by John Farris
"Alexandra must have shut the car door deliberately on his hand. Because she knew something about him, had to prove something."
Barry just stared at him, mean and on edge. "I wonder what stupid, irrational thing you're going to say next. But I don't intend to be here to listen."
"Stick around anyway, kid." Dal stood up and laid the Mossberg shotgun on the table. He looked at Tom. "Dad, I'm afraid nobody in this house is going to know the truth about Mark Draven until it's too late. Unless Mrs. Prye is willing to help us."
Barry suddenly was headed, like a whippet, for the screen door. But Dal had anticipated that move. He latched on to her and spun her around, tightening his hold on her upper arm as she squirmed and thrashed and tried to kick his sore knee.
"Let go!"
"It's for your own good, Barry. You've fooled yourself long enough!"
"Mark!" Barry shrieked. "Mark, help me!"
Dal muzzled her. Barry bit his hand, grinding her teeth into the meat at the base of his thumb. He knocked her loose with a jarring open-handed blow to the forehead with the heel of his other hand and threw her across the kitchen, where she rebounded from the pantry door and collapsed, sobbing. Dal hobbled over to his sister and pinned her to the floor.
"Dad, let's take her to Mrs. Prye!"
Tom took in his struggling daughter, her head at an angle off the floor like a pinned snake's, bad blood in her cheeks, and Dal's desperation. He hesitated for only a few moments, then helped Dal wrestle Barry to her feet. She groaned and cursed, but the two of them were too much for her—they walked and half-dragged her past the back stairs and through the laundry room to Tom's studio. By then Dal's grip was tight enough to cause Barry to cry out in pain.
"Dal, don't be so rough!"
"Just plug in Mrs. Prye!" Dal pleaded.
They came to the fortune-telling machine in a corner of the studio opposite the high window wall. It was nearly full dark outside. Barry was silent again but breathing harshly; she kicked and bucked, face dead white except for high spots of Mick anger. Tom went down on his hands and knees with the snaking cord to reach the nearest electrical outlet.
As soon as the machine was plugged in it began to light up, but wanly. Barry snorted. Dal gave her a push and with his right foot kicked the machine. It made a high-pitched sound and the dome brightened, glowing from waves of light: scintillating amber, bronzy blues, and electric greens. In the midst of this swarming display Mrs. Prye's manikin head lifted holographically, like some strange fish in the sea. Her eyes fastened on them unwinkingly. Barry let out another sound that might have been derision, or displeasure, and resumed her tense deadly fight with a weakening Dal.
"She won't talk to you! I won't let her! Let me go!"
"Dal, what do we do now?" Tom said.
"What day was it?" Dal demanded of his father. "The day John Doe showed up in the park?"
"Friday—uh, December fourth."
"Nooo!" Barry wailed.
"Punch in the date,"' Dal said. "If Draven has a birthday, that day is as good as any. Just get Mrs. Prye talking, that's, all."
Tom's fingers hovered over the keyboard. Barry tried to muscle him out of the way but failed. With the information fed to the machine tiny lights resembling stars began to flicker electronically within the eerie dome that contained the manikin-medium's head. Her lips writhed unnaturally as a mechanical, vaguely womanish voice intoned: "You were born under the sign of the zodiac known as Sagittarius, the Archer, which is ruled by the planet Jupiter. You are an adventurer with the soul of an artist, and you have a flair for the dramatic—"
"This is not the information we need," Dal said to the machine. "What we need to know is not on your tape, Mrs. Prye. Speak to us now in your real voice. Come out, Mrs. Prye."
The recorded voice stopped. The head froze in mid-word, which gargled away on a querulous electronic note as currents of twinkly light flooded the interior of the dome. Barry moaned hollowly and went a little slack in Dal's hands. She had bitten her lower lip; blood flowed.
"Stay—away—from me!"
The head of the manikin began to disintegrate, crumbling into sparkles and flashes. A new face, more sharply defined, was forming gleefully. Artificial curls piled high, a heart shaped beauty mark by the preposterously over-painted, coquettish mouth. Mrs. Prye had aged into a thousand undisguisable wrinkles; her lashes were so thickened and extended by mascara she could barely keep her eyes open. But her spirits at once again being admitted to their company were unbounded.
