He threw himself inside and slammed and locked the door before he slumped against it. Ben put his head in his hands and remained still until he felt sure his knees were in no imminent danger of buckling.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Jesus Christ, okay??”
A thought occurred to him, and he dove for his phone. He scrolled through his received calls menu and tapped ‘Return’ on Tucker’s number.
“What?” Tucker’s gruff voice answered after two rings.
“Tucker,” Ben said, unable to control the shaking in his voice. “Listen to me. Listen. Get up and leave. You have to get away from those woods. Grab some salt, some iron if you got it, get in your truck, and drive to me. Do it. Just do it.”
“What the hell is wrong with you, son?”
“There’s something else out there!” Ben yelled. “This whole thing, it’s not what we thought. There’s something else, and it’s out there right now. You need to get away. I was just on the road, and I can’t even explain it, but just get away. I’m at 40 Cardinal Lane. Do you understand me?”
Ben was not sure if it was the fear in his voice or his actual words, but Tucker agreed.
“Alright, I’ll leave.”
“Good. Do it fast.”
The connection ended, and Ben collapsed against the stairs. He dialed Nicholas’ number. It rang five times and then went to voicemail.
“Fuck,” Ben said and hung up.
He stood and strode into the living room to pace. He glanced over at the mantle and the happy photographs it boasted while he tried to process what just happened to him.
Not me. It is manifesting. I will hold it back.
He grabbed his laptop from the hall and returned to the living room where he opened the computer and placed it on the coffee table. The dictation program was still open, but it had ceased recording when the lid had slammed shut during his drive home. He moved the cursor across the screen and hit ‘Play.’
Ben listened to the sound of his own voice. The recording was clear enough that any other voices should have registered as well.
There was no answer to his first question just as he had received no response on his phone. Then he heard it; the voice sounded the same. It was all distorted tones and frequencies as it spoke.
“You are asking the wrong questions.”
Ben listened to his exchange with the creature in the woods, and his throat tightened even before the wind started to howl. A crackle of something preceded the Camaro’s radio as it blared to life, something that Ben had not heard in real time. It sounded like the sick buzz of a faulty transmission tower.
“Benji,” the radio said, but the recording had not captured the familiar drawl of Andrew Wisehart’s West Virginian accent.
Ben receded from the laptop as if distance could somehow protect him from the voice that put Mercedes McCambridge to shame. It was ghoulish and cruel and filled with a sickening amusement as it taunted him from the Camaro’s speakers.
The empty laughter that followed flooded Ben with the urge to vomit. It was even worse than the thing using Andrew’s nickname for his youngest child. Ben squeezed his eyes shut as it screamed and cackled with hysteria.
He realized he had backed up all the way to the doorframe like he intended to run from the room.
The laughter died out as the voice from Ben’s phone spoke words that Ben had not heard on the road, words that he could not understand. It took him a moment to realize that the voice was speaking in another language. Its tone swelled high and furious as it seemed to recite some kind of incantation in which the words were repeated three times over.
The voice from the radio hissed and spat out something that sounded almost like Latin before it laughed wildly at whatever it had said to the other voice.
“You must leave. Get in your car. When silence falls, drive. I will hold it back. Now, Benjamin Wisehart!” the voice from the phone urged.
The radio carried more strange, foreign curses from its voice, which seemed louder and more present as if it had been standing just a few feet away from where the laptop sat on the hood of the Camaro. The first voice continued to chant its strange language in a tone so filled with righteous anger that Ben was almost comforted as he cowered in the doorway.
The whine of the wind and the awful screeching from the radio ceased on the recording just as it had in real time. The Camaro’s engine purred. Tires squealed. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck,” Ben heard himself say as he sped away from the two disembodied voices at the end of River Bend Road.
The recording ended abruptly, and Ben gaped at the laptop in silent horror.
He recalled the Shawnee and the Mingo accounts of the creature in the woods’ origins. One tribe said it fell from the sky, the other said it crawled out of the ground. Ben felt sick as realization crashed through him.
The accounts were not two versions of the same creature’s arrival but rather two accounts of two very different creatures.
The so-called Mothman of Point Pleasant had fallen from the sky, but whatever had crawled up out of the earth was something else. Something other. Something dark and malignant.
The winged creature in the woods was not the curse that rotted the very ground on which Point Pleasant had been built; it was the sole barrier between the town and the wretched thing that had crawled out of the soil and tainted the land with its very presence.
A gentle knock arose from the front door, jarring Ben from his thoughts, and he stifled a knee-jerk desire to scream. He approached the door and peered through the peephole with caution.
No one there.
Ben pressed against the wood frame as he checked for signs of movement. He reached down and tried to ignore the way his hand trembled as he slid the lock out of place and twisted the knob to open the door. The air in his lungs caught as he surveyed the front yard for a threat.
Ben stepped onto the porch. He checked the salt line to ensure he was not going to step over it before he gazed down the street. He looked to the left, then to the right. Cardinal Lane was quiet and empty.
He spun around to go inside but stilled when he caught sight of the door knocker and what dangled from it. Marietta’s words echoed in his head.
A familiar face will return.
