. “She saw a real man.”
“An interloper perhaps,” the old woman replied, looking away.
“That’s what I thought. Now, I’m not so sure. Then there’s the matter of the ring you gave him.”
Jechiel looked visibly shaken. “What do you know about the ring?”
Philip regarded the woman, stroking his chin in thought. “Enough to make me wonder why you gave it to him.”
“That’s my personal business!” Madame Jechiel was getting agitated. Evelyn put a restraining hand on Philip’s shoulder.
“Does your interest in the occult have something to do with the ring and the promise Court made to you?” Dexter asked, his tone softer.
Madame Jechiel looked at him, then said: “Let me warn you, Mr. Dexter, you are entering dangerous territory.”
“Dangerous to whom?”
“To you both! Now go. Leave my gallery. And beware!”
“Of what?” Philip asked.
The old woman smiled.
* * *
Outside, in the station wagon, Philip tented his fingers in thought. “What was that all about?”
Evelyn sat looking from the passenger side window. Finally, she said: “I really don’t know.”
Philip started the car, and they drove away from Madame Jechiel’s in silence. Then: “Do you have the key to your husband’s studio?”
“It’s in my purse.”
“Okay. I want to have a look inside the place. We might find something that will shed some light on this whole weird business.” He saw that she was trembling.
“I don’t want to go back there,” she said.
Dexter glanced over at her. “I understand, but my going in alone wouldn’t do any good. You’re the only one who knows the place. You know what to look for if something unusual is going on.”
She looked at him. “I’m afraid, Philip.”
“Don’t be. I have a gun. I’ll take it along.” He paused. “Just in case.”
* * *
They reached the studio shortly after sunset. It started to rain as Evelyn keyed open the padlock and they entered. The long room was draped in shadows and dust. Her flashlight beam swept the area: Alex Court’s sculptures stood along each wall, draped in white drop cloths like ghostly sentinels. The studio was ominous, with only the sound of raindrops breaking the silence.
“When you came here that night, did you get a chance to check the place out?” Philip asked, his voice loud in the quiet room.
“No,” Evelyn replied. “I was barely inside the door when I saw Alex. That’s when I ran.”
Philip moved to a darkened corner of the studio near a dirt-grimed window. “Was it still locked from the inside?”
“Yes. I had to break the inside lock.” She swept the beam toward the door. They moved deeper into the studio.
Outside, the storm had increased to a heavy downpour; rain battered the glass, intensified by a strong wind.
“Shine the light over here,” said Philip.
Her flashlight illumined the area he was standing in as Philip pulled the dropcloth from a particularly massive figure. “What the Hell is this?”
“I—I don’t know,” Evelyn replied. “I’ve never seen it before.”
The colossal figure was incredible: more than fifteen feet tall and heavily muscled, it had multiple insect-like appendages sprouting from its malformed alien body. The brutal visage was little more than a nightmarish, vertically gaping maw, not unlike a vagina. The waxen skin had numerous strange textures and openings adorning it, and there were two protrusions under the twisted mouth that appeared to be crude eye sockets. Several hook-fingered hands ended the multiple arms.
“It’s … horrible!” murmured Evelyn. “Like a nightmare come to life!”
“Have you ever seen your husband sculpt anything like this?” Philip asked, looking over at her.
“Never.” She shuddered.
Philip circled the massive sculpture. “Why would Court ever create such a thing?” He reached up to the clay figure’s shoulder, pinching off a small portion. He rolled the small lump in his fingers. “This clay …”
“What about it?”
“It’s damp. Someone’s been working on this thing.” He examined the sculpting tools on Court’s worktable, picking up a flask of red liquid. “Looks like … blood! Why would Court need blood?”
“Let’s leave, Philip!” Even in the dim light, Philip could see that the woman was frightened.
He ripped off a strip of cloth, dipping it into the flask. “I’m going to have this analyzed, find out what—”
A rustling sound near the opposite window drew his attention. Pulling the .45 automatic from his belt, Philip spun around to face the noise as Evelyn screamed.
In the wavering light, the manic figure of Alex Court—fierce-eyed, crouched, menacing—leaped out of the darkness. Lightning flashed outside, highlighting the lurid scene.
With a guttural cry, Court rushed at them.
“The door! Out!” Philip shouted, triggering the .45—but the bullets had no effect. Retreating from the hunched man, Philip tipped over another heavy sculpture, trying to knock Court off-stride as they run for the exit.
They left the building and ran for the house as the heavy rain slashed at them. As they were about to reach the garage, Evelyn slipped on the wet grass, falling to the soggy earth. “We’ll never make it! He’s faster than we are!”
“Keep going!” Philip yelled, grabbing her arm and pulling her up.
