Moments later they stood huddled in the small bedroom, candlelight punching a modest hole in the otherwise dark room. Dempsey lay on the bed, barely conscious, his face scratched from branches and brambles he'd apparently negotiated while running through the forest, his clothes soaked and sopping wet, his boots caked with mud and dirt to the ankle.
In the sparse light and shadow, it looked like the old man had already died, but the subtle rise and fall of his chest indicated he was breathing. When his eyes fluttered open they were distant and weak. "Duck," he managed, his voice gravely and raw. "A drink, you—you gotta get me a drink."
"I'll get some water," Lennox said.
"That's not what he wants." Duck took the candle from her. "There's a bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter, grab that."
"They're loose," Dempsey said, coughing. "They're loose Duck, you…you…"
"Easy now, partner, easy."
Lennox returned, emerged from shadow with the bottle.
Duck sat on the edge of the bed, held the old man's head and helped him take a drink. He coughed at first but then seemed to settle down. "Breathe, Dempsey. Breathe."
"Had to warn you, I—I owe you."
"What's happening?" Duck asked. "If you know what this is, tell me."
"It's the end."
As Dempsey began to weep, Lana reached out and lowered Perry's arm until his recorder was pointed at the floor. "Enough."
Frowning, Perry retreated to darkness.
The old man tried to continue, but his eyes grew heavy and rolled to white.
Lennox hugged herself. "Is he dead?"
"Unconscious." Duck put a hand flat against Dempsey's forehead. "He's burning up, though, must have a hell of a fever."
Wind slammed the cottage. It creaked against the onslaught, shifting as if alive and doing its best to shrug off the assault.
Lana wiped perspiration from the back of her neck. Was this horrible stifling humidity ever going to end? In the cramped and crowded bedroom it was even more suffocating, and her mounting fear only made it worse, crawling across her clammy skin like a horde of insects. "God only knows what he went through out there."
Duck handed her the candle in exchange for the shotgun. "I'd be willing to bet God's got nothing to do with it."
* * *
She'd seen him before, if only in dreams. He'd haunted her in a metaphorical sense, of course, as a faded piece of her history, a distant reminder of what their lives may have been had he lived. But other than that, she'd buried his memory so deep he scarcely seemed real anymore, hadn't for several years.
And now he was back. She'd seen him.
"Sam," she said, as if mistakenly, "the face at the window. Sam Melton."
"Who is he?"
Lana slung her jacket over the back of a chair then leaned against it for support. "Someone I used to love."
She and Duck had returned to the kitchen to try to sort things out, leaving Lennox to watch over the old man. Though he'd been instructed to keep a watch on the windows in the living room, Perry instead took up position on the couch, replaying and studying his recordings with a focus and intensity that had quickly turned obsessive.
Duck moved from the window overlooking the cat's house to the door leading to the other room then back again, a jittery sentry unable to decide what the best defensive position might be. His black shirt was drenched from rain and sweat, his bare arms tense and muscular but headed toward the flab age allowed few to escape. Same as the others, Lana had noticed a subtle change in him, a reversion to someone he'd once been, perhaps, a cornered animal willing to do whatever was necessary to survive. It frightened her, but oddly gave comfort as well.
"My first love," she told him, flashes of his funeral all those years ago rushing through her exhausted mind. "He died our junior year of high school. Leukemia. He was only seventeen. I was there, in the room, when he died." She bit her bottom lip, fighting back tears as visions of Sam's emaciated and ravaged face came to her, those once beautiful eyes so empty and dull; his body still hanging on in that bleak hospital bed but his essence already gone, torn away and carried off to whatever was waiting for him on the other side. "Nothing was the same after that, the whole world changed. I changed."
"I don't know how it's doing this, but it knows us. Somehow it knows us."
"I've often wondered how things might've been different had he lived." Lana let out a short burst of laughter, a horrible sound of panic and barely contained hysteria, "This is insane, I—he was there, he—"
"It's not real."
