Demon King

by Erik Henry Vick

  3

  Jim Cartwright pulled his Toronado onto the cracked concrete that served as the Burton’s driveway. The house was a mess, and Jim shook his head in disgust.

  He got out of the car and pushed the heavy car door closed with a bang. Walking up to the door, his eyes roamed over the neglected house. Weeds grew in the flower beds, but no plants. Hairy chinch bugs did whatever they wanted in the ignored, browning lawn. Next to the front door, Tyvek was the house’s only protection from the elements, and one corner sagged away from the boards it covered. The wood was discolored and rotting.

  He pressed the bell, but like Benny’s visit, that produced nothing. He shook his head and knocked on the door. The rank smell of the house threatened to overpower his will to wait for someone to come to the door.

  Candy Burton opened the door after a long wait. She wore a stained house coat, and her lank, greasy hair fell like an oil spill over her forehead, but it didn’t cover the dark purple bruise above her left eye. She held a smoldering cigarette between her middle and ring finger. She squinted up at him with a strange expression on her face. “Who’re you? You kinda look familiar.”

  Jim thrust out his hand. “Jim Cartwright.”

  There was no corresponding look of recognition on Candy’s face. She shook her head, greasy bangs bouncing. “And?”

  “I’m the town manager.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” She glanced past him at the Olds. “Big car, big man.”

  “I don’t know about that, Ms. Burton. I need to speak to you about your son. Can we go inside?”

  “No,” she snapped. “I’m not in the habit of letting strange men in when I ain’t dressed proper.” Her voice held a liberal dose of hard Yankee accent. “You can say what you’ve come to say and then get the hell out of here.”

  “Do you…Ms. Burton, do you have a…is there a man living here?”

  She let her eyes wander down to his shoes and then back up to his face, slow, lascivious, and irreverent. “What business is that of yours?”

  “I noticed the bruise on your forehead, is all.”

  She shook her head, making her hair flop to the left. “I’m gonna ask you again, and if I don’t get a good answer, I’ll be closing the door in your face, Mr. Town Manager. What business is that of yours?”

  Anger stirred in the back of Jim’s mind. “Tell you what, Ms. Burton. I’ll answer your question after you answer just one of mine. Where is your son?”

  Candy pulled her head back, looking like a clucking hen. “My son? Toby?”

  “Do you have another?”

  “What do you care about my son?”

  “He hasn’t been to school in four days. Have you seen him in the last four days?”

  She glanced over her shoulder like the idea that someone might overhear her petrified her. “No, but he knows when to keep his head down and stay the hell outta the way.”

  “Have you even fed him?”

  Candy looked at him and took a drag on her cigarette. She blew the smoke out, almost in his face, and peered at him through the haze of smoke. “He eats when he’s hungry.”

  “And the guy who did that to your forehead…has he seen Toby?”

  She stared at him like he was the stupidest man she knew and took another drag.

  “Want me to ask him?”

  Candy scoffed. “He hasn’t seen him. Before you ask me how I know, it’s because Toby ain’t layin’ on the kitchen floor bleeding.”

  “Nice,” said Jim. “Your son has been missing for four days, lady, and you stand here making jokes.”

  She stepped back inside and slammed the door.

  “Yeah, nice talking to you, too,” muttered Jim. He turned and walked to his car, but before he could get in, the front door banged open behind him.

  “Hey!” A scrappy-looking man came striding across the yard barefoot and bare-chested.

  “Yeah?” asked Jim.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “I told Candy. I’m Jim Cartwright, the town manager.”

  “Yeah? Well, Mr. Town-fucking-Manager, I’ll tell you something here. You quit coming around here and asking questions.”

  “Or?” asked Jim, one eyebrow twitched up.

  “Or I’ll answer you,” growled the man. “You want I should start now?”

  Jim was at least a foot taller than the guy, but the guy had that crazy, dangerous gleam in his eye. “No. I’m just trying to help Toby.”

  “Yeah? Great. Help him learn to keep his goddamn mouth shut around me and the world will be a better place. Now, get the fuck outta here, Mr. Town Manager, before I give you something to manage.”

