by C R Langille
-Sir William Brock
I-15, Utah
He waits, deep in the…
Troy’s vision snapped into focus, and he found himself in his car driving down the road. He slammed on the brakes, causing his car to fishtail along the highway until coming to a stop near the shoulder. His vision blurred, and strange shapes moved along his peripherals. It felt like someone drove an ice pick into his skull and jumbled the contents, making him nauseous, as well as setting a ringing in his ears.
His vision slowly returned, and he scanned the empty roadway, trying to figure out where the hell he was. He sat in his car, the stereo turned low enough that it sounded like a buzzing insect. Troy tried to remember leaving the house, but whenever he focused on the memory, the pain flared in his brain. The sun sank in the distance and made it difficult to see too far down the road. Without any nearby signs or markers, he didn’t have a clue where he was. Flashing lights caught his attention. He looked into the rearview mirror. A vehicle was coming at him fast. It switched its high beams on, and Troy saw the silhouette of someone in his back seat. The oncoming car flipped its lights to low, and he could see the figure. Raul smiled at him, exposing a row of broken teeth and torn skin.
Troy spun around in his seat. As he looked back, the car flashed its high beams again, blinding him. The driver of the vehicle honked his horn and blew past Troy’s car, leaving it shaking on the side of the road.
When Troy’s vision returned, Raul wasn’t there. His bile rose in his throat, and he barely made it out of the door before vomiting all over the cool asphalt.
He stood up and wiped his mouth clean. Tall mountains paralleled the highway off in the distance. Even though summer still dominated, snow remained on some of the taller peaks. He looked at his watch—it was close to three in the morning.
Troy massaged his temples, but it did little for the pain. Another car approached in the distance. Troy got out of the road and back into his car. He turned the engine and pulled further onto the shoulder.
He flipped on the overhead light and searched the vehicle. Troy couldn’t find any packed bags or extra clothes. It looked like he had simply left his house and started driving.
Sitting on the passenger floorboard was a jumbled mess of papers. Troy knew what they were before picking them up; his father’s notes. The strange book lay underneath the papers.
Exhaustion set in, and sleep governed his thoughts. He had to find a place to get some rest and figure out where the hell he was. Troy started the car and trucked further down the road. It didn’t take long until he arrived at the next town: Brigham City, Utah.
Troy took the exit and pulled into the first motel he found. He paid for a room and lit up a cigarette as he walked out of the main office. How does someone drive from Twin Falls to Brigham City without remembering a thing? The headache that attacked him subsided slightly, but even after eating five Tylenol tablets, the pain still made it hard to think straight.
He waits for you. Deep in the Mountain.
Troy stood in front of his room and took a deep drag from the cigarette. In the back of his mind, he knew that if he hadn’t come out of it when he did, Canyon Shadows might have been the next stop.
He waits, Troy. But He…
Troy finished the cigarette and stamped it out on the ground. The Tylenol took hold finally, and sleep waved at him from the near future.
…wants to show you more…
He turned to his room, but the sound of a vehicle approaching caught his attention. He wanted to sleep so bad, but something stronger grabbed hold of his body, and he turned to the vehicle. A black Ford pickup truck with jacked-up suspension pulled into the motel’s parking lot. Gravel crackled under its oversized tires like the sound of tiny breaking bones.
…He wants to show you wonderful things…
A man wearing a large maroon cowboy hat jumped out of the cab and sauntered to the passenger side. He opened the door and pulled a woman out by her hair. She cried out in pain and fell to the ground kicking. She wore a blue miniskirt that left little to the imagination. Troy figured she used to be very pretty, but now too much makeup decorated her face, and there wasn’t much meat left on her bones.
“Get up, bitch. And quit your damned whining, or I’ll give you something to whine about,” the man growled.
