Sweet Dreams (27 page)

Larry looked at him. “Thank you, Trooper Kowalski. I shall treasure that information always, I'm sure.”

“You're welcome, sir,” Ski said solemnly.

Larry shook his head. “What else did the old man say, Bob?”

“He got a little strange, Larry. Said the town was doomed, he thought. Said it was cursed. Said I should leave, if I could find my way back out, but that he doubted I would be allowed to leave. Said those people out at the dig site had disturbed some ancient Indian God and the God had taken possession of the light and was using it for evil purposes. Said don't expect any help from anybody, but not to blame the people of Good Hope 'cause it wasn't really their fault. Said the townspeople had no control over their actions.”

Kowalski crossed himself.

“That it?” Larry asked.

“Just about. The old man just stopped talking all of a sudden and looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time. Asked who I was. Then he just got up and walked off.” Bob was thoughtful for a moment. “Oh. There was one more thing. He said to stay away from the Lancaster house.”

“I'm not from this area, Bob. What is the Lancaster house?”

“It's a pre-Civil War home just outside of town. The state's been talking about turning it into a historic site for years. Big old three-story mansion.”

“Why would he warn us away from there?”

“Beats me, Larry. But I got the impression the old boy wasn't drunk or nuts. He really believed all he told me. He had a pretty firm grip on a Bible.”

“Well,” Larry said with a sigh. “I don't know about evil spirits and Manitous—whatever in the hell they are—but something is damn sure wrong around here. You boys get your pistols and stay armed. Be ready for anything.”

“I don't have any authority in New Madrid County, Larry,” Bob said.

“You do as long as you're working with me. Bob? You are a religious man?”

Vanderhorn shook his head. “Not as religious as I should be.”

“Ski?”

“I go to Mass every Sunday, sir. Yes, I'm a religious person. Or at least I try to be.”

“I used to be,” Larry said. “When I first went into pure investigation, I worked a case with the St. Louis P.D. A bunch of young street punks broke into an elderly couple's apartment one night. The things that were done to that old couple were unspeakable. That street gang tortured them horribly, finally killed them. Because they were juveniles, fifteen years old, the case was given—quote—special consideration—unquote. Goddamn little snakeheads were back on the streets on their eighteenth birthdays. That's about the time I stopped going to church. Maybe the former prompted the latter. I don't know.”

“But you believe in God, don't you, sir?” Ski asked.

“Oh, yes. Certainly.”

“Our God has nothing to do with what is happening in Good Hope,” a man's voice said.

The trio of cops spun around. A priest stood on the sidewalk, not far from them. The men were shocked at the priest's appearance. They all stared. The priest was unshaven, his clothing was rumpled, his hair disheveled. At first the cops thought he was drunk, but his walk was steady and when he reached them, there was no smell of alcohol about him.

“What do you mean, Father?” Ski asked.

“This . . . well, conflict that is raging about us; this deathlike aura that you see and sense, this is not between God and Satan. Would that it were,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “It would be a much simpler matter to deal with, from a religious standpoint, if that were the case. I quite frankly don't know how to deal with what is happening.”

“What is happening, Father?” Larry asked.

“Ancient gods have been unearthed and unleashed and there is no way to stop them.”

“That's pretty heavy, sir,” Bob said. “Tell me, if you can, what is a Manitou?”

“You've spoken with someone who is not under the control of that . . . monstrous thing?”

“Yes, sir. In the courthouse.”

“That's interesting. I thought I was the only one, other than that small band who have disappeared, who had withstood the Manitou's control.”

“What small band?” Larry asked.

“Two doctors, two children, two police officers, a nurse, an old Indian medicine man, and the local drunk, I believe.”

“Disappeared?”

“Yes. Probably into the Lancaster house.”

“We were warned to stay away from there,” Bob said.

“Good advice. You asked about a Manitou. Well, that is an ancient Indian God. I scoffed at the idea when I first began to realize all was not as it seemed in Good Hope. Then I did some research on the subject. I still don't understand it; nor do I fully believe in the concept of separate . . . well,
Heavens
, if you will. That smacks of racism; separate but equal. However, I can't dispute the fact that I cannot exorcise—or attempt to exorcise—something our God does not recognize. I could pray if this was something directly mentioned in the Word of God. But where in the Bible does it mention a Manitou? I can only come to this conclusion: the two Gods don't recognize each other. Isn't that wild? Isn't that hysterical?” The priest laughed, his laughter tinged with hysteria.

