The perfect breakfast to fight off a hangover. Donnie turned off the burner to the stove and plucked the some sausage patties out of the pan, then brought the plate to me and set it down on the ottoman.
“Morning, sleeping beauty’s rotting corpse,” he said.
“This coming from the skeleton with—hey.”
“What?”
“Er, nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. Donnie’s appearance had changed. He looked like he had gained twenty pounds and lost ten years overnight. It was strange not to say anything, but a wriggle in my stomach made me keep my mouth shut.
“You’re wondering how I look so good, huh?” said Donnie.
I paused halfway through my drink to set my beer on the floor.
“Yeah, kind of,” I said. “I mean, what the fuck?”
Donnie laughed and winked at me.
“Guess it’d just been too long I’d gotten laid,” he said. “Anyway, eat up champ. No offense, but you look like a beer shit the morning after a night out.”
“Er, right,” I said, and set myself to work on the breakfast he had prepared for me.
I felt a little better off a few bites of sausage and a spoonful of garlic eggs with parmesan sprinkled on top.
“What about Adrianne?” I asked. “Is she up yet?”
“Oh, she took off early,” said Donnie. “Apparently my charm is more effective the night before than the morning after.”
I chuckled and finished my beer, not knowing that Adrianne would never be seen again.
***
It was the next evening when the police came looking for her. The officers were middle aged, grim-faced and tired.
The officer who looked in charge spoke first. The name on his badge was Whent.
“Daniel Collins?”
“Yes,” I said, “that’s me.”
“Do you know a young woman by the name of Adrianne Lima?”
My stomach wavered.
“Er, yes,” I said. “She’s the bartender at The Factory. I go there all the time.”
Officer Whent arched an eyebrow. The younger officer, Williams, remained stonefaced and silent.
“Is that all?”
“No,” I said. “She was here last night with my friend. Has something happened?”
“That is what we are trying to determine,” said Whent. “And what did you say the name of your friend was?”
“Er, Donnie,” I said. I felt a sudden wave of guilt. I was sure Donnie had not done anything and I did not want to sell him out. Then again, if he hadn’t done anything bad did it really count as selling him out? Before I could come to a definitive answer the words were on my lips. “Donnie Abrams. But I’m sure he had nothing to do with whatever happened.”
“Mhm,” said Whent. “Do you mind if we come inside and have a look around?”
“Of course not,” I said, even though I didn’t mean it. I stepped aside and gestured for the officers to come in.
“Sorry about the mess,” I said.
Officer Whent waved me off.
“So you said they were together?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah. They spent the night in the guest bedroom.”
“This one here?” asked Whent, pointing to the guest bedroom door.
“Yes, that’s the one.”
He went inside, but Williams stayed in the living room, eyes firmly fixed on me.
I tried to ignore him, instead turning my attention to Whent. Slowly and meticulously he worked his way through the room.
He found nothing.
With a long sigh, he sat down on the bed. That’s when his face changed, and he jumped back up to his feet.
“Hey Williams,” he called. “Come in here.”
Williams obliged.
“Help me flip this mattress over, will you?”
Inexplicably, my heart began to pound in my chest. Looking at the mattress, I had an ugly feeling in the pit of my stomach.
The two of them seized if by the side and lifted it up.
Something fell out. At first I didn’t know what I was looking at. Then the knowledge hit me all at once.
I was looking at a face, or what remained of a face. Through the blood and missing skin, I could just make out the teeth marks.
There was one last realization that hit me before I fainted.
I had had eggs in my apartment when Donnie had come over, but I definitely hadn’t had any sausage patties.
37
The Hitchhiker from Hell
What the hell was she doing out here at a time like this?
I eased my foot down onto the brake pedal, and the car slowed to a stop. I looked out the window at the woman. She cut a pitiful figure—shoulders slumped, head down, all while the rain poured down on her in heavy sheets.
I rolled down the window.
“Looking for a ride?” I asked.
She lifted her head and nodded. I undid my seatbelt with a click, leaned over and opened the passenger’s side door. She climbed inside and brushed her soaking wet hair out of her face.
“Where you headed?” I asked.
“Oh,” she said quietly, “to Hell, I guess.”
I laughed at the perceived joke, but my laughter turned into awkward silence when I saw the grave expression her face.
“Well,” I said. “I can get you as far as Los Angeles. I guess that’s about as close to Hell as you can get without dying.”
Her face eased into a wry smile.
“Okay,” she said. “Los Angeles it is.”
I smiled at her and hit the gas. Silence settled over us as we drove, and the rain came down heavier and heavier. Even with the wipers on full speed, it was impossible to see through the endless gray curtain of water.
“So what brings you out here in weather like this?” I finally said.
She looked a bit startled by my question.
“Oh,” she said, “I hate the rain.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s a good thing I found you when I did. This area is prone to flash floods, you know.”
A convulsive shiver shook her entire body. I cranked up the heat.
