Sweet Dreams (29 page)

Voyles turned around and stopped his frantic running when he realized the endless rooms and the maze of corridors were not real.

“Logic,” he panted. “Logic must prevail. The Manitou is real, obviously. I guess the wall of flesh is real, and the skeletons. But this,” he waved his hand at the maze, “is not real. Think, Janet; think only about the layout of the bottom floor. Our minds can beat this, I believe.”

“What about that disgusting wall of flesh and blood?”

“We can handle that, too,” he assured her. “It can be hurt; I saw that when I shot into it. It's vulnerable. Concentrate on the floor plan.”

Voyles had pegged it accurately. When both of them began to use their minds logically, to let reason override fear, the maze began to dissolve and the layout of the second floor was clearly defined.

However, the moaning of the dead but still living wall of bleeding flesh was drawing closer.

“Gotta do something about that,” Voyles muttered. “Can't get back downstairs as long as that ...
thing
is blocking our way.”

Tentatively, hesitantly, Voyles opened a door and looked inside. The bedroom was dusty and cobwebby, but apparently free of any of the Manitou's tricks or cohorts.

Then Voyles saw what he was looking for. He smiled in grim satisfaction.

A broom was lying on the floor. He retrieved it, broke off the straw, and using his pocket knife, sharpened the broken edge into a point.

“Let's see if we can find another broom; anything we can make a spear out of,” he said.

“How about that wooden straight-backed chair over there?” Janet pointed.

“Dandy. We can make a couple of short spears out of that.”

Voyles broke the chair up and fashioned two crude spears from the back braces.

“Now let's go punch holes in that son-of-a-bitch wall,” he said.

The wall of living flesh halted when it saw or sensed Voyles and Janet armed with sharp spears, coming toward it. It seemed undecided as to what course of action to take. Voyles made up its mind in a hurry.

He jammed his broom-handle spear all the way through the flesh. The mass of flesh screamed with pain as blood shot out of the hole he'd made. The wall backed up. Voyles jammed his spear into the flesh again and again, puncturing it. Soon the carpet and the floor of the hall were slick with stinking blood.

Janet was working at the side of the fleshy wall, poking her bloody short spear into it. Soon she and Voyles were covered with blood. But the wall was shrinking and backing up.

Through the jagged hole made when the Manitou appeared, Voyles and Janet could see light pouring through. They could also see the landing that joined the steps leading downward. The landing was free of the mist that had once concealed it.

“We're almost there,” Voyles panted. “Keep punching at the goddamned thing.” He rammed his spear into the dark flesh and the wall screamed in agony.

“What is this thing?” Janet yelled.

“I don't know. I'm not sure I want to know. Keep jamming your stick at it. It's shrinking and pulling away.”

When the fleshy wall had parted enough on one side to allow them room to pass, Voyles shoved Janet through the gap and stepped through after her. Just as Voyles stepped over the bloody line, a rotting human hand came out of the thick wall of flesh to clutch at his shoulder.

Janet began screaming as Voyles struggled with the putrid hand and arm. In desperation, she jabbed her spear through the arm, leaving about six inches of the stick protruding from the bleeding limb. Terrible screams began just, inside the shrinking wall of flesh and blood. They were shrieks of agony and frustration and anger.

But the clutching fingers left Voyles's shoulder. Now the hand could not rejoin the inner wall; the crude spear stuck through its arm prevented it from withdrawing to safety. It jerked and fought to free itself of the sharpened broom handle; bits of flesh dropped from the wound and rivers of blood poured from the arm.

The living wall began to pulse like a heartbeat, expanding and contracting and sighing with some inner breath.

Voyles and Janet stood, now comparatively safe, and watched with fascinated and horror-filled eyes as the wall shuddered with life.

“My
God!”
Jerry hissed the words from the edge of the landing.

“Back to the head of the steps, Janet,” Voyles said. “Now.”

The thick, pulsing, breathing mass began moving toward and into the side wall. When that process had been concluded, the only signs that this horror had ever existed were the blood-stained carpet and a large red smudge on the wall.

