Greely's Cove

by Gideon, John

  He wondered if this were some sort of an emotional defense mechanism that had been switched on to soften the direful new realities that had entered his life since—

  Since Monday night. When he had shaken hands with Hadrian Craslowe. When his soul had taken a little unannounced vacation from his shuddering, drooling body. Had he really been a little boy again? Walking along through a chilly wood? Only to chance upon a hole in the path, a black opening about the diameter of a grapefruit, that sank downward through decades worth of spongy leaves? What had made him get down on his knees and thrust his little hand into that blackness?

  Police Chief Stuart Bromton discovered that his body was trembling again, that he was gripping his right hand with his left, as though to confirm that it was where it should be. He forced down a sip of coffee and was struggling to swallow it when the door of his office swung open.

  Dr. Hadrian Craslowe walked in, his awful hands tucked deep into the pockets of a shapeless overcoat, his steel-rimmed glasses impeccably clean and his white hair swept back from his walnut face. He was a kindly patrician today, his head held high.

  “Good morning, Chief Bromton,” he said with his rich British voice. “I trust you’re well.”

  Stu was not well, but he nodded.

  “I wonder if we might have a moment of privacy.” To which Stu responded by asking his secretary to take a coffee break and to close the office door behind her.

  “Well then,” said Craslowe when they were alone, “I’ve popped in to notify you that your assistance is needed.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “I’ve learned that certain people here in Greely’s Cove intend to trespass upon the home of Mitchell Nistler. Their motives are most harmful, and you must see to it that they do not succeed.”

  “Who are these people?” asked Stu.

  “The same ones we spoke of the night before last, and two others as well—friends of yours, I think: Carl Trosper and Lindsay Moreland.”

  Stu felt the wind being sucked from his lungs, as though an invisible fist had slammed into his solar plexus. “Carl is the oldest friend I have,” he managed to say. “Are you sure he’s involved?”

  “Come now, Chief Bromton, you don’t really believe that I could be mistaken, now do you?”

  No, of course he didn’t. “What do you want me to do?” Hadrian Craslowe told him, and for the tiniest fraction of a second his rage grew monstrously. He nearly launched himself out of his chair and across his cluttered desk, to clamp his hands around Craslowe’s neck. But his consciousness altered suddenly, and he was the little boy in the woods again, and he was pushing his hand deep into that freezing hole in the ground. His fingers touched something spongy and viscous. A stinging tentacle wrapped itself around his wrist and pulled, and the pain shot like electricity into his shoulder, his arm, his scrotum, and right down to the core of his soul.

  So Stuart Bromton merely nodded, having heard Hadrian Craslowe’s orders. To protest would have been useless, and even so, they had shaken hands on an agreement, which was inviolate, which superseded old friendships, long-held values, and all old notions about goodness and decency.

  Dr. Craslowe did not have far to travel for his next call of the morning: only upstairs to the mayor’s office, where His Honor Chester Klundt received him warmly. The office was small and garnished with framed awards and honors from local civic organizations. Here and there were icons of Klundt’s ardent religiosity: a calendar that featured scriptural verses and paintings of biblical scenes, a carving in wood of the ancient Christian fish symbol, a small desk plaque with “I’m Ready for the Rapture” printed on it.

  Dr. Craslowe bowed deeply, rather than shake the mayor’s outstretched hand.

  “Gosh, it’s nice to get a visit from one of our town’s newer citizens,” said Klundt, once they were seated. “You know, I usually don’t come into the office this early in the morning, so you’re lucky to catch me.” He beamed his politician’s smile.

  The doctor, who sat with his overcoat folded over his hands, said, “I’m grateful that you agreed to see me on such short notice, Your Honor.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to call me that,” said Klundt. “Just call me Chet. What do I call you? Hade? Or maybe Haddy? I knew a guy in the Navy named Haddy, but his first name was really Hadford.”

  “You may call me”—the doctor cleared his throat, smiling to conceal his utter loathing for the fat little man who sat behind the desk—“Hadrian, of course.”

  “Ah, good. What can I do for you, Hadrian?”

