Demon Harvest

by Patrick C. Greene

  Yet Jupiter remained stiff and alert, keeping his busy snout to the left. He issued a soft snuffle, as if sensing a predator.

  The only movement was that of the poplar and locust trees somberly and steadily giving up their colorful dead—bat wings of red and gold. Softly as they landed, this was all that Bennington heard. Jupiter knew of something else, though.

  Bennington drew his matchlock pistol and peered down its barrel—as if it offered the magnification of a sailor’s glass scope—toward the direction Jupiter was staring and cocking his ears.

  “Is someone there?” he called, in the most powerful and booming voice of all the settlement. “I’ll let you be on your way, if you show yourself to me! If you hide, I’ll presume you mean me harm!” Bennington allowed a moment for this before resuming with a warning. “I will see you—and shoot you!”

  Only falling leaves and Jupiter’s breath answered.

  Bennington called a greeting in what he knew of the Cherokee tongue.

  Did he hear a moan?

  If so, Jupiter heard it too. The horse took agitated steps backward, until Bennington halted him and leaped off. If there was to be trouble, he wouldn’t endanger his loyal friend.

  Bennington took four steps. Though he trod lightly, his boots crunched like burning maple branches on the newly carpeted forest floor. He listened and took another step, repeating the process until he found himself at the top of a shallow slope.

  Halfway down, a long-fallen oak lay crosswise amid its own broken branches. From the far side of it, a man’s leg protruded at an odd angle. Bennington grimly hoped that he would find the rest of the body there as well.

  A glance back at Jupiter did not offer reassurance. The fidgeting beast had backed itself to the full length of its tether.

  Bennington eased his way down the slope, his cumbersome weapon at arm’s length. He walked wide of the fallen tree until he was just within a comfortable range of accuracy. Leaning over the oak, he saw the full figure—and laughed.

  It was the false man from Friedrich Schroeder’s cornfield, discarded here for some reason. The strawman had been a subject of much curious chatter when the cheerful Dutchman made and displayed it.

  Then Bennington recalled the soft moan he’d heard a moment earlier and braced himself again. “Ho there!”

  There was no answer, but the leg shifted minutely, in a way that Bennington recognized as a sign of injury. He stepped over the oak and sidestepped until he could see the man clearly. There was blood on the old clothes, and a fullness to the frame that was too meaty for a mere effigy.

  The handle of a reaping tool poked out from under nearby leaves. Bennington examined it—and found bloody fingerprints.

  Bennington lowered his pistol and went to the man. “What’s happened to you, sir?”

  The burlap-masked face of Everett Geelens rose. His eyes were nearly closed, hiding from Bennington the madness that dwelled within.

  “Tricked…” mumbled Everett as he showed Bennington the wound in his side.

  “Hold here.” Bennington ran back to Jupiter, cursing the beast for resisting with all his might as Bennington dragged him down the slope.

  * * * *

  Modern day

  “Jesus!” grumbled Dennis. “You’d think I pissed in the water cooler.”

  “My question is…are you sure you’re not drunk right now?”

  “Not even funny, Stuart.”

  “Yeah, well, neither was casually tossing out the idea that we should record down in the bowels of hell, where a bunch of us nearly got our tickets punched.”

  “That’s why I’m so sure we should, little bro. Authenticity.” Dennis lowered the volume of the hearse’s stereo, playing Alien Sex Fiend again, which Stuart now realized should have been a dead giveaway of his brother’s growing infatuation with death rock.

  “Look, we’ll take all the precautions. Have Hudson check it out, keep somebody on guard…”

  “First, you gotta get past Reverend McGlazer.”

  “He’s always been on board.” Dennis returned a wave from excited kids in the back of a pickup. “He’s our biggest supporter.”

  “Yeah, well, something tells me you already hit the end of that rope,” Stuart said. “Not just with him, but with everybody.”

  “Jeez, you’re a buzzkill tonight, man. Sleep on it, at least.”

  “Oh, sure! Can’t wait to see what nightmares you’ve conjured up in my poor young melon with your cockamamie—”

  “Dude! Ice it, already.”

