The Acolyte
Copyright 2007 by Mary Harris [aka redplanetes]
Chapter 17
Helen sighed, put the scissors down. Her pants leg flayed open from cuff to hip, she could now pull them on over her hardware. The flesh pierced by rods was still very tender after moving around so much, but she felt the draft from the tunnels, even more so now that the cold crept inside her. She shivered, disconcerted to be so chilled at this time of year. The flight through the clouds had soaked her to the bone. Exhilarating, especially since she was wearing so much metal while lightning crackled all around, but brisk.
The fire crackled contentedly, and she settled a little closer. Sewing some straps onto the cut edges to hold her pants together, she breathed in deeply, savored the smells of home. Home wasn't just one place, it was a melange of friends and experiences, a state of mind, a feeling of rightness. Everything the hospital hadn't been.
A few feet away, Mena sat at the creature's workbench, kneading a gooey mixture into some leather. With barely-subdued enthusiasm, she had shown her aunt the latest project; a set of clothes made from leftover skins.
The monster had discarded many of the skins from the previous night's rampage, having found then unworthy of preserving. Mena, however, had a burning desire to learn the strange beast's art, and conjured a use for a few throwaways. "I'm getting tired of the ripped-up clothing thing." she told her aunt, describing the idea for her leathers. "Sewing is fine once in a while, but every fucking night? And then again in the morning, too?" Helen winked, catching the hint. She was glad the girl had gotten over her temporary shyness around the monster. Glad also that the monster seemed to have eased up on her, and not driven her to distraction.
"I did warn you about the clothes," Helen chuckled. "I'll want go back to my house tomorrow to grab a change myself." She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to think how many days it had been since she'd been there last. Five days! It seemed like so many more...
* * * * *
Henry Ernest Jzykorowski wiped the sweat from his forehead, and loosened his collar a bit. A momentary wave of rebellious desperation washed over him, the thought that taking his roman collar off and opening his shirt a few buttons would be the common-sense thing to do, but Reverend 'Jake' calmed himself, fought back the hedonistic urge to be comfortable. It was far more important to remain a visibly steadfast example to his far-flung flock; as a young minister he had to set a high standard, else people wouldn't take him seriously, and might slip into sin.
Besides, on a mission such as the one he pursued now, he needed all the righteousness he could muster; the evil he was up against would surely feed on selfish impulses.
He leafed through his newspaper clippings and notes in a manilla folder. He was drawing ever closer to the Shadow Man, he could feel it. After having spent weeks on the trail of this mysterious entity, signs suddenly began appearing in his path; unexplained disappearances, tales of a ghost truck that terrorized drivers on lonely highways, ominous disasters that seemed to crop up for no reason. He was certain the Shadow Man had returned, and like the hand of divine justice, Henry was here to put an end to his reign of evil. Just the thought that he should play such a vital role in the battle sent a surge of pride through him. May God find me worthy to rid the world of such wickedness.
The previous evening, he had spent a couple of hours at a local hospital, which was recovering from a minor catastrophe. Something had happened during a violent afternoon storm, but nobody's story was the same. A few tried to placate him that it had been nothing, just some overworked staff having a field day. Another said there had been deaths, but as to how many and what the circumstances were, it seemed to be anyone's guess. Finally he had wrung a tale from a badly shaken guard, still on the job even though he had been given leave.
The guard was reluctant to talk about what he had witnessed at first, but gentle coaxing had wrung a detailed story from him. Too afraid to leave the hospital alone, the guard had remained after a personally traumatic experience. The young itinerant preacher had seemed like a godsend, a welcome shoulder to lean on, a benevolent ear in which to confess his terrors. The story had gushed from him, interspersed with sobs and bouts of trembling.
Something had been there at the hospital, not a normal man, the guard insisted. It took dozens of bullets without harm, before escaping upstairs. Soon afterward the something had sprouted horrible wings, wings like some monstrous bat, and had flown out a window. The guard shook his head, shuddering. "I saw what I saw, I just wish I hadn't seen it. Things like that aren't real... I hope I am crazy. ...Knowing something like that is out there- ...I don't think I'll ever sleep again."
