“Looks like someone got cut doing it too,” Robert replied. He walked past J.B. to inspect the broken door when Steve’s body came into sight. Once again, Cindy was too close behind to stop her.
“Oh, my god!”
Robert tried to grab her as she pushed past him but she slipped through his grip in a hysterical rush. All he could do was follow her until she dropped to her knees in the blood soaked snow.
She pounded her thighs with clenched fists as her body convulsed into sobs. Robert knelt down and held her. He’d never seen anything like it before. Steve’s body lay on its back, his abdomen ripped open and viscera strewn about. Next to him there was a large depression in the snow, ‘like a snow angel,’ Robert thought. There was blood coagulated within it and what looked like ripped women’s clothing, but no body.
“What the hell did this?” J.B. asked as he came up next to them.
“I don’t know.”
Cindy looked up, frightened and panicked, “Those are Sara’s clothes. Whoever did this took her. We have to find her.”
Robert let go of her and stood up.
“Where are you going?” asked J.B.
“The basement. I’ve got a bad feeling.”
He stepped back inside the living room, looked around and then stuck his head back out the door.
“How do you get to the basement?”
“It looks like a closet,” Cindy sobbed. “Just off the entryway.”
Robert pulled back inside as J.B. rushed to follow him.
“Wait up,” J.B. caught him at the door. “We both go. Stand over there and get ready to shoot when I open it.”
Robert took the left side and J.B. took the right. The big man turned the knob and quickly pushed the door open. Silence greeted them. Robert peeked his head around the corner to find the light still on at the bottom of the stairs. The basement was small, about twenty feet square. He could see between the wooden planks that functioned as steps. There was no one hiding behind them, so he began making his way down, one slow step at a time, pistol still drawn. J.B. followed close behind. They were only halfway down when Robert noticed the pile of earth next to one wall. The floor had been dug up and there was blood around the opening. He walked over to it, J.B. in tow and got down on his knees. The hole was small, about the size of a shoebox.
“That had to be one of the stones,” he said.
With no flashlight and their bodies blocking the single bulb, it was hard to see the bottom. Robert reached down and felt around until he touched something cold, wet and fleshy. He grabbed hold of it and pulled it out into the light, then dropped it and turned, retching into the corner. J.B. fought his own nausea, reached down and pulled the object back out. It took him a few moments to realize it was part of a human heart.
XI
While J.B., Robert and Cindy were reeling from their discovery, Ruth stood at her kitchen sink and watched the threads of the world unravel outside her window. It has started before they left, but she’d said nothing. Part of her didn’t want to admit it was real, but now there was no doubt about it. Like bits of yarn from an old, worn blanket, frayed parts of the world around her seemed to be wearing through and on the other side there was something else. Ruth could see that her home was intact. It wasn’t moving. It wasn’t slowly untangling around her, but just beyond her foundations the very ground was coming apart steadily and unmistakably. It scared her to know that Robert, J.B. and Cindy were out there. It even scared her to think of Javier experiencing this on his own, if he was still alive. She knew he had a past when she’d met him. Some things you can tell whether you have magic eyes or not and she could always tell that he’d never felt the same for her as Robert and J.B. did. Still, he’d never been mean to her. In fact, other than their episode that morning, he’d been there when she needed him just like the other two.
Her eyes caught the tips of the old oak at the edge of her property and she marveled as its top slowly untied itself, green leaves shredding into small strings that writhed and unwound at the tips. As they came free, inch long bits would blow away, like a tuft of fur on a summer breeze. The ones that came her way disappeared like smoke before they got too close to her window. The tree itself was disappearing. That grand oak as old as the house she was standing in, was feeling its last rays of sunshine, pulling up a few final microscopic drops of water from the soil. The beetles burrowing between the rough trenches of its bark itched for the very last time and then were gone.
‘This is how it ends,’ she thought. ‘It’s like this was all a dream and somewhere, the dreamer is waking up.’
From beyond her property line, the sky was darkening. She could see it moving in low and fast, as if the clouds were only fifty feet above the ground. Ruth turned and walked into the living room where she left the box and the stone. The blankets and towels she’d wrapped around it were already soaked through and she hefted the whole wet mass up and carried it into the kitchen. Laying it on the table, she unwrapped it carefully and watched as water spilled from the cracks in the box as if a small faucet was running inside. She opened the lid, removed the stone and then holding it in front of her as if it were a magnifying glass, she looked toward the window. In the stone, there was still the high desert, but as she moved the stone around, the scenery changed within it.
“It’s a window,” she said aloud.
She turned toward the old oak. The stone revealed a lone suaro cactus, at least twenty feet tall, standing in its place.
She pulled down her arms and what was left of the tree was still there. Its top now almost halfway gone and in its place a hole filled with a clear blue sky. Gone were the snowy pines. Gone were the snow heavy clouds. It was as if the sky were only two dimensional. She turned toward the approaching darkness. The stone showed a cascading, moving black.
Ruth lowered the stone and watched as the first crow landed on the clothesline. It adjusted its footing and then turned and cocked its head to stare at her. The next two, three, and then fifty arrived all at once. The darkness was arriving, alive with feathers.
