Demon Shadows

by Mike Sirota

  One more night of this and then things would change.

  She endured the ritual with difficulty. Usually she had a strong appetite and the food tasted good. But tonight, after picking around her dinner and leaving half of it, she hurried from the hall. She knew they were all watching; she knew he was watching. Good-bye everyone, this is the last time you’ll have to feel uncomfortable.

  I’m sorry, Paul.

  All of her art supplies and a few other things had been loaded in her car. Everything was ready for the morning. On Paul’s advice she had warmed up the Nissan. It nearly hadn’t started; over a week had passed since she’d last driven it. Now she felt certain it would be fine tomorrow.

  With night the temperature had plummeted. Gail stoked the fire and got a substantial blaze going. Then she waited, hearing in her head Harriet Thorburn’s droning words going on at that moment.

  Forty minutes later she was in Paul’s arms, holding him tightly and not wanting to let go.

  “I was worried about you,” he said.

  “It was a long night and I just wanted to be out of there,” she told him.

  “That I can understand.”

  “Did you have a good day?”

  “Work-wise, no, but aside from that…yeah, actually it was real good. What about you?”

  “I sketched some mountains, the lake…” She turned away, shook her head. “I thought about you all day. Oh, Paul, I don’t want to leave you! Not now, just after…I mean—”

  She cried softly as he held her. “Listen, lady,” he said firmly, “this is the way it has to be right now. I’ll see you in a few weeks, you know that. And just to make sure, I brought you a present.” He reached into a bag he’d left on the desk and pulled out a blue road map. “Triple A, south Orange County, dog-eared but whole. My place is circled; so are some of the neighborhoods I like.”

  “Thank you,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’ll use it.” She glanced at the bag, looked at him. “What else is in there?”

  “Ah, can’t stand the suspense!” He stacked six Hershey Big Blocks on the desk. “You have a long drive back. That should get you there. And last, voilà!” He peeled the bag away. “Champagne. Robert Mondavi 1982, best I could find in Stillwell. Chilled in the creek for the past three hours.”

  She smiled. “It’s perfect. Thanks…for everything.”

  She kissed him—gently at first, then with the urgency of her soaring desire for this man. He still held the bottle. She took it from him and put it down on the desk.

  “Maybe you should have left it in the creek a little longer,” she said in a husky voice.

  They undressed quickly and came together in front of the fire. The next time their bodies were apart was two hours later, after they had exhausted each other making love and had, briefly, fallen into a gentle, dreamless sleep.

  “Where are you going?” Gail asked, stretching.

  “To pour the champagne.”

  “Warm champagne?”

  “It was practically frozen; might not be too bad.”

  They each drank a glass. Paul was going to pour a second but Gail stopped him. “Not for me. The last thing I need in the morning is a hangover.”

  “Gail?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you want me to stay with you tonight?”

  She took both his hands. “Not yet, Paul. As much as I want to…” She trembled. “I’ll regret it after I haven’t seen you for a few days, but…not yet, please.”

  Her eyes were imploring him to understand. He smiled, kissed her. “It’s all right,” he told her. “One step at a time. Please don’t be afraid of me, and don’t ever worry about anything you might say. I’ll never hurt you, believe that.”

  She nodded and rested her head on his chest. “I do. Thanks. But I want to see you in the morning!”

  “What time are you leaving?”

  “Early. Can you come over at six? We’ll have a little time.”

  “Sure. I . . .”

  She knew something was troubling him. “Paul, what is it?”

  Reluctantly he said, “You’ll be here tomorrow, won’t you? When I come?”

  “Of course. Why…”

  “You won’t leave before then?”

  “Even if I just wanted to walk out on you”—she smiled—“I wouldn’t drive these awful roads in the dark. I’ll see you in the morning at six.”

  He nodded sheepishly. “Sorry, I—”

  She touched his lips. “You don’t have to explain. I think I understand.”