  “Mayor—or, rather, Chet—I come to you this morning not as a citizen of the town or as a voter, but as a fellow Christian”—Klundt’s eyes lit up, and he leaned forward slightly in his chair—“knowing that you are a very spiritual man. You are also a powerful one, and you have tremendous responsibilities to the community. I deemed it wise to talk with you before talking with anyone else.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did, Hadrian, I’m glad you did. I have to say, I never dreamed that you were a Christian. Do you belong to a church here in town?”

  Craslowe spun a yam about having not yet taken time to seek: out a church, that back in England he had belonged to a fundamentalist congregation that was “truly spirit-filled.” He was on the lookout for a church whose pastor preached “salvation” and not modernist heresy. Until he found one he would content himself with his daily devotions and fellowship with a few close friends. After all, for a born-again Christian, every waking minute is spent in communion with Jesus. Klundt answered with a praise God! and naturally suggested the church that he belonged to. Craslowe promised a visit.

  “But on to the matter I must discuss with you, Chet,” continued Craslowe. “It’s a most difficult subject to broach, and I pray you’ll bear with me. I’m afraid that the Devil is hard at work here in Greely’s Cove.”

  Which Klundt first took to mean the disappearances, but Craslowe quickly set him straight.

  “I’m speaking of sorcery and witchcraft, Chet.”

  The mayor’s face went white.

  “I cannot divulge my sources to you, because they are patients of mine, and what they’ve related to me is privileged. But I can tell you this: There is a woman who lives here in town, named Hannabeth Hazelford, who has been practicing witchcraft with alarming openness. Using power given her by Satan, she has even managed to cast a spell on our city council, I’m told, in order to bring in one of her close allies, a man who calls himself a psychic—”

  “Yes, yes, I know! His name is Robinson Sparhawk. It pains me to say this, Hadrian, but everything you’ve heard is right. I naturally opposed bringing this man to our town, but I was outvoted. I can’t say I’m surprised that old Hannie’s a witch. She even looks like one. I’ve never liked her!”

  “She and Mr. Sparhawk are servants of Hell,” said Hadrian, putting on his most somber face. “I came to you because these two demon-worshipers are contriving to convert others to their art, one of whom is a patient of mine. They have intimidated him, bullied him, and have even threatened his life. I suppose I can trust you if I were to give you his name, your being born-again.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “His name is Mitchell Nistler. Very soon—tonight, as a matter of fact—this Sparhawk fellow and the Hazelford woman intend to hold a sabbat at Mitchell’s house, even though he is terrified of the idea. I’m told that they will be in the company of two other witches—I don’t know their names—and that their ceremony will consecrate Mitchell and his house to the service of Satan. In other words, Chet, they intend to establish a working community of witches right here in Greely’s Cove.” The mayor’s eyelids were fluttering with God-given rage. His breathing was short and raspy, his lips pale. His eyes saw but his brain did not register the motion of Hadrian Craslowe’s hand as it tossed a tiny pouch made of skin to the carpet under the desk, where it began to release its vapors.

  The hypnotic voice droned on: “I know that you are aware of God’s commandments conc
erning witches, Chet. In Exodus the Lord says, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ And in Deuteronomy, ‘There shall not be found among you any that is an enchanter or a witch, for all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord.’

  “I realize that I can’t go to the police, Chet, because I would only hear from them that this nation’s laws protect the beliefs and religious practices of everyone, even witches. Yet I keep hearing the Lord’s words in my heart....”

  Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

  Craslowe’s voice flowed on, and his gaze bore into Chester Klundt’s eyes. The room swirled with a power that Klundt could neither see nor feel, but he soon drifted into its influence. He did not notice that his visitor occasionally slipped a foreign and very guttural word into the conversation, but even if he had noticed, he could not have known the power that the words unleashed.

  31

  “Magic depends on many things,” said Hannie Hazelford, “but most of all it depends on words.”

  She stood naked in the center of the pentagram she had carefully drawn in red wax on the floor of her kitchen. At each tip of the five-pointed star she had placed a thick white candle. The combined light fluttered across the surfaces of cupboards and walls, throwing jerky shadows.