There was more, though. Just before flying away, the thing had grabbed a patient to carry with it. The guard was positive that this at least was true, even though others at the hospital acted scandalized at the suggestion that they'd lost a patient. He didn't know the patient's name, but did pass on a tidbit of information; she had been recently moved after rumors put her in a bad light. It seemed she had a reputation for scandalous behavior, or for being some kind of cursed witch, depending on who was asked. People in her vicinity went crazy, had hallucinations, ...or died. Some refused to speak of her at all.
Henry finally found a night nurse who revealed her name: Helen Murdoch. The nurse said it was good riddance that the woman had disappeared, that she had been surly and uncooperative, had even punched her doctor in the face. The same doctor had died in a car accident within a day.
He had taken notes of everything, taped the newspaper report - sanitized for the public - into his folder. A few minutes searching through phone books had turned up nothing; either this Helen Murdoch was unlisted, or she didn't have a telephone. So, first thing this morning, he had gone to the county courthouse and searched public records, finally turning up an address. It was far out in the country, a couple hours drive away, but he was unperturbed. A knight on a quest does not frown on obstacles, but welcomes them.
So here he was at the woman's house, sweating in his car. At first it hard to tell if anyone was home; a truck parked beside the house looked like it might run, but the front door was shut and locked. After walking a circuit around the small house, he began looking for signs of recent activity. There were muddy footprints near the back door, only slightly washed out from yesterday's storm. Tire tracks in the dirt driveway were the same; fresh under the overhanging trees, but blurred out in the open.
Someone had been here in the last couple of days.
He took polaroids of the tire tracks, just for reference, then returned to his car to consider what to do next. This missing woman had been his best lead so far, but if he couldn't find her, what then? Maybe the Shadow Man really had taken her. He tried to stay objective. Maybe she's just out on errands. I can't jump to conclusions, or I'll never get anywhere.
He mopped the sweat from his forehead, sketched on his notebook. From the the various descriptions he'd gotten, the Shadow Man was just as his nickname implied - shadowy. He drew a shape on the blank paper, a dark man in a long, ragged coat. The man had large, reptilian claws for hands and feet, and great bat-like wings sprouted from his shoulders. Piercing eyes glinted from a shadowed face. That was one thing everyone who'd seen it agreed on.
* * * * *
Henry had gotten his start at an early age, setting off on revival tours when he was nineteen. Most people didn't want to listen to the fervent preaching of a teenager, but he had developed a reputation for stirring his congregations into a spiritual frenzy. It gave him such a rush to bring them all together to the Lord, he had to check himself sometimes, lest he become too arrogant.
Then a few months ago, he passed through a part of the country new to him; a fresh backwater to preach in. He always tried to pay attention to the concerns of his congregations, because each one might have different evils to overcome, but he began hearing tales of some unknown evil hanging over this area. Just whispered hints here and there - few would speak openly of it, but many were afraid of something wandering out on the lonely highways.
He came to believe these stories - so many different people had seen the same dark thing, or lost a loved one. A few retired policemen from the local sheriff's station told him of a monster that had rampaged through the building many years back, something that ate hands and feet and human hearts. These crusty old men, hardened by years of service, told the most hair-raising tales, and it was clear to Henry that they had been shaken to the core by their horrific experience that night.
Another person had been present at the police station, a black woman named Giselle Hartman. She lived in a house on the edge of town, and welcomed the young preacher in, nodding sadly when he asked her about the strange events of that night. Her tightly curled hair was snow-white, and her face lined from worry. She held a hand to her forehead as though her head ached.
Giselle claimed to have dreamed about the thing that had torn the police station apart. It was on the trail of a boy it wanted, and anything that got in its way suffered horribly. She said the thing was a demon, that it would live forever by getting body parts from people it wanted. Resigned, weary, Giselle seemed to have given up hope. She told Henry he was better off to leave the thing alone, but gave him a small silver cross as he left her house, "just for luck".