Ruth raised the stone again and peered at the closest bird. The animal looked almost reptilian. Its fleshy pig nose pulling at the air, trying to get her scent as sinister eyes scanned the window. Its furry wings were folded behind it and small black hands, like a monkey’s gripped the branch of a small scrub oak that stood about four feet high and bent almost parallel with the ground. The crow cawed and Ruth put the stone down. Around her house, shadows writhed and fluttered. Beaks and claws clattered and a blanket of feathers covered the lawn. In the middle of it, something was moving, parting the birds like a snowplow. The curtain of crows that shot up as the thing moved blocked her chances of getting a good look at it. It was at least six feet and came at a determined pace.
She turned around, placed the stone gently back in the box and returned to the window. The figure parted the last of the crows and stopped next to the clothesline. It was covered with the inky black and red of spilled blood. The liquid ran in rivulets over its skin but defied gravity. Some ran up, some down, others moved in slow spirals around its chest and shoulders. There was not an inch of its body clear of the stuff and it gave off a metallic shine. The thing stared at her with fiery yellow eyes. She’d seen this face before, although it took her a moment to pick out where. It had been so long ago, in a book she’d read. An artist’s rendering of a man laid out on a stone slab, his chest ripped open and a figure dressed in gold and animal skins holding the heart above its head. The face of the priest (high priest… it had said high priest) was hard like the one staring at her now, its eyes set under furrowed brows, smoldering pupils focused with burning intensity on the organ it held aloft.
This was that high priest. It was all that was left of Javier Quintana. His voice was both Javier’s and something else. The language it used wasn’t clear to Ruth but the birds understood it. They stopped moving as he turned to address her.
“I’m here for the stone.”
“I know wh
y you’re here,” Ruth replied.
Everything was quiet but for the water spilling out of the box and onto the floor.
“Give it to me, or I will take it.”
Ruth took a deep breath, “Javier Quintana, this house is protected. I’ve seen it repel what came after Anderson. I know that whatever you are, you hold no power in this house.”
Javier’s expression never changed. He reached over one shoulder and pulled a large knife from a shoulder sling. The weapon looked crude, with multiple small blades in the shape of semicircles. Each was fastened around a large, flat stick about the length of a grown man’s forearm. It looked old and primitive and he hefted it in his right hand as he began to walk around to the back door.
Ruth moved quickly, grabbing the shotgun, and raising the weapon to her shoulder as she heard him climb the steps.
“The stone, Ruth,” he said on the other side of the door. “It does not belong to you and you are not its guardian. The time has come for the stones to be joined and decisions to be made. Give it to me or I will take it.”
Ruth stood with the rifle ready, “You can’t take it. This house is protected.”
“You’re wrong, old woman. Last chance.”
Ruth closed her eyes for a second. She reached out with a silent prayer and tried to get a sense of security. A sense that somewhere, in this house, there was something that would stop him from coming in.
She opened her eyes, gun still at the ready, “Come get it.”
The door flew inward and off its hinges as Ruth pulled the trigger. The rifle barrel caught the brunt of the blow but it threw the gun stock into Ruth’s shoulder, breaking her collarbone and separating her arm from the joint. She hit the ground with the force of a car crash and felt something in her hip snap just before the door landed on her chest. Pinned to the ground, Ruth craned her neck to see as Javier stepped through the opening and into the hallway. The pain from her shoulder and hip fought her brain for attention as she struggled to make sense of what was happening.
Javier walked to where she lay on the floor, bent down and with one arm pulled the door up and flung it down the hall. He reached down again, grabbed the front of her shirt and hoisted her into a chair by the table. The pain from her hip won out. It was screaming at her to shift positions but both arms were useless. She felt like a battered rag doll, unable to move on her own. Javier stepped back and looked at her, smiling. Then he glanced to the box spilling water over the edge and opened the lid. He held up a hand in front of her, touched the stone and the water ceased to run.
Kneeling down he put his face mere inches from her own, his rancid breath filling her nostrils, his expression cruel and twisted. Moving patterns of bloody rivulets criss-crossed around eyes that smoldered like coals. He took his left hand and thrust it into her good shoulder, snapping the bones like crackers.
Ruth didn’t even have the strength to scream. It came out as a gutteral, “Hunpf” and she closed her eyes to try to regain her focus. She could feel his breath on her, hot and wet.
“How…?” she whispered.
“You never knew the rules, old woman,” he said and pulled her hair back to hold her head upright. The pain from her broken shoulder and collarbone were excruciating. She opened her eyes. Behind his pupils she could see something stirring, a madness unchained.
“This house protects you from an ancient god,” he said as he hefted the knife. “Not the new one.”
She found her voice as he brought the blade home.
XII
Across The Wash the air crackled. Francine Shoemaker sat on her front porch and looked out toward the ghost town of Old Ogden. There was a paleness to the sky, as if someone had laid thin muslin over it. She sat on the porch swing and her body jerked once, then stopped. Her throat bulged as her eyes went wide. Small claws found their way through her cheeks to the edges of her lips. Her neck cracked as her head fell back and a flutter of leather wings unfurled and burst from her mouth toward the sky.