Those – and the still-working fingers of the severed hand and arm protruding out of the old wallpaper and held in place by a short, sharpened broom handle.

 

In utter disbelief, Kowalski climbed the curving stairs and looked at the hand and forearm sticking out of the second-floor wall. His eyes took in the blood and gore splattered on the floor and walls and ceiling.

Slowly, he walked back to his friends. “It's like they said,” he told them. “Just like they said. Somebody should make a movie out of this.”

“Let's wait and see how the ending comes out first,” Larry said.

“Bud told you he and Leo were
dead?
” Maryruth asked Father Danjou.

“Yes. That they had crossed the river and would soon would be at peace.”

“And the twenty-four hours he spoke of?” Voyles asked. “Twenty-four hours beginning when?”

“He didn't say,” Bob said. “I guess twenty-four hours beginning at the moment he spoke of them.”

“Does anybody know exactly how far back in time we are?” Larry asked.

“I'd guess between eighty and a hundred years,” Jerry replied. “Between eighteen eighty and eighteen ninety. The iceman spoke of the Civil War being over for twenty years.”

Bob Vanderhorn cast his eyes heavenward as if making a silent plea for help.

“I don't understand our mission,” Larry said. “Why us?”

“Protectors,” Father Danjou said. “The children are to be the deciding factor in all of this.”

“I agree,” Jerry said.

“There is only one problem in that theory,” Vickie spoke from the archway between the large foyer and the huge party room.

All heads turned to her.

“Oh?” Jerry said.

“Marc is gone.”

Marc's head ached. He was confused and disoriented and, he discovered, cramped, as if he had been jammed into a very small space. He fought back sudden panic and forced himself to remain still and mentally calm while he assessed his situation.

Opening his eyes, he discovered he was in some sort of box; but the lid had not been securely closed. Ribbons of light leaked through a gap between the sides and the lid. He put a hand to his face and his fingers came away sticky.

Blood! Marc thought.

Exploring his aching head with tentative fingers, Marc found several lumps on his noggin.

Somebody hit me with something, he guessed.

The boy shifted his position in the box very carefully, until he was on his side. Slowly, he lifted himself up until he could see through the narrow space between the lid and the wall of the box. He was in a large, very cluttered, and awfully dirty room. Kind of like a basement, he concluded.

Marc lay very still for a long moment, listening intently. He could hear no sound other than what he realized was his own too-loud breathing.

He knew two things. He was in very grave danger—Don't think
grave,
he cautioned his young mind—and he needed to get out of the danger zone as quickly as possible.

Moving carefully, making no noise, Marc eased back the lid on the coffinlike crate and sat up, looking around him. He had been correct in thinking he was in a basement.

Stepping out of the crate, Marc was unsteady on his feet for a few seconds, a bit dizzy. He steadied himself by leaning against the crate. After he'd recovered, Marc located the steps that would, he hoped, get him out of this mess. He could not understand why the others were not looking for him because he didn't know the door to the basement could now be opened only from the inside. On the outside, there was no door.

As he put one foot on the bottom step, a sound from behind him spun the boy around. His heart was working as frantically as a trip hammer.

Clint Lancaster stood against the far wall of the basement, grinning at him. He held a whip in his hand. “Going somewhere, lad?” Clint asked in that strange hollow voice.

“Leave me alone!”

“Oh, no, lad. Can't be that way.”

“What do you mean?” Marc asked, stalling for a little time.

Clint grinned. “You have to die to free me.”

“You'll go to hell!” Marc blurted out the words. “How come you're so anxious to go there?”

Clint howled with laughter. “Oh, no, lad. I've already
been
there. I made a pact with the Devil, don't you see. Where I am going is none of your concern.” He flicked his wrist and the long blacksnake whip popped. Dust swirled from the floor at the impact.

Marc jumped.

Clint laughed. “But before I bury you, lad, I'll have some fun with you.” He took a step toward the boy.