  Dennis turned the stereo back up until it was too loud to hear Stuart if he did say something.

  As for Stuart, long accustomed to stepping on eggshells for fear of sending delicate Dennis back to the bosom of the bottle, he didn’t press it. But he couldn’t ignore his disappointment in his brother, after what he, Stuart, had experienced, along with his friends, down in that goddamned moldy chamber of horrors.

  Out on Main Street, thin evening fog had already settled on the streets, sidewalks and the many piles of gathered leaves. Two years ago, the shops would already have had their windows and signs decorated for Halloween. So far this year, only occasional pumpkins, left uncarved, or yellow-and-red wreaths gave any hint of the holiday.

  Stuart was saddened, though not surprised. It was taking all he had to muster any Halloween spirit himself.

  He recalled again the horror of being lost in the soul-crushing darkness of Saint Saturn Unitarian’s secret basement with DeShaun, Reverend McGlazer and the Rieslings as the ubiquitous fungus triggered horrifying hallucinations.

  And that was before the super-aggro ghost of Conal O’Herlihy took possession of McGlazer. Then, of course, the effing mushroom demons made the scene.

  Dennis’s suggestion wouldn’t really be causing Stuart bad dreams, because they were virtually guaranteed anyway. Luckily, just like Candace and a good double fistful of his fellow survivors, he had his meds to keep the terrors beaten back. And he didn’t even need as high a dose as Candace. His brother was only an alcoholic music genius, not a psychotic killing machine, like hers.

  Still, Stuart could almost understand where Dennis was coming from. His older brother’s devotion to the integrity of his music was not just intense, it was damn near insane.

  And there could be no doubt: any music recorded in those dank, ancient subterranean chambers was sure to be authentic all right. Authentically terrifying.

  * * * *

  Yoshida was beginning to doze when the monstrous wolf stirred awake. She began with a series of heavy puffs—fit to blow a house down, Yoshida grimly thought. Then came low growls and a rattling of the silver chains.

  The biker-turned-beast should not be able to break the chains, of course—yet there was no known precedent for a lycanthrope that had been in wolf state for nearly a year.

  She had grown even larger than the near-seven-foot height she and her fellow gang members—make that pack mates—had stood, back when he and Hudson’s posse of punkers did battle with them.

  This reminded him of something else. Except when running, the wolves had all stood and walked upright. But Aura had moved about mostly on all fours.

  Even her once very human breasts had gotten smaller, regressing into her torso to make her body more streamlined. Her teeth, eyes, hands—all were much more wolflike than human.

  Had her extended time “in skin” erased all vestiges of humanity?

  What if the “magic” effect of the silver chains also no longer applied?

  Yoshida switched on the barn’s overhead light and raised the trank rifle, approaching the cage from Aura’s blind side.

  She had rolled onto her stomach to raise her head. Yoshida found her glowering at him with eyes that shone like hot coals under the barn’s low-watt bulbs.

  She stopped growling and just stared at Yoshida, cocking her h
ead sideways.

  She wriggled and shook, rattling her chains like Dickens’s Marley, glaring intently at Yoshida. As if she fully expected him to set her free.

  “H…how about you just go back to sleep now, okay?” Yoshida said.

  When the wolf shook again, Yoshida deduced she was attempting to loosen the chains. Was she going to try to break them? She jerked her head from side to side as if to test how tight the leather muzzle was, to see if she could shake it off.

  “No, come on, dammit!” Yoshida said. “Just sit still.”

  The chains rattled again, louder. Yoshida raised the tranquilizer rifle and took a step closer. “I said, sit still.”

  She narrowed her eyes, regarding him without fear. Yoshida lowered the rifle, surprising himself.

  “Maybe it’d be best to let you go,” he muttered.

  He shook his head and put his back to her, finding resolve only once he broke eye contact.

  But still—it made sense. To let her go.

  She growled again, shaking the chains. Yoshida knew he should go ahead and dart her—but felt like he couldn’t. It would be…disloyal.

