The Devourer Below

by Charlotte Llewelyn-Wells

  Lita had been in fights before. She’d been in one earlier. But she was in her own home, relaxed, safe. She froze as knuckles swished past her nose. It was a man, someone she didn’t know, half-hidden in the shadows. He was breathing fast, his sallow cheeks flushed red.

  He was older than her, though, and slow. It was easy to avoid the sluggish swing of his fist. They ducked and swayed until Lita arced her arm back, then up and around. The man saw it coming. He raised his arm and deflected the blow. The poker crunched the delicate bones of his wrist. His face paled, his chest heaving. Lita almost missed him striking out with his left, just managing to dip the other way.

  Lita didn’t know the man, just assumed he was one of the cultists. But he wanted to hurt her, that much was certain. It didn’t help that she was already tired. She had to finish this and quickly. The man was panting loudly now, sweat dripping down his forehead. He’d cradled his injured hand to his chest, flailing at her with what looked like his less dominant arm.

  One swing went too wide. Lita waited a fraction of a second, then used his off-center balance to slam a shoulder into him, throwing him back against the splintered door. She wielded the poker, wincing as it cracked against the bones around his collarbone. The man didn’t let out a word, just slumped backward with a harsh wheeze. He staggered back out the doorway, his body jerking with pain as he tried to run.

  Lita took a step backward, her heart slamming in her chest. She pressed a hand to her throat as she gulped. She felt breathless, as if she hadn’t taken in any air during the fight.

  “Are you OK?” Priya asked from behind her.

  “Yeah, he didn’t touch me.” Lita lowered her hand, controlling her gasps to slow down her panic. “Not sure what he thought he was doing, but–”

  “What who was doing?” a new voice interrupted from outside the front door. Lita looked up as the silhouette moved into the light. A police uniform. Bill? Billy? Something like that. One of the men who had failed to help her with John, who had done everything but call her a murderer herself.

  “Someone attacked us!” Priya blurted out. Hot anger flared up at her friend telling this policeman anything, but Lita pushed it aside, not wanting to argue. She moved in front of the staircase, blocking entry to the house to keep him outside.

  The policeman, Billy Cooper, Lita remembered, crossed his arms and eyed Lita. “Lotta blood on you.”

  Lita stayed still, ignoring him. He had the same attitude as before and it brought back painful memories.

  “Another animal attack? They must smell the meat from your butcher shop.”

  Lita’s eye twitched at how he stressed animal attack, but kept her silence, only shrugging one shoulder. It would do no good for this policeman to see her frustration.

  “Keep it down, it’s late.” Billy tapped on the splintered doorframe and stepped back into the gloom. Lita waited until he’d disappeared into the darkness before pushing her damaged door closed.

  “Why didn’t you tell him?” Priya moved out of the way as Lita lifted the door back into the frame.

  “He knew this wasn’t an animal attack – what animal breaks into a house? He’s one of them,” Lita muttered as she popped the door back onto its hinges. The wood had never sat right and now it felt as though it might never open again.

  “You’re so lost in your paranoia, you think everything is one big conspiracy.” Priya moved into the other room. Lita heard a clinking noise which sounded like she had begun tidying the glasses. Lita took a few seconds to breathe in deeply, holding it in her lungs before exhaling noisily. She felt some of the tension in her shoulders seep away with the air.

  “Isn’t everything a conspiracy, though?” Lita raised her voice a little over the sound of Priya’s anxious tidying. She was too tired and in too much pain for this argument. She followed Priya into the sitting room, pausing by the old wooden cabinet. John’s .41 sat inside. She’d taken it out with her now and again, but she wasn’t confident with it. Not yet. With the way things seemed to be escalating, practicing her shooting was something she would need to work on soon.

  “Leave it. Emily will be worried about you,” Lita said, to stop Priya’s anxious cleaning.

  Priya glanced at the front door before heading toward the exit in the kitchen. “And I’m worried about you. What if they come back?”

  “They won’t.” Lita unlocked the back door, letting Priya past her into the dim streetlight. “Stay safe, Pree.”