An arrowhead with the carved likeness of a Native American chief hung from a worn leather cord.
It was the arrowhead Nicholas had given Ben on their eleventh birthday; the arrowhead that Ben had thrown into the forest beside River Bend Road in a fit of self-loathing and despair; the arrowhead that had no business on the front door of his childhood home.
Ben reached out to touch the carved face with the tip of his index finger as if to confirm it was actually there. He slipped the cord off the knocker and held the arrowhead in the palm of his right hand.
A sign of trust.
Ben glanced skyward as if he half-expected to see the winged creature that had protected him on River Bend Road hovering there in the air, but the gray sky was devoid of any supernatural creatures, winged or otherwise.
“Okay,” he said to something—someone—who was not there, but Ben knew it was probably listening just the same. “I’ll help you.”
Ben stood unmoving for a long moment as he waited for a response that never came. The hum of an engine captured his attention, and Ben saw Bill Tucker’s pickup truck pull to a stop in front of the house.
Tucker had his Remington in one hand and appeared unsettled. He approached the house and stopped outside of the salt line. He nodded in approval and then stepped inside its protection.
Ben tied the leather cord with the arrowhead around his neck and led Tucker inside. Neither spoke until the door was closed and locked behind them.
“I don’t know what you saw,” Tucker said, “but River Bend Road’s like a tornado went through then caught fire.”
“Are you serious? Literal fire?”
“Why do you think it took me so long to get here? There were so many cop cars and fire t
rucks, I couldn’t get out of my drive.”
Ben realized Nicholas had not returned his call. He must have gone to River Bend Road and was dealing with whatever had happened after Ben’s escape.
“Fuck,” Ben cursed and grabbed for his phone and waved Tucker into the living room. “Just a second. I gotta make a call.”
Nicholas’ number went straight to voicemail. Ben grumbled after the beep. “Nic, listen, do not go into the forest. I can’t explain right now. Just don’t go into the forest, whatever you do.”
Ben pocketed his phone and ran a hand through his hair. Tucker’s observation from the day before resonated with new meaning.
It called twice.
Half an hour later, Ben had told Tucker everything from the visits to Lewis, Warren, and Abernathy to the scrambled voicemail that led him out to River Bend Road. Tucker listened to Ben recount his conversation with the voice, but he seemed wary until Ben played him the recording. When it ended, Tucker’s face had taken on an ashen quality as if he might become physically ill.
“Holy Jesus,” Tucker whispered.
Ben poured two glasses of the whiskey from Andrew’s desk and offered one to Tucker. They downed the alcohol in single shots, and Ben savored the burn. He checked his phone; Nicholas had yet to call back.
“I don’t know what we’re supposed to do,” Tucker said. “Except maybe pray.”
“I’m not really the praying type,” Ben said as he toyed with his empty glass. “Abernathy said I have to break it.”
“Break what, though?”
“I have no idea,” Ben said, shaking his head. “But it—the first one, it needs help.”
“That don’t make a lick of sense. Why would it need anyone’s help?”
Ben offered the man another two fingers of whiskey. His gaze settled over the photographs on the mantle. He thought of the picture of Caroline in his copy of Slapstick back in Boston.
“It said it wants to go home. Maybe it’s stuck here somehow. Maybe there’s something keeping it.”
Tucker drank in silence.
“Maybe whatever that something is, that’s what has to be broken,” Ben mused.
“Yeah, but let’s say that’s the case. Let’s say we find whatever needs breaking, break it, and Glinda the Good Witch just flutters home to Oz. Which leaves us to deal with the other one.”
“No, I don’t think it would,” Ben replied while he eyed the bottle of whiskey and considered another shot for himself.
“Why’s that?”
“Because it warns us,” Ben said. “All the times it shows up before something bad happens, it’s trying to warn us. To let us know the other one is coming. I don’t think it’d just leave us if it got free.”
“I don’t know if I would put all my gasoline in that tank, son,” Tucker advised. “Just in case you’re wrong.”
“But you heard them.” Ben rubbed the nape of his neck when he felt goosebumps rise once again at the thought of the other voice. “They sounded pretty hostile with one another. What if it’s the other one keeping the good one here? Maybe the good one wants revenge anyway if it’s been trapped here since—hell, since at least 1744.”
“That’d be something,” Tucker said, seeming to consider the idea.
“I guess we just need to figure out how to protect ourselves until we find out what the good one needs.”
“I’ve got a box of ammo in the bed of my truck,” Tucker started. “I think filling up the shells with rock salt would be a smart start.”
Ben turned to Tucker and grinned. “That’s genius.”
“Well, it might at least slow down the other one.”
“Maybe we should drive out to St. Luke’s,” Ben said. “Get as much holy water as we can get our hands on.”
Tucker stared off at the empty fireplace, his dark brown eyes were narrowed and glazed. A moment passed, and Ben shifted under the weight of the other man’s silence.
“What? What is it?”
“It’s just,” Tucker started, but he paused to swallow with what looked like considerable effort. “Salt, sage, holy water, iron…” The old farmer’s attention fell to the fireplace, and he kept quiet for a long moment before he whispered, “What are they?”