  Jim slid behind the wheel, shaking his head. One of the perks of being town manager was that he had six guys he could rely on to sort this situation out. The scrawny man stood there staring daggers at him as Jim threw the car into reverse and backed out on to Mill Lane. Jim gave him a jaunty little wave, and the guy flipped him the bird.

  Five minutes later, he was sitting with the Chief of Oneka Falls’ Police Department. “I tell you what, Matt, that guy is trouble. Trouble for Toby and Candy, both.”

  Matt Greshin grunted and put one foot up on the corner of his desk. “Seen guys like that before. I don’t know who’s shacked up with Candy Burton, but we’ll get him sorted out, quick-like.”

  “Yeah, it would be best if we at least know who he is.”

  “Nine times out of ten, a guy like that is a lot of bluster. Sure, he can beat up on a kid and his girlfriend, but chances are he would have backed down if you’d decided to call him out.”

  “Maybe,” said Jim. “I’m not worried about me, though. I’m worried about the kid. No one’s seen him in four days.”

  Greshin took a deep breath and held it for a moment before letting it out in a long, loud sigh. “Yeah. That’s priority one. You know what? I talked to Tom Walton over to Genosgwa just the other day. He called to give me a heads up about a couple of runaways.”

  “Kids?”

  “Aren’t they all?” asked Matt.

  “I mean kids, as in under thirteen.”

  Matt nodded, eyes grave and mouth set in a grimace. “Course. Yeah, one was ten, the other was eleven. Both boys.”

  Jim grimaced.

  “Not a peep from anyone else. I’ll put in a few calls—one to John Morton over to Cottonwood Vale, and another to Bobby Jefferson.”

  “Okay. Keep me up to date on whatever you hear.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  “What do you think about the house on Thousand Acre Drive?”

  The Chief shrugged. “No idea, but it’s easy enough to check out. Feel like riding along?”

  Jim smiled and stood. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

  “Good enough, then.” Greshin stood up and hitched his duty belt around to a more comfortable position. “I’ll have Craig Witherson come with.” The three men piled into the Chief’s Plymouth Fury, and Greshin drove them to Thousand Acre Drive. They stopped at the top of the hill, just like the boys had, and looked down at the house. It looked forlorn, unkempt. Wild roses had taken over the backyard, including the pile of bikes.

  Matt grunted and dropped the cruiser into gear. He rolled down the hill without using the accelerator, and let the car coast to a stop in front of the house. Paint hung from the house like loose skin. The windows were all blacked out, just as Benny had said they were. The three of them got out of the car and strode up to the porch. Greshin mounted the two steps and knocked on the door. The door swung inwards with a shriek of rusty hinges.

  “Anyone home?” called Chief Greshin. “It’s the police.” The house remained silent, not even creaking timbers answered him. “Hello? If you are in there, sing out.” Still nothing. “Okay then, we’re coming in. If you are home, don’t shoot us.” Greshin winked at Jim and motioned for Witherson to go in first.

  With rolling eyes and a smile, Witherson drew his nickel-plated .357 magnum and crossed the threshold. “Police! Don’t be alarmed,” he called. He
pulled his brand-new Maglite out of his belt and switched it on, piercing the darkness with a beam of brilliant white light.

  Greshin followed him inside, also switching on his Maglite, with Jim bringing up the rear. The first thing Jim noticed was the heavy black tar-paper tacked to the inside trim of all the windows. The interior of the house was pitch black in the middle of the afternoon. The house smelled like a cross between a library and a dirty butcher shop: dry, dusty paper, and spoiling meat. “Disgusting,” muttered Greshin.

  The entry hall was empty, but there was a room to the left, a parlor, and to the right, a dining room. The furniture in both rooms wore a layer of dust an eighth of an inch thick. “Yeah. This looks like an abandoned house,” said Jim.

  “Maybe they don’t like the view from the front.”

  Jim shrugged and followed the two police officers deeper into the house.