“Hey, not to sound like a pervert, but shouldn’t you get out of those wet clothes? I have some spare dry ones in the back, and I won’t watch you change, I promise.”
“Okay,” she said. She pulled her coat and shirt off right then, before reaching in the back and grabbing an old T-shirt I kept as a spare in the back and sliding it on.
“Oh my god,” I said.
Now that her coat was off I could see her neck. A thick, purple bruise encircled it. She looked like she had been strangled.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Do you need medical attention?”
“Ambulances don’t come out here,” she said. “Same for police. It’s too remote.”
“Er, right,” I said. This woman was starting to make me uncomfortable, and our conversation once again faded into silence. It was a few minutes before she spoke again, right as the car was about to crest a large hill.
“Stop the car,” she said.
I slowed, but didn’t stop.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Stop the car.”
“I can’t do that,” I said, “I’m on a tight schedule, you know? And besides, I can’t just leave you out here in this weather.”
She turned to me. The look on her face was totally blank as she seized the wheel and pulled. The truck jerked to the right, and tires squealed as I slammed on the brakes. I jerked the wheel back but it was no good; the truck slammed into the guard rail, sheared off a post and slammed into the slushy mud.
“God damn it!” I yelled. “What the hell is wrong with—what the fuck?”
The woman had disappeared. I squinted out the window into the shifting gray canvas of rain.
Had she somehow fallen out while the car was skidding?
I looked at her seatbelt, still buckled. This was too weird for me. I hit the gas, but the truck’s wheels only spun. I wa
s stuck. I pulled out my phone and called the police to let them know where I was, but they said they couldn’t reach me until weather conditions improved.
I resigned myself to wait, flipped on the radio and, after the adrenaline shakes wore off, I took a nap.
I awoke to a knock on my window. I opened my eyes to see a policeman, motioning for me to roll down the window. I obliged.
“Well,” he said in a thick Southern accent. “Believe it or not you might just be the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come on out, I’ll show you.”
I did as I was told, and the two of us walked to the top of the hill. Lying in the middle of the road below, lodged in a massive swell of mud, was a rock about half the size of my truck.
“If you had come over that hill,” said the policeman, “I guess you never would have seen it in the rain. It’s a lucky thing you lost control when you did, otherwise, well…”
He looked at me pointedly.
“But I didn’t lose control,” I said. “This woman I picked up—a hitchhiker—she jerked the wheel and sent me into the mud.”
“That right?” he said. “Where’d she go?”
“She, uh, disappeared.”
A peculiar expression stole over his face.
“Remember what she looked like?”
“Er, yeah,” I said. “Black hair, blue eyes, and…”
“And what?”
“A bruise around her neck. It was a bad one.”
The policeman nodded and sighed.
“Looks like you ran into Maggie. She’s the local legend round here.”
“Legend?”
The officer nodded, and explained.
Apparently Maggie had been a single mother who had locked her daughter in her room for weeks, in order to keep the girl from running off with an abusive boyfriend. One day, when she went off to work with her daughter locked in the house, it rained hard. The house flooded, and was swept away. The daughter’s remains were never found, and it is presumed she drowned.
Maggie was inconsolable—she hanged herself a week later. Her note said that she was going to Hell to atone for her sins.
But she didn’t go to Hell. According to the legend, she stayed on Earth to atone by saving wayward travelers from the same fate her daughter had suffered.
I supposed I might have bumped my head in the crash, that Maggie might have been nothing more than a hallucination—except for one thing. When I went back to my truck, the shirt and jacket she had been wearing were sitting there still, soaking wet, on my passenger seat.
I still have them.
38
The Strands of Fate
I first met the demon when I was seventeen, and on that night he saved my life.
I was standing at the bus stop, waiting to catch a ride home from my after-school job. I had forgotten my umbrella that day, and, as you know, it always rains when you forget your umbrella.
It was coming down in freezing torrents, and I was trying to ignore the fact that I was floating in my own shoes. Suddenly, the rain above me stopped, and I looked up to see him—the demon, shielding me with his umbrella.
He looked like a person put together by someone who didn’t know what a human being should look like. He was long and lanky, six and a half feet at least, and his shoulders were hunched forward so that his profile resembled that of a giant vulture.
His face was gaunt, all sharp edges and deep hollows, and across it was plastered a wide, friendly smile of crooked gray teeth.
“Haven’t you heard, friend?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Heard what?”
“The bus isn’t coming today. The driver was drunk and got into a crash. Everybody on board was killed.”
The way he said this last part—cheerful, almost—made my stomach turn.
I wasn’t sure if I really believed him, but I decided that I would leave anyway. I felt a strong urge to put as much distance between him and me as possible.
“Oh,” I replied. “I guess I’ll have to walk it.”
“Yes,” he said. “You will. Here, take my umbrella.”
He extended the umbrella out toward me, and without thinking, I accepted it. My fingers briefly brushed the skin of his hand, and a revulsive shiver shot through my entire body. I left him standing there, grinning the wide smile of crooked gray teeth.
