Mists of the Miskatonic (Mist of the Miskatonic Book 1) (16 page)

The shovel scratched against the stones underneath, and the old man looked back. “Nothin’. Just got a job to do. You best be moving on.”

Kelsey reached down and grabbed the handle of the shovel. “You know what I’m asking about.”

He stood up straight. “Leave this alone. You’re out of jurisdiction.”

“Seriously? Maybe I should get the Tribal Police to come shake you down a bit. You’ll talk,” Kelsey said sternly.

The man chortled sarcastically. “Tribal Police. Which one? My brother John or my nephew Dan? On what grounds? I’m holding out important end of the world information from some city cop. That’ll fly, I’m sure. My brother doesn’t much care for paperwork.”

Kelsey gritted his teeth. The bluff didn’t work on the old man. “I’m just trying to understand all of this.”

The Elder stopped, and then looked at the mound.

“Sometimes it’s better to not have the question answered after asking, and be ignorant,” the old man said and gazed at the mound. He concentrated on the Heart and seemed to see something more than just snow covered rock. “Live in the moment. It’s about all you have left.”

“You too? I’ve been around and around with the Catholics, the FBI, psychiatrists, and I suppose now you. I just want a straight answer.” Kelsey hit the palm of his hand against the fencepost. “I just want to understand this. I want to understand the dreams.”

“Fine. You want to know, I’ll tell you. Long before the whites came across this land, before Lewis and Clark, this place was where
they
would come. They flew from the deep canyons at the base of the Rocky Mountains, from the east. Dark creatures, leathern wings spread, like a bat the size of a man. The bloated devils spooked the animals in the forest.  Once horses arrived they would do the same: panic and run at their approach of the devils. To this place, the ancient mound where they demanded human sacrifice. My ancestors would raid the villages of the Salish, the Shoshone people: sometimes even go north, to the lands of the Coeur d’Alene. Here the creatures would meet us, and take the captives. If my ancestors did not have prisoners to offer, the monsters would demand we send people from our own villages. Whatever quota they set, my people met. What choice did they have? Part of our history, known to only a few in my tribe. It warns us what happened when other tribes tried to fight the creatures. Whole villages would disappear overnight, without a trace.”

Kelsey stared. “It’s unbelievable. Why don’t we see them now? These monsters, if they truly exist?”

The old Indian turned. “Believe it or don’t. I don’t care. You asked. When the missionaries, Henry and Eliza Spalding came to my father’s fathers in 1836 and set up the mission near Lapwai, they talked about how powerful their God was who created the universe. How he was so much more powerful than the spirits we venerated, even more powerful than the dark entities that we had feared for so many generations. Many of the leaders of our tribe were baptized, hoping secretly that God and his resurrected son Jesus would protect us from those winged terrors that flew from the east. More and more whites came to our lands, displaced us, dug deep into the ground in the 1860’s for gold near Orofino. For some unknown reason the demons faded into obscurity. We had thought they had forgotten about us completely, their existence fading into legend passed down as lore for just a chosen few in the tribe. Until a couple weeks ago. They returned. The end is almost here.”

“You’re kidding me,” the detective said, sarcastically. “The monsters have returned.”

              He looked sad, away from the mound and at Kelsey. “They demanded their tithe of sentient flesh. Not horses, or cattle, or elk. People.”

              “So,” Kelsey smirked. “Who did you give them?”

              “Thank god for vacationers from Seattle.”

              The detective was stunned. “You just admitted to kidnapping and murder, to a police officer. You’re out of your mind.”

              The old man turned back to the mound. “Not only are you out of your jurisdiction, you have no evidence. Good luck. Some tall tale of flying monsters, told by some Tribal Elder on the reservation. I’m sure the FBI will come running.” He reached into his coveralls, produced a cell phone, and held it out to Kelsey. “You wanna dial 911 or shall I? Ask for the FBI: I’m sure they’ll come lickety-split like.”

“Unbelievable,” he stammered.

