The Living and the Dead

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The Living and the Dead Page 12

by Greg F. Gifune


  “I’ve seen it, too.” He closed his eyes as if the admission had pained him, which perhaps it had. “At home, before I left. I know it sounds patently absurd but it was in the trees, Nita, it was—look, I—I don’t understand this either but somehow it’s tied to my sister as well.”

  Anita raised a puzzled eyebrow.

  “She saw the same thing, she—Lacy drew pictures of it, an entity she’d seen not long before our mother took her life and again just before I left home.”

  “But that was decades ago.”

  “Maybe it never left.”

  “Something’s happening, something bad and more than we know or realize. I feel it. In my soul, I feel it. And so do you.”

  Chris dropped the car into drive. “Got any more of those nips?”

  She fished one from her purse and held it up as if in evidence.

  He pulled back onto the road and headed for the house he’d grown up in. “Open it.”

  As they rocketed through the rain and deeper into the storm, Anita did just that, keeping one eye on the treetops and sky beyond for what she was certain had been watching them all along.

  19

  The storm made it all but impossible to see beyond the windshield, but Dempsey kept his foot pressed firmly on the gas nonetheless. He’d never pushed his truck to this extent, and there was a good chance if he continued to do so it could be the last trip the old sled ever made. No matter, he had to get to Duck’s place and he had to get there fast. The meager remnants of daylight were being slowly devoured by black storm clouds and rain that looked as if it might never stop, and despite his fear, Dempsey hung tight to the knowledge that his destination was only about a mile farther. He was nearly there.

  The vehicle bucked and bounced as he rushed through the forest, frantically following the winding country road. The trees on either side rushed past, wet trunks thick, dark and strangely ominous in the half-light, dripping branches like arms reaching out to stop him. He told himself not to look at the trees, to keep right on driving with tunnel vision, laser-focused on what little road he was able to make out between each pass of the windshield wipers. But it was impossible to ignore the jutting branches and towering trees, and his eyes were eventually lured to the side of the road.

  Scattered amidst the surrounding forest, dozens of eyes stared back, blood-red through the rain and semi-darkness.

  Looking away in horror, he drove on, muttering assurances to himself that everything would be all right. Perspiration collected between his fingers made gripping the wheel more of a challenge than it should’ve been, but before he could concern himself with that a patch of blurred white flashed through the rain and appeared directly in front of him.

  Dempsey slammed the brakes. The truck hydroplaned for several feet before the tires again found pavement, and with a horrible screech the truck came to a stop just inches from what he now realized was either a petite woman or teenage girl standing in the middle of the road.

  Barefoot and wearing only a sheer white nightgown, she slowly raised an arm and pointed at him accusingly, her face hidden behind a drenched curtain of long brown hair. The girl’s body had sustained horrifying trauma, her skin blackened, bruised and reduced to raw flesh in some areas, charred black in others.

  Dempsey’s mouth fell open to scream but a strangled groan was all he could manage. Throat seizing, pain fired through his chest and up into his neck. Terror exploded through him, but he could not look away. The harder he tried the more futile it became, until finally, he submitted and truly looked—saw—what was standing there just beyond his windshield and the steady drone of wipers.

  A lie—an otherworldly lie—it could not be possible.

  And yet it was.

  Spikes of pain fired through his temple and across his eyes. This time, when he attempted a scream, he succeeded. One hand clutched his face as he nearly lost consciousness. He reached for the door and pushed it open.

  The storm, and all that lived within it, rushed in.

  Death…Dempsey could smell it in the air.

  The moment his feet hit pavement his legs gave way and he collapsed to his knees, landing with such force he feared he’d shattered his kneecaps. Pain ripped through his calves, fanning out from his knees in hot pulsing surges, and he toppled over to his side, splashing in the rainwater puddles and streams rushing along the road.

  The rain pummeled him, but he struggled into a crouch. His baseball cap had fallen off, so he raised an arm and held it above his eyes, forming a shelf so he could see.