  The short entry hall ended in a family room, where the dust wasn’t as thick, but still coated everything. There was a bookshelf, the weight of tall stacks of old newspapers warping the shelves. There was a single swinging door to the right and a staircase to the left.

  Chief Greshin pointed at the stairs with his Maglite. “Witherson, clear the top floor.” He turned his light on the door and pushed through it. Jim followed him into the kitchen. It was the source of the decaying meat smell. Inside the room, the smell was so thick it was almost impossible to breathe without gagging. The cellar door shared the same wall as the one from the family room and across from it was the door leading to the backyard. There was a teal Philco refrigerator standing against the wall, and its door was chocked open about a quarter of an inch. With a grimace, Greshin levered the door open with his Maglite. The smell intensified. Greshin gagged and let the door fall back and then pressed it all the way closed. “You don’t want to look in there.”

  “What is it? Is it…”

  “Toby? No.” Greshin grinned. “It’s the remains of a turkey dinner, and it ain’t pretty.”

  With the door closed, the air quality was better, but still not something Jim wanted to keep breathing. “Let’s get out of here then,” he choked out.

  Greshin nodded, but instead of going to the family room, he opened the door to the backyard. “Place could use an airing out.” They stepped outside and stood on the back stoop. An immense wild rose bush had conquered the backyard and was now working on taking the siding off the back of the house. It overran the pile of bikes, which on closer inspection, were nothing but rust and rotting tires.

  “No one’s been out here in a long, long time,” said Jim.

  “Too right, boss. I was hoping to get to the cellar from out here, but I guess not.”

  “No outside door.”

  “There’s nothing for it, then, but to go back through the kitchen.” With matching grimaces of disgust, the two men re-entered the kitchen. Chief Greshin opened the cellar door and flipped the switch at the top of the stairs. Nothing happened. He grinned at Jim. “Another flashlight safari, boss.” He turned and went down the creaking steps.

  Jim nodded and followed him into the cellar. Greshin adjusted the beam to its widest setting as he descended the stairs and then shone it in a slow circle. The cellar was a mess, and not just the detritus of living. It was as if a tornado had been trapped in the cellar. The remains of ripped cardboard boxes drifted up in piles near the corners, rusty nuts and bolts littered the floor like shells on a beach. The furniture was up-turned or broken. Broken picture frames and shredded books lay spread across the floor. There wasn’t one thing that was untouched. “Someone had a party down here,” muttered Jim.

  Greshin grunted a laugh. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Jim nodded.

  Witherson stood on the bottom step in the family room. “Upstairs is clear,” he said.

  The Chief grunted. “Any signs anyone has been here?”

  Witherson shook his head.

  “How can you be sure?” asked Jim.

  With a wry smile, Witherson pointed at the floor of the entry hall, which was hardwood dressed in dust. There were only three sets of footprints. “We’d see their footsteps.”

  4

  The park on Neibolt Street was small, and not all that popular because of it. That’s why the boys liked it. Most of the time, they had the park to themselves and had free use of the playground equipment. At most, they might have to contend with a few kids from the elementary school, but even if they did, they were the “big kids” and they got their way most of the time. That afternoon, the park was theirs.

  “What should we play?” asked Paul.

  Mike shrugged. “Paratroopers?”

  “Might as well,” said Benny, unable to drum up much enthusiasm for anything.

  The trick to playing paratroopers was to go as high as possible on the swing set, and, just before the swing fell on its backward arc, fling yourself into the air and try to stick the landing. There were no winners or losers in the game, but bragging rights were at stake.

  Mike and Paul were pumping their legs like mad, building altitude with vigor. Benny tried to get into the spirit of the thing, but the memory of his visit to the house on Thousand Acre Drive kept interfering. Lost in thought, he didn’t see the other two leap into space, and he didn’t see them land.

  “Ah gee, Benny, you missed it.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” said Benny. On his next forward swing, he waited until the zenith of his arc and let go, arching his back. He flew into the crisp fall air, spinning his arms as he went. After he landed, they started over again, but this time, he put the creepy house out of his mind.

  “On the count of three,” yelled Mike. “All together this time, Benny!”

