Songs of Dreaming Gods

by Meikle, William

The Burdens only scratched louder against the other side, even when the picture showed Janis right outside. She tore down the crime scene tape, opened the door, and walked into the room, the murder room; the one with the sofa and the bloodstains and the new television, the room where John should be.

  The one place I don’t seem to be able to get to.

  27

  Janis was surprised to reach the top landing and not have any of the dolls try to block her passage, surprised and relieved. She reached the white door; it was closed, and three strands of crime scene tape were stretched across the entrance. She tore them down, opened the door and walked inside. There was no transportation to elsewhere this time. She was indeed back in the crime scene room, but it was slightly different again than from her last visit. There was no discarded forensics kit, no indication that the team had left in a hurry. Instead it looked like she might expect it to if they’d been, done their jobs, and left.

  Else where, else when, is that it?

  She stood in the center of the room, weapon still in hand. The dolls were here somewhere, she could feel their eyes on her, staring, watching. When a sound finally came, it was from the black flat screen television, and it was the voice she’d been hoping to hear.

  The screen flickered and stuttered then firmed into life. It was John, sitting in a saggy armchair, with a battered old Dobro in his lap. It was only when she looked closer that she realized it was the same room again, elsewhere, else when.

  “Janis? Can you hear me. Please tell me you can hear me.”

  “Boss? Where the hell are you?”

  “Here? There? Somewhere anyway.”

  “Elsewhere, else when?” she said.

  “Something like that. I think the important thing right now is that we can talk to each other. I’ve been told that we need to fix this place, fix a leak.”

  “I’ve been told the same thing. I think this is some kind of test.”

  “More like a job interview,” John said.

  The more Janis thought about that, the more it sounded right.

  “I think I’m meant to be the new steward, concierge, whatever you want to call it.”

  John nodded.

  “Me too, at least at this end, wherever this end is. But it’s too dangerous for you, especially if you’re not cut.”

  “The sigil you mean?”

  She saw by John’s face that he was surprised she knew about that, and she laughed.

  “I’m a fast learner, boss, always was. That’s why you wanted me on your team in the first place, remember?”

  “I remember,” he said, and smiled back, and suddenly Janis didn’t feel quite so alone. More than that, she felt ready to do whatever needed to be done.

  “So, this leak, where, or what, is it?”

  “It’s got to do with the murders. They fucked up by using paper instead of flesh.”

  “That painting in the kitchen? I told you it was hinky, first time I saw it.”

  “Yes, I remember that too. But that’s what we have to focus on. I’ll check my end, you check yours.”

  “Then what?”

  “First things first. You need a sigil before you go screwing around with anything else. You need to get cut.”

  She remembered the scene she’d watched in room one, the black-haired concierge and the hefty man.

  “Actually boss, all I need to do is mark the skin. A sharpie will do it.”

  “Good. Do you have one?” he said, smiling sadly.

  She smiled back.

  “I see your point. I’ll get a knife, and yes, I’ll be careful, and I’ll get cut before I go near the painting, if it’s there.”

  “Back here in five with it?”

  “And the same for you. Be careful boss. This place is weird.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Janis realized they both had stories to tell, but they’d have to wait. She looked away from the television, tiny pattering footsteps again, porcelain on wood, and they sounded like they’d come from inside the apartment. She turned back to tell the boss, but although the other room was still there on the screen, the chair was empty. He’d left the guitar on the seat, but he’d gone out of view.

  To the kitchen, to plug a leak.

  Janis took a firm grip on her gun and went through the archway into the kitchen.

  28

  Todd found his way up to the top floor more by touch than sight, clutching to the handrail all the way and struggling to peer in a darkness that was almost complete. He was relieved to make it to the landing under the skylight without tumbling backward or without hearing any leathery wings beating. The house was empty and dead, and he felt like a burglar, creeping around in the dark.

  He stopped after going up the last step, struck immobile by the memory, Christ, was it only yesterday?, of climbing the same stairs and seeing the blonde, Sam, wiping blood from her brow as she was questioned.

  I failed her.

  The thought came again, and this time he wasn’t able to push it away. The sense of failure and loss overwhelmed him, washed over him like a wave and brought sudden, unwanted tears running down his cheeks before he wiped them away angrily.

  If the boss and the sarge aren’t here to sort this mess out, I’ll just have to do it myself.

  He ripped the crime scene tape off the door and walked into the apartment.

  The harbor and docks were laid out beyond the main room window, shimmering in reds and greens. The reflection of brilliant white spotlights on the water and the snow continuing to waft slowly down lent the light a diffuse glow in the room itself that was more than bright enough for Todd to see by. It didn’t look like anyone had been in the place since his last visit earlier.

  He stood there for a while, listening, but there was no noise, not even the hum of a refrigerator. He felt inside his jacket. The plastic envelope was still there, and still with that slightly obscene wet, hot feel to the surface.

  The sooner I’m rid of it, the better.

  He took it through to the kitchen.