  Carl forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying and not on the misshapen marvel of her naked body. He stole a quick look at Lindsay, who stood between himself and Robbie: Her eyes were huge and disbelieving, her mouth slightly open. She absently fingered the small pouch that hung on a thong against her sweater.

  “The proper combination of words, uttered with reverence and respect for the powers they represent, can set the magic in motion,” Hannie went on, moving now to a counter, where she had placed a large collection of vials, jars, and boxes. “It’s very much psychological, and emotional, too. Though it’s true that the ingredients of potions and charms produce their own kind of energy, more often than not they serve merely to put a person into the right frame of mind for doing magic. By mixing together various herbs and spices, and by executing the required rituals, I simply prepare my mind and body for uttering the words of power.”

  The Words of Power. Carl had seen that title on the cover of a book in Jeremy’s room. The memory of it produced a cramp in his abdomen.

  “Lindsay, Carl, Robbie.” Hannie peered at all three of them through the thick lenses of her pince-nez. “I must ask you all to disrobe now.”

  “What?” Lindsay’s voice rang out like a rifle shot. “You want us to—you want us nude?”

  “Yes,” answered the old woman. “Nudity is a necessary part of the ritual. The participants must be unencumbered by—”

  “Okay, this is where it stops!” shouted Lindsay. “I’m now in my twenty-sixth hour of fasting, and I haven’t complained. I’ve skipped work. I’ve worn the same grungy clothes since yesterday, slept on a lumpy sofa last night, and sat through an entire day of rituals and lectures and nonsensical hokum. I’ve let you take blood out of my arm, a fingernail, a snip from my expensive haircut, and I’ve even given you a jarful of my urine. But I’m not going to take off my clothes and get naked with two men and a witch. This is where it stops!”

  “Lindsay.” Carl turned toward her and tried to say something, but he found himself at a loss. He struggled. “Lindsay, this isn’t a game. Something very serious is at stake here. We’re talking about—”

  “I know what we’re talking about! What I don’t know is how I let myself get dragged into this! I’m so hungry I’m ready to faint, I’m tired because I didn’t sleep last night, and I’ve had it up to here with hocus-pocus!”

  Carl could not say that he blamed her, because he too was near the end of his rope. The cottage seemed like a jail cell, his head buzzed from the oppressive pall of burning spices, and his eyes ached for sunlight. But he had an advantage over Lindsay: He believed in the elaborate, maddeningly arcane exercise that Hannie was putting them through, had been putting them through since the first rays of morning; he believed in it, because he had no choice, because he had visited the undercroft of Whiteleather Place and seen its secrets. Lindsay had not.

  “Please don’t go, Lindsay,” said Robbie, hobbling after her as she darted around the cottage, collecting her jacket, handbag, and the toiletries she had bought last night at the Seven-Eleven. “This stuff all sounds like nonsense, I know, especially to somebody who’s never seen—”

  “It is nonsense!” shouted Lindsay. “I’m getting out of here before I become as crazy as all of you.” She made for the door, pulling on her jacket.

  “Darlin’, it could be dangerous out there. If you don’t want to join the ritual, that’s okay; you can stay in the back room with Katharine, if you want. But at least wait ’til morning before you—”

  “Negatron,” said Lindsay. “I’m not staying another minute at this funny farm. Nice meeting you, Robbie.”

  Carl bounded into the living room from the kitchen as the fire-blackened front door slammed shut. “Christ almighty, you didn’t let her go out there, did you?” he asked.

  “Didn’t have much choice, Bubba.”

  Hannie appeared at the kitchen door. “If she’s kept the charm around her neck, she should be safe from nearly anything Hadrian might send,” she assured, “short of a full-fledged demon. If he were to send something like that, the whole neighborhood is in dire trouble.”

  “What if Hadrian himself is out there?” asked Robbie, touching the front of his brightly colored western shirt, under which lurked a painful blister. “I seem to recall that he can make short work of a pouch around the neck.”