…wonderful things…
The cowboy pulled the woman to her feet. Tears ran down her face, and she stumbled trying to keep up with the man. He dragged the woman toward a room. The way she stumbled coupled with the distant look on her face suggested more than alcohol was in her system. She tried struggling away once more, but the cowboy pulled her close and backhanded her as a reward; the slap of skin on skin echoed through the quiet morning air.
…feel the anger, the fear, drink it in…
The man walked the woman past Troy, keeping one hand on the woman’s arm just above the elbow. He fished for the room key with his other hand. The woman saw Troy and turned her head away. Tears streamed down her face, ruining her already shitty makeup job, leaving trails of black mascara down her cheeks. The cowboy finally got hold of the key and pulled it out. He inserted it into the door. He shot a glance towards Troy.
“What the fuck are you looking at?”
Before Troy knew what he was saying, a single word slipped out of his mouth.
“Wonderful.”
The cowboy’s face screwed up, and he tilted his head back slightly. He spit a big wad of tobacco next to Troy’s feet, then opened the door and dragged the woman in the room.
“Fucking weirdo,” the cowboy said.
…feel as He does. See as He does.
Troy watched the couple enter the room. Before shutting the door, the cowboy shot him another look, and Troy could feel the anger burning in the man’s eyes. Underneath the brim of the cowboy’s hat, there was a different set of features. The cowboy’s face was twisted, bloody, and burnt. The image quickly passed, and the man’s face returned to normal.
Troy smiled. He soaked in the feeling of the stranger’s confusion and anger. The girl’s fear soothed the pain in his head and spread small jolts of joy throughout his body. He fed on their emotions, and it was amazing.
The door slammed shut, bringing Troy out of his reverie. A moment later the deadbolt engaged.
He walked into his room and sat on the bed. It wasn’t too long before he could hear the man beating the woman and forcing himself onto her. The cries from the other room lulled Troy to slumber. He fell asleep with an unearthly smile on his face and blood running from his nose.
Some time later, the headache returned and attacked his head with a vengeance, wrenching him from sleep. He took a shower in hopes that hot water would soothe his aching skull. After paying for the room and getting some gas, he hit the road again, heading south.
Ten miles down the road, he got caught in backed-up traffic. It took thirty minutes to move a mile. He drove near the epicenter of the delay.
In the median, a large black Ford pickup had run off the road, flipped, and rolled. It had caught fire, and Troy knew without a doubt that the driver and passenger had died horribly in the flames. The firefighters cleaned the last of the wreckage up as he drove past. Troy smiled, and his headache disappeared.
***
“The eccentric man with the strange taste in clothes is not your concern,” said the man in the gray suit.
Dan sat in a booth opposite the man. The café was empty save for them and the staff. Dan ordered another cup of coffee and leaned back in his chair.
“He played with some powers that I haven’t felt in a very long time. You need to watch him,” Dan said.
The man eyed him for a moment then came in close, lowering his voice.
“You have your orders, Danjal. This is your last chance. Do you understand what will happen if you do anything other than follow orders?”
&
nbsp; The man held up the clipboard, menacing it toward Dan like it was a weapon. Dan eyed the board for a moment and then returned his gaze to the person in front of him. He knew what would happen if he screwed up. The prospect didn’t sit well with him either.
“Yeah, I know,” Dan said.
“Good. Then forget about the stranger. Focus your efforts on the objective. And next time, don’t call me.”
The waitress returned to the table and poured hot black coffee into Dan’s mug. She offered some to the man in the gray suit. He lowered a pair of reading glasses, looking her up and a down like a piece of meat. He smiled, reminding Dan of a lizard.
“No thanks, but there is something I want,” the man said.
“Um, what can I get you?” the woman asked.
“Get out,” Dan said.
Both the waitress and the man turned their heads and looked at him. Dan stood up, leaning in close to the man.
“This town is my jurisdiction. I control what goes on here. I am fairly certain cavorting about with the locals is not in your little clipboard. So, get out,” Dan said.