"You saw him." She strained to see him through the teary blur, her hands clutching the kitchen chair so fiercely they began to ache. "We all did."
"It's a lie," Duck insisted. "It's not them, not really. Whatever that was at the window, it wasn't the boy you knew, and the woman Lennox saw wasn't her mother anymore than what I heard was my grandmother or the woman I saw was the same person who died in 'Nam. That thing's using the dead against us—the idea of them—because it knows it'll cut right to the bone. It knows who we are."
"I think it knows a lot more than that."
Duck nodded, sending a single bead of perspiration descending faster along his stubble-covered cheek.
Their silence gave way to storm sounds, memories, thoughts, fears, regrets, hopes, dreams and madness.
Perry shuffled into the kitchen, video recorder in hand. "I've been watching the recordings," he said in an uncharacteristically sluggish tone. "You can't see shit. I mean maybe you could say something was there but it's impossible to tell. And the face at the window's not there. It's just darkness and rain. But we all saw him, right? How could he not be there?"
"Because it wasn't real," Duck said. "Your camera proves it."
"Maybe, but why hasn't it happened to me? You've all experienced it, I haven't. Everyone's seen ghosts of people they knew." Perry's eyes darted about the floor as if he'd dropped something. "Except me."
"Has anyone close to you ever died?" Lana asked.
"The answer to all this is on these recordings, it has to be." Drawn back to the video screen, Perry stared at it intently. "I just haven't figured it out yet. But I will. I have to keep watching, I—"
"Perry?"
He looked up, focused on her as if only then realizing she was there.
"Have you ever lost anyone close to you?"
"No." He returned his gaze to the screen and wandered back to the living room. "Not yet."
25
Anita had sunk back into her seat as deeply as possible, scrunching up her petite body into the smallest space she could, her face a twisted grimace of horror as Chris slowly turned and looked behind him.
There, through the blurred window, Evan Dodd.
Razor thin, gray hair mussed in the wind, eyes large and staring wildly, as if possessed, behind glasses speckled with rain, his typical short-sleeved shirt and polyester slacks were decorated with sunburst patches of dark red blood and plastered to his modest frame. Standing next to the car, a grin of demonic glee crossed his lips.
I love my wife and kids. But I do feel sorry for them.
All of Chris’s training, education and experience told him none of this could be happening, none of it could be real, and yet the only thing separating him from a living dead man was a thin piece of glass. Although near total darkness had fallen, there was no mistake. He was looking directly into the horrific eyes of Evan Dodd.
Why sorry for them?
Mesmerized, Chris sat paralyzed, unable to look away even as Dodd’s grin became a smile, his lips parting to reveal teeth a bit too large for his mouth.
Because they’re the spider.
Mind racing, bending, shattering, he watched as Dodd’s mouth opened wider still. A bevy of large, black, orb-weaving spiders exploded from his mouth, scurrying down along his chin to his chest, long spindly legs scuttling with startling speed.
And who are you?
Somewhere far away, it sounded like someone screamed.
>
I’m the spider, too. We all are, I’m afraid, or soon will be.
“Get me out of here!” Anita punched at him, pummeling his shoulder with both fists and screaming at the top of her lungs. “Get me the fuck out of here!”
He bowed his head and clenched shut his eyes, reciting mantras from textbooks and dusty old classrooms, safety nets that had always centered and saved him in the past. “This isn’t happening,” he said. “It’s not real, Nita, it—”
“Go goddamn it! Go! I can’t do this I can’t I can’t I—”
He snapped back, grabbed her wrists and held on tight. “It’s a mass hallucination of some kind, a manifestation of—”
Hysterical and babbling like a madwoman, Anita squirmed free of him and tried to open the door, willing to make a run for it, to do anything to get away from Evan Dodd’s leering eyes and the spiders that were now so plentiful they’d formed a blanket over his torso and had begun crawling along the hood and windshield of the car.
