Point Pleasant

by Wood, Jen Archer

  “What about the time?”

  “Three A.M. is supposed to be the witching hour,” Tucker supplied.

  “I thought that was midnight?”

  “Nah. Catholic tradition holds Jesus died on the cross at three P.M. The inversion of that, three A.M., is meant to be the prime time for evil to roam free. So my fuzzy memories of Catholic school recall at least.”

  Tucker had a sip of coffee before he went on.

  “Thirty-three, it’s like a special number anyway. Jesus, he was supposedly thirty-three years old when he was crucified. There’s a whole mess of instances of the number in the Old Testament too.”

  “So what, it’s some magic number?”

  “I don’t know, son. People fixate on the damnedest things.”

  “I just turned thirty-three,” Ben offered. “Is that significant?”

  Tucker huffed out a sigh. “Hell if I know.”

  They lapsed into silence until Ben finally spoke.

  “He called me.”

  “Beg your pardon?” Tucker asked. A disbelieving scowl darkened his features.

  “This is going to sound nuts.”

  Tucker snorted and rolled his eyes. “And nothing else so far has? Spit it out.”

  “He’s an angel.”

  Tucker laughed. Ben waited, unfazed, for him to stop. When Tucker saw he was serious, Ben continued.

  “He says his name is Raziel, and the other thing, he says that’s his brother, Azazel. I looked up some angel lore. Raziel got the order to kick Azazel out of Heaven for being a dick. Anyway, Raz said—”

  “Raz?” Tucker asked, and Ben shrugged.

  “Raziel said that Azazel cast some kind of spell to trap him here so he could steal his grace. Only, in doing so, he bound himself here by accident. So whenever the asshole decides to pop out of Hell for a breather, he can only come here. To Point Pleasant.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re saying that other voice on the recording is a goddamn fallen angel?”

  “Apparently.”

  “And what the hell are we supposed to do about that?”

  Ben smiled, though it was strained. “Help Raziel get his grace back.”

  Tucker snorted and rose to walk to the stove. He poured himself another cup of coffee and added a generous splash of whiskey. He offered some to Ben, but Ben declined.

  Tucker slumped against his chair. He took a long draught of his coffee and glanced to Ben. “How are we supposed to help, exactly?”

  Ben explained about the sigil and how they would need to unearth it, break it, and replace it with another one meant to trap the fallen angel after they summoned him.

  “Oh, is that all?” Tucker scoffed. “That’s twelve kinds of crazy, you damn fool.”

  “Look, it won’t be easy, but—”

  “You’re damned right it won’t be easy! I’ve been translating what that other voice was saying. It ain’t pretty.”

  “What did it say?” Ben asked.

  “Oh, it was none too pleased you figured out about the salt.”

  “What else?”

  Tucker got up and disappeared into the other room. He returned a moment later with a notebook. Ben peered over at the open page to see illegible scribbles.

  “Now, my translating skills ain’t something to be proud of,” Tucker started, and he pointed out a word for Ben to read. “But he says this twice.”

  Ben read it and frowned. “Gehenna?”

  “I had a rummage through an old theology book of mine,” Tucker said. “Gehenna was this place outside ancient Jerusalem. It was where the Israelites sent all the apostates and pagans. It was a place for the wicked. It’s also another name for Hell.”

  “Okay, so?”

  “So from what I can tell, he’s saying this land, our town, is the new Gehenna.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “If it’s what I think he’s saying, it ain’t just gonna be him. He said, ‘the others’ were coming.”

  Ben’s brow furrowed. “Others? Like more fallen angels?”

  “If it’s what you say, maybe.”

  “What, he’s going to open the velvet rope and let whoever he wants just waltz in?”

  Tucker leaned back and sipped his coffee. “The new Gehenna. Hell on Earth.”

  “Fuck.”

  Tucker got up and added more whiskey to his mug. “So either we help the one, or the other one… what? Starts the fucking rapture?”

  Ben sat unmoving and felt numb. A little over a week ago, he had been in New York signing copies of The Exquisite Corpse. The most he had been worried about then was the discussion panel he had agreed to take part in.