The man smiled at him. The waitress backed off and stood by the register. The cook came out from the kitchen, a large guy with a gut that could house a keg of beer. Dan knew them both and hoped that if things went south, they would run.
Dan felt the pressure in the room grow, and his cup of coffee started to shake. The smell of burnt hair emerged from nowhere and filled Dan’s nostrils. The man in the gray suit continued to look at him, but the smile was gone. For a moment, the man’s eyes turned red, then the pressure abated and his eyes returned to normal.
Dan readied himself for a fight. The consequences would be grave for attacking an emissary such as the little grub in front of him, but Dan never backed down from anyone or anything. Disobeying orders was unwise, but showing fear was life-threatening in his line of work.
“I’m on a schedule. But I’ll be back,” the man said.
He stood and walked out of the café, nodding to the waitress as he left. Once he was out the door, Dan let out a sigh of relief.
“You know that guy, Sheriff?” the cook asked.
“Yeah, but I wished I didn’t,” Dan said.
“Understandable.”
Dan tried to pay for the coffee, but the waitress wouldn’t let him.
“Thanks,” Dan said.
He returned to his Bronco and wondered what kind of retribution would come his way for that little stunt.
Chapter Eleven
August 1st, 1180
We were set upon by a local tribe of peoples. It looked to be a battle, yet Sir Geoffrey made his first intelligible comment since Sir Pons fell to his death.
“The stone! Show them the stone!”
With nothing left to do other than battle, I grabbed the carved icon that the other tribe gave us, displaying it for all to see. Whether it was fear or respect in their eyes, I do not know, but nonetheless, I was happy to watch them depart. They left just as they arrived, quickly and without a sound. The low laughter of Sir Geoffrey filled the silence of their departure. His mirth continued until the sun had set. Our spirits, however, continued to dwindle. Blast this quest and all it touches. We are doomed, destined to die in this foreign land amongst heathens.
-Sir Ralph Mounford
Canyon Shadows, Utah
Garrett woke to the sound of Mozart. Beautiful sounds erupted from his phone that mixed with the abrasive vibration buzzing from it. He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. It took a few moments for his blurred vision to snap into focus and realize where he was. Garrett groaned loudly as the realization of last night’s events took hold. His dead daughter called him to say hello. It was impossible, but he remembered her voice, crystal clear.
He propped himself up on his elbows and took in the grisly scene displayed before him. Blood and vomit formed a squishy mess where he had lain on the floor, covering not only the carpet but most of his shirt as well. The mix of coppery blood and acidic bile threatened to make him throw up again. He choked it back and tried to focus on other things.
Every joint ached, every muscle screamed, and it seemed like miniature she-devils poked and prodded his brain with a million tiny yet effective tridents.
Garrett tried to stand, but the room spun, and he stumbled to the floor. He tried to anchor the spinning by cradling his skull but winced when his hand brushed a goose egg on his head.
Mozart once again enriched his surroundings. He grabbed his phone.
“Hello.”
“Holy crap, you okay?”
It was Allison Montgomery. He grimaced a little as her high-pitched voice cut through the phone’s small speaker.
“I’ve been better.”
“Sounds like it. Anyway, I’m getting closer to Canyon Shadows. Where do you want to meet, your motel?”
Garrett groaned again, wondering how she could have made the trip in such a short time. He looked at his watch.
It was three in the afternoon. For a moment, he didn’t know how long he’d been out or what day it was. The room looked like a murder scene with all the blood on the carpet and the overturned furniture.
“Shit, uh, no. Let’s meet at Childers’ place.”
“Are you sure you’re okay, boss?” she asked.
She was genuinely concerned. He could tell, because like his late wife, Allison’s voice dropped a little when she was worried. Despite the pain in his head, it brought a smile to his face.
“Uh, yeah. I think so. I had a rough night. Really. Give me a ring when you hit town, and I’ll let give you directions to Childers’ place.”
