Читать книгу The Altar - James Arthur Anderson - Страница 11

CHAPTER FIVE

-1-

The two-hour talk show passed quickly as Erik easily fielded questions from local callers. In fact, he relished his new-found role of home town celebrity and promised Steve that he’d return and do another show when the film was released. As usual, most of the callers asked him about films rather than books. It was ironic, he thought, that he, a novelist, should be making his money from the movies. But it was the video age, after all, and he’d come to expect people to be interested in pictures instead of words. Besides, Nicole Kidman and Robert Downey Jr. could sell horror a lot better than he could. Having grown up a fan of horror and science fiction films, he’d had no trouble displaying his expertise to the local audience.

It wasn’t until he was driving home that he thought about Steve’s story of devil worshippers again, and related it to Todd’s experience in the woods. With sudden panic he wondered if Todd might have stumbled into some bizarre Satanic ritual in the woods.

Then again, he suspected Steve Harvey was prone to exaggeration and fiction. But even the remote possibility was frightening enough. The thought of it unnerved him.

And what about Dovecrest? Could he be part of something? It seemed like quite a coincidence that he just happened to go out wandering into the woods last night. And that Todd had just “run into him.” Something didn’t add up. He was convinced that Dovecrest knew more than he was telling. Even that thing about hanging the talisman on the back door was strange.

This whole thing was just too scary. Here he’d moved out of the city to get away from all of the trouble and the violence, and what happens? His son gets the scare of his life on his first trip outside.

Devil worshippers, in this day and age. How weird was that.

Not that he believed in the devil—at least not with the red suit, the horns, and the pitchfork. That image was quite silly, really, something to scare children into doing the right thing. But he did believe in evil. And he’d read enough history to know that sick individuals had been torturing and maiming their fellow humans since the dawn of time—sometimes in the name of Satan, and sometimes even in the name of God.

But this was probably a fabrication, and exaggeration. And even if it wasn’t, this wacko had probably moved on by now, as Steve suspected. He could really get lost in the thick forests of New Hampshire, Vermont, and Maine.

And he was probably jumping to conclusions about Todd. The boy had probably been frightened by the dark, and by his own imagination. Still, Dovecrest troubled him. Something about the Indian just wasn’t right.

He decided to ask his son some specific questions as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He also decided to do a little research on his own about this devil worship crap. If nothing else, he could use it in one of his horror stories. And while he was at it, he intended to check out this Dovecrest character.

He intended to find out everything he could about the place where he now lived, just for his own piece of mind.

-2-

“Do you want to go out, Faith?”

The cat looked up at the woman-who-feeds and scratched again. The woman-who-feeds obediently opened the door and Faith strolled out into the back yard as if she had all the time in the world—which, in fact, she did. The sunshine felt good, and she dropped to the warm cement of the patio and began to roll, both scratching her back and heating it at the same time. She opened her legs to let the hot afternoon sun beat on her belly before she ventured off to explore new territory. Finally, satisfied with the sun worship, she rolled back onto her feet and sniffed the strange air.

The smells here were different, very different from those of her previous territory. She’d spent yesterday growing accustomed to the new house, marking it with the scent of her fur as she rubbed against the walls and doors and exploring every closet and nook for possible rats, crickets, or other quick, scurrying creatures. To her immense disappointment, the house was completely empty, brand new, and sterile. Her previous house had provided plenty of crickets for her to play with, and even the occasional mouse, which she would torment until it died and then she’d offer it to The Woman Who Feeds as a gift of appreciation. Although the woman never accepted the gift, she always praised her lavishly and gave her special treats in return, so mice were especially prized.

Since this house had offered no challenge to her superior hunting skills, her instincts took her outside. Here, surely, she could find an interesting plaything. Besides, the time had come for her to mark off this new territory as her own.

The air was remarkably clear here, full of many different scents. The city had provided only a thick, dirty smell, which had masked all but the nearest competing scents. This place offered a kaleidoscope of ever changing smells, all waiting to be explored.

The sounds, also, were different. She distinguished the chirps and songs of a number of different kinds of birds, as well as the chorus of millions of insects, and even the sounds of small toads and other animals. She knew the toads and left them alone, just like you didn’t mess with a skunk. But many of the sounds were new and demanded investigation. She licked her lips in anticipation as she moved her eyes quickly back and forth across her yard, seeking the slightest hint of motion. She’d stiffened her tail straight into the air to show the world that this place belonged to her, and when she saw nothing of particular interest scurrying though the grass, she began the methodical task of marking her territory.

She hadn’t detected the scents of any competing cats, so the area, in essence, did belong to her already. Still, instinct declared that she must claim her own turf and she obediently followed that higher command.