“Our Mayan cousins knew the end was coming. They foresaw it. Their priests and medicine men knew the dark gods would return and once again reign supreme on this planet. No amount of human sacrifices they offered could stop the coming end of the world, but they tried. They saw it, so long ago before the whites ended their world. Ironic, what the Spanish did to them the dark gods will soon do to your world. It’s coming.”

Kelsey looked away. “It’s all bullshit. The ramblings of some uneducated, superstitious old man on the reservation. Whatever.”

The Indian laughed. “My MBA is from the University of Idaho. Where’s yours from, city cop? This planet is an island of sanity in a sea of a chaos, of things that you can’t fathom. We are truly on the black seas of infinity here.”

“Poetic.” Kelsey shook his head angrily.

“My father told me a story, passed down generations, of a hunting party far up in the canyons towards what became Montana. In those mountains they found a cave, and curiosity got the better of them. They descended into the dark earth, their smoky torches the only light. The group traveled until they came to a huge cavern that opened up. As far as their flickering torches could see, the floor of the chamber was covered in bone, the remains of untold thousands of years of sacrifices and abductions. As the hunters looked, they realized many of the skulls were misshapen, not entirely human. Quickly they abandoned their explorations and returned to their village, telling their story. By the turn of the moon, all of them had vanished from their winter lodges, never to return. Some say that they went west, so afraid of the mountains but we know better, and know somewhere deep in the earth their bones had been added to that jumble of victims in that cavern.”

Kelsey turned to walk away, then stopped. He looked at the overcast sky and the snowflakes that slowly fell. “Let’s say for just a second that I might believe these fantastic stories: of monsters, missing people, the end of the world. Why wouldn’t you be telling everyone to be ready? To prepare? To fight these things?”

The old Nez Perce threw another shovel full of snow off the trail, and then leaned against the scoop. “In 1863 the United States government, after breaking multiple treaties with my people forced another one on us. Move onto the reservation at Lapwai, give up what we had known for thousands of years. White settlers were tearing up the plains, killing the game we relied on, gobbling up the land. Our culture was destroyed. Our way of life was disappearing before our eyes. Chief Joseph gathered over 800 people, mostly women, children, the old, and they ran. Into Montana, down into Wyoming, and then back up to Canada where they would seek refuge with our cousins across your borders. After traveling 1400 miles, and within sight of the border the Army ambushed my people who were so close to staying free, and in a five day battle…slaughter…murder…captured them and forced them to split up. They were scattered among several reservations. Families split, fathers separated from their children. Now, a century and a half later, my people live in poverty, waiting for the next handout, next check from the same government who destroyed us with their lies and aggression. The alcoholism, drug abuse, the violence. A people who have lost their way of life, kept like a morbid, decrepit pet in a cage, waiting for its next meal. Sometimes no matter how hard you fight, or prepare, or even run, it doesn’t matter.”

“That’s not my fault,” Kelsey said angrily. “I didn’t do that.”

“So without hope, without ambition or drive, because what pet needs it really, we wait for the next round of food stamps, commodities and government money. My own wife died from lung cancer after a lifetime of smoking, some big tobacco company profiting from her death while taking fat subsidies from the same government that has killed our culture. I have little interest, little sympathy in warning white people that soon their culture will go the way of ours. That cavern full of skulls is probably the best they can hope for. So many people blame Christopher Columbus for stumbling upon the Americas and destroying us. He did nothing other than wander here, blindly, but your government. They sought to destroy us with their reservations, their schools, by outlawing our religions. Have no doubt, city cop: it’s coming to you, too.”

“Let’s say I believe it. Let’s say what you say is true. You won’t come out of it unscathed.” He pointed at the old man. “You will suffer just as much as everyone else.”

The Indian unzipped his coat, the black handle of a .38 in his belt. “I’ve had a long life: I don’t fear death. I will not live to see what is happening when it starts, but I am sad for the young, not having a chance to live a full life before they see the horrors that will befall the human race. I’ll make sure I don’t see it.”

