The Devil Next Door (37 page)

If he was alive.

Thinking this way, she began to realize that she liked him in a way that was not strictly platonic. It was stupid and she knew it. Really, really stupid. She was sixteen for godsake and he was like forty or something. He was married to Michelle and she was gorgeous, tall and leggy with long dark hair sweeping down her back. Carried herself with that stature, that poise that was simply beyond Macy. Louis would never even consider for a moment, he would never think

But what if he did, Macy?
she asked herself.
What if he did? What if they were still together and he put an arm around her…what then?

And she knew. She could feel the heat inside her that she’d only felt once or twice before and never for boys in school, always for older men. The boys at school were gangly and silly and immature. They were not men. Not like Louis was. Sure, if he tried something, she would melt in his arms. She would let him lay her down. She would let him inside her. She knew that now. Maybe she’d tried to pretend otherwise ever since this afternoon when they’d hooked up, but she didn’t doubt it anymore. She felt it building in her, that blaze, ever since they’d sat on his porch and he had looked at her with that…that
hunger.

She’d thought it then. There had been precious few boys at school that interested her, but often older men intrigued her. And Louis intrigued her like no other. She wanted her first time to be with him. Not a sweaty, groping, inexperienced boy…but a man. An older man.

Get a grip!

Yes, yes, she had to. Where was all this nonsense coming from? It had to be all the stress and weirdness and fear. That had to be it. Because this wasn’t the way she thought. This was how Chelsea or Shannon or one of the slutty cheerleaders thought. They fantasized about things like this, about having sex with older men and spreading their legs and feeling someone pushing into them with a slow and deliberate rhythm that would speed up and speed up until you couldn’t take it anymore. The feel of flesh against flesh, tongues mating with tongues

Macy was breathing hard now, her flesh hot to the touch. If Louis had been there, she would have blushed.

Or maybe you’d just go down on your knees…

Oh, good God, it was happening again.

It was taking control of her again. She’d been worried all day since she’d attacked Chelsea that it would return, that it would come back and claim her…that boiling darkness. That whatever iniquitous flower that bloomed in her head and closed back up, would bloom anew and take her back to that awful place. That primal and destructive place where you acted on any and all urges with sinister delight. She could remember it now. How it had felt, how it had

(excited)

offended her. How all the dirty and dark desires in the pit of her mind had jumped to the fore and she had no control, had not honestly wanted control or even understood what control was. Was it happening again? Was it taking her over again? If it was, she was only glad that Louis was not here, because if he was, she would want him. She would put her mouth on his and her hands on him and demand that he put his on her, do things to her, use her and use her again.

Still breathing hard and trembling now, too, Macy realized that it was
not
happening to her. At least, not how it had happened before. Though she would never have admitted it, she’d felt
free
when the madness had taken her. She was feeling that way now. But not in a dangerous way. She was just feeling the stirrings of who and what she was. She was feeling desire and lust and she was not honestly uncomfortable with it. The woman in her was making herself known and although it scared her to a certain extent, she felt liberated by it. Because she had been expecting it for a long time and now it was here.

But she had to be realistic here.

But if Louis is not dead and we find each other, then…then…

She only hoped that if he was dead it had been quick, relatively painless. Something that would take him fast. She had been dehumanized to the point now that she was becoming almost desensitized to everything. She didn’t care what they did to her, she just hoped that Louis Shears died quickly.

The girl who was leading her stopped.

Macy realized she had been stumbling along for a long time now, totally disconnected from reality. She knew Greenlawn well. But in the darkness, she could not say exactly where they were. The man did not seem to be sure either. He was standing there, looking around. He said something to the woman and she went down on her hands and knees, crawling through the grass of somebody’s yard and
sniffing.
Sniffing like a dog. She jumped up excitedly, started making grunting sounds and gesticulating madly. The man seemed to understand what she was saying. Macy couldn’t. That grunting and snorting…like the guttural language of wild hogs.

The man walked to a tree and pissed on it, scenting his trail. The boy hopped over there and started to do the same, but the man hit him, clopped him upside the head, knocking him down. The boy did not seem angry. Better to be hit than put on the spit.

They moved on.

The girl gave the noose a jerk and Macy stumbled forward. The boy kept watching her. He couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, but every time he looked at her with those dead amethyst eyes, a leering depravity came over his face that was elfin, carnal, unspeakable. And when it did, he groped himself.

Whenever the woman saw him do it, she kicked him.

The man trudged along. He had a black plastic Hefty bag tossed over one shoulder that was bulging from what it carried. Now and again what was in there shifted with a moist, slopping noise.

The remains of the woman they’d butchered.

Macy had tasted her blood, her meat. There hadn’t been a choice and still, she could feel its texture on her tongue, its flavor that was rich and sweet and nauseating. Yet…yet, part of her almost
liked
it. That dark part that kept trying to insinuate itself. Macy did not want it, but she really didn’t have the strength to fight it and why fight it anyway? Inch by inch, it was taking her over. Something had shut down in her and something else was waking up.

