Poltergeist II - The Other Side

by James Kahn

  “Doesn’t he know he’s dead.” Diane demanded.

  “But he isn’t,” said Taylor.

  “But you just said—”

  “Nothing truly dies, the way you understand it.” He searched for words, for ways of explaining multiple existences to these kind people, who believed in only five senses. “As a caterpillar becomes a butterfly,” he spoke slowly, “death transforms us into another state of being. This man—he was evil in life, and his soul remains evil because he chooses not to see the Light and pass on to a different consciousness.”

  Steve was lost. He just wanted some marching orders. “How do we fight back?” he said.

  “An old woman lived here until a short time ago. She has passed on into the Light now.”

  “My mother,” whispered Diane.

  “I would offer my sympathies,” Taylor said warmly, “but what does the caterpillar know of the butterfly? No matter—when she was here, her spirit was protecting your child. With her . . . aura. Now that she has gone beyond the Light, the Beast is emboldened—he feels safe in entering our world again. To try to make the child his own.”

  “How do we fight back?” Steve repeated. He didn’t want theology; he wanted strategy.

  Taylor’s massive shoulders slumped an inch. “Until we learn how to defeat him, we do not let him win.”

  “Some plan,” scoffed Steve, not without bitterness.

  Diane turned it around on Steve. “Some attitude,” she leveled at his unhelpful cynicism.

  “Don’t give me that!” he snapped at her.

  Taylor interrupted strongly. “Do not betray each other now,” he warned. “This is the vapor of the Beast washing within you like a tide. It is he, speaking through you. His spirit is evil but very wise—do not fool yourself that evil is ignorant. He knows that your strength is your love, and he hates you for that, because he knows not love, nor has he been touched by love for two hundred years or more. His spirit swells on hate. He has been trying to pull this family apart, and he will continue to try.” He looked from Steve to Diane. “If he succeeds, he will capture Carol Anne . . . and destroy your spirit.”

  The next morning Carol Anne and Robbie were playing on the front lawn when they heard the melody. It was an oddly pitched man’s voice, at once lazy and intense, singing an old spiritual they’d never heard before. “He is in His Holy Temple,” the voice sang. Or maybe Carol Anne had heard it before; she wasn’t sure.

  They looked up to see the man singing it as he walked nonchalantly along the front of the house. The man, too, looked familiar.

  He was thin and wore a black, wide-brimmed hat, a black coat, black lace-up boots. He looked like a preacher.

  Very deliberately, he turned up the Freelings’ driveway.

  The moment he did so, E. Buzz, who’d been sleeping on the front porch, woke up and began to bark. It started raining, though the sky remained cloudless.

  Henry Kane sang louder: “He is in His Holy Temple . . .” He approached Carol Anne on the grass as the dog growled angrily.

  Robbie ran up onto the porch. “Come on, Carol Anne!” he called. He knew something was wrong, but he didn’t know what.

  Carol Anne didn’t move. It was raining on her, but she seemed frozen to the spot, just staring at the gaunt preacher man who walked slowly closer.

  Robbie shouted louder. “Carol Anne, is something wrong? Huh? It’s raining Carol Anne, come on!”

  Suddenly it burst out of her—a cry for help: “Mom! Dad!”

  E. Buzz bared his fangs in fear. Steve and Diane ran out onto the porch, and their appearance seemed to break the spell Carol Anne was under—she bolted for the house just before the man reached her, and hugged her mom around the legs.

  The man continued his leisurely pace up the drive, now whistling his hypnotic tune. He smiled, oblivious to the rain pouring down.

  Diane felt goosebumps on her arm. She quickly ushered the children inside the house, then stood with them just behind the screen door. Steve remained out on the porch, watching the man with the measured gait come forward until they were face to face.

  “Can I help you?” said Steve. He felt himself sweating—this guy gave him a bad feeling.

  Diane stared out from behind the screen. “I’ve seen you somewhere before,” she said.

