Devil's Kiss (26 page)

Walter shifted his glare to Sam's truck. “What's Stokes doing here?”

“Just along for the ride, Walter. Any harm in that? Oh, by the way, we missed you at John's services this afternoon.”

The sheriff wheeled about without speaking. He stalked to his car, burning rubber as he peeled away from the curb.

“Sam?” Tony said. “What in the world is going on in this town?”

“What did Mrs. Norman die of, Tony?”

“Presumably the same thing John died of. But I don't believe it. I had just examined her about a month ago. Her heart was strong, blood pressure fine. You didn't answer my question, Sam.”

“Then what killed her?”

The young doctor sighed as he met Sam's gaze. “Oh, one guess would be fright, maybe—producing a heart attack. When I saw her she'd been dead for hours. I think the old woman saw something in her back yard that scared her to death. That big German shepherd was still standing guard beside her. I guess he frightened off whatever it was.”

“You went to her house, then?”

“Oh, yes. Jimmy called me first, then Father Dubois.”

“Was there anything . . . unusual that you noticed?”

“What do you mean, Sam?”

“An odor, perhaps?”

Tony slowly shook his head. “Yes, now that you mention it, there was an odor. A very bad odor. Faint, but still present. I—uh—can't describe it; I've never smelled anything quite like it.”

“I was afraid of this. They've begun coming into town.”

“I beg your pardon, Sam?”

“Get your car, Tony—follow us to Chester's. There's something you'd better hear.”

 

A very stunned and pale young doctor sat on the couch in Chester's den, his coffee cold and forgotten on the table. He lifted his eyes to Sam's. “You're kidding, of course?” There was a hopeful tone in his voice.

“No, Tony,” Father Dubois said. “It's all true.”

The priest had been called, as had Father Haskell. Peter Canford stood beside Jimmy Perkins.

“Reverend Monroe is dead!” Jimmy said. “And you killed him, Sam? My God!”

Peter spoke for the first time, other than the greetings when he entered the house. His voice was dead, almost void of emotion. “When I got home from John's funeral, there was a note. Pat said she'd had enough of my so-called Christian ways. The note was very profane.” He put his face in his hands and wept.

Dubois walked to his side, putting an arm around his shoulders. He did not try to verbally comfort him, just patted him on the shoulder, letting the young man know he was there, ready to help in any way he could.

“I'll make some coffee,” Faye said.

“And some sandwiches,” Anita said, getting up from her chair. “I'll help you.”

“Have you had time to read the journals?” Sam asked Wade.

“Yes,” the editor said, “some of them. Dad suspected all along what is—” he stumbled for a moment, “happening here now. But he couldn't come up with any concrete proof. None to take to the law. I know the feeling,” he said, biting at his words. “Dad wrote that he felt the devil was after him, but he wasn't going to get him.”

“That's why he shot himself?” Sam asked.

Chester looked up. “Your father shot himself?”

Slowly, Wade told the story, filling in the gaps that for years had puzzled many residents of Whitfield, himself included. “But pieces still don't fit,” he mused aloud. “There are things that just don't quite jell in my mind. About us, I mean.”

“Yes,” his wife said. “We were just talking about that in the kitchen. Why us? Why were we—spared?”

Jane Ann put her coffee cup carefully on the table, in the saucer, her face a study in concentration. “Sam? Did you ever listen to the local radio station?”

“Rarely, but I think I know what you're getting at. I've had the same suspicions of late. Go ahead, though, let me hear your thoughts.”

She looked at each person in the den. “Did any of you ever listen to the station?”

“No,” Chester said. “Can't stand country and western music, and I certainly can't tolerate this new rock and roll. Besides, when I did accidently tune in, I got nervous. I mean—I felt strange when I listened.”

They all denied ever listening very much to the local station. But all admitted when they did listen, it made them nervous.

“For years,” Jimmy said, “it was kind of a blah station. The old people listened to it mostly. Then, after Sorenson bought it, he brought in a whole new crew; changed the programing completely. Hillbilly for the adults, rock and roll for the kids.”

“That's right,” Peter said. “Something else, too; after Sorenson bought it, he stopped all religious programing. On Sunday's, it was all rock and roll.”

“It wasn't a very powerful station, was it?” Sam asked.

“No,” Wade said. “Two hundred and fifty watts. And the tower was in a bad location, so I'm told. Twenty miles out of town, you couldn't pick it up.”

“And the nearest town is over forty miles away,” Jane Ann added.

“This new crew Sorenson brought in,” Sam said, “was there anything—odd about them?”

Most agreed they never saw much of them. They tended to stay by themselves, in a mobile home.

“Yes,” Jimmy said. “Yes, there was something. I remember now. They all wore medallions about their necks.”

“That's right!” Wade snapped his fingers. “I always thought it was some kind of station symbol, or something like that.”

“It was,” Sam said. “Of the worst kind.”

“What does the station have to do with all this, Sam?” Father Haskell asked.

“Mind implantation. The government has proven it. It works.”

“I'm afraid I'm a bit behind times,” Dubois confessed. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“The message would be very short,” Sam said. “Perhaps one tenth of a second. So short the conscious mind would not realize it had heard anything. But the subconscious would record and remember it. Over a period of months, a person would have heard that message millions of times. It would be a part of them. If the message played on some secret desire, such as—oh—sex, power, money, revenge—whatever—a person could be won over. Like hypnotism, only much more insidious.”

Chester nodded. “Yes, now I recall. Jack and Ruby would lock themselves in a bedroom, listening to the rock and roll. When it was over, or if one of us would make them turn it off, they'd be surly, restless; they would want to do—wild things. And
did
do them!”

Jimmy rose to pace the den. “My girl did the same thing. I used to have to make her turn the radio down or off. She was receiving messages from it.”

