Deep in the Darkness (8 page)

Phillip went silent. I waited.

"So anyway...there I was in the woods. It was getting dark. Some owls had started hooting and the breeze'd picked up, making all the leaves sigh like ghosts. I'd stepped around a large tree and was face to face with a woman that looked older than time itself. She wore a black robe with a hood and had a walking cane in both hands although I don't remember her using it to actually walk. I remember feeling hypnotized by her round eyes, which were brown with flecks of gold that seemed to glow slightly in the darkness. She was short, five feet tops with a slight hunch that made her look much shorter. Her skin was white and weathered and trembled in the stirring winds. I half expected a swirl of fog to roll in, but that never happened."

"Were you scared?"

"Well, I suppose I was. I'm not really sure exactly how I felt at the time, although I don't remember feeling too pleased at the unexpected encounter. She just kept on staring at me as though she were working up some kind of harem scarem on me, and I recall trying to back away but my legs wouldn't move. She kept her ground, then stepped to the side and in a high cackling voice said one word: follow."

"So you followed her."

"Had no choice, really. I felt as if I were under some kind of spell although I suppose I could've broken away. Didn't matter though, because I
wanted
to go. Fear had set in and I was too concerned with the consequences should I try to fight her uncanny grasp on me. She led me to this place, talking as we went, and to this day I can still hear that gravelly witch-like voice of hers. She told me all about the Isolates and about this place where they used to perform their sacrifices. She told me that the center stone was used for the killing because it was the biggest and that it absorbed all the blood well enough so it wouldn't drip to the ground and violate the earth. They fed their people with the sacrificial meat, usually deer or moose, and had resorted to the daily rituals at sunrise after the nocturnal tribe spent a night of hunting. Soon the Isolates grew in numbers and they eventually spread out to assume the land of the natives." He paused, then added, "And in order to feed their growing tribe, they began to hunt, capture, and sacrifice some of the natives as well."

"The Isolates...they ate the natives?"

"The winters were cold and hard on the Isolates, who lived with only the shelter of the earth above their heads. Food had been hard to come by, and they eventually discovered that catching a man was a lot easier than taking down a doe—one old sick Indian would be food for a night. Remember, these people were savages and would do anything to stay alive just like you and I would if thrust under similar circumstances.

"Then I'd started crying for some reason, the tears'd just sprouted, and I'd begun to have visions of these poor little outcasts scouring the earth for bugs and vermin in order to stay alive. Of course, for reasons I still can't explain, I pitied the people who resorted to cannibalism in order to live, who'd elected to be outcasts because they were too barbaric and uncultivated to commingle with the native society. Christ, it felt as though that trance she had me under had started making me feel things...things I wouldn't normally feel. I had a conscience for the bad guy. I wiped my tears while the lady continued talking. She'd added that the natives who apparently were no match for their shrewder counterparts had no choice but to make sacrifices of their own in order to protect their race. They hunted twice as hard, sometimes having to surrender their only kill of the day and face the night hungry than brave the death of one of their own. They sacrilegiously abstained from burying their dead and surrendered the bodies to the enemy, placing them right here on this rock, slicing the stomach open and exposing the innards so the scent of blood would attract the Isolates. Sometimes the natives waited in the darkness of the woods until the Isolates showed to claim their prize, their only way of paying last respects to their kin."

"Jesus," I uttered, then added uncomfortably, "This is just folklore, an ancient tale from the old lady, right?"

"Legend," Phillip replied.

"I'm sorry?"

"Legend. Not folklore. Not just a tale."

"What's the difference?"

"Difference is that legends never go away."

I felt a bit of a shiver race down my back. I drank the last of my water. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that what the old lady was telling me was not only true, it was real. You see, she had a responsibility, a job, and that was to protect the people of Ashborough. I was the new kid on the block so I needed to be educated, and protected."

"Protected from what?"

He paused, looked to the canopy then back into my eyes. "The Isolates."

"Wait a minute," I said holding a palm up, then thought,
Why am I standing here listening to this? He's playing a nasty cruel joke on me, the neophyte in town, just like the old lady did to him thirty years ago when he first moved here—that's if there really is an Old Lady Zellis! Deighton is either playing me for a fool or off his rocker,
"You've got to be kidding me, Phillip." I wanted to leave, but stayed and listened, as though I were...tranced.

Ignoring me, he continued, "So the lady just reaches down behind the large rock and pulls up a possum. The thing looked as though it'd been drugged. It was still alive, that much I can say for sure because it wriggled a bit in her arms and its eyes caught the moon in such a way that they glowed like two searchlights. She stroked it some on its fur then placed it down on the big rock in the center. The animal crouched on its haunches and went still, as though willingly playing a role in the ungodly act about to take place. Michael, if legends were to be made, then this was one event to be handed down in history, my own personal history, just like the first conflicts between the natives and the Isolates were all those years ago."

"You didn't..."

Phillip nodded. "I did...I had no choice in the matter. The old lady's eyes started glowing this odd golden color and they had me hypnotized. I couldn't move, that is until she came forward and handed me the knife. Don't ask me where she got it from but it appeared right there in her hand just as sure as her eyes glowed that strange golden color, and then she ushered me to the stone and before I could even attempt to pull my captivated mind and body away from her, she began an odd chant that compelled me to further participate in her unholy act. Seconds later I was kneeling on the stone grasping the squealing possum by its neck and plunging the knife over and over again into its body until it squealed no more."