  The scene of the crime. But what the hell am I supposed to do with it?

  Up till now he’d been operating on instinct and gut feel. It had got him this far.

  But no further it seems.

  A cord hung suspended above the stove, one with a clothes peg on the bottom end, where the painting had hung when he first saw it.

  Here goes nothing.

  He slipped the sheet of paper from the envelope and pegged it back above the stove, then had to step back, almost tripping over his own feet, as a single black egg oozed out from the center of the pentacle and hung there, throbbing.

  29

  A black egg hung, rotating slightly, three inches in front of the yellow center of the red pentacle in the painting above the stove. Janis stood there for long seconds, watching it, waiting to see what might happen, but it seemed like it was stable, for the moment. She was more worried by the pattering footsteps that came from everywhere around, back in the main room, ahead of her down the hallway toward the bedroom, in the bedroom itself, and even from somewhere in the kitchen. It seemed the band was all here, all the remaining sisters, all intent on only one thing.

  Scaring the shit out of me. Well, I’ve got no time for that.

  She kept an eye on the shimmering egg. It was giving out a faint aura of greens and blues and gold, little more light than a small candle, but enough for her to find the cutlery drawers. She got a knife in the second drawer, a small paring blade with a rubber handle. It didn’t look like much, but when she ran a thumb along the edge it certainly felt sharp enough for the job.

  She had to put her gun down for the next part, placing it on the counter within hand’s reach as she cut. She hadn’t been sure what her sigil would be before she started, but when she heard the patter of porcelain on wood again she knew what the final result was going to look like.

  Slowly, painstakingly, she started to carve the outline of a doll into her left palm.

 
It was slower going than she’d expected, as she had to stop every half an inch or so to clean the wound, mopping away oozing blood with a batch of kitchen towels that she found on the counter top. She got halfway round the outline before she noticed that the black egg was now two black eggs, throbbing and vibrating with a beat that was getting steadily louder.

  Off in the darkness tiny feet danced in time to the rhythm, six taps, then the expected attack finally came, two from the hallway, two from the main room, as fast as attack dogs, shadows launching themselves at her out of the gloom. She just had time to transfer the knife to her left hand, snatch up the gun with her right, and then they were on her, clambering up her legs like demented puppies.

  “Fuck off,” she shouted and started shooting.

  30

  John came back from the kitchen with the painting dangling in his right hand, expecting to see Janis in the other room holding the same thing, but his screen showed only an empty room on the other side.

  She’s in trouble.

  He knew that even before he heard her shout, coming as if from a great distance.

  Fuck off.

  Then the gunshots started. He could see the muzzle flashes reflected in a mirror on the screen.

  John was at his wit’s end. He had no way of getting to her. Their plan had failed even before it begun. He even considered trying the apartment door again, but as he moved toward it the Burdens scratched and wailed and threw themselves against the other side. There was going to be no respite that way. As he turned away from the door, the old guitar in the chair let out a ringing tone of disapproval, as if annoyed.

  Singing helps.

  The Reaper’s words came back to him, as clear as if they were being repeated in his ear. He sat on the chair, picked up the guitar, and, slowly, clumsily, for it had been years since he last played, tried to find his way into the song.

  He sleeps in the deep, with the fish far below,

  He sleeps in the deep, in the dark,

  He dreams as he sleeps in the depths, in the deep,

  And the Dreaming God is singing where he lies.

  31

  Four eggs, eight eggs, sixteen, thirty-two.

  Todd had to step back, it was happening again, as it had back in the lab. The eggs were calving faster than he could count, starting to fill the kitchen with dancing, throbbing vibration and a rainbow aura of color that seemed to wash right through him, leaving him light headed and slightly nauseous.

  He moved to step back again, through into the main room, but as he turned he saw the silhouette, framed against the lights of the harbor beyond, a tall figure, bat wings outspread, blocking any means of escape.

  A hundred and twenty-eight eggs now and Todd had nowhere to go.

  32

  The first doll was almost to her waist before Janis got a chance to bring the gun around, but her shot was good enough to blow more than half its face away and send it to the ground where she was able to finish the job with her heel. She smacked the pistol grip into the head of the second, caving it into a thousand splinters before heaving the body aside. By now the third was almost at her chest, teeth chattering, blue eyes staring, unblinking. It was trying to get at her throat, and she couldn’t get the gun round for a clear shot. She started stabbing with the short-bladed knife in her other hand, but that wasn’t getting her very far.

  Then the singing started, John’s voice, slightly tinny, but coming through loud from the television next door.

  He sleeps in the deep, with the fish far below,

  He sleeps in the deep, in the dark,

  The doll slowed, seemed confused for a second, and that gave her enough time to club it in the head with the barrel of the gun, slough it off her body, and put a shot, right between its eyes.

  Five down, one to go.

  John was still singing.

  He dreams as he sleeps in the depths, in the deep,

  And the Dreaming God is singing where he lies.