“I don’t believe it,” Kelsey said angrily. He turned and walked towards his car. “I just don’t.”

“You have the dreams,” the Elder called out behind him. “If you think about them too much, they affect your dreams. Old ruins, voices out of time, the dead trying to warn you that come back to haunt. I know you have them.”

Kelsey walked faster, then sat in the cold car and stared at the Heart of the Monster. The chill had a hold on his soul now.

“You look distracted,” Frank Thompson said quietly. He stood over Kelsey who was sat quietly at his desk. He glanced at the clock. “Reports are stacking up.”

Andrews turned. “You hear anything more about those missing persons, that couple from Seattle? We ever turn up a car, credit cards, anything?”

“Naw, nothing. It’s like they vanished somewhere near the reservation. A lot of forest between here and Missoula. Who knows where they went.” Thompson sipped a cup of coffee. “Maybe they were abducted by aliens. Sasquatch. We might find their car at the bottom of a ravine when the snow melts.”

Kelsey looked at Frank. “Maybe monsters.”

Detective Thompson laughed as he walked away. “Yeah. Maybe monsters. You kill me sometimes, Andrews.”

“I kill me, too. Sometimes,” Kelsey said quietly.                            

Kelsey slowly unlocked the door to his house, his mind troubled. The wind whipped, and it chilled him. Since he talked to the old Nez Perce man, he couldn’t seem to get warmed up. He quickly shut the door and locked it, then hung up his coat. Once he had unclipped his holster, he sat it on a small table with his cell phone.

The fat tabby cat lay on the couch. The beast didn’t move other than to open its gold eyes slowly. The animal watched the detective as he sat. The coffee table was strewn with papers, the same ones he had been studying for the last several days. He reached down to a row of Diet Coke cans lined up on the floor, and lifted each one until he found one that had some liquid in it. The flat soda passed his tongue and he drained the can, sighed, and looked at the cat. Already the feline’s eyes closed.

“Tough day, trying to get your twenty-three hours of sleep.”

He fumbled with a television remote, and then turned on a news channel. Talking heads droned, politicians lied and pundits grumped.

Marlin the cat did not move. It had no interest in such heady matters as dishonest politicians. Kelsey leaned back and closed his eyes, tired from the day. Even with the noise that droned from the television, he fell asleep.

Somewhere in the dream he found himself again in a tight alleyway: cyclopean stone covered with rancid kelp and creatures normally found on the ocean floor surrounded him. The architecture was hard to understand: massive blocks of greenish stone carved with bas reliefs of impossible creatures. The stone was similar to the odd statuette in Samuel’s desk.

He stood close to the wall and ran his dream fingers over the faces that leered from the stone. They stared back, some kind of squid with well-defined eyes followed him. As he touched the slimy rock, dread chilled him and he heard a slosh behind him. He turned to see his brother: Rob stood in the light that filtered from above. His uniform was as before, torn and scorched, flesh beneath flayed. His brother glistened with blood.

“Rob,” Kelsey reached out and touched his brother’s burned hand: the skin felt slick. He grasped the charred digits he could feel the flesh peel from his touch. “What happened?”

His brother’s head tilted, and water drained from his mouth. Then a gurgle of red bubbled down the front of his Working Uniform. “R…rr,” his mouth gurgled.

“Say it,” Kelsey implored as he stared into his brother’s empty eyes. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“R’lyeh.” The dead figure of his brother fell apart in front of him. The limbs separated from cooked flesh as the pieces of the mutilated corpse tumbled onto ancient stone.

“No!” Kelsey screamed, and somewhere the sound of a bell tolled. He sat upright, and the doorbell rang again. He glanced at the corner of the television: the time was a quarter past seven. He ran his hands down his face. It was moist with sweat. It took a few long seconds for him to catch his breath, and the echo of the chime rang again.

The detective stood, shaken from the nightmare and the doorbell chimed.