  “That is possible,” said Kane. “I get around.” He seemed to radiate a magnetic kind of energy, but his voice made Diane weak, almost nauseated—it was too high or something; and his eyes reminded her of damp moss. He said, “I love getting around. Love talking to people—even on a rainy day.” He patted E. Buzz on the head as a gesture of friendship, but the dog jumped and yelped and ran away.

  The man’s fingernails came up full of dog hair, with a singed odor about them. “Dog’s shedding,” he mentioned conversationally. Then he saw Carol Anne half hiding behind her mother and the screen door. “Hi,” he said kindly.

  “Hi,” Carol Anne choked out; but she was just as jumpy as the dog. She had no memory of this man’s face, but her body registered its clear recollection.

  And her spirit knew.

  Diane finally remembered something. “I saw you at the mall.”

  The man smiled joyously. “Sure you did!” Like he was honored to be recalled. “I remember your little angel here.” He beamed graciously at them all. “Let me introduce myself. Henry Kane.” He extended his hand.

  Carol Anne whimpered and hugged Diane closer. Steve kept his hand to himself—it was sweating so much, he didn’t really want to touch the guy. “We’ve had enough of door-to-door salesmen,” he began, and broke off. He was feeling a little sick himself.

  Besides, he didn’t owe this guy any explanations or apologies. He just felt as if he wanted to lie down. He moved to the screen door and opened it; Kane followed him, coming up onto the porch, in out of the rain.

  As Steve stood at the threshold, Kane spoke again. “Reverend Kane. What I sell is free. And Kane is able.” He smiled generously.

  Steve stood just inside the house, the screen door open; Kane was on the porch outside, facing him. “Mind if I come in and talk to you about it?” he purred to Steve as he pulled the door open a little wider.

  Steve heard Carol Anne behind him say, “Mom, I don’t feel good,” and on impulse he pulled the screen door shut, leaving Kane outside on the porch. Steve was not the most sensitive man on the planet, but he could hear when his own daughter was scared.

  He looked at Kane across the screen. “Let’s talk from here,” he said quietly.

  Diane felt Carol Anne’s forehead. “Come on, honey, I want to take your temperature,” she said. Then: “You come, too, Robbie.” She eyed Kane suspiciously once more, then hurried the kids away, feeling chilled despite the warm day.

  Steve, on the other hand, was sweating more and more. Yellow spots swam across his peripheral visual field; he felt actually quite faint.

  Kane smiled again, this time with an air of confidentiality, of things unspoken that must be spoken between men. “I am glad we’re able to talk with your family out of the way, because I believe you have a problem here.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Steve took the challenge, but his conviction was thready.

  “Yes,” said Kane with sincerity. “I believe there’s an Indian living here with you.”

  “Taylor?” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Is that what he calls himself now?” Kane wagged his head like a disappointed schoolteacher. Then, more concerned: “You are in danger.”

  “What do you mean?” said Steve. He did feel in danger. Maybe this yo-yo knew what he was talking about.

  Kane became righteous. “I am with an organization whose concern is families like yours—families in crisis who are preyed upon by charlatans with fake magic.” His eyes widened and deepened, his nostrils flared in outrage. “I don’t expect you to believe me right now”—his manner calmed to something more beatific—“but please let me come in and talk to you.”

  Kane reached for th
e door.

  Steve held it closed. “This is getting crazy,” he muttered.

  Kane entreated. “Will you please, brother, open your heart? Open your heart and let me in . . .” His voice was becoming hypnotic.

  Steve felt his eyes getting heavy.

  “Open your mind and heart to what I am saying,” Kane droned on. “Please, that man is dangerous.” His voice rose at the end, with unexpected volume and feeling.

  The change jolted Steve alert. “How do you know that?” he said.

  Kane smiled thinly. “Because I’m smaaaaart . . .”

  At that moment Diane, standing at the bedroom bureau looking for a thermometer, had a vision: Everything went black; she was suddenly in a blackened chamber, and then there was candlelight, and a multitude of desperate faces and hands reaching toward her, faces weeping, wailing, twisted with grief; and a man beside her, in a black coat and with eyes of moss, was saying, “Believe me, children, because I’m smaaaaart . . .”