  “Night, Lita.”

  Lita watched her friend stroll toward her home a couple of streets away, the town quiet with no sign of any trouble. Priya got to her doorstep and waved, merely a tiny stick figure now, before disappearing inside. Safe. Lita closed her door, rolling her neck to loosen the muscles. A night like tonight required more brandy.

  •••

  Lita had been too sore to sleep. She sat alone in the dark room, staring at the barely visible pictures on the mantelpiece. They had a thin layer of dust on them now that she had more important things to think about, but she knew them all anyway. John, handsome and broad, unsmiling even on their wedding day. The next a picture of Lita in her white gown, her red hair piled on top of her head. She had never looked as happy or as beautiful as that day.

  She’d never look that happy again. Not without John. Not knowing what she knew now. She snarled, throwing her tumbler against the wall. The glass shattered, golden brandy dripping down the faded wallpaper, smearing their wedding photograph. She collapsed back into her chair, her breathing heavy.

  It was the chiming of the old wind-up grandmother clock that woke her. Six am – six bell clangs. Lita groaned, rubbing at her forehead. Her already sore body ached from sleeping slumped in the old armchair. She pushed her tangled hair out of her eyes, blinking blearily in the washed-out morning light. She dragged her gaze around the room. Despite Priya’s visit, it looked cluttered and disorganized. Dirty, if she was honest, as if she’d barely cleaned properly in weeks.

  She shuffled down the corridor, the walls overflowing with family pictures, each badly in need of dusting. They catalogued a short life with her husband, John, from their happy meeting to their later argument-fueled marriage. No children, that was something they’d just talked about when… Lita stopped that line of thought.

  Lita put the kettle on the hob, then opened a cupboard, rummaging for coffee. John was the one addicted to this new instant stuff, but she’d not finished the last jar. As the kettle began to bubble, Lita studied the pantry for a moment or two, before the pit in her stomach convinced her to abandon the thought of breakfast. She made herself a cup of coffee and sat at the table. She drank in silence for a long, dark, brooding moment, the loneliness unsettling.

  She missed her husband. She missed the smiles and the laughter. The arguments and the pain. Everything they’d had that she’d taken for granted. People had told her that it got better, that the pain faded. But she still woke up with the full weight of her grief. The worst part was that sometimes she’d forget that he was gone and turn to tell him something, only to see an empty room. Or she’d see a tall man in the crowd and raise her hand, about to call his name before she froze, mouth hanging open uselessly. There was always a split second of joy and relief, before reality pulled her back to the depths.

  Suddenly, the telephone rang. Lita lowered her cup, staring at the device, her eyes tired. It had been some time since anyone had any reason to call her. She stood, walking to the wall slowly to answer it.

  “Lita Chantler,” Lita said. There was no response, just the soft hum of an open phone line and the hint of someone breathing. Lita waited thirty seconds, more, then the other person hung up. One of the cultists, then, but there had been no clue in the background. Nothing she could use. No point trying to ask at the exchange who had made the call. The cultists protected each other. There would be no record of the call, of that she was convinced.

  Lita
hung up the handset and returned to the kitchen table, sinking slowly down into her chair. She didn’t weep, despite her exhaustion, her hands trembling as she lowered her face in excruciating, utter, and complete sorrow. Once upon a time people had called on her with invites to dinner, or simply to chat. But after the rumor spread around town, and the police made sure to spread it far and wide, that John’s death was suspicious and Lita was the number one suspect, those friends had stopped calling. One by one, they had withdrawn from her life until only Priya and Emily were left. She had no idea how lonely and isolated she felt until that call. The call wasn’t even threatening, not really, just a reminder of her status as a loner and a victim.

  She allowed herself to indulge in negative thoughts until her coffee had grown cold, at which point she made another and headed toward John’s study.

  Unlike the rest of the house, his space was pristine and clean. John used to do all his business paperwork in here, but that was long gone. The wall behind the desk was a map of information, everything Lita had found laid out, lines crisscrossing between clues.