Reaching the garage, he kicked open the side door leading into the structure and they piled into the Mercedes parked inside. Locking the doors, Evelyn jabbed in the ignition key, twisting it, but the cold engine was slow to respond. It started, then died. Again.
“He’s coming!” Evelyn shrieked, beginning to panic.
Philip reloaded the handgun. “Keep working it!” he shouted from the passenger’s seat.
The starter whined … and the sliding garage door slowly opened: Court was pulling it up, trying to get in.
The car engine burst to life as Court’s rancorous face filled her side window. Shattering the glass with a bony hand, he yanked the door off the car. Tossing it away, he reached up ready to smash Evelyn’s skull—
“Go, go, go!” Philip yelled.
Evelyn jabbed her foot down hard on the gas pedal and the big Mercedes surged forward, smashing through the half-raised sliding door.
“You need rest,” Phili
p said to her as they spiraled down the twisting Bel Air road toward Sunset Boulevard. “We’ll drop you off at a motel. Obviously, you can’t stay at the house. Then I’m going to the police.”
She nodded, numb and shaking as she drove into the darkness.
* * *
Sheriff Ben Hartley leaned back in his swivel chair. He was in his late forties, balding, with a swell of gut above his belt. He squinted at Philip Dexter. “And you’re telling me that the man who attacked you was Alex Court?”
“I know that face. Court was on the cover of Time last year. It was him. No doubt about it.”
“And Mrs. Court also believes it was actually her husband?”
“That’s what she believes.”
The sheriff lit a filter-tip cigarette, puffing out blue smoke.
“I’ve been trying like hell to give up smoking,” said Philip. “You’re not making it any easier.”
Hartley doused the cigarette. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be smoking in here anyway.” He shifted again in his chair. “Gotta tell you, I’m not buying your ‘zombie’ story. Dead men don’t walk.”
Philip sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes. “Agreed. But what if he is still alive? What if he faked the heart attack?”
“To what end? Why would he pull a stunt like that?”
“That’s for you to find out.”
Hartley smiled. “I had my boys check out the area before—house, studio, garage. No walking dead man.”
Dexter nodded. “It figures. He’s not going to stick around waiting to be arrested for assault.”
“Where is Mrs. Court now?”
“At the Seven Star. A motel in Westwood.”
“I’ll need to talk to her.”
“Not tonight,” Philip said, studying the sheriff. He rubbed his arm; he’d twisted it turning the sculpture over. “She has to get herself together. I’ll bring her by in the morning.”
“Fair enough.” Hartley stood. “We’ll check the place out again; I can have one of my guys watch the Court residence for a few days. If he shows, we’ll nab him.”
The men shook hands. “Thanks, Sheriff. I’ve got more digging to do.”
* * *
Later that night at the motel, Philip and Evelyn discussed the police visit. She was calmer, but the harrowing events had taken an emotional toll; her voice was strained, her eyes haunted.
“I know how Alex got into the locked studio,” she said. “There’s a tunnel under the area—leading from the crypt to below the studio and also to the house. He came in through the trapdoor, I’m sure of it. I didn’t mention it before because the only people that knew about it were Alex and myself. We used it to store wine … and in case we needed to get to the panic room under the house.”
Philip rubbed his chin in thought. “Do the police know about it? Have you been down there since he ‘died’?”
“No. The blood … what did you find out about that?” she asked.
“A lot. And it makes no sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“According to the cops, the sample I gave them is an exact match for the blood trace found on the body of that dead girl in Bel Air.”
“But what was her blood doing in my husband’s studio?”
“That’s what makes no sense,” Philip replied.
He sat down on the bed, lips pursed in thought. “This whole case gets crazier by the minute. Nothing fits. Nothing is logical.” He stood up. “I’m going back to talk to Hartley about the dead girl. Maybe there’s a connection. Wait here for me.”
The next afternoon, and Philip wasn’t back yet.
In the motel, alone, Evelyn was startled by a loud tapping at the door. Nervously, she looked out of the peephole: Madame Jechiel was outside. The old woman’s voice was urgent. “Hurry! Open the door!”
Jechiel entered the motel room in an agitated state. Fear clouded her dark eyes. She gripped Evelyn by both shoulders. “Thank heaven you’re safe.” She slumped into a chair by the bed. “I drove to your house, found it empty, checked the studio, saw the smashed garage door…. I wasn’t sure you were still alive.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“I called the sheriff’s office, told them it was an emergency, and they provided this address.”
Jechiel was breathing rapidly and her hands were shaking. “I can’t live with it any longer. I’ve got to break free … strike back at them.”
“Them?”
“The powers of darkness—of evil. They’ve controlled me—forced me to their bidding in exchange for success. But no longer. I must stop them!”