  No, he thought, you couldn’t. It’s the crazy stuff again, it’s vague entries in old diaries and Harriet Thorburn’s audiences and one-legged flesh-eating giants and all of it that I thought was over with today. But I want it to be, so I’m not going to ask you about the clearing, which I know you feel even more than I do, because I understand it now, sort of.

  “I guess I’ll start back,” he said.

  She held him tightly. “Stay a little longer.”

  Paul could tell another storm was coming. Maybe not that night or the next morning, but soon enough. It wasn’t the chilled night air as he walked to his cabin, or the moderate wind that urged him along. There was something else, a feeling, which, he now realized, he’d experienced prior to other storms. He didn’t pretend to understand how he knew, but he did. It disturbed him. New discoveries about yourself at thirty-six could be like that. He conceded that Mary Sherman was right about him.

  Great, he thought, what should he do for an encore? Bend spoons? Find a serial killer for a frustrated police force? This was nuts.

  But a storm was coming. He hoped it would arrive late enough for Gail to safely reach the interstate and get out of the Sierras.

  The cold aura of the clearing felt weak; or perhaps, in his understanding, he was stronger. He stood in front of No. 11 gazing into the darkness, no longer experiencing fear, but pity instead.

  “It’s been over a hundred and forty years,” he said softly. “Time to stop walking, find peace. Why can’t you do that?”

  The wind answered with a vague mocking laugh. Paul went inside.

  Damn, why had the Dream returned?

  This time it had begun as always before, minute details enacted clearly on the dark stage of her subconscious. The only difference tonight was her ability to switch it off before the worst could be consummated, to say “I won’t watch this!” and draw herself from it, though not without effort.

  Maybe she should have pleaded with Paul to stay the night. Had he been there, holding her, it might not have come.

  No, not true. It would have, and he’d have seen her like this, sitting up in bed, her body shaking, cold sweat beading on her flesh. She wouldn’t let it be that way.

  Almost three a.m. Gail washed her face, calmed herself in front of the fire, slid back into bed. Outside, the wind made strange noises in the trees. There were other night sounds, some familiar, others less so. She seemed more aware of them than before. Perhaps she should lie there until it was time, avoid the fear.

  But she was tired and sleep reclaimed her.

  It was night but the clearing was lit by a great bonfire that sent flames half the height of the tallest trees, and by a bright moon that filled the sky in a place where none of the dense branches interfered. Paul stood in the middle, by the log, looking toward the lake, watching the dark figure through the pines. Tall, featureless, it came toward him, two long arms held tightly against its sides. Ten yards away it stopped, waited. Even in the light its face remained clouded in gray mist. Paul turned away from it.

  Gail Farringer, in her gray warm-up suit, stood on the other side of the creek. If the figure beyond Paul disturbed her, she gave no indication. Without looking down she crossed the creek, each step finding the next stone, as if she had done it a hundred times before. Now on his side she stopped, held her arms out.

  He wanted to go to her but couldn’t move. He was unconcerned. She would know, and come to him.

  Something crept out of
the creek a yard from where Gail stood. A tiny hand groped for a hold on the bank, found it, pulled. The baby began its wailing the instant its head rose above the surface. Its pink naked body floundered on the ground for a moment, then it righted itself and, still crying, began crawling toward Gail.

  Of course it cried, Paul thought. How cold it must be.

  A second followed, then others, until there were six in all, each adding its cry to the din that rose above the crackling of the great fire. They were at Gail’s feet, reaching up, and she wanted to take them in her arms, warm them, make the crying stop.

  Then they were black wormlike things with no appendages or visible features, although the cries still rose from somewhere. They climbed on Gail, encircling her arms, legs, waist, twisting around and around. The warm-up suit fell to the ground in tattered shreds and she was naked, but the crying things wouldn’t stop. Her blood darkened the snow and her flesh dropped off in long strips, like an apple being pared.

  One of the dark things climbed on her face.