Chris hit the door locks to prevent her from leaving, then dropped the car into Drive and pulled away with such speed he nearly lost control of the Audi and spun into a cluster of nearby trees. Car righted, he wiped sweat from his face with a shaking hand, and as Anita collapsed back into her seat, weeping uncontrollably, he looked back in the rearview mirror.
Night…rain…fear…death…
* * *
The darkness was complete, evolved and seamless, perfected. True night had fallen, and but for infrequent glimpses of candlelight from within, the cottage was consumed by the powerful downpour and a growing fog that had rolled in across the ocean, crept up over the rocky shoreline and found its way through the woods, wrapping everything, even the darkness itself, in a thick and murky cocoon. It may as well have been the only house left on the planet, this tiny and aged little dwelling tucked away on the outskirts of civilization, concealed in night and rain and fog, so removed from what had surely once been reality. Or perhaps this town and the lives waged in it had only been masquerading as such. In the dark and the rain with the dead, who could be sure?
Thunder rolled.
In the bedroom, Lennox sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the old man moan and wheeze, his face contorting and grimacing as he waded through what surely had to be horrific nightmares. A candle burned on the nightstand, burrowing a narrow tunnel of light in the otherwise dark room. She wondered how she had come to be here, tried to piece together the steps that resulted in her eventually winding up in this room at this moment, watching over the shattered scraps of a man creeping toward death.
Who are you? She wondered.
Despite the pain and horror etched into his leathery skin, the man had a fascinating face. Gently, she touched his wrist with her fingertips. His flesh was clammy and hot. Like most people and things that had come before her, she found Dempsey intriguing. Duck believed this man might be able to shed some light on what was happening. Now that she’d sat with him, touched him and looked deep into that aged face, Lennox did too.
The lone bedroom window was on the back wall of the house. In daylight, and had the curtains not been drawn, it would have looked out over the small backyard area and the nearby forest. She couldn’t help but think about the cottage she and Perry had rented not so far beyond those woods. When they’d taken their walks, the cottages all seemed so close, just a brief walk along the beach or through the paths cutting through the forest and there was another one. But now it seemed an unfathomable distance, one to the next.
Like her life before the town of Tall Tree Junction.
Lennox thought of the bistro, the other girls who worked there, and wondered what they were doing at that very moment. She thought about Portland, wondered if it was storming as badly there as it was here. She thought about the old record player and the Etta James records she’d bought. She thought about dancing and laughing. She thought about that strange chill she’d felt the night before all this began. She even thought about her father, pictured him slumped in his favorite chair watching television, a beer propped in his lap and held in his perpetually filthy hands.
Lighting blinked blue then vanished to black.
Before she could wonder if she’d ever see or know any of those things again, memories of her mother’s face and the strange black outline of the creature came to her. Perhaps instinctually, in an instant, something changed in Lennox. Subtle, though palpable, she felt it moving within her, a living thing slithering up from somewhere deep inside, taking hold and steeling her against whatever was yet to come. She’d never felt anything quite like it. She’d always moved through life with little direction or specific intent, but this shift brought about a sensation she couldn’t quite identify. Muscles tightened in her arms and legs, back and shoulders, even in her stomach, and she felt her heart rate increase. Despite the humidity in the room, coolness fell over her, spreading slowly from the back of her neck down throughout her entire body. Purpose, she thought, purpose. And that purpose was survival. She wanted to live. It did matter. Life mattered. She mattered.
Taking stock of herself as best she could in the limited light, she looked down through the shadow to her bare feet on the floor. They were stained with dirt and dry mud. My sandals, she thought, what happened to my sandals? Her bare arms and legs were slick with perspiration, and the once pretty sunflower dress was wrinkled, torn slightly near her waist from when she’d fallen, and damp with sweat and rain. I should’ve dressed differently, she thought. I’m not even wearing a bra, I—I must look ridiculous in this flimsy little dress, dirty and sweaty and huddled in this room like a terrified little rabbit. She touched her face, felt her nose and lips with her fingers, as if to make certain it was all still there. Her flesh was slick, except for her lips, which had become dry and rough to the touch.