Good day, your worships! Good day, mistress. What's this? A fit? Havadone, my precious dove! Thou shalt blame no one but thy capricious self for the turn the matter has taken.
Barry, the will to fight now drained out of her, was slack in Dal's hands. He could very nearly feel her skin crawl, and she was turning alarmingly cold. Her mouth hung open; her voice came out queerly, not sounding too much like Barry and with the same speech pattern as the manikin.
"Don't tell them, goody—for the love of—heaven, tell them not!"
The doll took over. I ne'er scruple a lie to serve my mistress. But this be severe duty, depend on it. There is dire work in the offing.
"Then tell us about Draven," Dal insisted, staring into Barry's glassy eyes.
Hold, sir! The voice of Mrs. Prye now came, imperiously, from the depths of Barry's throat, although neither her lips nor tongue moved—as if she were some strange ventriloquist possessed by her own dummy. Saliva coursed down over the girl's chin. She gave an odd twitch or two, but was entirely manageable. A moment. I shall bear witness to that which has astonished all your senses. But I would be remiss not to plead for your indulgence on behalf of my mistress. She is in thrall to that which she has created. Nay, not blameless, but a victim as well of her heart most desires.
"Who is Draven?" Tom said.
A brute, lacking all conscience and scruple. By nature parasitical, as those creatures that feed on the flesh and blood of their hosts.
"Where did he come from?" Dal asked her, but he now suspected the fantastic truth.
Draven owes not to angels, nor the devil. He was created by the power of my mistress's aspiration, wrought in a single mighty impulse from the chaos of matter that separates your world and mine. Barry wished her old love back again, but in more perfect form: clean of limb, graceful in his bearing. Once her mind-creature had need of her; but he has taken his full purchase on life, and would discharge her.
Barry gave a great shudder and a despairing cry, eyes rolling back in her head. Dal waited anxiously, glancing at the medium in the machine. Mrs. Prye was still there, looking sternly out at them. Then the manikin took over again.
Pray, be quick. My moments are few.
"Then he isn't human," Tom said, trembling. He need obey no natural law.
"Did Alexandra Chatellaine know about him?" Dal asked.
Ay. 'Twas by her design the finger was lost from his hand. But Barry conceived another, poor booby. And the old dame for her suspicions has paid with her life.
"If Barry made Draven," Dal said, "can she unmake him?"
'Tis within the realm of possibility. But he is now nearly as powerful as she, and my mistress knows not the strength of this outlandish art.
"Then how can we get rid of him?"
A flicker like lightning went through her face, nearly decomposing it. Mrs. Prye grimaced.
Sirs, there is naught you may do. Think not of dirty action—it will hasten your own end. He is a plaguey sort, and divines easily your intimate thoughts.
"Barrrrrrrryyyyy."
Tom said in a hoarse low voice, "Dal, listen—he's outside."
"Christ!"
Yet stay—it may well be the old dame has provided for your safety with her magic.
"Mrs. Prye!"
The image of the elderly medium had flattened and begun to waver, forming a whirlpool of iridescent light inside the dome.
Oh, my. 'Tis too much for me to tarry so long. Fly, fly from the mind-creature.
"Barrrrrrrryyyy."
Dal shook his comatose sister. Mrs. Prye's voice had settled deep in her chest. It emerged as a kind of growl. Pray, sirs, that the magic is strong enough to stay the deed. I would not lose my hussy, my dear little girl—"God! Dal!"
Dal looked over his shoulder at the fortune-telling machine. In the dome where the manikin and the medium had been now loomed the head of Draven, a face of lean grinning evil.
Dal dropped Barry and lunged for the plug in the socket. It resisted his first pull and when he yanked with all of his strength everything came out of the wall in a blinding burst of sparks. A circuit breaker was tripped and all of the lights went out. They found themselves in near-darkness, the rising moon obscured by miles of cloud.
"Barrrrrryyy!" Draven called, sounding very near the studio.
She sat up at once, hands to her head, hair tousled, and began to tremble.