  And then the vision was gone. Diane’s knees became rubbery, though, and she sat down hard at her bedroom vanity, sweating, shaking. Perhaps she should take her own temperature; she was feeling a little feverish.

  And then it came again. A different vision: She stood at a cave mouth, looking out at a vast, bleached desert landscape. A hundred people were walking there, in a straggly line, wearing early-nineteenth-century clothes, walking and stumbling and parching under the desert sun. And at the head of the line, riding the only horse among them, was Henry Kane.

  Again the vision dissipated, and Diane sat alone in her bedroom once more, trembling and afraid.

  Downstairs, only a moment had passed; Kane was still speaking. “This Indian—his real name is Ben Lagou.” The name came with difficulty to his tongue; he hated to utter it. “I can see he has a hold on this family. Who do your wife and children turn to with their problems? They turn to him, don’t they? They don’t trust you anymore. I can help. Now, can I please come in and speak to you?”

  His voice and his argument were compelling. He spoke openly of things Steve half suspected; he implied knowledge of much more.

  Images flashed through Steve’s mind: of Taylor and Robbie embracing, of Taylor and Diane touching. He wavered but held. “No,” he gasped.

  “He has fooled many people,” Kane chided. “You do not know who he is”—innuendo filled his smile—“but your wife does.”

  Implications lay heavily upon Steve. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Please,” Kane begged. “Let me in.”

  “No,” Steve shook his head. But he was hesitating.

  “Now!” Kane commanded. “Before it’s too late!” As if it were already too late, he began pushing open the door.

  Steve didn’t know what to think or feel or do, but he pushed the door shut somehow and even held it. It seemed to take all his strength to do so. “No,” he whispered hoarsely, with his last energy.

  “What kind of man are you?!” Kane snarled. “Your wife and that Indian . . . making a fool of you. Your children dote on him—they can’t wait until you leave the house, they laugh about you, and then your wife and that big, bad Indian . . .”

  Steve half slumped against the door, sweating, nearly fainting, his sheer weight holding it closed.

  Kane yanked the door back and forth violently, but it wouldn’t budge. He began screaming: “You’re going to die in there! All of you! You’re going to die!”

  This jerked Steve out of his stupor, giving him new wind. He stood straight and shouted back, “Get the hell out of here! Get the hell away from my door!”

  Kane looked startled a moment, then smiled slowly, calm once again. “Sorry to see you’re still unconvinced,” he said softly and with genuine regret.

  Then he turned and stepped off the porch, back into the rain. “A pleasure visiting with you,” he allowed.

  He walked down the driveway, singing sweetly, “He is in His Holy Temple,” and by the time he reached the street he seemed to have disappeared altogether.

  And then, as suddenly as it had started, the rain vanished as well.

  Steve leaned at the door a few seconds longer, still a bit stunned. When he turned, finally, to retreat further into the house, he found Taylor standing behind him.

  Taylor was grinning. “You did good,” he said.

  “Why?” said Steve. “You know that guy? He seemed to know you.”

  “That’s no guy,” said Taylor. “That’s him.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Steve. But he knew.

  “It was a test of power,” Taylor confirmed. “He can come in other forms, but that was him.” He handed Steve an eagle feather. “Now you are hooked.” He smiled, walking toward his truck.

  “Hooked?” Couldn’t this Indian ever talk plain American?

  “You are on the path of a warrior.”

  Steve stared in some perplexity at the eagle feather. “So what’s the story on this bird feather, anyway? And can’t you ever finish a conversation?”

  Taylor stopped and turned. “Your confrontation with him was a drain on your power. He was testing you. You did good, but you must become stronger. The feather of the eagle is a good lightning rod for power—it will help you become stronger. But the Warrior’s Path is a long one, and we don’t have much time. Come. We must prepare.”

  “Prepare what?” said Steve. But he followed Taylor out to the curb. Then, midway across the lawn, he stopped and shouted up at the house, “Diane!”