  She was gone.

  He scanned the forest. The eyes too had vanished.

  Wind blew sideways across the road, sweeping through the trees and across the hood of the truck. He could smell ocean, trees, earth and his own sweat. The branches swayed like the living things they were—living but not human—waterlogged creatures dripping and gazing down on him in ominous judgment as blue veins of lightning crackled through the sky above them.

  Though he could see nothing but forest and rain, dirt and mud and concrete, Dempsey knew he was far from alone. The forest had always been alive, but not like this, never like this.

  This was unnatural life, an intrusion, a desecration.

  Like you.

  He could no longer see the eyes of the dead, but they were there. He could feel them watching him. They were close, concealed in the mounting darkness beyond and between the trees.

  And there was something else…something more…

  Dempsey struggled to his feet, gripping the door for leverage. After retrieving the shotgun from the seat he stumbled around the front of the truck, and again scanned the area for any sign of the young woman.

  Nothing…no one…and yet…

  Dempsey limped along the road, closer to the tree line.

  Above him, through the clamor of rain, came an odd clicking noise.

  Like someone biting down with an empty mouth and violently clacking their teeth together again and again, the sound echoed down through the trees.

  Dempsey raised his head to the sky. Raindrops spattered his face. He blinked repeatedly, clearing his vision in short intervals but enough to see the body dangling just inches from his head.

  Lucille, hanging from a particularly rugged branch, arms, legs and body lifeless but her eyes open and staring down at him. Dressed the same and with the exact rope she’d used in their kitchen all those years ago wrapped around her throat, her expression was one of confusion, as if uncertain of precisely where she was or how she’d gotten there. But her eyes cradled a gaze reserved for the forsaken, the sorrow of a soul that had seen true oblivion.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Dempsey cried. “Sweet Jesus Christ Almighty, I…”

  As he stumbled backwards, his wife angled her head to the side, the skin around her throat red and raw. Staring down at him, she bit at the air between them, snapping her jaw like a rabid dog, her teeth making that awful clacking sound.

  The goddamned night stories, he thought, they’re the truth, the same truth they’ve told me for years now, I—I can’t deny them no more. But they ain’t just true, they’re real, all real and I’m to blame, I—I’m to blame.

  Sounds of footsteps came from behind him. He whirled round and leveled the shotgun. The girl was back, standing on the far side of the road, partially hidden just beyond the tree line. Her face was still obscured by her wet hair, but he knew now who she was. He’d known all along, but had just then allowed himself to accept that fact. For all those years prior, booze and denial had helped him tuck it away somewhere else, and only the night stories had been there to remind him, to force him to remember. Dempsey had convinced himself it was impossible, that his life before had been some vague and distant dream, a nightmare better left alone. But now, on this horrible day, in this horrible storm, there was no longer any such thing as impossible, and nightmares were no longer sleeping dogs. They had come alive like the evil that had created them in the first place, the evil coursing through his veins even now.


  The girl ran off through the trees, her white nightgown wet and clinging to her petite frame.

  I’m sorry, I—what have I done, what the hell have I done?

  Dempsey heard Lucille’s jaw snapping and the sound of the rope straining against bark. He envisioned her limp body swinging about in an attempt to free itself and reach him, but he lurched forward with what little strength was left in his devastated frame and instead followed the waif as she slipped deeper into the dark forest. With his shotgun leading the way, the old man trailed the ethereal vision as best he could.

  And as he vanished into the rain, Abel Dempsey screamed his daughter’s name.

  20

  At Duck’s frantic insistence, they had secured the cottage as best they could. He and Perry had dragged a heavy oak bureau from the bedroom then positioned it against the front door while Lana and Lennox pulled closed the curtains and shades in the windows, leaving only one in the kitchen untouched, as it faced the backyard and allowed for a view of forest to the rear of the cottage and the cats’ house out back. The back door off the kitchen was locked and bolted but otherwise unblocked as a means of quick escape if necessary. Duck then disappeared into the bedroom while the others exchanged troubled looks as to why he’d returned so quickly and with such a frantic need to turn his home into a bunker. Lana had asked what was wrong when he’d first exploded back through the front door, drenched and gripped with terror, but rather than answer or explain, he’d sprung into action, ordering them to help secure the house.