"Let's get upstairs," Dal said. "Quick!"
He tried to get Barry moving. Barry, on her knees, was deadweight. The huge windows at the north end of the studio were soft gray with cloud light and featureless, like dreams waiting to begin.
"She won't budge. Help me!" Barry, dragged, seat of her pants squeaking, made sounds in her throat like a kitten they were trying to pop into a sack to be drowned. They were halfway to the door of the studio when Tom stiffened and pointed.
"Dal! He's out there!"
Dal stopped, panting, and looked out into the dusky yard under the flowering cherry where Draven stood with what looked like a club in his hands. The windows were mirror glass—he could not see in. But he had to know where they were from the sounds of their voices. Draven raised the narrow club in his hands, and Dal's blood turned cold. There was a dull glint of metal, and Dal realized it was the shotgun Draven held, which he had carelessly left on the kitchen table.
There was a gust of orange flame, a hammering report, and a good-sized section of the window wall disintegrated. Bits of glass flew at them, gigantic cracks sped glossily through the remaining panes, the wall trembled and began to fall down in huge death-dealing shards.
Dal found the necessary strength to yank Barry from the floor and propel her through the doorway, with Tom right behind them. Dal had a quick glimpse over one shoulder of Draven striding toward the house. He experienced a rip of terror, his already bad knee going weak as water under him. He pushed his father toward the back stairs.
"Dad, upstairs, I'll try to—"
Barry was like an eel: she got away from him and headed for the kitchen. Tom surprised Dal by being on her in three steps; he hung on desperately with both arms until Dal got there. The kitchen door was open; he heard the greased easy stroke of a shell being chambered in the shotgun for firing. Frantic scratching sounds came from the family room.
Dal had only an instant to change his mind. No use going upstairs, they'd just be trapped there. The front door was the only answer. He pushed and prodded his father and sister, herding them toward the dining room and the foyer.
They were only a few feet from the door when Barry got a hand free, turned, and dug her fingernails into Dal's face. He staggered back, blood gushing from above one eyebrow. Barry ran soundlessly to the dining room, and Dal couldn't stop her.
An arm reached out to Barry. She collapsed into the protection of Draven's encircling arm and he brought her slowly back to them, the other hand holding the shotgun, muzzle-eye looking straight at Dal.
For several seconds there was a hush, marked off by the pendulum swing of the clock in the upstairs hall, the scratch, scratch from the family room.
She leaned against Draven, her eyes like the opening of the shotgun boring down level and strange to them. Dal, half blinded, frustrated with rage and fear, conceived something almost nostalgically heroic about the two of them, valiant defenders of the homestead. Barry belonged there with him, and they—her brother, her father—were interlopers. There was nothing of the ogre about Draven; he was not the fiend they had glimpsed in the fortune-telling machine: He looked like a serious, responsible young man in command of a nasty situation, the sort Dal would always want on his team when choosing up sides. He thought, with horror growing all over him like some sort of loathsome extra skin: No matter how he does it, no matter what happens to us, everyone will believe his version. And before a day goes by he and Barry will believe it too.
Chapter 34
The inversion of reality almost cost Dal his life. He arose snarling from where he'd been crouched against the wall, foolishly braving the aimed gun. But a last-second blink of intuition stopped him. He isn't all that sure. He doesn't know, yet, how to pull this off. There was time for a plea, which he directed to Barry.
"For the love of us—for your mother's sake—for God and sweet Jesus, break away from him, Barry, while you still can."
Scratch, scratch, scratch!
A small frown momentarily marred Draven's calm expression; his eyes flicked to the doorway of the family room.
"You've done no real evil yet," Tom said, and the strength of his voice was a marvel to Dal."You can redeem yourself. If we still matter to you."
Draven tightened his arm around Barry, and she pressed closer to him, gazing up at his face with a fervor and devotion that had Dal shouting: "He won't need you either! You'll be next, Barry!"
Draven tilted the muzzle of the gun, one of several spots of brightness in the darkening foyer, but the most entrancing, to point at Dal's chest.
"Barry," Draven said quietly, "you should go and take the casket from the family room."