Marc's brain was working overtime. If the mind could produce sound, Marc's would have sounded like a steel mill at full production. He thought: The man is dead, yet he can handle certain things; like that whip, which is certainly real. At the breakfast table, he ate with a knife and fork that he carefully wiped off and put back into his pocket. No one noticed except me and Heather. All right, the boy reasoned, if that is the case and if I could somehow get the whip from him, I might be able to use it on him.

He backed away from the steps, toward Clint. Clint's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What are you doing, boy? Are you that eager for a hiding?”

Thinking fast, Marc said, “I'll take what's coming to me, sir. And I'll take it like a man.”

He took another step toward the man.

“Oh you will, hey? Well, now. You've a lot more man in you than that whimpering little turd I had the misfortune to sire.”

“Yes sir.” Marc took another step toward the man. The whip, he guessed, was about ten feet long. The handle was about two feet long. Fourteen feet in all. He took two more steps and steeled himself for the lash that was coming his way. With any kind of luck, he could grab it and jerk it from the man's hand.

He noticed Clint's left arm and hand were bandaged. Probably from Shep's bite, Marc guessed.

“Let's just see how much man is in you,” Clint said He swung the whip and the popper exploded in front of Marc's nose.

Marc flinched, but did not back up.

Clint grinned and said, “This time, lad, I draw some blood.” He swung the whip.

Marc stepped to one side, ducked, and grabbed the braided and platted leather. He jerked as hard as he could.

Caught off guard, the man lost his one-handed grip on the wooden handle and the whip sailed toward Marc. “You tricky little bastard!” Clint said.

Marc took the offensive again, completely surprising the man. He rushed at Clint, swinging the wooden handle as hard as he could. The hickory handle struck the man on the side of the head and knocked him down.

“You son of a bitch!” The boy cursed the adult, the unfamiliar words rushing from his mouth in a whirlwind of anger, hate, fear, and frustration.

Seeing that his blows were effective, Marc smashed the man's face again and again, both hearing and feeling bones break and teeth pop.

Arm-weary, Marc finally ceased his bludgeoning and stood over the battered, bloody, unconscious man. He was panting from exertion.

“Once more for insurance.” He gasped the words; then he raised the whip handle high over his head and brought it crashing down on the man's skull. Blood spurted for a second and Marc could see the whiteness of skullbone.

Coiling the whip, he raced up the stairs and opened the door with a crash. “Here!” he yelled. “Come here. Hurry.”

The hallway filled with people, several of them strangers to Marc. “Down there,” he said, pointing. He ran back down the stairs. “There!” he pointed.

“How in the hell did the boy manage to do that?” Voyles wondered.

They all looked at Clint Lancaster's smashed skull.

“Look for some rope,” Jerry said. “Let's tie him up.”

“That won't hold him,” Marc said. He held out the coiled whip. “But I'll bet you this will.”

They all saw the logic in Marc's statement. No one disputed it. Voyles took the whip and tied Clint Lancaster securely. Afterward, Jerry inspected the man's wounds.

“You worked him over pretty good, Marc.” The doctor grinned and straightened up. “What I can't understand is how you were able to do it.”

Marc told them his theory about the whip.

“You're a pretty sharp kid,” Kowalski said.

“I was behaving in a reasonably astute fashion, that's all,” Marc replied solemnly.

The adults laughed, breaking the tension.

“We'd better carry Clint upstairs,” Voyles said, “where we can keep an eye on him.”

“See if the man has a handkerchief and use it to cover his eyes.” Father Danjou had not taken his eyes off Marc. “Tell me everything the man said, Marc.”

Marc told the group what had taken place from the time something exploded in his head until he knocked the man unconscious.

“A pact with the Devil,” Father Danjou mused aloud. “So it is logical to assume the Manitou has been in communication with the Dark One as well.” The priest smiled. “I think that was a mistake on the part of the Manitou.”

“Why cover his eyes, Father?” Vicki asked.

“I sensed the man had some ties with Satan,” the priest explained. “And the Dark One can and does give many of his subjects awesome powers. No point in taking chances with Lancaster.”

Clint's eyes were covered with a bandana taken from his hip pocket.