  Duck emerged from the bedroom and joined the others in the main room, displaying the weapons he’d told Lana about earlier. With the combat knife tucked in his belt, he held the shotgun in one hand and a holstered 9mm in the other. “Where’s the .38?”

  Lana motioned toward the kitchen. “It’s on the counter where you left it.”

  “Get it.”

  “Are you going to tell us what’s going on?”

  “Get it.”

  Perry stepped forward. “Bro, you’re freaking everybody out.”

  Lana returned from the kitchen, the revolver held down at her side. “OK?”

  Duck handed her the holstered 9mm in exchange for the .38. “It’s loaded, safety’s off. Ten rounds in the clip.” He pulled another loaded clip from his pocket and handed it to her. “Twenty rounds total.”

  Lana gave a confused nod.

  “Either of you ever fire a gun?” he asked, turning to Perry and Lennox. They stared at him like he’d spoken a language they couldn’t quite comprehend. “A gun, goddamn it, have either of you ever fired one?”

  “No,” Perry said through a hard swallow. “I’ve never even held one, except for toy ones when I was a kid. You know, Cowboys and Indians and—”

  “What about you?”

  Lennox shook her head no.

  He pushed the .38 into Perry’s hand. “Here, try not to shoot yourself or any of us. Just aim and squeeze the trigger, OK? Don’t play with it, don’t bluff with it. You point it only if you intend to fire it, and you fire it only if you intend to kill, understand?”

  Perry awkwardly moved the revolver from hand to hand as if in hopes of finding a comfortable fit.

  “Understand?”

  “Yeah, I got it, Rambo. Jesus.”

  Duck squared his shoulders. “You think this is some kind of joke?”

  “I don’t know, dog, why don’t you tell me? I got no idea what the hell this is. You went outside and came back acting like somebody was chasing you. You’re scaring the shit out of everybody. You make us lock ourselves in here and now you’re handing out fucking guns? Sorry if I’m a little iffy on the whole plan of action here, chief, you might want to brush up on the communication skills.”

  “You saw something,” Lennox said, statement not question. She’d shaken off the cobwebs since Duck had left, and though no less frightened, she was far more alert. “What did you see? What’s out there? Tell us.”

  He stood paralyzed a moment, his mind replaying the events in the storm. Something in his abdomen clenched tight, a squeezing sensation deep in his intestines, and for a moment he thought his bowels might let loose. As it passed, a strange numbness bled through him. Duck had known fear before. He’d been close to death more than once in his life, and had experienced many horrific situations, several of which still haunted him on a daily basis. But he’d never known anything like this. This was the most visceral and overwhelming terror he’d ever encountered, a profound and raw horror that after its initial surge turned nearly anesthetizing, as human beings were not intended to endure such levels of terror and had no other defense against it.

  “Was it that thing again?” Lana asked. “The shadow on the recorder?”

  “No.” Duck drew a deep breath. “No, it…”

  “What then?”

  “It’s not possible, it...a woman, but—”

  “A woman,” Perry interrupted. “A freakin’ woman made you shit your pants like this?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on out there,” Duck told him. “But it’s not possible. What I saw, she…it wasn’t human. It couldn’t be.”

  “Not human.” Perry laughed lightly, but it was laced with nervousness. “OK, so it’s what, a ghost? Dude, sincerely, put the crack pipe down.”

  Duck’s hands began to tremble. He gripped the shotgun tighter until they steadied. Goddamn it, he thought, get hold of yourself.

  “What happened?” Lennox pressed, moving closer. Her eyes revealed she not only recognized the fear in him, she empathized with it. “Why couldn’t this woman be human?”