Outside Skip’s diner, Andi stepped into her Honda Civic. As she put the key in the ignition Skip’s was suddenly gone. In its place was a large rock fall made of boulders as big as her car. She let go of the key and slowly climbed back out. Across the road stood the feed store, just as always. She turned back around and started walking up to the spot where Skip’s front door had stood moments before. She put her hand on a boulder. It was solid.
Something high above her moved and she took a step backwards to get a better look. One by one yellow feral eyes peered over the edge. Long tongues lolled over sharp teeth. Andi turned and ran, followed by the scrabble of claws on stone.
Almost a mile away, Bethany Ann felt the air practically tingle behind the counter of the QuikStop. The translucent hairs on the backs of her arms and neck rose up like antennas tuned to a frequency too low for human ears. It was a hum, a vibration that moved through her and it seemed to be coming from the back of the store. She walked toward the refrigerator cases and with each step, the air around her seemed thicker, like looking through a glass of water. Making her way past the snack cakes and candy bars, she blinked, trying to adjust to it. The shelves in the refrigerator wavered and then disappeared. In their place were hundreds of small roasted gourds. Bethany Ann cocked her head, puzzled and then she noticed the teeth. Rows and rows of faces confronted her, skin blackened by fire. They sat slack jawed, eyes sewn shut, tongues pulled out and dried over long rotten teeth. She started to scream when the back of the store exploded.
Out on James Ogden Road, Manuel Thompson stood in the kitchen and opened the windows so the smoke from the frying pan could circulate. As he grabbed a knife to start chopping an onion, he heard a knock. It sounded like it was coming from the direction of his back door. Still absently carrying the knife, he quickly moved into the living room.
“Juanita?”
She stood outside the glass door staring at him as if she’d never seen him before.
“Is something wrong?”
Suddenly, the light in her eyes seemed to flicker and her expression became animated.
“You have to see this Manuel. It’s the most amazing thing,” she yelled through the glass.
He unlatched to door and slid it open.
“What?”
“You have to see it,” she said again, but this time her voice was far away.
“Are you all right?”
Juanita said nothing but just stood there looking at him, the dumb expression back on her face.
“What’s that on your head?” he asked, reaching up to touch what looked like gel in her black hair. The gentle pressure from his fingers caused the hair to push in, like a ball with too little air. His fingers came away a deep red.
He pulled away and took a step back in the house.
“Don’t go inside,” Juanita said.
Manuel turned and began pulling the door shut but his wife’s hand was faster. She shoved it into the jamb just as the door slid closed. Manuel yanked at the handle, putting as much of his weight as he could into it. Then he struck at Juanita’s fingers with the kitchen knife. The blade slid easily through skin and sinew, but she held firm, never screaming, always looking at him with those dead, calm eyes.
“Come back outside, Manuel,” she said. “Dinner can wait.”
The handle gave and he tumbled to the ground as Juanita pushed her way inside.
“There’s so much to see tonight,” she said through newly fanged jaws. “And so many eyes to seeeeee wiiiiitttthhh….”
Fiddlebacks poured from her mouth.
XIII
A quick search of Cindy’s house revealed nothing more. The intruder had punched holes in walls, dumped out drawers and boxes and there was shattered glass everywhere. When Robert and J.B. emerged, they found Cindy still sobbing and holding Steve’s body against her chest.
“Who would do something like this?” Robert asked.
No one answered, but inside J.B. something was churning. It wasn’t nausea. It was more like an en
gine, as if there were an old crank handle sticking out of his navel and he could feel it being turned over and over. Something inside him was starting up and he felt as if he were vibrating at a frequency out of tune with this world. He began to focus on it, to let it take him over, when Robert grabbed his arm.
“Shit! Ruth’s alone.”
J.B.’s attention snapped back. He turned and ran for the front as Robert shook Cindy.
“We have to go. Whoever did this may be headed her way next.”
Cindy kept cradling Steve’s head until Robert reached down and gently pulled her up under her arms. She let go and Steve slid back to the snow.
“Come on,” Robert said to her softly and pulled her toward the truck.
As they sped through the neighborhood, no one else was on the road. Houses were dark, windows shuttered. The sky above them held its wintry gray color and refused to show a glimmer of sunlight. They wound their way to Hwy 89 and as they pulled onto it, the world around them changed ever so slightly. It was like watching the colors blur in a child’s watercolor painting. Then there was a pop and everything came back into focus again.
“Did you two just see that?” Cindy asked, still sniffling.
“Yep,” Robert looked over at J.B. but the man stayed silent. There was a grimly determined look on his face as he gunned the truck through town.
“What’s that burning?” Cindy asked.
Up ahead a column of smoke climbed into the sky. The QuikStop was on fire.
“Pull over!” she shouted.
J.B. cranked the wheel hard and pulled into the parking lot. The front windows of the store had been blown outward. The burning body of Bethany Ann Lewis lay half in and half out of the doorway. Cindy clambered out behind J.B. and ran toward her friend.
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