The Horror of Devil's Root Lake Page 4

  “Anything else?” he asks.

  “That's all.”

  As he rings up my bill, I slip some cash from my purse. My hands are trembling a little, which is something I've been noticing more and more in recent months, and a moment later I see that the pharmacist has noticed too.

  “It's nothing,” I stammer, handing him some money. I just want to get out of here, but he's taking forever counting my change and I can't help glancing up at the security camera behind the register.

  What if it's spotted me?

  What if Craig has hired someone who can get into the camera networks, and they have some kind of facial recognition program searching for me? Maybe I've already been spotted, and Craig's phone is ringing at this exact moment, telling him that I'm right here in Hartford. Then again, that information won't be very useful, not once I've hit the road again. I just have to hope that he has no way of monitoring my car's movement in real time, because then he might be able to send someone who can intercept me. There are cameras that can read license plates, and satellites that can track cars anywhere they go. Craig might be closer than I think.

  “Goodnight, Mommy.”

  I spin around, convinced that I just heard Charlie's voice, but of course there's no sign of him. I look along the brightly-lit pharmacy aisle for a moment and spot an elderly woman at one of the shelves. She glances at me with a scowl before turning away, and I look around for a few more seconds before turning back to the pharmacist and seeing that he's holding my change out. From the way he's staring at me, I'm pretty sure he knows something's wrong.

  “I said, here's your change,” he mutters.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, taking the money and stuffing it into my purse, before grabbing the little paper bag and hurrying to the door. There's another camera watching me leave, so I keep my head bowed slightly in the hope that I won't be noticed.

  Once I'm outside in the cold night air, I breathe a sigh of relief and stop for a moment. Leaning back against the wall, I try to get my pounding heart under control, but I know I won't be able to calm down until I'm well clear of Hartford. Sometimes I think I can only truly feel safe when I'm on the road, when I'm heading along the interstate and I can be certain that nobody is tracking or following me. Any time I stay in one town for more than a night, I start to feel a sense of panic in my chest.

  “Goodnight, Mommy.”

  I turn again, convinced that I heard Charlie, but there's no sign of him.

  Of course there's no sign. I'm not an idiot, and I'm not crazy. I guess my brain just threw up an old memory.

  “Goodnight, Charlie,” I whisper, realizing that I hadn't said it yet tonight.

  I wait, but now all I hear is the distant rush of traffic, and the sound of a late-night breeze blowing through town.

  Figuring that I need to get moving, I make my way around the side of the pharmacy and past the fast food restaurant, and then I start crossing the parking lot. I'm so tired, I know I should nap before I hit the road, but I also figure I have to get moving.

  Suddenly I spot two men up ahead in the shadows, standing on either side of the door to my old motel room. I freeze for a moment, before ducking back around the corner and staying completely still. I'm certain I've seen those men before, back in Reno and then again in Denver, and it looks like they somehow managed to track me all the way here to Connecticut. Maybe they accessed some kind of database, or maybe they simply put out a message offering cash for information on my whereabouts, but as I peer back around the corner of the restaurant I see that one of the men is knocking on the motel room door, while the other is making his way around to the rear, as if to make sure that I don't sneak out through the bathroom window.

  And then I spot the motel's manager watching from the doorway of his office, counting some money in his hands.

  “Why can't you just leave me alone?” I whisper, angered by the thought that – even after all this time – Craig is still trying to track me down. “What the hell is wrong with these assholes?”

  The man knocks again, and then a moment later his colleague comes back around from the rear. They stop to talk for a moment, before the taller of the two men starts fiddling with the door handle. Clearly they managed to get a key, which means the motel manager definitely helped them out. I breathe a sigh of relief as I realize that they're half an hour too late to catch me, although I can't help thinking about the fact that I only left the room a short while ago.

  If they'd come just thirty minutes earlier, they would have walked in on me. This time, I might not have managed to escape.

  The second man follows the first into the room, and I figure this is my chance to make a break. I hurry around the edge of the dark parking lot, keeping low until I reach my car. After unlocking the door, I clamber inside and then pull the door shut again. I shove my bags onto the passenger seat and start the engine, and then I ease the car out of its parking slot. The last thing I want is to race away with screeching tires, because I know that'd just attract attention, so I simply drive slowly toward the exit, while keeping an eye on the motel room's door to make sure that the two men haven't come back out yet.

  They might be professionals, but I think I've given them the slip again.

  By the time I pull out of the parking lot and join the flow of traffic, I'm finally able to breathe again. It's been a while since I had such a close call, and I guess deep down I'd begun to hope that Craig might have stopped looking for me. He should understand by now that I don't want to be found, and that I'll never let these people take me home. And if he doesn't want to understand or he can't, then I'll just have to keep running, and finally he'll either get the message or he'll run out of money. One way or another, I'm staying on the road until I find out who or what really caused Charlie's death five years ago.

  Ahead, late-night traffic is moving toward the interstate. I'm exhausted, but I can't afford to stop and rest. I have a few other places to check out along the way, and some archives to visit so I can look up several old newspaper stories, but then I guess I need to get to Redfield, North Carolina on a Sunday. Maybe those survivors can tell me something useful.