  She stuck her head out the bedroom window. She still looked a little shaky. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going out with Taylor for a little while. Keep the doors locked, okay?”

  “Do you have to go?” she said. She didn’t want to be alone.

  Taylor answered her. “Yes,” he assured. “It is important.”

  She nodded. “Don’t be long,” she added.

  Steve and Taylor reached the blue pickup. Taylor got in, and Steve called up to Diane once more: “You okay?”

  She smiled weakly and nodded once.

  “Love you,” he called, and got in the car.

  Taylor started the truck and revved the engine. “The most important thing you did”—he began the lesson—“was not to ask him in. Evil cannot claim you unless you ask it in to your heart.”

  Steve raised one eyebrow, a little miffed. “So where were you with all this handy information when I could’ve used some backup?”

  “In the end,” said Taylor, “you must fight your own battles with your own resources.” Then his face lost its sternness. “But in the beginning, too, I think.”

  He put the truck in gear and, burning oil to blue smoke, rattled off down the street.

  The kids were napping quietly upstairs when Diane heard the knocking. She jumped and just stood in the kitchen for half a minute, motionless, listening. Like a deep thud, toward the front of the house . . . it happened again.

  She froze; she didn’t know what to do. It was the man in black again—she was sure of it—that unsettling, skeletal-looking . . . or maybe it was the supernatural knocking again, the noise that had driven them from the bouse last night, the rumbling, shaking . . .

  But this wasn’t that pervasive; this thumping was coming very specifically from the front of the house. From the front door, in fact.

  Knock, knock.

  She should really go look, at least, to see what it was. Steve would want to know. Taylor might need to know. She picked at a cuticle. She checked the back door to make sure it was locked.

  She walked to the front door.

  The knocking returned. Diane seized her courage, opened the viewing latch in the door, and peered out. The knocking stopped.

  No one there.

  The knocking returned.

  “Who is it?” Diane whispered.

  A voice said: “It’s me—Tangina.”

  Diane pulled the door wide and looked down; there, below the viewing field of the peephole, was Tangina Barrons—dwarf an
d psychic extraordinaire.

  “Tangina!” Diane exclaimed, ushering her in and stooping to hug her all in one motion.

  “Sorry to come unannounced, sweetie,” said Tangina, “but I need to speak with you.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” whispered Diane, choking back tears. This woman of small stature and grand spirit had saved them four years ago—saved Carol Anne from the horrors of the void, saved the entire family from destruction by the Beast. Diane was glad with all her heart that Tangina was there, and she prayed that the insanity was over now.

  “I’m glad you’re glad,” said Tangina. “Because we’re running out of time.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Tangina Barrons was hanging on by her fingernails at the end of a rocky four years, for if a salesman on the skids hits the bottle, then a psychic dwarf hits the brink; and Tangina was at the brink of everything, waiting for the boot-heel to fall.

  The beginning of the end had come for her the day after she’d talked Diane Freeling through the astral plane, to save Carol Anne from the clutches of the Beast. She’d told the Freelings then: “This house is clean.”

  But it wasn’t.

  It was in fact so befouled by that sick spirit that the next night they were all nearly destroyed; and the house itself was destroyed.

  And so was Tangina’s self-confidence.

  How could she have been so wrong? she wondered. Had the Beast deceived her so completely? Had her senses been so distorted?

  Or was she somehow, subconsciously, in collusion with the Evil One?

  It was this last question, a doubt of her own soul, that was her undoing.

  She began to lose her ability to have visions, yet at the same time she was visited by pavor nocturnis: night terrors. She would awaken screaming, but with a blackness of memory, a veil she could not penetrate. She became afraid to sleep; consequently, she avoided sleep.

  To regain her visions, she returned to the place from which she felt her nightmares must be emanating—Cuesta Verde Estates. More specifically, the Freeling property.

  It was a house no longer, of course. A splintered floor, a foundation, a few feet of crawl space—that was all. The city had come, during the intervening weeks, to fill in the half-dug swimming pool that had been the site of so many cadaverous eruptions from the cemetery over which the house was centered.