  “Maybe,” Ben replied at last. “I dunno.”

  Tucker shook his head. “This is fucking crazy, son,” he said. “We can’t fight a fallen angel. Or demon, or whatever you wanna call it.”

  Ben looked out the window toward the forest. “We aren’t alone, though.”

  “How are you so sure this Raziel character is on the up and up?” Tucker asked. “How do you know he’s not just having us wander straight into the lion’s den?”

  “I don’t know,” Ben answered honestly. “I just think he’s okay. I don’t know why, but I trust him.”

  Tucker drew his lips into a tight line. “That ain’t no reason for me to go sticking my neck out. Just ‘cause you think you got yourself a new friend.”

  Ben scowled at the older man. “Then don’t come,” he said. “Sit here holed up with your shotgun. And if this all goes south, you’re the first one in the path of the hurricane. No one else is out here, Tucker. It’s just you. So good luck with that.” Ben stood and started to button his coat. “Thanks for your help so far.”

  “Oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch, your highness,” Tucker sneered. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help, just that you ain’t being very convincing about this whole benevolent-angel-in-the-woods thing.”

  “I can’t explain it, okay? I think it’s legit. I told you I saw Marietta Abernathy yesterday before I even talked to him the first time. She said I had to trust him.”

  “And Marietta’s a reliable source if ever I heard of one,” Tucker said with a snicker.

  Ben threw his hands in the air. “Fine, whatever. Nic is on his way over soon. I’ll go wait in my car.”

  “Sheriff’s coming? He bought into all this?”

  “Not really, but what other choice does he have? Something big is coming and even if we can’t stop it, we still have to try.”

  Tucker seemed to consider Ben for a long moment, though he remained quiet and pensive.

  Ben turned to leave.

  “Oh, sit your scrawny ass back down,” Tucker grumbled. “I’ll put more coffee on. We’ll get the shovels out of the barn when the sheriff gets here.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Nicholas had not arrived. Tucker watched idly while Ben called Nicholas’ cell phone for the second time. It rang and rang before it went to voicemail.

  “Something’s wrong,” Ben said. “He was supposed to be here, and he should be answering.”

  “Maybe something’s happened in town,” Tucker suggested.

  Ben gave a distracted nod. “Maybe.”

  “Well, we’re burning daylight,” Tucker said, gesturing to the window. “Storm’s headed in for later today. Sheriff can meet us there.”

  “Yeah,” Ben agreed. “He’s going to have to, I guess.”

  Tucker shrugged on a worn flannel coat. He picked up his shotgun and handed Ben the bag of supplies they had gathered while they waited for Nicholas. They had combined flashlights and their rations of salt rounds and sage. Tucker had driven out to St. Luke’s after the town meeting the day before and had stocked up on holy water.

  The older man prepared two flasks: one with coffee, the other with whiskey. He kept the whiskey flask in his back pocket, though, thank you very much.

  When Tucker headed out to the barn to gather shovels, Ben went out to the Camaro and grabbed the Remington Tucker had lent
him along with the remainder of his bag of rock salt. He put the salt and duffel bags into the bed of Tucker’s truck—they had already agreed they would take it, rather than the Camaro, given the terrain of the road that led up to the old factory—and he pulled out his phone to dial Nicholas’ number once more. It went to voicemail again.

  At the sound of the beep, Ben spoke. “Nic, where are you? I’m still at Tucker’s, but we’re going in just a minute. You can meet us at the factory. Or not if you’ve got something going on in town. But just let me know everything’s okay. Okay?”

  Ben hit ‘End’ when Tucker reappeared. He had two shovels and a coil of rope. He tossed everything into the bed of the truck. The clang of the shovels against the metal of the old Ford echoed across the quiet landscape.

  Ben climbed into the passenger seat as Tucker slid in the driver’s side and cranked up the engine. Tucker glanced at Ben. They did not speak. He put the truck into reverse, made a left onto River Bend, and drove west toward the direction of the road that would lead them to the factory.

