Anathema (10 page)

During this time of day, downtown was still quiet. Most people didn't start their day for another hour, or two, but with the carnival in town, concessionaires were already preparing for business. When she drove past them, Diane felt their eyes stare at her. She could almost hear their thoughts.

Slut!

Whore!

Harlot!

Tramp!

"I'm just being paranoid,” she whispered to herself.

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, concentrated on the road, and headed home...

Diane lifted her head and stared at her reflection in the windshield. She looked haggard and old, like

(a dead whore)

she hadn't slept in weeks.

Diane popped open the Suburban's door and stepped out.

She winced. Her thighs felt like raw meat, and the sudden jolt of pain made her sick to her stomach. While the garage door closed, she doubled over and threw up in the lilac bush.

Maybe a nice warm bath would help her feel better. Maybe she wouldn't feel so ...
dirty
. A bath and a nap and she'd feel like new again.

As she shuffled up the sidewalk, she had no idea the flashlight or the jar of petroleum jelly were tucked in her purse, and the next time she'd find either of them, she'd be dead.

Jim heard the front door open, the living room floor creak, and the bathroom door close. Diane was home.

He looked up from his work and saw he had typed seventeen pages. It was amazing how much he accomplished when it was quiet. That was when it hit him. It was quiet.

Too quiet.

A moment ago, Travis's laughter drifted through the open window. Jim had been so engrossed in his work he hardly noticed it. But now that white noise was gone and the silence was deafening.

Jim wheeled over to the window, cupped his hands around the side of his face, and gazed out the glass.

Travis wasn't in the yard.

Opening the window all the way, he stuck his head outside and was about to call his son, when he saw it.

Hooked on a tree branch near the path was Rufus's cape. It fluttered in the morning breeze like a red flag—a danger signal.

Jim's stomach tightened into a knot. His testicles crawled up inside him. His memory took him back to the fortune-teller's tent. He smelled the stink of the old gypsy woman's sweat. Her garlic-laced breath kissed his cheek.

(There is a dark veil covering his face.)

(That veil is death.)

His memory pulled him back further. He was with Jarvis now.

(There's an old swimming hole back there.)

(It's too dangerous.)

(Too many kids have drowned.)

Jim's face turned ashen. “Oh, dear God. Travis!"

He sprang from his chair, sending it rolling across the room. Taking the steps two at a time, he bolted down the stairs and almost ripped the screen door from its ancient hinges as he ran out onto the porch.

Jim cupped his hands around his mouth. “Travis,” he screamed. “Where are you?"

He waited for a response. When none came, he called again.

"Dammit, Travis, answer your father! Answer right now!"

(That veil is death.)

(Too many kids have drowned.)

He jumped off the porch and ran toward the woods.
This can't be happening. It just can't be.

Oh, but it is, Jimbo,
the strange voice in his head said.
Oh, but it is.

Travis stood at the edge of the swimming hole and watched sunlight dance on the water's surface. The children had gathered in a half circle behind him. They were giggling.

Travis couldn't understand why he'd been so afraid to come back to this place. It was just water. The same kind of stuff that came out of the faucets at home.

Squatting down, Travis stuck a pudgy finger in the pool and stirred it around. The water began to churn and splash against the edge. A green foam formed on the surface. From the pond rose an awful stink.

Travis pulled his finger from the water and stood. He remembered why he hated this place. The water was
creepy
. It was as if it were alive.

He turned to run home, but the children blocked his way. And Travis noticed they had changed, too. Their blue eyes had turned yellow, and razor sharp teeth shone between grinning lips. Hands were claws with crooked talons for fingernails. Although they were still translucent, their bodies seemed more whole, more solid. Hissing, they took a step toward Travis.

Travis took a step backward.

And that was when a claw, made up entirely of scummy pond water, shot up from the swimming hole. It hooked the waistband of the boy's shorts and yanked him into the water. The water pulled Travis toward the bottom, and he felt his lungs fill with the choking liquid.

Rufus dove in after his young master, determined to rescue him, but a second hand of water grabbed the dog by the neck and tossed the animal away.