"What do you want me to do with it?"
"Bury it beside the stone wall along the drive. Pull stones down on top of it—a pile of stones."
"All right."
She walked to the family room door but hesitated there, put off by the sounds of frenzied scratching. She seemed a little afraid. Dal turned cautiously to watch her.
"Go on,"' Draven urged.
Barry went all the way in as if pushed, and Dal lost sight of his sister momentarily; then she emerged carrying the casket in both hands, hurrying with it toward the front door. She seemed to trip, and cry out, but the light was poor—it was hard to distinguish what had happened. The casket fell to the floor and Barry turned with a look of anguish, blood welling in the palm of her right hand.
Tom and Dal went for Draven almost simultaneously.
Tom got his hands on the barrel of the shotgun and nearly succeeded in wresting it away from Draven as Dal barged into him from the side, using his head and shoulders like a bull, then hitting Draven a sharp follow-up blow in the ribs with his elbow, driving the three of them—awkwardly joined, grappling—against the staircase.
Draven was so quick and strong they had no chance to subdue him. He took the gun back with a twist of his wrist and, holding it by the pistol grip of the stock, whacked Tom in the side of the head with the barrel. Tom dropped without a sound at Draven's feet. Dal began pounding Draven in the style that had won him fights with bigger boys in the past: in close, head down, short fast knuckly jabs to the stomach and kidneys.
For a few moments he had Draven sagging, weakened, unable to counter the ferocity of Dal's attack. He was no fighter, didn't know how to use his hands, but his strength and stamina won again. He let go of the shotgun and simply picked Dal up, then heaved him over the banister behind them. Dal landed awkwardly on the steps and came tumbling down again. A baluster had been broken off earlier. Draven reached for Dal and dragged him through the space, pinning his arms tightly to his sides. He began twisting Dal's head with both hands, trying to break his neck.
"Barry!" Dal cried, having had a glimpse of her huddled against one wall, looking on with the furtive, fascinated eyes of a bystander in an alley brawl; and he glimpsed something else, a gleam of ceremonial daggers spilled from the casket that Barry had dropped. He was strangling; his vision danced with blood spots and his perspective was distorted by the tortured angle of his head. But before he blacked out he saw his sister approach.
"Mark—"
"Get away," Draven said to Barry.
"No, you're killing him—"
Her hands pulled at Draven. Blood was running from Dal's mouth, and he felt, despite his agonized resistance, his neck bones about to sunder. He gazed helplessly into his sister's eyes.
"I don't want you to hurt him anymore!" Barry said urgently. "Why do you have to hurt him?"
Abruptly Draven's big hands lifted from Dal's head, the terrible torque was removed. Draven turned and slapped Barry—hard enough to drive her back on her heels. She screamed in pain. Dal couldn't make a move to free himself and within seconds Draven resumed trying to twist his head off.
Barry groped along the floor and came up with a dagger in one hand. She stood there uncertainly, trembling, the dagger raised high.
"Mark!"
He turned quickly and scowled at the dagger. Barry was all but shaking to pieces.
"I d-don't want it t-to be like this! Why can't we—"
"Barry," Draven said, alarmed. "Put that down!"
"I can't!"
She took a faltering, out-of-control step toward him. But the hand that held the dagger was steady. She struck at Draven with the speed of a cobra, piercing the palm of the hand he had raised protectively with such power that his hand, with six inches of blade through it, was thrown back against his heart, nailed securely to the chest wall. He fell down hard, back to the stairs, rose to one knee with his eyes filming over, and pitched forward in front of Barry.
Barry kneeled down beside him, shocked and moaning. She rolled Draven onto his back, wrapped her hands around the hilt of the dagger, and pulled at it, grunting with effort. She had the strength of the possessed, but the dagger wouldn't yield. Dal freed himself from the balustrades and sat up holding his head, barely able to move it at all without terrific pain in his neck. He was afraid he would pass out.
"Barry," he said hoarsely. He couldn't see out of one eye and his larynx felt half ruined. There was blood in his throat and on his tongue, some of it dribbled down his chin. "Barry, don't do that. Get away from him."