“I don’t understand—”
“Then listen!” The woman gestured sharply with her hands, speaking in a heated flow of words. “When I met your husband, the thing he most feared was death. I told him about the Osiris Scarab, that by wearing it he could achieve immortality, a life beyond death. But only if he agreed to serve the powers of darkness.”
Evelyn stared at the old woman. “That weird figure in the studio …”
“Yes—once the sculpture is complete, it will be able to enter our world again; its power will be absolute over all humanity! And there will be more of them, oh, yes … entire races, waiting to take this dimension back—”
“We found a flask of blood in the studio,” Evelyn said. “Is it connected to all this?”
The woman wrung her hands, her eyes gleaming. “In order that the creature may live, its body must have a certain amount of … human blood. Alex killed the girl in Bel Air to use her blood for the sculpture.”
Evelyn recoiled from the woman. “That’s horrible!”
“I entered the studio to examine the figure. It is very close to completion: it lacks only eyes. Once it has sight …”
“But what can we do?”
“Court moves by darkness. Light drains his strength. He sleeps in the crypt by day. Once the sun sets, he’ll rise to finish his awful work. We can’t let that happen! We must remove the Osiris Scarab from his finger before the sun goes down. This will break the cycle and end his foul existence so that he cannot complete the work! Then we must figure out how to destroy the sculpture.” Then: “Where is Mr. Dexter?”
“With Sheriff Hartley. He’ll be back soon.”
“We can’t wait! It’s almost sundown. We must leave now. And pray to God we’re in time.”
* * *
Dexter entered the motel room, finding it empty. On the bathroom mirror, a single scrawled word in lipstick:
STUDIO
He sprinted back to the car.
* * *
Twilight: the sun dropped closer to the horizon as Evelyn and Madame Jechiel entered the crypt. It was dim enough that they needed Evelyn’s flashlight, even though a few streaks of light were still beaming in from a high window in the far wall.
“Alex wasn’t in his coffin when I brought Mr. Dexter here,” said Evelyn.
“Night or day?”
“It was night. I had to use the flashlight.”
“That explains it. Court sleeps here by day. In a death state. By night he works on the demonic sculpture.”
“It’s still daylight,” Evelyn said. “Is he … ?”
“He’s here,” said the older woman. “But we must act quickly: The sun is almost down. I’m going after the ring. If something goes wrong … if I’m too late … you’ll be in mortal danger. You left the mirror message for Dexter, that you’ll be at the studio. Wait for him there. Once I have the ring, I’ll join the two of you and we’ll destroy the sculpture.”
Evelyn was uncertain. “But what if—”
“Don’t argue with me! Go now. We’re almost out of time!”
Evelyn gave her the light and left the crypt.
Madame Jechiel slid the coffin from the wall, tipping back the lid. Court was there, stark and cold, eyes closed, hands folded across his chest. On his right index finger, the Osiris Scarab gleamed under the fading light from her flashlight. She bent over the corpse, tugging at the ri
ng on the dead man’s finger, breath rapid, sweat beading her forehead.
At that moment, the sun dipped below the horizon and the crypt was cloaked in total darkness.
Court’s eyes snapped open. His clawed hands reached for her throat. “Die, Jechiel!”
Face twisted with rage, his fingers closed around Madame Jechiel’s neck. She struggled wildly trying to break his hold, but she was no match for his superhuman strength. Tossing her motionless body aside, Court stepped from the coffin.
He pressed a hand against the crypt wall and a section of the marble facing opened, revealing the dark mouth of a tunnel.
* * *
Philip’s station wagon slammed to a grinding stop in front of Court’s Bel Air home. Carrying a flashlight, he hurried across the moon-shadowed yard to the rear studio, finding the door unlocked. He stepped inside.
Evelyn emerged from the shadows into his beam. She told him about Madame Jechiel, explaining the fact that Court can function only at night.
“Did Jechiel get the ring?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Since it’s dark now, I’m worried about her.”
Philip understood. “Quickly! Where’s the tunnel?”
She took the flashlight and led him to the trapdoor: “Here.”
Philip lifted the door, listening. “Court’s in the tunnel, I think.”
“Do you have your gun?”
“Doubt bullets will stop him, based on last time,” said Philip. “But I do have the gun.”
Evelyn grabbed a shovel from an open storage closet. “Jechiel said that we have to destroy the sculpture before Alex completes it. She said it’s some kind of evil force, that if it gains entry into our world it will bring along others like it to enslave humanity. I know it sounds insane, but after all this stuff recently … In comparison, how would it be any crazier? Who knows what’ll happen if he completes it.”
Philip looked at her, considering the situation. “You’re right. Crazy or not, something’s going on. Even if we destroy the sculpture, though, what about Court? We can’t fight him. They must both be destroyed. At the same time.”
“But how?”
He picked up the blood flask from the worktable, uncorking it. He poured a red line on the studio floor in front of the figure.