  Lana reached out tentatively and touched his wrist. “It’s all right. Tell us.”

  Rain pounded the cottage. Thunder rolled.

  “It was someone I saw years ago back in ‘Nam,” he said softly. “But she’s dead, she…she’s dead.”

  “OK now this is making more sense.” Perry rolled his eyes at Lennox and jerked his thumb at Duck. “He’s one of those crazy Vietnam vets.”

  “You’re sure she’s dead,” Lennox said, ignoring him.

  With a grimace, Duck nodded. “She died in my arms.”

  “Just like I’m sure I saw my mother.” She moved away, hugging herself.

  “It’s not them. Not really. It can’t be. It’s not possible.” Duck dug a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one, taking several drags before he spoke again. “Whatever that thing is out there, the thing we’ve all seen and you shot on your video gadget, it’s connected to them somehow. Maybe it’s causing these visions or hallucinations or whatever the hell they are.”

  “This is real.” Lennox’s eyes filled with tears. “I know what I saw.”

  “I know my grandmother’s dead and buried and I heard her voice whisper to me on the phone. And I know the woman outside is dead too, that’s what I know.”

  Lana brought her hands to her head, as if warding off an incoming headache, and began to pace about the room. “We need to get out of here. We need to get to other people, someone who can help.”

  “It’s not safe out there. No telling what we’ll run into.”

  “Then if we go, we go together.” She faced the others. “Agreed?”

  “I’m not going out there,” Lennox said. “Are you out of your mind?”

  Perry held his hands up like a crossing guard. “Hold on, maybe—I mean I know the weather’s a bitch and all—but maybe Lana’s got a point. Cell phones and landlines aren’t working, so what choice do we have? It’s not that far to town by car, and with this kind of firepower I don’t think we’ll have to worry about whoever’s behind all this messing with us. Most people see guns, they chill.”

  “This isn’t a bunch of townies playing games with us!” Lennox snapped.

  “OK, thanks for screaming directly into my ear. What is your problem?”

  “You’re an idiot, that’s my problem.”

  “We’re staying right here.” Duck had moved to the kitchen doorway so he could watch the backyard. “
If anybody goes, it’ll be me, and I’ll do it alone. I need to find Dempsey.”

  “I know that old man’s your friend,” Lana said, “but I was thinking more along the lines of the police.”

  “I think he knows what this is all about.”

  “What’s any of this got to do with him?”

  “I’m not sure, but he’s been talking crazy lately—crazy even for him—about something coming on the storm, something that frightened him.” Duck explained the stories he’d heard from the chief of police regarding the strange happenings in town. “Whatever this is it’s showing us things, it…it has some connection to these sightings we’re having, it has to.”

  Lightning blinked, followed by a deafening boom of thunder that exploded directly overhead. The cottage trembled.

  “It’s like it knows exactly what scares us,” Lennox said.

  Seconds later—as if to prove her point—the lights went out.

  21

  On a clear moonlit night, when the ocean is calm and smooth as glass, you can see forever. That’s where Lacy always appears, on the distant horizon just beneath the moon, walking on water toward shore, a child messiah lost in the wilderness of night. She hasn’t aged a day since the last time he saw her, and wears the same shabby white nightgown she so often wore to bed as a child. Her dark hair hangs in her face, obscuring it. But he knows it’s her.

  Before she reaches him with her promise of deliverance from the hellish demons that menace them both, he remembers awakening late one night to find her sitting on the floor next to his bed, wearing that same old nightgown, her knees drawn up close to her chin and her head resting at their summit. He knows this person is his sister, and yet, something has changed about her, something significant and irrevocable. He’s certain that if he tried he could reach out and touch the pain in the air between them, the grief…the sorrow.

  “What are you doing?” he whispers.

  She raises her head, looks to him through the moonlight. Her red eyes indicate she’s been crying. The bruises beneath them indicate why.

 

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