“Garrett, I—”
Allison’s voice cracked, and he could envision her face, furrows forming on her brow as she drove, her eyes scanning back and forth like they usually did when faced with a problem. He wasn’t in the mood or right mind to deal with what happened; he just couldn’t put that kind of story in front of her—or anyone for that matter. They would think he was a drunk or crazy. He couldn’t deal with disbelief or doubts from her at the moment. Not yet.
“Hey, don’t worry. I’ll be okay. To be honest, I hit the bottle pretty hard, had a little too much to drink,” he let out a chuckle. He hoped it was sincere, but the slight sound Allison made over the phone was more than enough to let him know she wasn’t buying his bullshit. The chuckle caused something to dislodge in the back of his throat. He pulled the phone away for a short moment to hack and cough. “I guess my body is punishing me for that.”
There was silence on the line, and he could still see her in his mind, her eyes roving back and forth, like scanning some imaginary picture or document. Maybe she was even chewing her bottom lip, indicating the problem was large and serious.
“Hey, don’t worry about me. I can handle myself,” he said.
“Okay, I’ll talk to you soon.”
Ending the call with Allison, Garrett stood up and let out a big sigh. He ambled to the bed and sat down, placing the phone next to his leg.
He considered the impossible events that had taken place: his daughter’s voice coming from the phone and from outside his door. There was no explanation for what happened. Things like that were best left to the television and movies.
It had to have been the damn rum. Maybe the rum coupled with the shitty horror flick caused him to have a delusion or something.
He picked his cell phone up again and stared at it. His finger hovered over the button that would show him the call history. Something in his subconscious self, deep down in his instincts, warned him not to look. It screamed at him, warning him that if saw the truth, it would break him.
Curiosity won out, and he looked.
The evidence cut him like a knife. A phone call from his wife’s cell phone was in the call history.
His heart hammered in his chest, wailing to bur
st free. Immediately, his brain tried to repair the psychological damage which had occurred, trying to ply him with explanations or reasons his wife’s number would have called him last night. Perhaps someone had the same number, or maybe it was someone playing a horrible, sick joke. There had to be a reasonable explanation. There had to be one, or else it left only one possibility.
His reason lost, and reality took over. It wasn’t a prank call. He knew that something had happened, something dark and twisted.
He tried a couple of times to hit the callback button on the screen, but his hands shook too much. Finally, he smashed the button down. After a second of silence, an automated operator’s voice interrupted his thoughts, advertising the number he was trying to reach was out of service. Garrett tried again to make sure and found the same results.
He lurched up from the bed and staggered to the door. He opened it and looked for anything unusual. Garrett didn’t know what he was looking for but hoped it would stand out when he saw it. The only strange thing was the small pile of dirt at his doorstep.
Crouching down, he picked up a handful. It was cool to the touch, defying the sun’s natural heat. It had a dirty, rotten smell to it. Not sulfur, but something else he couldn’t place. He let the dirt fall from his palm and wiped his hand on his jeans, but the unclean feeling stuck to his hands. He kicked the rest away from the door as best he could.
The sun hadn’t washed away the darkness of the room as he hoped it would have. Instead, all it did was expose the mess. With a sigh, he began cleaning up.
***
Allison chewed her bottom lip mindlessly as she drove. Garrett’s benders were nothing new, but she’d never heard him sound like that. She could tell that something more than too much alcohol affected him. It was a mystery she planned to solve when she got there.
Allison flew down the road, with sagebrush, juniper trees, and rust-colored rock merging into a blur. Canyon Shadows was less than two hours away. She’d left Phoenix at eight that morning, stopping only for gas and to answer nature’s call. At a rest stop, an elderly Native American woman sold jewelry, and she was proud of herself for resisting the urge to mill about and pick through all the turquoise and silver. Her mother had always loved Native American craft, and that love transferred to Allison. Seeing the stylized jewelry brought back memories of her mother. After hearing Garrett’s voice, she was happy she didn’t linger at the rest stop. She needed to get to town as soon as possible.