  Paul watched, interested, still unable to move. From behind him came a strange rumbling sound that might have been laughter, but he couldn’t be sure.

  In the snow, to his left, he saw a shadow. Then another, on his right. Finally a third, which fell over him, and he felt cold, despite being near the fire. The shadows lengthened, reaching toward the creek, toward . . .

  The thing that had been Gail raised two black sockets and saw what was coming. It was flung backward, like a leaf in a gust of wind, and fell beneath the surface of the creek, silencing the cries of the dark shapes that clung to her. Curious, Paul willed his body to move, then turned.

  Wednesday, December 11

  Four-thirty a.m. Why couldn’t his nightmares come at a respectable hour? Like five minutes before the alarm went off.

  The wind gusts were not as frequent as they had been earlier. Paul added wood to the fire and again lay down, hands crossed beneath his head as he stared at the ceiling. He would remain like that until it was time.

  But the alarm jarred him awake at five-thirty.

  He hated showers when it was still dark outside, which was the way it had once been, when necessity sent him to a job in the early morning rush hour. But there was a better reason today, so he finished quickly and dressed. At five minutes to six he left No. 11.

  Gail’s cabin was dark. Even with the blinds closed he could usually see slivers of light. She had overslept. No, she wouldn’t do that, not this morning. He hurried to the door, knocked twice. No answer.

  “Jesus, no,” he whispered, fear welling inside him.

  The door was unlocked. He slipped inside and shut it behind him. “Gail?” he called. “Gail, it’s me.”

  He went to turn on the lamp but decided against it. Opening the blinds let in some meager light from the footpath. He looked around, expecting to see her roll over on the bed, mutter something. But the room was empty.

  Nothing in the closet, the bathroom, not even under the bed.

  Empty.

  She was there, she had to be there, he told himself. She’d taken her things to the car and was on the way back. Gail was still there!

  But he wasn’t going to wait. He ran from the cabin, down the footpath, stumbling twice in his panicked rush, not giving a damn, finally bursting into the parking area.

  Gail’s car was gone.

  She had left.

  No, she wouldn’t have left him. This wasn’t Sherri Jordan.

  On the other hand, maybe it was…

  He understood now. In the moment that he knew Gail was gone, he understood. Not all of it; not about what had happened back then to make this so. That was the missing part. But he understood enough, and the fear he’d felt upon seeing the darkened cabin was nothing compared to what now gripped him.

  He trembled. No one could see him like this. Alone; he had to be alone. Turning, he staggered up the path, his legs threatening to fold under him. Past No. 13, still dark, soon to be made ready for whoever would come next.

  Sherri Jordan.

  Purple…

  Past No. 12, still empty, as it had been since the first day.

  Gail Farringer.

  Harriet Thorburn’s audiences.

  …the livery stable.

  Sherri Jordan Gail Farringer.

  To No. 11, closer to the place where it had happened.

  Where something was still happening.

  Strong again, taunting him with icy fingers in his blood. He sensed…anticipation.

  “You bastards!” he cried. “What are you doing? Where’s Gail? Where is she? Bastards!”

  Harriet Thorburn’s audiences.

  Artists, writers; unique, different.

  Kin always tell, easy.

  Loners.

  Sherri Jordan. Gail Farringer.

  Inside now, on his bed, pounding a fist on the mattress. Put it together some way and see if it made sense. Get it out once and for all.

  Sherri Jordan had said, She practically pumped me for my whole life story.

  Gail Farringer had said, It had only been about fifteen minutes, but…

  Why them?

  Because they were loners. No friends, no family, no one waiting for them.

  No one to give a damn whether they came back or not.

  A few casual inquiries about Sherri, a perfectly good explanation by Walter McClain—Paul had bought it—and it’s forgotten the same day.

  And what about Gail? Maybe tonight, at dinner, someone might notice the absence of the weird lady, and ask, and be told that she’d left that morning, and say good riddance, and forget about it even quicker.