  The tiny spot where her tooth had punctured him tingled, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. He pivoted to meet her glowing gaze again.

  “Yo!” came a deep-voiced call from the doorway. “’Shida!”

  Yoshida spun quick with the rifle.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” said the big deputy, hands out. “Easy, Yosh!”

  “Oh, God. Sorry.” Yoshida lowered the rifle. It took some effort. “Little on edge, I guess.”

  “Sure, sure.” Hudson held out his hand to take the rifle.

  Yoshida found some part of himself fighting not to relinquish it—and to pull the trigger. “She’s, uh…starting to come around.”

  Hudson took a few steps though the doorway, leading his companions—Ysabella, Maisie and McGlazer. “Ladies, meet Deputy Yoshida.”

  Aura issued a low growl, causing the newcomers to stop in their tracks. Their eyes widened as they beheld the monster. McGlazer stepped in front of the witches, instinctively protective of them. “She’s enormous!”

  “Yeah,” said Yoshida. “And she’s not in a good mood.” He went to draw his sidearm for safety and decided against it. Increasingly, he did not trust his own hands.

  Looking at Ysabella and Maisie, he found himself surprised. He hadn’t known what to expect, but it was not this pair of sweet-faced ladies. Maisie, the younger one, was attractive and unassuming, while Ysabella, the older witch, bore wisdom untainted by cynicism.

  “You’re certain she’s secure?” asked Reverend McGlazer.

  “Stay here a minute, Abe.” Hudson patted Yoshida’s shoulder, leading him toward the cage. He checked the dart rifle. “You okay, Yoshi?”

  “I’m ready to do something else for a while,” he answered, stopping within a few feet of the cage.

  Narrowing her amber eyes, Aura growled and snapped, startling them. Hudson brought up the rifle. “Maybe you should draw your weapon now. Just in case.”

  Meeting Aura’s ferocious gaze, Yoshida reached for his sidearm. The alarming feeling that, once in his hand, the gun would point to Hudson, or to his own temple, was stronger than before. Avoiding the wolf’s stare banished the sinister urge—partly. “Go ahead and give her another dose.”

  “They need her awake.” After warily circling the cage, Hudson relaxed and motioned for the guests. “She’s locked up pretty tight anyway.”

  Hudson saw how Yoshida avoided eye contact with the hulking captive, how his gun hand shook. “I think you should go home now, Yoshi. Get some rest.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Since this is volunteer time, I can’t order you,” Hudson said firmly. “But I can have Leticia withhold your annual pumpkin loaf.” He motioned for the newcomers.

  Aura shifted suddenly, rattling the chains. Hudson pointed the trank rifle at her haunches. “What do you need us to do, Ysabella?”

  Ysabella stepped around McGlazer to stare into the wolf’s eyes, much as she had little Emera’s just a short while ago. She knelt, indifferent to the dirty plywood floor soiling her dress. “She’s…suffering in there.”

  “Suffering?” scoffed Hudson. “She’s wanted for murder. The human her, that is.”

  “In any case,” Ysabella began, reaching for Maisie’s supporting hand, “we can’t leave her like this. Not any longer.”

  “What would happen?” asked McGlazer.

  “The balance of nature is at stake,” explained Ysabella, reaching out for McGlazer to help her stand. “We won’t be able to hold her for long.”

  Maisie helped on the other side. “Wait. We’re going to try to do it now? With just two of us?”

  “The deputies will have to assist. And the reverend, of course. Maisie, look around and see if Matilda has…had…anything we can use.” She touched Hudson’s arm. “We’ll need our bags from your truck.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hudson was more than happy to relinquish oversight of this strange situation to this strange woman. He nodded to McGlazer and Yoshida. “If you would, fellas? I’ll stay here with the trank rifle.”

  * * * *

  “I guess I could’ve grabbed both of them,” Yoshida said, hefting Maisie’s enormous antique canvas suitcase. “I was thinking they’d be heavy as hell.”