  “Oh, I do hope he hasn’t come himself,” said Hannie weakly. “If Hadrian is close by, then that poor girl-—oh, dear.”

  Lindsay stood in the darkness of Hannie Hazelford’s driveway and pawed through her handbag for the keys to her Saab. The wind off the Sound had grown cold since nightfall and had blown a heavy cloud cover over Greely’s Cove, dousing the moon and stars. She cursed the chill and the blackness, cursed herself for not cleaning out her handbag weeks ago when she had thought about it. She became more urgent in her search for the keys. Lipstick, eyeliner, pens, coins, Kleenex, candy bars...

  “Miss Moreland?” The whisper was close. And husky with sickness. Not long ago it had been a young woman’s voice. Lindsay’s body turned to stone as she stared into the darkness.

  Next to the rear fender of her Saab, not four feet away, stood a shadow that looked something like a young woman. But as Lindsay’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, they gleaned hints of grievous bodily injury. She nearly swallowed her tongue.

  “Miss Moreland, you don’t know me, but my name is Elizabeth Zaske,” the thing said, moving still closer. “You might’ve read about me in the papers awhile back.”

  Lindsay’s brain labored, deciding whether she was in danger; and if so, what to do about it. The breeze brought a horrible stink to her nose, and she wanted to step away, but her limbs had become as uncooperative as hardened plaster. Fear gripped her, like a claw, right between her breasts.

  “I disappeared, remember?” the shadow-thing said, but it was no longer a mere shadow. It was near enough now to give evidence of its solidarity, of real flesh and bone. “I was the waitress at Bailey’s Seafood Emporium.”

  “What do you want?” demanded Lindsay, with as much authority as she could muster. “I don’t have time to talk. I was just leaving.”

  “Oh, you can’t leave, Miss Moreland. I’m supposed to stop you from leaving, no matter what happens.”

  “And just how do you intend to do that?” A flutter had crept into Lindsay’s voice, utterly destroying the authoritative effect.

  “It’s easy,” said Elizabeth Zaske. “I’m doing it right now. I can’t finish what I’m supposed to do, though, unless you help me. Please take off that awful thing you’re wearing.”

  Lindsay felt her hand go to the little skin pouch that hung around her neck, the charmed vial that contained ground hair and nai
l, samples of her body fluids and she hadn’t dared to guess what else. Her protector, Hannie had called it.

  “Wh-why would you want me to take it off?”

  “Well, because it’s offensive,” said the creature, who had lost much of its skin and flesh, who stank like an open grave, who knew what offensive was. “If you keep it on, you and I won’t be able to have any fun. We won’t be able to go to the Feast.”

  Lindsay had not heard Carl approach from behind. She choked with startlement as he stepped between herself and the one-time Elizabeth Zaske.

  Suddenly the creature’s eyes glowed bright green. Lindsay nearly lost the contents of her bladder.

  Carl seemed confident in the protection of his own charmed vial. He slammed a fist into the creature’s face, knocking it backward. Before it could recover, he slammed another into the side of its head. It went down onto the concrete, and Carl delivered a kick to the throat, which dislodged pieces that might have been teeth or bone. They made little snicks as they landed on the concrete.

  Incredibly, the thing got back on its feet again. Its breath came with horrible, moist-sounding whistles.

  “Hey, you’re pretty tough against little girls!” shouted a voice from the deep shadow, this one male and scratchy with disease.

  From behind Robinson Sparhawk’s van, which was parked next to Lindsay’s car, stepped one of the things Carl had seen in the undercroft.

  “Want to try your luck with me, Bucko?” It had once been a large and healthy man in his early fifties—probably Wendell Greenfield, the missing service-station operator. He was no longer so large, because he had given up so much of his meaty self to the Giver of Dreams. But there was no telling how much damage he could do, charm or no charm, and Carl backed away, grabbing Lindsay’s arm.

  “Come on, let’s get inside,” he said.

  “I can’t!”

  “For God’s sake, Lindsay, how can you need any more proof than that?” He motioned toward the Zaske- and Greenfield-things, both of which were approaching now, their eyes aglow with greenish light.