“I don't know about that, Father,” Larry said, attempting to calm the man. “But I can't believe the two Gods don't recognize each other.”

“Oh?” the priest said. He smiled. He took several deep breaths and calmed himself. “And how did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“Well,” Larry said. “You're cognizant of what is happening, aren't you? You haven't fallen under the control of this . . . whatever it is. Obviously, you have some protection, let's say, against what is happening in this town. How else would you account for your lucidity?”

The priest cocked his head to one side and looked at the captain of the highway patrol. “Yes, I did give that some thought. But to believe that would be awfully arrogant on my part. That would imply that I am the only Christian in this town, and I
know
that is totally false. There are the others whom I told you about; they successfully fought the control of their minds.”

“Then how do you explain it?” Bob asked.

“I'm . . .” The priest hesitated. “I'm not certain. Later, perhaps.”

“But you have thought about it?”

“Oh, yes. I think a lot of it is coincidence. By that I mean being in the right place at the wrong time. Perhaps frame of mind had something to do with it. Later.” He held out his hand. “I'm Father Danjou.”

Larry shook the proffered hand and introduced Kowalski and Vanderhorn. “Care to join our stalwart little band, Father?”

“Yes. Strength in numbers, and all that. But first allow me to shower and shave and change. Then I'll need a few things from my church before we begin our . . . journey.”

“We goin' on a trip?” Bob asked.

The priest smiled. “I think you are all in for a very unpleasant surprise.”

“I can hardly wait,” Bob muttered.

The large black woman was not aware of their presence; half a dozen times as she busied herself in the kitchen and dining areas she walked through one or the other of them. Only Clint Lancaster seemed aware of their presence. And he made that abundantly clear when he spoke to Janet.

“You are very attractive, my dear,” Clint said, as he wolfed down a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs and flapjacks. “You look like a woman built for pleasure. Do you spread your legs often?”

Janet flushed and reached out to slap him. But when she swung her open palm, her hand went right through the man. She almost fell.

Clint laughed at her. “Of course, you do, and often too, I would imagine. All women like it, but many try their best to disguise their enjoyment. And you have such lovely full lips, just right for sucking a man's cock.”

“You . . .
filth
!” Janet spat the words at him.

“A woman of fire,” Clint said, buttering a biscuit. “I so love a woman of fire. Perhaps I'll come to your bed this evening. Do you like it up the ass, my dear?”

“You goddamned son of a bitch!” Janet screamed at him. “I wouldn't screw you with somebody else's cunt, you arrogant prick!”

“Wow!” Marc said.

“Way to
go
, Miss Janet,” Heather applauded.

“My word!” Voyles exclaimed.

Clint frowned. “I enjoy a woman of fire but a vulgar woman offends me deeply. I shall show you how deeply.” He pushed back his chair, stood up, and backhanded Janet, knocking her down.

Dick leaped at the man . . . and sailed right through him, landing in a sprawl of arms and legs on the floor. He looked around him, bewilderment mirrored on his face.

Clint laughed.

“How? . . .” Dick stammered.

“Is it possible?” Clint finished. “Oh, you shall discover that soon enough. Yes, very soon. But for now, good-bye.”

He vanished.

The drumming began anew, slow and deadly in its beat.

Somewhere in the depths of the great house, dark laughter sprang forth, then slowly turned into howling.

Maryruth suddenly sank to her knees, her hands at her temples. She cried out in pain. “My head! It feels like someone is beating me, hitting me with something. Oh, God, make it stop! I can't stand the pain.”

Blood began gathering on the woman's face, pouring from her mouth and nose, dripping onto the front of her dress.

Maryruth fell to the floor, both hands protecting her head from the invisible blows. She jerked from spasms of pain.

Jerry didn't know what to do, how to help Maryruth. He knelt down, using his handkerchief to wipe the blood from her face. But as soon as he did, more blood appeared. The blood emitted a peculiar odor which Jerry tried hard to identify. Then it came to him.

“Old,” he said. “The blood is very old. It isn't her blood.”

The howling intensified, and a hot wind blew through the huge old house. The wind had a foul odor which Janet was the first to identify. She began to scream.

“The grave!” she wailed. “It's coming from a grave.”

Heather suddenly was thrown to the floor. She began to move spasmodically, painfully, her spasms having a rhythm that the adults recognized only too easily. “Stop it!” the girl screamed. “Stop it, Daddy. Please stop—this is wrong.”