Rufus slammed against the edge of the pond. The animal stood, shook the water from its fur, and dove in again. The water grabbed the dog a second time. Rufus snapped at the hand, but his fangs found no purchase.

This time, he was thrown hard enough that he slammed into a nearby tree.

Rufus crumpled to the ground like a broken doll. Then he stood, and with his tail between his legs, ran home.

Like the obedient servants they were, the children jumped into the water. They paddled to the bottom and grabbed Travis's arms and legs, pulling him deeper into the murky blackness.

Travis struggled in an attempt to free himself. He knew he had to get to the surface, but he was only a boy and was being held under by some kind of creatures.

His chest ached. His lungs screamed for air. The water felt like acid against his skin. Even if he somehow managed to break free, he was too weak to paddle through the dank water. It was too late.

A pair of bubbles burped from his nostrils. They floated through the water and popped on the surface. Travis's eyelids fluttered, opened, fluttered again, and then closed forever.

The creatures let go of the boy and watched his body float lazily to the pond's silty bottom. They poked him once. Poked him again.

Satisfied, they backed away and became one with the water once again.

Jim was halfway down the path when he ran into Rufus. The dog's ears laid flat against his head. His tail was stiff between his legs. His coat, matted and tufted. Rufus sniffed the air, and as soon as he recognized Jim's scent, he looked up at him with sad, watery eyes.

"Oh, God, no,” Jim whispered. There was something in the way the dog looked at him that told him he was too late.

Jim scooted around the dog and tore down the path, his legs pumped harder and faster than they ever had in his life. Tree branches slapped his face and shoulders. Thorns scratched the backs of his hands as he ran deeper and deeper in the woods.

When Jim entered the clearing, the stench nearly knocked him down. Fumbling with his pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and covered his nose and mouth to stanch the awful smell. He ran to the pond, squatted at its edge, reached out and grabbed his son by the arm.

(There's an old swimming hole back there ... )

(Too many kids have drowned ... )

Jim scooped Travis up in his arms, laid him down on the weedy ground. He banged on the young boy's chest.

"You can't be dead!” Jim screamed. “You can't be dead!"

But Jim's attempt to resuscitate his son failed. His boy was dead.

He picked up his son and held him close to his breasts. He kissed the boy's forehead. “Oh, Travis.” He sobbed again and again. Tears of anguish, as hot as molten steel, rolled down his cheeks. His chest hitched with painful sorrow.

Jim rose to his feet, and with a heart as heavy as granite, carried his boy back home.

Jim walked out of the woods looking like the peasant man in the
Frankenstein
movie that stumbled through his village carrying his dead child.

"Diane!” Jim cried. “Diane!"

Diane stepped outside dressed in a cotton robe with her hair twisted underneath a towel.

"What is it, Jim?” Her terrified scream broke the stillness of the day. She ran from the porch toward her husband. They met halfway across the yard. “My baby! What did you do to my baby!"

"I found him in the woods.” His tear-stained face twisted into a mask of angst. “He was in the pond."

Diane shot out her arms and tried to pull the child away from Jim. Her face hardened. “Give him to me,” she wailed. “Give me my boy!"

Jim pulled back; already he felt the stiffness of death settling into his son's body. “There's nothing we can do, Diane, he's gone."

"No, he isn't,” Diane insisted. She pulled harder. “Give me my boy!"

Then the unthinkable happened. Jim lost his grip on the boy and their son slipped through Diane's hands.

Travis landed on the ground with a sickening crack. His arms and legs bent back in impossible directions. His neck twisted on his shoulders until his face stared at the ground.

Both parents stared at the broken body. Jim shook his head and worked his mouth, but no words came from it. Then Diane looked into his husband's eyes and slapped him hard across his face.

"Murderer!” she rasped, then fell to her knees over her dead son.

"Mom. Dad. What's going on out here?” Molly, still dressed in her pajamas, stood on the porch.

Solemn-faced, her parents turned to look at her. Their eyes were bloodshot and puffy. They were crying.