No one noticed Heather moving quietly around the basement, the huge dog close by her side, but she realized the dog was beginning to act very edgy. He kept pushing her back toward the stairs. Then she noticed the hair on his back was rising. She sensed something was about to happen.

“We'd all better get back upstairs,” she said. “And I mean right now!”

Captain Rogers and Voyles grabbed Clint and carried him up the stairs, the others following right on their heels. A sulfurous odor began drifting out of the basement floor, the fumes were thick and foul-smelling. Outside, a tremendous flash of lightning drove jagged spikes through the darkening morning, and thunder rattled the huge old house as the sudden storm intensified and slammed furiously against the structure.

All heard the wild laughter of the Manitou.

At the top of the steps, Heather turned and then shrieked with fright. “Look!” she pointed.

The Manitou was holding the mirror image of Maryruth in his muscular arms. She was naked. The gashes from her torture cut deeply into her pale white flesh. Her mouth was a black gaping hole. Her sightless eyes stared vacantly.

It was obvious she was dead.

“Stupid, puny people,” Sanjaman said, his hollow voice rumbling up to the group on the landing. “What do I care what you do with the human man. His usefulness to me is over, as is this woman's. I am weary of the game. I am weary of you. Tired of your constant interference. I will have what it is my right to possess. And nothing any of you can do will stop me.” He released the woman from his arms. She hit the floor with a boneless thud and began turning to bone and scraps of rotted flesh before the travelers' horrified eyes.

“Look at the man,” the Manitou commanded.

They turned to the still form of Clint Lancaster. There was nothing left of him, except a few scraps of rotting clothing and the starkness of bone.

“You cannot fight me,” Sanjaman said. “You will all be slaves by this time tomorrow. Slaves of mine. So make your peace with your puny God. For all the good it will do you.”

He vanished.

Outside the storm grew in fury.

 

A group of teenagers stood just at the fringe of the ground fog that separated past from present. They stood on the west side of the grounds of the Lancaster house. On the east side of the property, Claire and her tortured cargo of living dead were following the silent command of the Manitou.

The town of Good Hope lay silent under a blistering sun. The storm was not affecting the town; only the acreage upon which the Lancaster house was located was struck by the fury of Gods preparing for combat.

Not one resident of the town knew what was occurring or what had already transpired. Those not directly under the influence of the Manitou had no knowledge that their fate was about to be decided by the forces at work in and around the Lancaster house.

Claire clucked her tongue at the team of mules and moved forward toward the mist which lay a few hundred yards ahead of her.

The small group of teenagers stepped forward, as if responding to a single command. They vanished into the fog: Matt, Van, Glenn, Ross, Gayl, Marta, Beth, and Judy.

In the Thomases' home, Jack stood in the den, a bloody hatchet in his hand. The room was splattered with blood and assorted bits of gore, as was his clothing. He looked at what was left of his wife. She lay naked on the carpet. She no longer had a head. Jack couldn't remember what he'd done with her head. No matter.

He walked into the boys' bedroom. It was a slaughter house. Intestines hung in great gray ropes from the overhead lamp. Huge dripping splotches of blood leaked from the walls. What was left of the boys-both had been disembowled—lay on the twin beds.

“Very good,” Jack said. “Excellent job of work, if I do say so myself.”

“Come!” Jack heard the voice in his head. “It is time.”

“Right!” he replied. “On my way.”

He loaded the bodies in the back of his station wagon and drove over to the Anderson house.

Inside the Anderson place, the scene was worse than at the Thomases' house. Harry had raped his girls and then carved them up with a butcher knife. He had then turned the knife on his wife. Bits and severed pieces of the woman lay scattered in every room of the house.

“Can't use her,” Jack said. “Won't be able to find all the pieces in time.”

“Fuck her!” Harry said. “Help me load up the girls. We'll use your wagon.”

Their grisly cargo leaking a trail of crimson from the tailgate, the men drove toward the Lancaster house. They drove directly into the ground fog, the rain, and the violent storm. The fog swallowed them up, leaving not a trace.