  They pumped their legs harder, trying to go higher and higher.

  “One!”

  The cool fall air was turning cold as the sky started its plunge toward dusk.

  “Two!”

  Benny scanned the ground in front of the swing set, looking for stray rocks, sure, but mostly looking to see who had jumped the farthest on the last set. When he looked up at the copse of trees opposite them, a shadowy form ducked behind a tree. Don’t be a sissy, he thought. That’s just your mind playing tricks on you.

  “Three!” yelled Paul.

  As a unit, the three boys jumped, yelling “Geronimo,” like all good paratroopers.

  Just before he landed, Benny’s eyes drifted to the woods and to the place where his mind had painted in the shadowy figure. There was something there. It had dark skin and long fingers that drew to a point instead of the stubby curve of a man’s fingers. And, it had wings—huge wings, like a demon.

  He blinked his eyes hard, trying to clear the image from his sight, and then his feet slammed into the ground. His ankle shrieked, turning as his foot slipped forward. He pinwheeled his arms, but that didn’t stop his momentum. His foot shot out in front of him, heel skidding across the hard ground and then flying upwards like he was a placekicker warming up for the big field goal attempt. His other knee buckled, and he fell over backward. He hit the hard-packed earth with a thud, and then the back of his head slammed into the ground.

  His vision went black, and then color exploded behind his eyes and with it, came the pain. He rolled onto his side, clutching his head and trying not to cry. He had his eyes squeezed shut, so he didn’t see what the others saw.

  “What is that, Mike?”

  “A shadow?”

  “What do you want?” yelled Paul. “Are you some kind of prevert?”

  “Pervert, you idiot,” hissed Mike.

  Benny cracked open an eye and peered into the woods where he’d seen the shadow, but there was nothing there. Mike and Paul were looking off to the left, and Benny rolled to that side.

  At the end of the playground, where the underbrush and taller trees started, stood a dark, man-like shape—a shape without wings.

  “Get the hell out of here, prevert,” yelled Paul.

  “It’s pervert,” whispered Mike.

  “
Whatever,” said Paul. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They helped Benny to his feet. He limped between Mike and Paul, leaning on them for support. His ankle was already swelling up to the size of a navel orange, and it wouldn’t take his weight.

  Benny couldn’t take his eyes off the dark shape. It didn’t seem to have hard edges—like it was composed of black smoke. As his two friends led him toward the bike rack, two points of pale yellowish-green light appeared high in the shadow, and then one of the lights flickered—like a man winking at him.

  “Come on, Benny. Get on my bike, and I’ll push you.”

  Benny climbed aboard Mike’s bike, and Paul mounted his own. Mike grabbed the bike at the handle bars and on the back of the seat and ran.

  As they reached Oak Lane, Benny looked back. The black shape had disappeared. By the time Mike got him home, Benny’s ankle felt better—tender and achy, but he could walk on it with almost no sign of a limp. He was dirty and sweaty, though, so he went in through the garage after waving to Mike.

  His mother was waiting for him in the laundry room. One look at her face and Benny knew she’d talked to his dad already.

  “Stewed spinach and boiled asparagus,” she snapped.

  “What, Mom?”

  “That’s what you’re having for dinner: stewed spinach and asparagus, and you will eat every last bit. The rest of us are having tacos.”

  She spun on her heel and walked away.

  Benny couldn’t stop the sigh from escaping. His two most hated vegetables were spinach and asparagus, and his favorite meal was tacos.

  “Sigh all you want, Benjamin. I’m mad at you and for good reason. Don’t even think I’m kidding about dinner.”

  Benny shook his head and left the laundry room.

  “And take a shower before dinner. You stink!”

  He shook his head ruefully and started up the stairs.

  “We’ll talk about that limp when you are clean.”

  Her voice was as cold as arctic ice, and he knew he was in for another tongue-lashing when he came down.

  Dinner was…ugly. He had to sit there and watch his brothers eating yummy tacos while he choked down spinach and asparagus — and a huge plate of it to boot. His dad looked at him with sympathy.