The question that Ben had been asking himself for the last hour hung on the air like wafts of smoke from one of Andrew’s cigarettes. Ben was struck by the sudden desire to open all the windows and let the breeze carry it away.
“I was reading last night,” Tucker said, and he hesitated for a moment with the same uncertainty that had once led him to lie to Deputy Nate Nolan out of fear of being thrown into the drunk tank. “I was trying to find something useful, something that might help us figure out what was going on. One of my books, it had a whole section on omens. Mostly demonic ones.”
“A demon? You think it’s a demon?”
“I don’t know what I think,” Tucker replied. “All I know is you pick up any book on this kinda thing, and it’ll tell you salt, holy water, and a good old-fashioned copy of the King James is near about all that’ll protect you from something like this. If that’s what it is, we ain’t got a snowball’s chance, son. Not in saving ourselves, and certainly not in saving anybody else from whatever’s about to happen.”
Ben stood and started to pace.
“I’ve got a computer back at home,” Tucker said. “You mind making me a copy of that file? I wanna try and see if I can figure out what they’re saying when they’re both talking in those other languages. I’ve got an old book of Latin somewhere.”
“You know Latin?”
“Not really. But Catholic school might have been good for something after all.”
“You’re Catholic?”
“Lapsed.” Tucker shrugged. “I still got some books.”
Ben rifled through his messenger bag until he found the small key drive he always kept stowed in its front pocket. He plugged it into his laptop and copied the audio file across.
“That town meeting, didn’t you say it’s in an hour?”
“Yeah,” Ben confirmed. “You going?”
Tucker nodded. “I’ll drive you over.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“I’ve got an extra shotgun stowed in my truck,” Tucker said as he rose to his feet. “You want it?”
Ben raised an eyebrow. He had not held a gun in years, not since he was seventeen and went on an uneventful hunting trip with Andrew. “I’ll take it.”
“Be back in a tick,” Tucker said. “You can help me fill the shells.”
Forty minutes later, they divvied up the prepared 12-gauge salt rounds and sage bundles. Tucker would drive out to St. Luke’s first thing the following morning to retrieve the holy water. He seemed uneasy about returning home now that he was aware of what occupied the forest, but his books were there, and he was intent to “not be a delicate fucking flower” about the situation.
Ben left the spare Remington by the front door, grabbed his laptop and bag, and joined Tucker in his pickup truck. The worn seats were a comforting sight.
Tucker parked outside Town Hall. There were a few other vehicles present, and relief trickled through Ben when he saw the Sheriff’s cruiser was parked in front of the Department across the square.
Main Street was desolate. Despite the fact that Ben’s watch read just shy of four o’clock, almost every business on the street had closed for the day. As Ben observed the empty square, a shock of unease jolted him into alertness.
“Listen,” he said.
Tucker paused on his way around the Ford and frowned. “I don’t hear anything.” He shifted with discomfort, realizing that was Ben’s point. “Let’s get inside.”
The meeting had already started, though unofficially. There were less than fifty people present in the chairs set up for the event, which seemed like a shockingly small turnout for a town with over 4,000 residents.
Mae stood near the front of the auditorium with the mayor. Silas Stewart wore a well-tailored blue suit that stretche
d elegantly across his tall, thin frame. The overhead fluorescent lights reflected off his shiny, bald head as Mae waved her arms and yelled at him in apparent outrage.
Nicholas stood nearby and observed while they argued back and forth about something, but he glanced up when Ben entered with Tucker. The sheriff looked somber, but his expression changed when he caught sight of Ben. Nicholas excused himself from the argument.
“Ben, Bill,” he said as he approached.
“Sheriff,” Tucker greeted, and Ben noted the especially gruff intonation the other man put on the word. “Get your head outta your ass yet?”
Ben raised an eyebrow at the exchange.
Nicholas seemed unfazed, and he extended his hand to Tucker.
Tucker regarded the sheriff’s gesture for a few seconds before he extended his own hand and shook. “You get that fire under control?”
“Longino got it out in no time,” Nicholas confirmed.
“Good.”
Nicholas looked between the two of them before he settled on Ben. “How are you?”
Ben gave an exaggerated thumbs-up.
“Ain’t nothing a bottle of something hard and bitter can’t fix,” Tucker said and moved away to find a seat.
“What happened?” Nicholas asked.
“Tell you later,” Ben said. “But you could have called back,” he added, sounding colder than he intended.
“I was working, Ben.”
“It was important,” Ben replied. “Never mind. We’ll talk later.”
Ben joined Tucker and slumped against his chair. Nicholas returned to the front of the auditorium where Mae was still yelling at Stewart.
“All right, Mae,” Nicholas said with ease. “You can finish this after the meeting. We need to get started so you folks can get home for curfew.”
“Curfew?” Ben whispered, and Tucker grunted.
“There’s always a curfew. Like hiding inside will make it go away.” Tucker’s words were laced with bitterness to convey his awareness that he was just as guilty of such cowardice.
Mae flumped into a chair on the third row as Nicholas stepped behind the podium. If the circumstances were different, Ben might have been able to appreciate the respect his childhood best friend now seemed to command.
Point Pleasant Page 22