  He told McGlazer about the vase in the barn that, despite appearing empty, was startlingly heavy. The minister stopped and looked at him.

  “What?”

  “You would think we’d start getting used to this kind of thing.” He cast a nervous glance around the scene where so much strange carnage had occurred.

  “Look, Rev. I have to ask. Aren’t you a little conflicted about this? Working with witches?”

  McGlazer thought about it. “Mysterious ways, and all that.”

  “So you still…believe?”

  “I believe that I believe,” answered McGlazer. “I hope I believe.”

  They trudged, in silence, along the worn pathway where Jill had fought for her life against “deceased” slasher Everett Geelens almost a year earlier. Within a few yards of the barn, Yoshida stopped again. McGlazer met his worried gaze.

  “What’s wrong?” the reverend asked.

  “If you had to, could you change her back?”

  “With faith in God, we can do anything,” McGlazer answered.

  “How is your faith in God holding up, Reverend?”

  As McGlazer struggled with the lie forming in his mind, a low growl rose from the barn and grew to an eerie whine, a howl suppressed by the muzzle. It filled the farm and the men with a dark vibration.

  Yoshida bolted into the barn to help his…pack mate?

  Chapter 6

  Wolf’s Blood

  “Cannisssss!?” Emera called at the very instant Stella opened the front door.

  “In the kitchen, Emenemenema!”

  Bravo appeared, panting a greeting.

  Stella set down the little one and followed her to the kitchen, where husband Bernard and Candace filled puffy cooler bags—Snow White–themed for Emera, Nightmare Before Christmas for Candace—with the next day’s lunch. Though Emmie didn’t go to school yet, she insisted on having a packed lunch every day like her big sister.

  “Don’t forget her noon pills,” Stella told Bernard as she gave him a kiss and rubbed Bravo’s head.

  “Way ahead of you.”

  “Almost time for tonight’s.” Stella said, as the older girl accepted Emmie’s hug and kiss.

  “I know, Mom.”

  Throughout the bedtime routine, the family exchanged accounts of Leticia’s dinner party with the witches and the setup for The Chalk Outlines’ rehearsal at the Community Center. Stella and Bernard smoothly traded off, seeing to the needs of one little girl or the other as
needed. It was a near-mastery of the chaotic dance called parenthood.

  Helping Emmie brush her teeth, Stella felt Bravo’s meaty haunches brush past her. Looking up to talk to the dog’s reflection, she caught sight of herself smiling in the toothpaste-spattered mirror. Yes, it was satisfying to be providing the orphan girls and the big dog with a normal home and a future of relative certainty, especially after the many horrors they had suffered. She was proud of Bernard, how he had evolved and taken to fatherhood like a natural, leaving behind a pattern of self-absorption and emotional inaccessibility.

  But she wasn’t ready to tell him what the witches had said, about “recruiting” Emera. Not until she knew more herself.

  Bernard checked the hallway overhead light, a blazing hundred-watt bulb that both girls needed to sleep. Their bedroom door remained open so they could listen for any slight sound from the girls. Stella and Bernard had gotten used to wearing sleep masks and taking turns getting up at least twice a night to look in on them. After all they had gone through both before and after the girls came into their lives, Stella and Bernard were all the more fiercely loving these days. Their parental instincts were alive and kicking, their marriage better than ever.

  Though they helped keep their bad dreams in check, the girls’ meds didn’t eliminate them. Only recently, through counseling, had the Riesling family learned to accept that the nightmares might never go away.

  “Don’t forget, we’re going to see your therapist tomorrow,” Stella told Candace, as she pulled back the covers on the twin bed shared by the girls, a bed Stella and Bernard had bought and assembled together with such a sense of purpose and family it felt like a daylong dream.

  “Will you make sure she knows I really need those meds?” Candace asked. “Emmie too.”

  “Don’t worry, sweetie.” Stella stroked her little girl’s chestnut hair, especially the thin white streak she bore as a souvenir of her brush with death—and an oddly poignant reminder, of her big brother. “No one will make you stop taking them, as long as you need them.”