She screamed hideously, her horrible wailing chilling everyone in the room.

Voyles attempted to crawl to the girl's side, a look of dark fury on his face. “The girl is being sexually attacked, goddammit!” he yelled. “Help her.”

Voyles was struck by an invisible object and slammed backward. Blood leaking from a corner of his mouth, he fought his unknown assailant. The force pinned him against a wall. The dark howling grew loud, the wind hotter and much more foul-smelling.

“Know the pain!” a wild voice shrieked.

Marc fell to the floor, his hands striking an invisible object only he could see. He fought frantically against the imperceptible object. “I can't breathe!” he screamed. “Stop it, Daddy. Please let me out of here.”

Janet tried to rush to Marc's side, but the howling winds picked her up effortlessly, flung her against a wall, and held her there. She screamed as she felt invisible hands moving over her body, touching and caressing her.

Vickie crawled across the floor, trying to reach Heather. Something lifted her into the air and threw her out of the room, banging her head against a wall. She dropped to the floor, barely conscious.

As Heather screamed with pain, the big dog leaped into the room, toward Heather, its teeth bared in a horrible snarl. But it was not Heather the dog was attacking.

A man's voice—everyone immediately identified it as Clint Lancaster's—yelled, “Goddamn you, Shep, get away. Turn loose my arm.”

The huge dog's snarling was frightening. The man screamed; blood appeared on the dog's muzzle. Heather stopped her obscene jerking and hunching. The dog stood over the girl, the hair on his back standing up, his long fangs bared.

“She's my daughter.” The invisible Clint panted the words. “I'll damn well do with her as I please. She's old enough.”

The howling wind and the dark insane laughter abated momentarily.

Heather lay with her eyes closed, tears rolling down her cheeks. “You hurt me, Daddy. You hurt me awfully.”

“After I kill that goddamn dog, I'll show you what hurt really is, you little bitch!” the man promised.

The dog snarled at the voice.

Voyles, released by the force that had held him, crawled to Heather's side and pulled the girl's dress down over her bare knees.

“No-good, rotten bastard!” Voyles cursed the invisible Clint.

The wind once more picked up; the laughter began anew. Throughout the mansion the smell was horrible as the wind spread the gravelike odor.

The dog followed Voyles's every move, but it did not snarl or attempt to interfere.

“The no-good crud was forcing incestuous sex on his own daughter,” Janet spat out the ugly words.

The laughter became a primitive chant as the wind battered the inside of the home.

Marc had been silent for a few moments, as had Maryruth. Now the boy began once more to scream in fright and pain. The shepherd ran to Marc's side and began digging frantically, flinging invisible dirt to his rear. Marc continued to scream and clutch at his throat. His face was turning blue. The dog grabbed Marc's shirt between his powerful jaws and jerked him to a sitting position. Marc stopped his yelling and began breathing normally, natural color returning to his face.

Maryruth screamed as the blood again dripped from her face. The dog ran to her side and lunged at something only he could see. Once again, Clint howled with pain. “I'll blow your goddamned head off, you big bastard. I'll get my gun and kill you!”

It was shockingly apparent to those in the room that the animal actually smiled at the now-empty threat.

Clint's voice faded away. The wind and the howling-laughing chant ceased. The blood stopped flowing from Maryruth's face. Shep backed off and vanished in a sparkle.

Vickie crawled into the room, still stunned.

Maryruth opened her eyes. “My
God
! I was
there!
I . . . Clint was beating me with a club. Some of his friends . . . he turned me over to them and watched and laughed as they raped me. I saw him attacking Heather. He was . . .
raping
her. I ... that big dog . . . he . . .”

She passed out.

 

After showering and shaving and changing into fresh clothing, Father Danjou rejoined the men. The priest carried a small bag.

“I said I would try to explain later,” the priest said. “Well, I may as well attempt to do that now. I have this theory, but it's so far-fetched I fear you will all laugh at me.”

The deputy who had fallen asleep slept on. There had been no traffic of any kind, foot or vehicular. The town was dead.

“No, Father Danjou,” Larry said. “We won't laugh at you.”

“Something—I don't know what—has been pulling me to the Lancaster house. Do any of you know the story behind that house and the grounds?”

No one did so Father Danjou explained it, slowly and in detail.

Larry was the first to speak after the priest related the hundred-year-old rumor of rape, torture, incest, and finally murder.