  Chapter Five

  “Charlie!” I scream, racing toward the lake as a man scoops my son's body from the water and starts carrying him ashore. “Give him to me!”

  The man sets Charlie down on the grass, and I immediately drop to my knees. Although the man starts checking for a pulse, I quickly push his hands away and turn Charlie's face toward me. He looks so pale already, and when I press my fingers against the side of his neck I realize that there's no sign of a pulse.

  “I'm a doctor!” a voice shouts nearby, and I hear someone running toward us.

  “Charlie, can you hear me?” I stammer, with tears running down my face. “Charlie, say something!”

  “Someone call an ambulance!” another voice yells.

  “I only looked away for a second,” Pam says. “I swear, they were all together and then...”

  “Charlie, it's Mommy,” I continue, tapping the side of his cold, unresponsive face. “Charlie, I need you to open your eyes. Sweetheart, please, open your eyes for Mommy. It's very important.”

  I wait, but there's no reply.

  “Charlie!” I shout, as a loud, persistent beeping sound fills the air, coming closer and closer. “Open your eyes!”

  Gasping, I suddenly lean forward and feel a jolt running through my chest.

  ***

  “Open your -”

  The safety belt snaps tight as I lean forward in the car seat. Startled, I look around, and for a moment I genuinely don't remember where I am. Then I spot the energy bar wrappers on the passenger seat, and the pile of clipboards, and my switched-off phone, and I remember that after reaching Redfield a little while ago, I decided to take a nap in my car. There was still a little daylight back then, but now night has fallen and the only light comes from a nearby streetlamp.

  Checking my watch, I see that it's almost 8pm, which means my 'nap' a
ctually lasted a couple of hours.

  “Great,” I mutter, unfastening the safety belt and then climbing out of the car. A lorry is reversing nearby, making its way slowly toward the end of a nearby alley with lights flashing in the darkness. Old crates are piled up against a brick wall and there's illegible graffiti scrawled all over the rear of the buildings. I guess I must have parked somewhere near a goods entrance, although at the time I was too tired to notice. Now my heart is pounding and my hands are shaking, and I can hear my own voice echoing in my head, still begging Charlie to wake up.

  I was dreaming.

  The same dream as always.

  I was back at the lake, trying to save Charlie.

  It's now two weeks since I was in Hartford. Since then, I've been up and down the eastern seaboard a few times, dropping in at various archives and institutions, continuing my search for information. I didn't find much, other than a few local newspaper reports about child deaths from the past fifty years, but I still haven't had a chance to really sift through my findings. At some point, I need to spend a good month, maybe a month and a half, just going over all the new material and cataloging every detail. Then, maybe, I'll find something I can use. For now, though, I guess I have to at least check out this group that meets in Redfield.

  After all, today's Sunday.

  Rubbing the back of my neck, I realize I should probably find a motel somewhere in town. After all, my back has been hurting lately, and the pain always gets worse whenever I sleep in the car. At the same time, I need to conserve money, so maybe I can park somewhere and figure out a more comfortable position. For now, I reach back into the car and grab my phone, which I don't dare switch on as I slip it into my pocket, and then I lock the door before turning and making my way across the dark street. This whole place seems pretty deserted.

  Ahead, St. Martin's Church looms in the darkness, with just a solitary light at the top of a set of steps. A man is sweeping those steps, whistling to himself as I get closer, but so far he doesn't seem to have noticed my arrival.

  “Hi,” I say cautiously as I stop just a few feet from him. “Sorry, I was wondering whether you might be able to help me.”

  His whistling stops abruptly, and the man turns to look at me from beneath a flat cap.

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the business card with the details of the survivors' group, and I hold it up for him to see.

  “It's Sunday tonight,” I continue, “and... Well, do you know anything about these people? Do they still meet here? Do you know where I might find them?”

  I wait for a reply.

  “This... This is St. Martin's Church, Redfield, isn't it?” I ask, starting to worry that after all this build-up I might be in the wrong place. “I saw a sign on the way here...”

  He pauses, before limping down the steps and taking the card from my hand.

  “Right,” he mutters, sounding distinctly unimpressed. “Okay, I get it. So you're one of them, huh?”

  “Do you know when they'll be here?”

  He takes a look at his watch, but he still seems a little annoyed.

  “They probably use the door at the rear,” he explains with a sigh. “Father Prior lets all sorts of crazy weirdos use the place in the evenings, but they have to go in around the back. You maybe oughta be careful, though. Some of these folks aren't exactly on the level, if you know what I mean. If you ask me, people should only be allowed to use the church at night if they bother to show their faces here during the day once in a while. The church is for people who want to worship the Lord, not for folks who believe in...”

  He pauses, staring at the card with a hint of disgust, before handing it back to me.

  “It's not right, that's all,” he continues, turning and starting to run his brush along the lowest step. “I overhear their meetings sometimes, when I'm in the storeroom. I reckon people shouldn't be allowed to talk about that kinda thing, not in a place like this. The Lord wouldn't like it. But Father Prior, he wants to gather his flock and give them a chance. He reckons that even if they're heathens, they might as well be in the church anyway, in case they get any ideas and decide to see the light. Fat chance, if you ask me.”