But she wouldn’t be like
them.

Never.

Ever.

She refused.

But part of her, maybe instinct, was much sharper than before. For she was hearing everything, feeling everything. Never had a night been like this, never did the breeze seem to be overloaded with the scents of night blooms and dark earth and green grass. The odors were so pungent, each almost seemed to have a flavor. And despite the shadows shrouding the streets, she was seeing exceptionally well…everything vibrant, vivid. Like a cat.

It all scared her…and intrigued her.

The girl yanked her lead and Macy moved forward. They were taking her to their lair and she could not even conceive of what sort of place that might be. Down alleys, through vacant lots thick with hay-smelling weeds. She thought they were down by the city park. They moved along until they reached a high, whitewashed building with a steeple above brushing the stars. Macy knew where they were now. Yes, by the park, 8
^th
Street and Holly Avenue: the Salem Evangelical Lutheran Church.

This place? This was where they were taking her?

She was led up the stairs, pushed through the doors. It was a narrow edifice, the walls pressing in from either side, rough-hewn beams overhead. A crowded aisle, pews to either side. Like some goddamn frontier church in Dodge City or one of those places, she thought.

Claustrophobic.

Cave-like.

Yes, the den of animals, the warren of beasts.

She smelled the stench of death right away. There were shadows clustering amongst the pews, many of them. The shadows came out to greet them, becoming people or something like people. They rushed in towards her.
Dirty, oily hands fondled her. Moonstruck faces. Grinning sawtoothed mouths. All those people were taking hold of her and the smell that came off of them…sweat and body odor, blood and meat and filth.

She was pushed up towards the altar.

It smelled like urine and bloody viscera.

Bodies were dumped there, three or four of them, all slit open like salmon, what was inside carefully cleaned out and dumped into buckets. And high above, where Christ had spent so many years nailed to the cross, there was another effigy now. Christ was gone.

There was a corpse nailed up there.

The corpse of an obese woman that was dark with dried blood. Her breasts were immense and flabby, her stomach swollen, her thighs pale and meaty. She was open in places and Macy could plainly see the crude black stitchwork that held her together. But the suturing had burst in places and it was evident that she had been stuffed with dry leaves, hay, cane straw.

Yes, gutted…then stuffed.

A totemic effigy.

A straw hag.

Macy stared up at the abomination speechless. It was profane, grotesque. Candles had been thrust into the corpse-woman’s mouth and the hollows of her eyes. They were lit, burning, guttering, casting eldritch shadows over the blood-drenched obscenity the altar had become.

The girl yanked Macy’s lead and tossed her to the altar, into the dirty straw and bloody carpet, there amongst the slaughterhouse of human husks, limbs, and snaking entrails. Macy squirmed in the bile and slime, staring up horrified and awestruck at the plucked, stuffed, and slit goddess of the new church…

61

Louis was running.

Maybe from the town and maybe from himself, but mostly from the clan coming after him. He was running and running, trying not to think of what had just happened back there. Trying not to think of anything else but the clan hunting him down. Trying not to see Michelle and that look in her eyes or to remember that it was her, really, that had put the clan on him.

He couldn’t think about that.

Because the only reason he’d stayed in this goddamn town was because of her and now she was a stranger, a sadistic queen wasp with her very own hive. If he hadn’t stayed, then he would not be a player in this nightmare and Macy would be with him. Not out there. Not dead or raped or worse…just like
them.

Not now, though, not now.

He couldn’t worry about any of that now.

Already his lungs were aching and his feet were getting sore, his clothes drenched with sweat. Jesus, he was too old for this shit. Just way too old. He needed a hiding place, but everything he saw—house, alley, or hedgerow—just looked alive with threat. Dark places where gnarled hands could find him, bring him down and do the most awful things.

He rounded a turn on Main Street and paused. He could keep going and maybe run right out of town…if he could keep this up for another mile or so. Or he could find a car or a building, some place to hide. There simply wasn’t the time to check every single parked car for a set of keys. If he started that, they’d be all over him.

He looked down Main, looked down the side streets and interconnecting avenues. He stood there, hands on his knees, panting and panting. Jesus, he just couldn’t go on like this. If he didn’t find a safe place or a car to get out of town with, then this would go on until dawn, maybe even longer than that. The clan would run him right to death like dogs running a stag.

Main Street twisted and turned like the back of a snake, lots of sharp corners and tall buildings and leafy trees to obscure things, little rolling hills. There were so many places to hide. He imagined that most of the stores and buildings on Main would be locked. One or two might be open, but again, he just did not have the time to be checking doors. His instinct was telling him just to go home. But if Michelle wanted him dead, then she would no doubt direct the clan there.

If she remembered where home was.