  She sat at the desk, a pencil in hand, a pad of paper before her, thinking. The person she’d found yesterday had given her a clue. Not much of one, just a name, but it was enough for her to follow. Ida Smith. She pulled out her map of the town, creased with an old coffee stain in the middle, then flipped through the telephone directory. There was no guarantee this Ida was in it, since not everyone had a telephone, but while Lita wasn’t a trained investigator, she’d formed her own methods. Tapping down the Smiths, there were a few, until she got to the only Mrs I Smith. She made a note of the address and checked the map. Not too far.

  Lita placed the pencil upon the pad before sliding them both aside. She unscrewed the cap off the bottle of scotch and poured herself a healthy dose. She opened John’s desk drawer, reached into the back, and found an old pack of his cigarettes, half-empty. She tapped one, placed it between her lips, and lit it, taking a deep pull. She held it and exhaled, her body relaxing. Lita spun the chair, leaning back to peer up at the wall of clues.

  From John’s murder to the police cover up. Her discovery of ghouls, and the cultists that aided them.

  Ghouls. Those weird, almost humanoid, monsters that had opened her eyes to the real world that coexisted with the safe reality most people lived in. Slumping monsters with red eyes and bony claws, they haunted her nightmares.

  “That house, those people led me to the mechanic,” she muttered to herself, barely aware she was doing so. “He was pressured into helping them build something, but he wouldn’t say what. John refused them, but that fool didn’t. Acting like he wasn’t responsible because they threatened his worthless life.”

  Lita leaned forward, staring at a newspaper clipping, tracing the red thread to the person she’d talked to last night. She grabbed her scribbled note, “Ida Smith, librarian” and stuck it to the wall. She lowered her head with a sigh, lost in thought. This librarian, Ida Smith – who knew if she was really involved, or if the cultist had been lying? She couldn’t trust any of them. But she had no choice. This was the only clue she had.

  •••

  Lita hadn’t been to this side of Easttown for a while. The houses were lacking in variety, dismally standard white siding, paint flaking off the walls, dirty windows, entrance doors standing open, washing hanging in lines at the side of the house. The local library was small, barely more than a dingy room stacked with a few shelves, but clearly librarians got paid worse than Lita thought.

  Lita peered into the leaded windows. It didn’t look like anything special. A living room similar to hers, but with walls lined by floor to ceiling bookshelves. A small side table laden with candles and herbs and other strange things. A few weeks ago she’d have thought it nonsense, but now she knew better. The librarian, Ida, was one of them. Another link on the chain bringing Lita closer to the people running this whole thing.

  There was no one inside, but despite the clearly unlocked front door, Lita folded her arms and waited. She had lost track of time, staring up at the scudding clouds, when a middle-aged black woman headed up the path. Most of her hair was tucked tidily under a scarf, but her temples were graying and her eyes carried more bags than the grocery stores. She held a shopping bag in both hands, slowing a little as she spotted Lita.

  “I need to talk to you.” Lita straightened up, still waiting beside the front door.

  “I have done everything you asked.” The woman’s voice was low and deep, with a resigned sadness tinged through it.

  “Yeah, and that’s why I need to talk to you. Why are you helping them?” Lita’s annoyance seeped out. She couldn’t help it, she could never control her temper.

  Despite her clear anger, the woman, Ida, relaxed a little as she registered Lita’s question. Her eyes lost their haunted look as she peered at Lita. “Who are you?”

  “Someone who wants to stop them before they hurt anyone else.”

  Ida scoffed, moving past Lita to her front door. “By yourself? Ha.”

  Lita shrugged.

  “Well, this shopping is heavy. I guess you’ll follow me in whatever I say.” Ida seemed unconcerned by Lita closing the door behind them.

  Ida headed through the dim corridor into the kitchen. With faded pale green tiles and worn flooring, it was clearly old but loved. In contrast to Lita’s disheveled home, everything was scrubbed sparkling clean. The old iron stove looked freshly tended. Ida placed her shopping on the counter and filled a kettle. She pointed to the tiny dining table and chairs.