"It's Travis,” Jim managed to say and moved to one side. “I found him in the woods."

Molly stared at the small, pale body of her brother. She grabbed the porch railing to support her weakened legs. She opened her mouth to speak, but she was only able to produce a high squeak.

Diane threw a cursory glance at Jim. “Your brother's dead. Your father killed him."

Molly ran from the porch and across the yard. She dropped to her knees next to her mother.

Trembling, shocked, and broken-hearted, Jim left his wife and daughter with Travis and went to call the police.

Five minutes later, Sheriff Ebert and the county coroner pulled into the Anderson's driveway.

Ten minutes after that, Travis Anderson's small corpse was zipped into a black body bag and transported to the morgue.

Bobby Stevens lost control when he saw the red police lights flashing from the direction of the Anderson place.

Bobby banged his fists against the cinder-block walls of his room, splitting the skin on his knuckles and spraying the wall with bright red blood flowers. Stevens hooted and howled like a wild animal as he ran around the room waving his arms above his head. He beat the window, rattling the panes and leaving bloody commas on the glass.

Three sets of frenzied footsteps echoed in the hall, then Steven's door opened and two orderlies, dressed in blue jumpsuits, stepped into the room. Between them stood a nurse who, dressed in white, looked about the size of a Mac truck. She held a syringe in her right hand, and a drop of amber fluid rested on the needle's tip.

Bobby's eyes darted about the room. A string of drool dangled from the corner of his mouth like a silver thread. He smiled, and the rictus grin made him look even more insane.

The door to his room had been left open, and Bobby saw his chance to escape. He'd be able to warn them about the children. He ran across the room, determined to break through the human barricade that blocked his way to freedom, but the orderlies tackled him to the floor before he was halfway there.

"Hold him down,” the huge nurse snarled as she lumbered forward, syringe posed in front of her like a pistol.

Bobby struggled, and the dark-haired orderly ground his elbow into the helpless man's ribs.

"Please, you must let me go,” Stevens begged. “You must let me tell them about the children. They must know before the children take the rest of them."

Kneeling beside him, the nurse ripped the sleeve of his smock. His skin was still black and blue from his last injection.

"Please, Nurse Carmen, you must believe me,” Bobby pleaded.

Carmen said nothing. She merely glared at Stevens with a look of disgust. But when she shoved the needle into his arm and pumped the drug into his blood, her disgust turned to joy.

"Tie him to the bed and come with me. He riled up the whole floor. It'll take us hours to get things back to normal."

The orderlies did as told, binding Bobby's bleeding hands and callused feet with strips of soiled bed linens. They followed Carmen out of the room, closed and locked the door, leaving Bobby to fight his demons alone.

Chapter 14

Sheriff Ebert opened the door to the Stumble Inn and was greeted by the bitter smell of cigarette smoke and the sour stink of whiskey. He bellied-up to the bar and waited patiently as Jarvis finished an order for a group at the other end.

The air purifier suspended from the rafters groaned as it did its best to take the smoke out of the place, but a bluish haze still hung near the ceiling. There were so many conversations going on they all sounded like mindless chatter.

Jarvis strolled down the bar, wiping his hands on a towel that hung from the waist of his pants.

"Sheriff.” He nodded. “Welcome."

"Busy place tonight."

"Yeah. It's the carnival. Brings ‘em in like bees to honey."

"Any trouble, tonight?"

"Surprisingly, no. Why?"

"No reason. Just curious. That's all."

"So, Sheriff, what brings you to my humble place?"

"You're kinda friends with Jim Anderson, aren't you?"

"Well, I know the guy, yeah. Why?"

"His little boy died today."

"Travis. Oh, God. How?"

"His wife said Jim killed him, but..."

"You don't believe her, do you?” Jarvis reached below the bar and poured himself a shot of whiskey.

Ebert held up his hand, palm toward Jarvis. “But she was hysterical, and I doubted if she knew what she was saying. Doc Addlerson had to sedate her.

"The coroner said the boy drowned."