He tracked down survivors of a bus accident from around the same time, difficult because most had moved far away, despite having families in the area. One woman he spoke with was vehement that the thing would return someday. Mindy Johnston, once called 'Minxie' by her friends, told a story much more detailed than any other he'd heard.
"It won't die... he didn't kill it. It will come back, and it'll just keep killing and eating. Every twenty-three years..." she whispered. "No one can stop it. Whoever tries, it'll just kill them too." she insisted, her face pale with the resurfacing memories.
"Who thought he killed it?" Henry asked gently, scribbling names and notes in his book.
"That old guy, Taggert. It killed his younger son, and he hunted it and brought it down, but the monster wasn't really dead. I told him," she sobbed once, "but he wouldn't believe me." Mindy covered her face with shaking hands. "I think he took the body home with him."
The woman told him where the Taggert farm was, but refused to go along as a friendly face. She didn't want to get involved, seeming to believe that doing so might draw the monster's attention to her.
Henry found the farm a few days later. A sign out on the highway made his heart race; he was on the right path. The farmstead looked recently abandoned; there were notes taped to the front door, but no signs of life. It was only when he looked in the barn that the reality of this quest struck home; the Shadow Man was not only real, but he was really what people had described - a killer. Pools of black, congealed blood surrounded the post-puncher device inside the doors. Something awful had happened here recently.
A spark of light on a metal cable caught his eye; it led to a pole protruding from an upper wall, and he looked up to see a peculiar blank space. Peculiar because something had been there, something labelled with a sign. 'BAT OUT OF HELL'. All that remained now were some huge rusty nails protruding from the wall, and shallow piles of dust on the floor. Whatever had been there was gone, and had taken the Taggerts along with it, one way or another.
That was two days ago.
Now, his only hope was that the Murdoch woman could provide a lead to this demon, this Shadow Man. If she turned up, the trail might run cold again, but at least he could get her side of the story.
* * * * *
The long driveway bore two pairs of fresh tire-tracks, Helen could see them distinctly in the mud. A surge of territorial resentment rose in her chest, and she narrowed her eyes, trying to see beyond the curve of the trees. A thought crossed her mind and she turned to her niece, but the girl was shaking her head. "That's not me. I was here, but someone else has been here since the storm." They both fell silent, simmering in thought.
When the house came into view, they saw an old sedan in front, and a man sitting inside it. Helen cast a look to Mena, an unspoken caution to keep quiet. As they pulled up beside him in Mena's jeep, Helen saw that it was a young man, dressed in a minister's black shirt and priest collar. She nearly laughed when she saw the look on the guy's face, one of mingled disappoinment and awkward relief. If this young man was here to save her soul, he'd have a hell of a time trying.
* * * * *
Trying to contain his disappointment, Henry peeled himself from his car. She was fine, she couldn't have been kidnapped by the Shadow Man after all. Oh well, not all of the stories could be true.
"Hidey, Ma'am." he called out.
She was pointedly quiet as she carefully extracted herself from Mena's vehicle. A medieval-looking brace was partially imbedded into her right leg, and she steadied herself with a handsomely carved cane as she began walking up to the steps. When she was on the top step, she turned, addressed him for the first time. "Good morning, Father." She smirked as she said it, probably aware that he was half her age.
"Just Reverend, Ma'am," he said, smiling warmly. He stepped closer, held out a hand to introduce himself. "Reverend Henry Jzykorowski, but you can call me Jake." She didn't take his hand, only nodded her acknowledgment. He realized, blushing, that she probably couldn't take his hand because of her handicap. "I just came to check up on you... some people at the hospital were concerned. Seems they thought you'd been kidnapped."
The woman studied him for an uncomfortably long time as her young companion unloaded a couple of bundles from the jeep. She seemed to reach a decision, and nodded again. "Helen Murdoch. Glad to meet you, Reverend Jake. Why don't you come on in, join us for lunch." It was a command almost, not even disguised as a question - You can come in or you can leave now. He gratefully accepted, hoping it would be cooler inside.
He heard her address the girl as 'Mena' while they got settled. Mena helped Ms. Murdoch get into a soft chair in the kitchen, spoke something softly something in her ear. The woman smiled, nodded, turned to speak to her visitor.