"Jesus, Phillip..." I tried to speak but a sudden lump in my throat blocked my words. My Sunday afternoon stroll through the woods hadn't turned out as relaxing as I wanted. My nerves jangled like fire alarms and I promised myself that once I got back home I'd leave the woods to themselves for the rest of my time in Ashborough. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't Phillip's stories of Isolates, Old Lady Zellis, and cannibalism that had me all spooked out. It was Phillip himself.
His
cuckoo was in need of rewinding.

"I stayed kneeling over the dead animal," he continued, "and it seemed as though an hour's time had passed before I finally climbed down from the rock. I still had the knife in my hand, the animal lay spread out on the rock; but the old lady, she'd upped and vanished, nowhere to be seen as if she'd never been there in the first place. The woods fell as silent as a vacuum as though everything out there had died along with that possum. No owls were a-hooting, no crickets chirped. I'm talking complete and utter silence, Michael. The only thing I could hear was my breathing and a sharp little hiss of gas coming from the punctured possum. After some time I looked down at my hands and saw all the blood. It was everywhere. On my hands, my shirt, my pants.

"I looked at my watch and realized that I'd been gone for over an hour. Without doubt Rosy would be at the window biting her nails, worried to death. I remembered thinking that she might've even panicked and called the Sheriff. But when I finally stumbled my way into the backyard, the windows were dark. I went into the house through the kitchen and found Rosy on the couch in front of the television, fast asleep; another ingredient in Old Lady Zellis's stew, I figured. This gave me the freedom to sneak up into the bathroom where I took a shower and bagged my bloody clothes for the garbage."

"You never told Rosy, did you?" I asked, eyeing the bloodstains.

"No, I didn't. I went to bed, and so did Rosy. No words were exchanged, she just pulled the sheets over her head and continued what she'd started on the couch. Me, I couldn't sleep. I laid in bed with my eyes closed, and a few times I felt myself nodding off but then I would flinch awake. It was as if someone or something had wanted me to stay awake. As if there was unfinished business to be had."

"Probably the longest night of your life."

Phillip laughed a bit. "That's an understatement. Eventually I crawled from bed and peered out the back window. There were fireflies in the backyard, and I thought that strange because it was October, and then I remembered Old Lady Zellis's eyes, how they glowed that golden color at the climax of the ritual she put me through. I looked outside again and saw the tiny lights fading back into the darkness of the woods, six or eight pairs of them.

"So with the moon shining through the windows, I got dressed and headed downstairs. I opened every drawer in the kitchen in search for a flashlight—remember, we'd just moved in a week before so I still didn't know everything's proper place yet—and finally located it in the cabinet above the sink, which of course made a creak that the hounds of hell could've heard. It'd made me shudder and I listened to see if it had stirred Rosy from her sheep-counting, but thankfully all remained calm. Oh...I did know where the liquor was and I downed a couple of mouthfuls of bourbon before heading back outside; nothing like some good spirits to settle the soul. But, alas, it didn't seem to work that night. A couple of swigs and I was still scared to death, so I took the bottle with me when I went back into the woods.

"The walk seemed to take forever, perhaps half the night. I didn't really know where I was going, and I'm certain I veered off track at times. But then I saw the lights of gold again, and they seemed to say,
follow me
, and follow them I did, back into the woods."

Phillip's second mention of the gold lights in the woods reminded me that I'd seen them myself—and more than once: a few weeks ago while sitting at my desk, and then again later that night as I looked out my bedroom window. I'd written them off to fireflies.
Jesus
, I thought, my heart in my throat, not wanting to hear any more of this story that had become intimidating and significant.
Could this tall tale he's telling me really be true?

"I drank the bourbon as I went and caught myself a healthy crock, I even fell down a couple of times along the way; those roots are hard to see even in the daytime, much less past midnight. Eventually I got to the circle of stones and at first all was quiet. I shined the flashlight around and didn't see anything right away, but let me tell you that these woods here at night are just about the damn scariest place you'll ever want to be. Ain't nothing like the daytime with all its lovely fauna and scenic outlooks. The owls and birds call out from the trees in droves—weird sounding ones that you never hear during the day. And then there are animals moving around out there, jostling the copses and making you flinch every five or ten seconds. It doesn't matter much if the moon is full and the sky is cloudless, it gets darker than you can imagine here. And the bugs? Well, when it's dark and humid and sticky they crawl out of their holes in a mighty playful mood—you can hear them fluttering by your head like tiny helicopters.

"So I aimed the light at the center stone where I killed the possum and sure enough it was still there. I'd half expected to find it gone, not from the hand of an Isolate but from the claw of an owl. I walked closer, light still shining on the animal. I could see all sorts of insects buzzing about it. And then the smell...it was awful, something like bad vegetables. I took a swig of bourbon and as I did the light fell away from the animal. That was when I saw the eyes."

"The dead possum's eyes?" I asked, sitting on the center stone. At this point there was no sense in trying to end this conversation, Phillip seemed determined to take this to the very end, and frankly I was intrigued by the significance of the gold lights—whether the ones I saw, or imagined to see, were something more than just fireflies.

Fireflies in May, Michael?

He grinned. "I wished that were the case. No, these eyes were
alive
. As golden as the center signal on a traffic light."

"Old Lady Zellis?"

He shook his head. "Nope...these eyes belonged to an Isolate."

I smiled, half incredulously, half out of discomfort. I didn't want to believe him. But something inside told me I should, and I promised myself a few shots of something strong when I got back to the house. Maybe even bourbon, the liquor of occasion.

"It'd crept over the far edge of the rock, just a hand at first, long fork-like fingers gripping the dead animal like a doll. Then I saw the head, and it grinned at me, bright golden eyes cutting the darkness like two beacons. It was as though it knew I was there and had waited for the most opportune time to make its grand entrance and scare the piss out of me, which it did, but I hadn't noticed that until later.