  Janis checked the broken doll parts on the floor, as she’d thought, there was just the one missing, blue dress, squinty eye, her nemesis, somewhere still out there in the dark, still staring.

  She put the gun down on the counter again and went back to cutting.

  She finished the outline just as John brought the song to an end.

  Where he lies, where he lies, where he lies, where he lies,

  The Dreaming God is singing where he lies.

  Above the stove two eggs calved into four, and tiny footsteps pattered, porcelain on wood in a dark corner. Janis ignored it, reached up and took the painting down from its clothes pin and string above the stove. She wondered if the eggs would come along with her as she moved, but they stayed in position hanging above the stove as she went back into the main room.

  She immediately turned to look at the television. John sat there, idly strumming on the guitar, a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a tall glass of scotch on a small table near his left hand. He looked happier than she’d ever seen him, and when he saw her he gave her a mock salute.

  She showed him the painting.

  “Now what?” she said.

  “I’ve got an idea,” he replied.

  He lifted the painting. Even as he did so Janis heard the footsteps again, running, faster, closing. A black shape launched itself at her. She held up her hand, her newly cut sigil. At the same moment John set fire to the bottom edge of his painting.

  The paper Janis was holding fell apart into ash and the black dressed doll collapsed in a heap, dust even before it hit the floor. Janis stepped through into the kitchen, there was no sign of any eggs, or any doll parts, just more of the black ash that was already disappearing in a light breeze.

  She went back through to look at the television. John wiped his hands and blew away the ash from his palms. He took a long draw at the cigarette, picked up the guitar again, and sang.

  Where he lies, where he lies, where he lies, where he lies,

  The Dreaming God is singing where he lies.

  33

  It was six weeks later before Todd decided it was time.

  He dreamed, almost every night, of that strange minute, standing in the dark as the eggs first calved, and calved again, almost swamping him. The beast at his back in the main room, breathing heavy enough to hear, was already anticipating food. Then the hanging picture burst into flame, the yellow center the last thing to go as the whole dancing aura of eggs and rainbow and vibration just fell apart into black ash, leaving him once again alone in the quiet dark.

  He’d stayed there for almost an hour, scarcely daring to breathe, but once it became obvious that nothing else was going to happen he walked, slowly, back through the snow to the station.

  The inquest was a long one, and even now, a month and a half later, there was little sign of a conclusion. The media had moved on to more mundane, political matters, but the whole station was only too aware that they were further than ever from actually solving the murders. Todd knew that a cloud hung over his head, a black mark on his record that might never be cleared.

  He didn’t care.

  The sarge, and the boss were still AWOL. He didn’t care much about that either.

  What he did care about was Sam, the blonde. He’d gone to her funeral, one of only four people to do so, and that included the priest. He thought that might have cured the other dreams, the ones of her, curled up in the cell, screaming, but they kept coming, over and over, and most nights he found himself screaming along.

  He started drinking, frequenting the kinds of bars and clubs she would have gone to, dancing and flirting with girls just like her but none were Sam. He got a tattoo, a winged bat demon that fluttered between his left thumb and forefinger, he regretted it as soon as he woke up the next day.

  He took to walking up and down Church Street, thinking about knocking on the door but never getting up the courage to do it. He knew there were people living there again, he’d seen them going in and out, quiet people, sad people. He recognize
d the look on their faces. He saw it in the mirror most mornings.

  Finally, he’d had enough.

  One morning, he stepped off the sidewalk, walked across the street and rapped hard on the door, unsure what he was going to say to whoever answered.

  When the door opened and Janis smiled at him, he found he couldn’t say much of anything at all.

  “You can have number three,” Janis said. “And once you have your sigil, the house will do the rest for you.”

  Fog, thick and swirling, obscured the view outside the window of Apartment One, but Todd hardly noticed. He was still getting over the shock, both of seeing the sarge and of being told that he could be with Sam again, after a fashion. He forced himself to pay attention. Janis was still speaking, and it sounded like rules.

  “There are houses like this all over the world,” she started, and Todd felt wonder and awe grow in him, and an almost boyish anticipation at the thought he might see Sam again, as she was, as he needed her to be. When Janis asked about a sigil, he showed her the bat demon and she smiled.

  In the corner of the room the big sleek black television was on, the volume down low, barely noticeable. The screen was turned such that Todd couldn’t see it, but he heard the song when it rose up. The guitar part wasn’t as fluently played as when he’d last heard it, but this time he recognized the singer.

  Janis raised a hand and showed him the doll in her palm as she led him out into the hallway and up the stairs. As they reached the door to number three he heard another voice from inside, and he recognized that one too.

  “I thought it was all Carlos Castaneda, mescaline medicine man hippie bollocks. How was I to know the fucker really meant it?”

  John brought the song to a rousing end as Todd reached for the door handle.

  Where he lies, where he lies, where he lies, where he lies,

  The Dreaming God is singing where he lies.

  Other books by William Meikle available now or coming soon from Crossroad Press