  The section of blacktop where Ben had parked the Camaro the day before now resembled a small disaster site. The trees lining the road were charred and bent backwards as if a blast of something had forced them all into that position. The truck bounced over the broken asphalt, and Ben noticed that Tucker had a vise grip on the steering wheel.

  They drove in tense, alert silence and kept a cautious eye on the surrounding forest when the truck finally turned onto a disused gravel thoroughfare.

  Tucker slowed the truck’s speed as it bumped and heaved along. After a slow crawl up the winding lane, the derelict factory came into view. Ben realized that despite spending twenty years in Point Pleasant, he had never once laid eyes on the place that had helped serve as a catalyst for his writing career.

  The building loomed tall and ominous. Its gray brickwork was solid but cracked open in some spots from harsh winters and decades of neglect. Ben wondered if the factory had gone out of use not because of the end of the war but because of the dark presence in the surrounding woods.

  Tucker parked, and they got out of the truck with their shotguns in hand and duffel bags full of supplies thrown over their shoulders.

  “Don’t suppose your pal Raz told you where to dig?”

  “No.” Ben frowned and peered up at the expanse of the factory.

  “Of course he didn’t,” Tucker sighed. “Tell me again why he can’t dig up his own damned sigil?” he asked as they walked.

  “Said it ‘repels’ him. I guess he can’t get near it.”

  “You think he’s here now?” Tucker asked, scanning the area.

  Ben assessed the trees that lined the road they had just driven up and nodded. “Probably.”

  “Comforting,” Tucker grumbled.

  “Let’s go have a look around inside,” Ben said. He took out a flashlight and tilted his chin to the main entrance.

  Tucker glowered with apprehension, but he followed.

  When Ben pulled at the front entry door’s handle, it opened with a heavy groan and screech of rusted hinges. Tucker’s forehead wrinkled, and he held up his shotgun.

  “Someone forgot to lock up.”

  Ben walked inside the dark entryway and grimaced at the stale smell of mildew. “Maybe they left in a hurry. How long’s it been since anyone was up here?”

  “Years, it’d have to be,” Tucker replied with a heavy shrug.

  Ben aimed his flashlight around the empty hallway. There was just enough sunlight filtering in through the windows that they could navigate the large, empty rooms with relative ease, but the absence of a stable overhead light gave the factory an eeriness that only added to Ben’s disconcertion.

  Ben wandered to the right, through an open doorway, and surveyed the factory floor.

  It was a huge, open space with old machinery pushed into the corners. Everything seemed to be covered in a thick, white film of dust and mold. Most of the windows were broken. Ivy crept in through the frames from where it grew up the side of the brickwork. Stunted photosynthesis had turned the foliage the shade of blood. Ben indulged in a moment of delirious fantasy in which he imagined that the forest was eating the factory. Soon, the building would be completely consumed by the wilderness.

  “Looks clear to me,” Tucker whispered, following close as Ben ventured to the middle of the factory floor. “Maybe we should check out the other side.”

  Ben hummed in response, and he was somehow sure that the room was not of importance. “Lead the way.”

  Tucker turned with the barrel of his Remington pointed toward the entryway. Ben’s ears strained to hear the sound of something—anything—that could be in the factory with them, but the only noise he could detect was the constant echo of their shuffled footsteps against the concrete floor. The quietness of the factory and the surrounding forest was almost maddening.

  Tucker led them across the length of the factory through abandoned hallways and empty offices to the other side of the building, which bore an almost identical machine room and open floor plan. This side of the building, however, was in shambles. A large, gaping hole marred the north-facing wall. The opening itself was about thirty feet tall and ten feet wide. Bricks littered the area around the breach.

  “Did they ever start to demolish this place?”

  Tucker shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “How did that happen, then?” Ben asked, indicating the ruined wall.

  Tucker gave Ben a look.

  Ben trained his flashlight to the south wall and moved closer. The brickwork there was also smashed, but not all the way, and heavy machinery was turned over in front of it.

  A sudden, wild idea flitted across Ben’s mind like the flickering of a black-and-white reel on one of the Marquee’s projection screens: someone—or something—had been thrown through the side of the factory, and the far wall had slowed the subsequent crash. Ben kept the thought to himself, but his imagination ran wild with images of Mothra versus Godzilla, and Tokyo as it was devastated in their path.