A calloused hand grabbed hold of her wrist with surprising strength.
Lennox gasped as Dempsey tried to sit up, vaulting forward as if hit with a sudden burst of electricity. He fell back quickly, a sigh of air leaving him as his head lolled to the side and his eyes rolled back and forth like he’d lost all control of them. But his grip on her wrist remained. She pried his gnarled fingers free and held his hand in hers, stroking the moist flesh. The bones in his hand seemed unnaturally close to the surface, she could feel each one.
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s OK.”
“Lacy,” the old man moaned, “I—I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Lacy. His wife? Daughter? Grandchild maybe?
“I’m so sorry, I—I need you to forgive me, I need....”
“It’s all right.” Lennox stroked his forehead, pushing the perspiration back and away from his face. “I forgive you.”
The old man fell still. Lennox felt Dempsey’s body relax as his eyes finally came to rest on the nightstand and the candle there. She saw herself in their reflection, just a vague shadow on the edge of his consciousness. “I love you,” he said, voice weak and shaking. “I know, I…I know I done wrong, I got it all twisted and wrong and sick and I don’t blame you, I don’t blame you I never—but I do love you, I do. The day you were born was the happiest day of my miserable life, I—I’ll never forget the day your mama and I brought you home.”
His child, she thought. Lacy must be his daughter.
Lennox gently ran her fingers back and forth across the top of his hand.
“I didn’t want you to go,” he cried, eyes dripping tears.
“It’s all right,” she told him again.
“After what happened with Lucille, I couldn’t lose you too, I—I’m so sorry little one. I’m so ashamed, I—I’m so goddamn ashamed.”
“It’s OK, Dad,” she heard herself say, her own father’s face flashing in her mind. “It’ll be all right now. Rest, OK? Everything’s going to be all right.”
The old man’s eyes slowly closed, and his breathing grew heavier.
Lennox placed his hand on his stomach and stood up, careful not to disturb him.
&nbs
p; She looked around. There was something strange and sad about the room, so empty and void of personality. Like a motel, no personal touch whatsoever, purely functional. Strangers, she thought. They’re all strangers to me—the man in this bed, the man who lives in this house, the woman out there—I don’t know any of these people. Even Perry’s a stranger in many ways. You’re alone, she thought. Again.
Duck had left the combat knife on the nightstand. Lennox picked it up, felt its weight and embraced its power just as she caught a glimpse of herself in a small mirror atop a bureau against the wall. In shadow and candlelight she looked ghoulish, short dark hair damp and flat and plastered down, cheeks hollow and eyes empty and that silly dress clinging to her. She pulled it free of her ample breasts but the damp fabric fell back in place as if molded to her. Her nipples pushed through the thin material in a way she would’ve thought was sexy before, but now it just made her feel even more detached from anything feminine or delicate. Whatever was out there would eventually come for them, and she knew this. Walls wouldn’t keep them out, and guns and knives couldn’t save them either. The girl she’d been before this night was no longer of any use to her or anyone else.
With the raspy but steady breath of the old man behind her filling the room, accompanied by the constant din of torrential rain, Lennox stared into the dark reflection of her own eyes. Bring it, she told the darkness, the storm and all it concealed. Bring the night and the dead and whatever else you’ve got. I’m not the little lamb led to slaughter you think I am.
Not anymore.
26
She’d been out there quite a while, standing in the rain and watching the house with her lifeless eyes and somber face. The moon had fought its way through the clouds and rain to offer a meager bit of illumination, barely enough to keep the darkness from concealing her entirely, but she remained little more than a dark specter swaying in the wind. She was unconcerned with the cat’s house, if she’d even noticed it, and Duck pictured Striper curled up with her babies in the dark little hut, no clue as to what was happening out in the storm raging all around them. Or maybe they knew all too well. Maybe they knew better than he, better than any of them.
The Living and the Dead Page 15