  “Thank you,” I mutter, slipping the card away. “This rear door, is it -”

  “Don't you wanna ask Father Prior about it?” he adds, limping away toward the shadows. “He's got a lot to say.”

  “Well, I -”

  “I'll fetch him!”

  “No, it's really -”

  He lets out a faint groan, before turning around and removing his cap to reveal a scarred face. There looks to be a chunk missing from his left cheek, and from the side of his head too, but he's grinning at me with gapped teeth and after a moment I spot a ragged white collar poking out from beneath his puffy green jacket. Whatever happened to his head, some kind of accident looks to have left thick, knotted scars twisting across his features, like the roots of some gnarled old tree.

  “Now, if you ask me,” he continues, opening his eyes wider than before and speaking a little more clearly, “it's only right to invite these people into the church. They're the Lord's children, just like everybody else, and they've gotta be given the chance to come into the light. That's why I give 'em the key to the back door and tell 'em to use the church whenever they need. You don't get people to turn to the Lord through fear. You need to open your arms and offer them warmth, and love. They'll come around eventually, I'm sure of it.”

  “You...”

  Pausing, I watch as he shuffles toward me. Suddenly he seems like a completely different man.

  “You're Father Prior?” I ask, shocked by the complete change in his demeanor.

  “Those pour souls inside are lost in the shadows,” he mumbles, taking another step closer, “but they don't have to stay like that. The way I see it, bring 'em to the church once a month, that's one more time than they'd have come otherwise. And even if only one of 'em sees the light, and decides to stay, then isn't that something? Isn't that a little miracle of progress in a dark old world? I mean, there aren't many miracles these days. It's not like we can afford to turn any down, is it?”

  He smiles, and then he starts laughing. He has a thick, deep laugh that seems to rumble up from his belly and shake his entire body.

  “I should get inside,” I tell him, taking a step back. “Thanks for your help, but -”

  “Of course, I made that decision before the accident,” he continues, reaching up and placing a hand on the side of his head. “Nasty accident, it was. I haven't been the same since, but at least I did some good work before. Don't you think so? And now...”

  He hesitates for a moment, before slowly pushing his fingers into the flesh around the side of his head. Shocked, I watch as the flesh starts sinking, as if the skull beneath is collapsing into a section where the brain is missing. The harder he presses, the larger his pupils become, until his eyes are two black circles staring at me. His grin grows until he moves his hand away, and now there's a sizable dent in one part of his head. A couple of seconds later, however, the dent suddenly springs back to its original position and his head looks normal again, and the resultant faint popping sound makes the old man start laughing harder than ever.

  And his eyes are back to normal.

  “Your face!” he gasps, setting his mop on the step and slowly lowering himself to sit. “Priceless! Don't worry, little lady, it's all just a joke! You shouldn't take it all so seriously! Jokes are for laughing at, aren't they?”

  He's still laughing as I head around the side of the church, into the dark alley that I can only hope leads to the back door.

  Chapter Six

  “Sometimes I manage to convince myself that it won't happen again. Sometimes I have these little pockets of hope where I think it's really over. But they never last long. Soon enough, I'm looking out the window again, terrified I'll see him in the garden. And the worst part is, deep down, I know I'll see him. I mean, why wouldn't he come back? He knows where I am. If h
e wants me, he can come and get me. I'm unfinished business. We all are.”

  Six people are sitting on chairs, arranged in a semi-circle inside the church. Having found the back door open, I've slipped inside, but I'm still in the shadows and I don't think anyone has noticed me yet. I guess I'll have to make my presence known in a moment, and I know it's wrong to eavesdrop like this, but at the same time I want to hear what these people have to say when they don't realize there's an outsider present. They might clam up if they know I'm listening.

  Besides, as my encounter with Alison Mackenzie reminded me, I'm definitely not much of a people person.

  “Sometimes I wish he'd just get it over with,” the woman continues, her voice trembling with fear. “Is this part of it? Is he torturing us by making us wait? That's the kind of thing he'd do, isn't it? I mean, how do we know he isn't in our minds somehow already, reading our thoughts? How do we know he isn't completely in charge of every aspect of our lives, and he isn't just waiting to pick us off one by one? That's what's been worrying me for a while now, really. The idea that he never really went away and he's just been hitching a ride, watching the world through my eyes and waiting to pick his moment.”

  Another woman sighs nearby, as if she's unimpressed.

  “Marie, there's nothing to suggest that he has that kind of power,” says one of the men, sounding much calmer. “It's natural to have these fears, but we have to stay grounded in some kind of truth. If we don't, there's no limit to what we might start to fear. And our fear is the only thing that really gives him power over us.”

  “But you all feel the same, don't you?” she asks, turning to look at the others one by one. “There's a real chance that he's still watching. Just biding his time...”

  “We know so little about him still,” the man replies. “Let's not credit him with super-powers just yet.”

  “Ha!” mutters the other, older woman. “Says the guy who believes in fairy-tale monsters.”