“Hideous,” he said. “But what has the old light to do with the events at the Lancaster house—if they did occur?”

“They happened,” the priest said grimly. “Don't ask me how, but I do know that. As to your question, I don't know. Everything that is happening flies in the face of all I have been taught. Manitous, everything. It shook my faith, I can tell you all truthfully.”

“This whole thing is shaking me,” Bob admitted. “I keep recalling what that old man said about us not being able to leave this place.”

“I've been experiencing dreams,” the priest said. “Visions, if you will, for several nights, now. Up to this moment, I have pushed them aside, believing they held no credence. Now I know the truth. And it is clear to me what I—we—must do.”

Kowalski shuddered.

“Tell me,” Danjou said. “How did you get in here and still retain any knowledge of the inside and outside world?”

Larry explained.

“The three men in my dreams,” the priest said softly. “But they were gunfighters.” He smiled. “Yes, and so shall you be.”

“What's that?” Larry asked.

The priest shook his head. “You'll see. No, none of you will be permitted to leave. The Manitou would not allow it. It would be too dangerous for him; for his schemes.”

Bob sighed and fixed the priest with a mournful gaze. “Padre, this is gettin' to be a bit much for an ol' country boy like me to swallow.”

“I know, Mr. Vanderhorn. Believe me, I know exactly what you mean. But—”

His words were interrupted by a strange drumbeat. A hot stinking wind began to blow, fouling the air.

“What the hell?” Larry said.

“The wind has just been added,” Danjou said. “I don't know what it represents, but the drumming is coming from the Manitou. I've heard it several times over the past few days.”

“And it doesn't—hasn't—affected you in any way?” Larry asked.

“I suppose not. Except for being quite unnerving.” The priest was silent for a few seconds, deep in thought. “Yes. Yes, I see what you mean, what you're saying. Our God has not left us. Very well. I—we, rather—must believe that. But we are to be aides in this matter; not the ones to bring it to a close. My dreams.” He looked far into the distance. The others did not interrupt. “Very well. Come, gentlemen. Leave your cars and we'll walk the couple of miles to the Lancaster house. Don't worry about taking any of your personal gear. You won't be needing any of it, I assure you of that. If my dreams, my visions, are correct, and so far they have been.”

“Care to explain that, Father?” Ski asked.

“Not at this moment. Because I am not sure what is going to happen to us. I want to show you all some things along the way.”

During the two-mile walk, Father Danjou pointed out the ruined homes of Jerry and Maryruth.

“Jesus,” Kowalski said, awe in his voice. “Tornado?” he asked hopefully.

“No,” the priest replied. “The power of the Manitou. These people,” he now spoke hesitantly, “somehow resisted the Manitou's efforts to subvert or control them. I don't know how they did it, nor do I fully understand how I did, but I have a theory. Tell me, gentlemen, do you believe in old fears?”

“Beg pardon, Padre?” Bob said. “What do you mean by old fears?”

“Let me put it this way. Can any of you look at a horror movie or read a good horror novel and feel absolutely nothing?”

The men glanced at one another and then reluctantly, even a bit sheepishly, said no, they could not.

“They give me the creep Kowalski said.

“I feel like looking over my shoulder,” Bob said.

“I get goose bumps all over my skin,” Larry admitted.

“I do too,” Danjou said. “Then you all, to one degree or another, believe in your old childhood fears?”

“I guess that's one way of putting it,” Larry said.

“Yes,” Kowalski said. “For me, that sums it up pretty well.”

Bob nodded his head in agreement.

“All right, that's settled. Well,” Danjou continued, “there is, I believe, a very fine line we all walk as adults. I have reached the conclusion that if we give up, or reject, all the things we learned—not the right word—all the things we
accepted
as children, then we lose some immunity. We—or
they,”
he said, waving his hand at the silent town, “no longer believe that ghosts exist; that spirits roam old houses; that witches and warlocks and vampires can spring forth; that there are souls still wandering about, unseen, caught between life and death. The list is long, but you all know what I'm talking about.”

“I am one confused man,” Bob said.

Kowalski just shook his head.

“We are going to find some of those spirits you talked about at the Lancaster house?” Larry asked.

“I think so,” Father Danjou said.

“Wonderful,” Vanderhorn muttered.

 

Voyles decided to prowl the upstairs; the cop's curiosity had been aroused by the strange rattling sounds they had all heard the night before.

“I'm going with you,” Janet said.