She began with a small tree, first by rubbing the side of her head against the rough bark to leave her fur scent behind, then by clawing the trunk to show any potential intruders the fierceness of her claws. She went over to the next tree and repeated the process, then stalked a robin redbreast that had the audacity to land in her territory and pluck a fresh worm from the grass. The bird spotted her movement, however, and quickly flew into the woods with the worm hanging from its beak, leaving her still crouching in the grass, nervous and frustrated.

The short grass offered little camouflage, but the bushes and large trees just beyond promised not only plenty of hiding places, but unsuspecting prey as well. She took a quick look back at the house, flinched her long tail once, then with feline determination padded off into the woods.

Her instincts took complete control and, for a moment at least, she forgot she was an ordinary housecat used to being pampered and fed. In her own mind she became a wild animal of the jungle, the primeval cat, more fierce than the lion, more swift than the cheetah, more cunning than the tiger. She was a killing machine designed to deliver death to whatever stood in her path.

Then a new sound and a new scent attracted her attention. She sensed a presence, an alien presence that recognized her as one of its own. It called to her with the voice of the mother of all cats, beckoned her, coaxed her, enticed her with the promise of food.... Some small part of her brain flickered with the thought of home, of the Woman-Who-Feeds and The-Boy-Who-Strokes-Ears. Then the thought was gone, banished by this new presence, and she was feline again, attracted by the new and the strange. She cocked her radar ears forward toward the sound while lifting her nose to capture the scent.

That tiny portion of her brain that remained housecat flinched with fear at this alien, uncanny presence that beckoned her. A call from the Woman-Who-Feeds or The-Boy-Who-Strokes-Ears, or maybe even The-Man-Who-Gives-Milk would have been enough to send her bolting for the safety of home.

But there was no such call.

Her feline instincts recognized the smell of blood. Fresh blood. Unable to help herself, she rushed into the woods.

She ran with a purpose, ignoring everything around her: the birds, the insects, and even the forest itself. She buried her fear within her semi-domesticated brain as she cut a straight course through the woods, leaping over bushes and fallen branches, instinctively knowing the shortest route to her destination. The sound and the scent grew stronger the deeper she went into the forest, and she could not ignore the call.

She stopped when she came to an open field with a huge, flat stone in the center. The stone called to her. Even while her tail twitched in agitation and indecision, her four legs were already carrying her forward to the base of the stone. Sensing danger, she dropped into a crouch and hissed an angry snarl. She raised the fur on her back and bared her teeth, realizing that this was no Mother Cat, but something far more dangerous and inexplicable.

Could she have articulated her thoughts she would have wondered why the stone was so black—as black as her own ebony fur—and why it seemed to project such evil from itself. Perhaps she would have wondered how it had come to be and who controlled the powerful force she sensed within it. And, were she capable of the thought, she would have wondered how a thick, black shadow could grow out of nothing and advance towards her so quickly, despite the fact that the sun shone over her shoulders.

But, being merely a cat, she could not wonder. Instead, she bared her fangs, lifted her tail high in defiance, and prepared to do battle as she felt the shadow’s coldness approach.

-3-

He mentally licked his lips in satisfaction. In reality, of course, he had no lips, no mouth, no substance. The blood had helped, though, and the pain had diminished somewhat. It was never really gone, but diminished. The feeding had helped take the edge off of his agony and give him at least a shadowy existence. Yes, it felt good, so very good to feed again, to taste the sweet, fragrant taste of fear, and death.

The feeding would restore his power, slowly at first, as he took whatever blood he could get. He’d sufficed with mice and squirrels until now. The cat had helped. It, at least, had experienced fear as it felt its own impending doom.

Taking advantage of the relatively pain-free moments after feeding, he reached his mind out in snake-like tendrils, projecting his feelers quickly before the pain could return and weaken him again. Tentatively, he made contact with the other presence, the one who sought him out. This one wasn’t very smart, but his heart was dark enough, even if his mind was not right. He probed this one’s mind. He was easily led and was very close now. Waiting and ready to do whatever was asked of him.

This creature—this mortal man—had already done his bidding as he traveled closer. He had done so without fully knowing what he was doing, or why. He had come very close to letting his emotions force him into making a grievous mistake, though, which would have resulted in beginning all over again.

He could control this man, this creature, and he would. First he must bring him even closer and bind him. Then he would use him and destroy him.

This other was much closer indeed, and responded eagerly to his call.

“Come, my son,” he coaxed, assuming his ancient role once again. “Ease my pain and I will be your God. We will quench one another’s thirst, feed one another’s hunger.”

The other one heard, but did not fully understand. He responded by instinct, the call of one evil soul to another.

Soon. Soon enough. He repeated the call, and the other heard and knew. Soon you will arrive and help to free me from this prison of pain. Then I will have the boy. And the others. All of those who did this to me, and all of their children. And one in particular who has haunted me through the ages. This one will suffer most of all, along with any who ally themselves with him.

Yes, I will have them all. Then the pain began its slow return, like the changing of the tide.