  Tucker did a sweep of the room as Ben contemplated the state of the walls. When Tucker spoke, his voice echoed unnaturally. “Well, where the hell are we supposed to dig?”

  Ben turned. Before he could answer, a loud creaking and groaning penetrated the air. Tucker raised his shotgun, and Ben spun toward the perforated north wall. He heard the sound of rustling, but his brain registered its source too late. An ancient oak hurtled through the ceiling and crashed down a few feet from where he stood.

  Ben fell to the ground and covered his head as the tree pinned him under a bed of branches and leaves. Chunks of wood, brick, and ceiling tile rained from above. Ben curled his knees to his chest when some of the debris fell atop him.

  “Wisehart!” Tucker called from the other side of the room. Ben remained inert even as he heard the other man’s footsteps pound across the floor. “Son, say something!”

  The heavy scent of sap and earth permeated Ben’s nostrils as he swatted at the leaves around his face. He pushed himself up, wrestled his way through the branches, and stood on shaky legs that were knee-deep in foliage.

  “I’m okay, I’m okay,” Ben said while Tucker helped him out of the mess of limbs.

  “Shit on a stick, I thought it squashed you!”

  Ben shook his head and appraised the tree; it was huge.

  “Fuck,” he gasped. “Me too.”

  They retreated, and Tucker raised his shotgun again to aim its barrel up at the gaping hole in the ceiling and then to the now-massive gap in the side of the building.

  A warm rivulet of something trickled down Ben’s forehead, and he reached up to inspect the source. When he checked his fingers, they were covered in red. “Shit.”

  Tucker yanked an old bandana out of his back pocket and offered it to Ben before he edged closer to the opening in the wall with his Remington at the ready.

  Ben winced, putting the bandana to his forehead and pressing it to the wound. It
stung, but the amount of blood was not worrisome. Aside from a light dizziness that he attributed more to the rush of adrenaline than to the head injury, Ben felt fine. He pocketed the bandana, grabbed his own shotgun, and brought it around from where he had slung it over his shoulder.

  “See anything?” Ben called.

  “Nothing.”

  Ben joined Tucker and eyed the forest. It was still and silent now that the leviathan of a tree had come to a rest. The absence of birdsong made the situation even more surreal.

  “Okay, asshole!” Ben yelled into the woods. He was somehow certain that Raziel was responsible for the tree’s abrupt fall. “If that was you, you almost killed me!”

  “Don’t call the angel who just dropped a tree on you an ‘asshole,’ son,” Tucker said and widened his eyes. “I don’t wanna find out what he does when he’s offended.”

  Ben snorted with derision. “Oh, so now you believe he’s an angel?”

  “I don’t know what I believe, but I sure as shit ain’t convinced he’s a nice guy,” Tucker replied and gestured to the tree.

  Ben’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he grabbed it with the hope that it was Nicholas. His screen showed a missed call from no number. Anxiety flooded his chest. He dialed for voicemail, navigated through the robotic woman’s notification, and then frowned at the recording.

  “My apologies. I expected you to be further away. The floor is broken now,” Raziel said, and his voice was still a fluctuating lilt of high-to-low tones.

  Tucker leaned in and listened while the message played. They eyed the tree, and Tucker scoffed.

  “So that’s where we dig?”

  “Looks like.”

  “Well, now we gotta move a damn tree,” Tucker grumbled as he lowered his shotgun. “I’ll get the truck. We can haul it back enough to work.”

  “I’ll set up the salt,” Ben said. “Just in case.”

  Tucker nodded and hurried to the exit. Ben draped his shotgun over his shoulder by its strap and retrieved the duffel bag he had been carrying from where he had dropped it when the tree fell. He pulled out the bag of rock salt and set a perimeter around the room.

  When he was finished, Tucker had pulled his truck around to the side of the building and was working to tie the coil of rope to his rear bumper. Ben abandoned the almost-empty bag of rock salt and went to help. He tied the other end of the rope to the base of the tree trunk.