"So, they've been making up more wild tales about me, huh?"
Henry grinned sheepishly, embarrassed that he'd been too accepting of every unlikely account. "Well ma'am-"
"Call me Helen, please,"she interrupted.
"Helen then. There was some confusion at the hospital yesterday, and you're considered missing by a few there. I only wanted to know you're ok."
The woman frowned. "Confusion...?" Mena worked in the kitchen, reaching down an iron skillet, unwrapping a package from the freezer. He noticed with pleasure that the package contained thin sandwich steaks. Her reputation for hostility must be groundless, they sure know how to treat a travelling minister with hospitality!
"Well," he began, unwilling to sound like a complete fool. "A crazy man tore through the hospital, and some people thought he'd abducted you, but obviously you're fine."
She smiled broadly. "No crazy man here."
"No ma'am - Helen - but I couldn't rest until I was sure you were alright." The smell of sizzling steak reached his nostrils, making his mouth water. "I've been on a sort of quest, tracking down this shady character, and it sounded like it might have been him."
Helen bent forward to put her elbows on her knees. "Tell me about this 'shady character'. It sounds fascinating, especially since he is supposed to have kidnapped me..."
Interlacing his fingers together, Henry hesitated. He didn't want to sound crazy, himself. "Well... it's going to seem like a ridiculous idea, but I'm on the trail of this ...person... who some say has been on a murder spree in this area, going on twenty-five years or more." Mena set three plates down on the table, each holding a huge sandwich of coarse bread and steak. He thanked her, lowered his head to say a quick prayer of gratitude for such benevolent hosts.
"Tell me more." Helen demanded, taking a huge bite of her sandwich. Henry's mouth was already full - he hadn't realized how hungry he was. The sandwich was incredibly savory, and he put it down with reluctance. He swallowed and continued.
"There's talk of a man who drives around in a big old truck, runs people off the road. Sometimes he abducts people, and... well, this is going to sound crazy, but..."
The woman raised her eyebrow over her sandwich, seeming unconcerned about his sanity.
"Talk is that he eats people." he said, chewing on his lip for a moment before taking another bite of his sandwich.
"Really." Helen said, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.
Suddenly the world exploded into black stars.
* * * * *
Mena stood behind the young minister, holding the iron skillet, ready for another blow if he should recover too quickly. When his limp form - slumped over his plate - didn't move, she set the skillet on the table, slid into her seat. Helen glared at the unconscious man, thinking. "We'll have to take him with us. First him, then his car." She sighed, licked her lips. "These are mighty good, Mena. We might domesticate you yet!" she teased.
The girl rolled her eyes, picking up her sandwich. "You're incorrigible, Aunt Hel."
After they had finished their meal, Mena went out to inspect the young man's car, while Helen began packing some fresh clothes in preparation for their return to the Catacombs. She was folding up a pair of loose jeans when the girl came in, holding a manilla folder and a disturbed frown. "Look at this. He has been on our friend's trail."
News articles were taped in among handwritten notes, eyewitness accounts of the monster's appearance. Many names were scribbled on a notepad, and Helen's was at the bottom. Polaroids of tire tracks spilled out of the folder onto the floor. Tire tracks in weedy mud, in dried mud, in silty potholes; a scrawled note at the bottom of each picture told where the tracks were found. A folded-up map had red circles all over it, but it was unclear what they meant.
Helen was shocked at the extent of the man's research. "This is serious. Talk about hunting, he's a natural." An idea occured to her. She turned to her niece, handed the folder back. "Burn this. Now." she said, returning to the task at hand. "We'll take the rest with us."
End of Chapter 17
A/N: For the upcoming nastiness,if you want to know where my inspiration comes from, read The Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille. It's extremely graphic, be warned.
Mena's leathermaking project is probably not very realistic. Leathermaking takes time, more time than I'm writing it, but as my beta reader said, "That's why it's called fiction". So there.
The Acolyte and illustrations Copyright 2007 by Mary Harris [aka redplanetes]
~plagarists will be flayed alive~
redplanet@trinidadusa.net