  Artists, writers, alone on their creative quests.

  Alone.

  How many more like Gail and Sherri?

  How many in over a century, since John Thorburn had begun the colony?

  John Thorburn, historian, patron of the arts. Benevolent John Thorburn…

  …and his legacy of death.

  Because they were all dead, the nameless artists and novelists and sculptors and poets before now, those unfortunate enough to have had no one who cared.

  And Sherri Jordan was dead. She had died that same night, because in the morning the clearing had been still. Whatever it was had been appeased.

  Whatever it was. The missing part. The figure between the trees. The illness.

  …looked like they was already dead but still walking around.

  Dead. All dead—except Gail Farringer, because the clearing would have been silent had she already been murdered.

  Gail…was…not…dead.

  They had made a mistake. Gail had someone who cared. How ironic. Had they been seen together, had anyone known they’d become friends, Gail would have been spared. He would be saying good-bye to her right now, watching her drive off, anticipating the end of the month. But she had insisted their relationship be secret to spare him the alleged ridicule of other residents, and now they had taken her away to—wherever she was.

  Wherever she was. Gail was still there, on the colony grounds, probably. He would find her and take her from here, and let others know what had been happening at the prestigious Thorburn colony.

  Yes, they had made a mistake. They didn’t know he would be coming.

  They. Who were they? Descendants of the survivors. The names: Thorburn, Stillwell, McClain, Tyler, Fry, Hardman. But all of them? Nora? Jenny? Simple-minded Arthur Tyler? Paul had trouble accepting it. But until he knew otherwise, all of them were his enemies.

  He was wasting time. First, get to a phone, call…who? Would anyone believe this? Then call Gary Marks, he told himself. Don’t try to explain, just say there’s trouble, that if he didn’t check in at specified times to send help. Next, begin a methodical search of the colony. Assuming the worst, that whatever was going to happen would be late that night, he had that much time. But even with the dawn just breaking there were barely ten hours of daylight. He had to find her before dark.

  He checked himself in the m
irror, concerned that he wore his emotions. He found the flashlight that Nora had brought during one of the storms, shoved it in the large pocket of his down jacket, and went outside.

  Snow had begun to fall.

  It did not come down heavily, but the air was bitter cold and the wind blew hard, the driving snow stinging his face. He pulled up his hood and hurried to Big House, hardly glancing at No. 13.

  Other residents were crossing the parking area on their way to breakfast. Just another day at the Thorburn colony. One of them was preparing to leave, hastily loading up his car to try to make the interstate before the weather worsened. Clenching his fists, Paul went inside.

  Walter McClain was crossing the main central hall. Paul thought about grabbing him and shaking him until he told the truth about Gail. Right, that would really help her. He took a deep breath and nodded at the man.

  “Good morning, Paul,” said the associate director.

  McClain’s clothes were rumpled. He looked haggard. “You all right, Walter?” Paul asked.

  “Had a little trouble sleeping last night.” He shrugged. “Getting old, I guess. Well, looks like we’re in for another storm.”

  “Is that what the forecast said?”

  McClain nodded. “But they don’t think it’ll last too long. Maybe you’ll get your trip in yet.”

  He went on to his office. Yeah, Paul thought. I’ll bet you had trouble sleeping last night.

  The day room was empty. Paul picked up the receiver of the pay phone and listened. No dial tone. Although this phone should not have required it, he tried putting in a quarter. Same result.

  “You won’t be getting anyone, Mr. Fleming.”

  He jumped, spun around. Nora stepped back to avoid his elbow.

  “What did you say?” he snapped.

  “Hey, didn’t mean to scare you,” she said. “Phones’ve been dead since last night. Might be a while to get fixed if it keeps snowin’ like this.”

  “Blast it!” He slammed the receiver down.

  Nora looked at him curiously. “Who’d you want to call this early anyway?”