***
The next day I saw the bus crash on the news—except it had happened after my stop. Just as the man had said, everyone on board had died. And if it weren’t for him, I would have been on board too. As I watched the news, I felt a tingle in my hand where the mysterious man had touched me. My core went cold, and I turned off the news.
***
The next time I saw the demon was during my sophomore year of college. He was waiting for me in my dorm room, hunched over my desk and reading one of my books.
“It’s you,” I said.
“Yes,” he replied. “It’s me.”
He calmly shut the book and turned to face me, beaming his crooked-toothed grin.
“I brought you a present,” he said.
My stomach squirmed.
“You did?” I asked.
“Oh yes.”
He reached a hand inside the lapel of his jacket and retrieved a pink spiral notebook. The name ‘Ellen Hartwell’ was printed on the cover.
“This belongs to the pretty brunette in your psychology class,” he said. “The one you’re always staring at. You will tell her you found it, and then you will ask her out to dinner. She will say yes.”
He set it down on my desk.
“Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”
“No thanks necessary,” said the man. “I’ll see you again.”
In that moment I blinked, and he disappeared.
***
The final time I saw the demon was the night my son was conceived. My wife Ellen was waiting in the bedroom while I took a quick shower. I stepped out naked and dripping wet to see the man standing in my bathroom.
“Hello again, friend,” he said.
“You scared me,” I replied.
“I know,” he said, a soft smile on his lips. “I want you to listen to me. Tonight you are going to talk to your wife. She is ready to have children, but she doesn’t know it yet. She will conceive your son tonight.”
My heart swelled at the thought of a son, but my stomach was less optimistic, and it squirmed with uneasiness.
“Why are you helping me?” I asked.
The man smiled widely.
“The strands of fate are long,” he said. “Much longer than a single human life.”
He snapped his fingers, and disappeared in a mist of blue-gray smoke.
The man never visited again after that, but sometimes I would get that uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that accompanied his presence. Years passed, then decades, and gradually, I forgot about him—until the day the police came.
They came with bloodhounds and shovels, and they turned my entire property inside out.
After all was said and done, they’d found the remains of thirty-seven women, and arrested my only son.
My son claimed throughout the trial that a demon had forced him to commit the murders, but the prosecution did not believe it, and he was sentenced to death.
But I knew better. I recognized the demon from the thousands of sketches that filled his notebooks.
All the drawing were the same—a gaunt-faced man with a wide, friendly smile of crooked, dead gray teeth.
39
Desert Cults and Mescaline
I used to think cults were fun.
You get to hang out in the desert with your friends, do some mescaline and hallucinate a religion into existence.
Our cult was my life.
My buddy Orin and I started it out of a decommissioned school bus we bought off a guy on Craigslist. The bus is rusted out and half the windows are broken. We smeared the name, ‘The Beast’ on the side in b
lood-red paint.
We had seventeen members, all of them burnt out junkie losers just like Orin and me. We cruised The Beast around the desert looking for portals to the Otherrealm.
The Otherrealm was Orin’s idea. It was kind of like the Lust circle of Hell from Dante’s Inferno—a giant tornado of naked writhing bodies eternally slamming into each other. Our version was supposed to be fun, though.
One day, we found a portal.
It didn’t look like much at first—there was nothing there except an old sunbleached cow skull. But Orin said it was the place, so we pulled the bus over and piled out.
We got out the ceremonial peace pipe made from the hollowed out hip bone of an animal carcass and loaded up some weed. Orin passed around bits of San Pedro cactus and we all ate it raw, looking forward to tripping off the mescaline.
Orin and I began to smoke while the followers built the bonfire. The sky faded into a glowing orange as the sun set over the glistening desert sands. By the time the sky had faded into a bruised purple twilight, the fire was a roaring twenty foot inferno, writhing into the sky like a giant orange serpent.
The pipe was passed around, and time slowed to a crawl. Shadows danced in the warm firelight that bathed the skull of the cow, and then, the demon emerged.
It appeared at first as a tongue of blue gray smoke, slithering from the left eye of the skull and twisting its way up into the sky. It began to curl, swirling itself into a whirlpool that slowly took on edges to form the head of a great wolf, with shimmering fur of silver thread, and teeth that gleamed like ivory daggers.
“I am the Great Wolf Spirit,” it announced. Its voice was sonorous and deep, like the tolling of a bell.
I looked around for the other cult members, but I realized that the Wolf Spirit and I were alone, drifting on a sea of milky white stars.
I wished to speak but words would not come.
“The Great Wolf Spirit is the spirit of the predator,” intoned the wolf. “It is the spirit of The Beast. It is the enforcer of the natural order, wherein the strong devour the weak. Your friend has sought me out, thinking to find paradise. But there is no paradise. The strong will always eat the weak, and the weak will always suffer. Now, open your mind, and become the Wolf.”
Death and Candy Page 13