  Lita sat sideways on the chair, her legs free to stand quickly if need be. Ida handed her a steaming mug of dark tea. It smelled sweet. Not usually how Lita would drink it, but she took a polite sip.

  “Want some eggs?” Ida had moved back to the cooker, taking down a frying pan.

  Lita realized it was well past lunchtime. “I could eat. Need a hand, Ida?”

  Ida threw a sharp glare over her shoulder. “You know my name, but you don’t tell me yours.”

  Lita sipped her tea, staying silent. Ida started moving around the kitchen. Cracking eggs. The sizzle of butter. Her stomach growled. It felt like an age since she’d eaten warm, cooked food.

  “I can’t help you,” Ida said as she moved about the kitchen.

  “I’m not leaving here until I have somewhere to go to.” Lita stretched out her leg, easing the kink in her sore knee.

  “I don’t know anything.” Ida didn’t even stop to consider Lita’s words.

  “Then I’ll be here a while,” Lita said placidly, sipping the too-sweet tea.

  Ida brought over the plates. Fried eggs. Toast. Some fried white mushrooms. Lita didn’t pretend to be polite. It had been a long time since anything had tasted so good.

  “Better than Velma’s Diner,” Lita said.

  Ida scoffed. She was eating more slowly. “Hardly a compliment.”

  That made Lita look up from her food. Both women laughed in acknowledgment of the truth.

  “You seem too kind to help them,” Lita muttered, as she finished her toast.

  Ida didn’t reply, just shook her head as she ate.

  “When we met, you said you did everything they asked,” Lita reminded her.

  “Yeah, ask is the wrong word. Demand. Demand or they hurt my baby girl. She’s happy, settled, her own baby on the way. I have to protect her from them.”

  Lita lowered her fork and leaned back. That changed things. Would the cultists hurt, maybe kill, Ida’s daughter the way they’d killed John? They had never got the chance to have the kids they’d wanted. She couldn’t imagine how she’d react if they were threatened. She stared at Ida with more understanding. Sympathy washed over her, reminding her that there was more to worry about than her revenge.

  “I’ll stop them,” she promised.

  Ida shook her head. “I want to believe you, but you’re ju
st one person.”

  “One person who has had enough. I’ll stop them.” Lita leaned her elbows on the table, wanting Ida to understand how earnest she was. She had come here to follow the truth, not to place another person in the firing line. Ida was already targeted; Lita did not need to make things worse for her. Not if she could help it.

  Lita thought she heard a scrape outside – by the back kitchen window. Cold panic crept up the back of her neck.

  “I didn’t think they’d followed me here,” Lita muttered, eyes wide, holding out her hands to shush Ida. Lita had accidently led her stalkers here. She had to make sure she kept Ida safe at least.

  “They’re dangerous people.” Ida leaned across the table to grab her wrist. Her eyes were wide with fear.

  “Aren’t they always?” Lita patted her hand, extracting herself with an attempt at a comforting smile.

  Ignoring the startled look on Ida’s face, Lita grabbed her iron from on the side, then, padded softly out of the unlocked front door, carefully circling the house. There was a man peering in the kitchen window, his face pressed up to the glass. It wasn’t the same guy who had attacked her home last night, but he looked similar enough to be a cousin, maybe.

  Lita kicked at his legs, throwing her whole bodyweight to pin him down on his back, his arms twisted beneath him. He struggled, trying to buck her off, but one swift knee between his legs had him lying still, clutching at himself.

  “I’ll never say anything!” he spat out, his pale cheeks flushing red.

  Lita cuffed him at the side of his head with the iron, smiling as he dropped back, unconscious. “I don’t need you to.”

  She’d learned her lesson now. These people believed too strongly, they’d never knowingly give up their cult. But there were other ways to get information. She dug in his pants pockets, ignoring the loose coins until she felt a wallet. She brought it out. It was leather, had a picture of the man and his brother, perhaps, in the front window. There were a couple of dollar bills, and a cluster of receipts. Lita flipped through those, spotting the local hardware store, a nearby grocers, and then finally a bus ticket. She examined the details. The bus ran from town to the outskirts, somewhere Lita didn’t recognize.