“The same with my wife,” Peter noted. “I bought her an expensive combination radio/Hi-Fi set just so she could listen to that crap!”

“But, Sam?” Doris asked. “Why didn't it affect
all
the kids? It didn't seem to bother our two. Or Wade or Anita's.”

“I can't answer that, Doris. I just don't know.”

“Our kids never listened much to the radio,” Anita said. “We,” she looked at her husband, “always listened to classical music. So did Miles and Doris's kids. We became friends partly because of our mutual interest in good music.”

“Of late,” Chester said, “oh, probably within the last six months, our two have begun running with some—well, wild kids. Guess that's where they got hooked. I'd try to talk with them, so did Faye, but it just seemed to bounce right off them.”

It was late afternoon, the shadows moving through the town, thickening around the houses.

“Don't be afraid,” Father Dubois smiled, sensing the fear building in some of the people. “This is God's day. Satan can make no move against us on this day.”

“What do we do?” Tony asked.

“This is what we do,” Sam took command, leaning forward, speaking softly.

Dark when Sam reached the parsonage. The lights were on in the living room. With a dull feeling in his guts, Sam realized Michelle was home and he would have to face her. He hated her!

A virile man, Sam's sex life had been nil for months, and he was very much aware of his need for a woman. His groin told him so when he had looked at Jane Ann that afternoon. The women he had known before becoming a minister walked naked through his mind. Soft breasts and erect nipples, satin-smooth legs, wet mouths, and . . .

He forced those thoughts from his mind as he got out of the car. “I don't see how priests do it,” he muttered.

The odor in the house hit him when he opened the door. The smell of stale sweat, unwashed bodies, and the musky smell of sex. Everything that had occurred the past days fell on Sam's mind, overpowering the big man. Wild rage raced through him, hot and uncontrolled, overwhelming reason. He stalked through the house, seeking Michelle.

The door to her bedroom was closed. He tried the knob. Locked. Sam forced the door open. Michelle lay on the bed, naked, her legs spread wide, fingers busy within the dark mass of pubic hair at her apex.

The stench in the closed room was vile.

Michelle's breasts, full and heavy, were marked with bruises. Her knees were scratched. She had not washed herself, and the room stank with the scent of the unfaithful, the betrayer, the Godless.

The medallion hung about her neck, between her breasts, her nipples swollen with passion. Michelle's breath was quick, in her anticipated self-induced climax.

She opened her eyes; eyes dark with fury. “Get out of my room!” she hissed at him. “GET OUT!” she screamed.

Sam's temper boiled to the surface. All the rage and disgust and frustration rose up, yelling to be freed. “You Godless whore!” he shouted at her, grabbing her by one ankle, jerking her from the bed. She yelped as her bare butt hit the floor.

Michelle spat profanities at him, the filth spewing from her mouth. Sam slapped her, his big hand hard on her face, back-handing her twice. He tore the medallion from her neck, breaking the heavy chain, and threw it across the dimly-lit bedroom. The medallion bounced off a wall. His wife squalled at him, face ugly with rage and hate.

“Goddamn you!” she kicked at him with bare feet.

Sam dodged the kick and dragged her, by the heels, across the room into the bathroom. She howled and fought him. Shoving her into the shower stall, he turned the water on full force, adjusting the water temperature, then tossed a bar of soap onto the floor of the stall.

“I really don't want to touch you,” he said. “But if I have to, I'll scrub the stink off you.”

She laughed at him, her lips pulled back in a snarling grimace. Sitting on the floor of the stall, the water pasting her black hair to her skull, Michelle lewdly spread her legs wide, exposing herself to him.

Her fingers hooked inside her labia, she opened herself. “Wouldn't you like to fuck me, Sam? Come on, honey—I'll give you some pussy.”

Sam hit her with his fist. He hit her a short, hard, chopping right, his big fist catching her on the side of the jaw. Her head snapped back, banging against the side of the stall. She slumped forward onto the wet floor, unconscious.

Sam washed her, soaping her again and again until her body was red from the abrading of the washcloth. He washed her long hair until it squeaked. She groaned, shook her head, and tried to bite him. He popped her again with his fist and she was still.

Sam dragged her out of the stall, dried her, and carried her to his bedroom, dumping her on the sheets. With rope from the storeroom, Sam bound her, tying her hands to the headboard, her feet to the base of the frame. He tossed a blanket over her nakedness. She lay glaring up at him, eyes wild with fury.

“Bastard!” she hissed. “You'll die for this.”

“One of us will,” he promised her, stripping off his wet clothing.

Her eyes lingered at his groin. “Fuck me, Sam!” she begged him. “I need it!”

He looked at her in disgust, then turned his back to her. He walked into the bathroom, drying himself, changing clothes. Her screaming followed him through the house as he dialed the rectory for Father Dubois.

Quickly, he told the priest what he'd done. “I need your help, Michael. Can you come over here?”

“Five minutes, Sam.”

He met the priest on the front porch, watching as Dubois blessed the house with prayer and Holy Water.

“Will this work, Michael?”

“If it doesn't,” the old priest said grimly, “it will kill her.”

“Isn't she already dead?” Sam's voice was harsh.

“Yes, son, she is, in a manner of speaking. Come on, this is not going to be pleasant.”

The men followed the sounds of screaming, cursing, snarling.

“You picked a good day for this,” Dubois glanced at his watch. “We have about three and a half hours 'til midnight. I think it best we do it by then.”

In the bedroom, Michelle snarled at the sight of them, her eyes rolling back in her head, only the white showing at the sight of the Bible in Dubois's hand. She spat at him, the spittle catching him on the cheek. He wiped it away with a handkerchief, careful not to let any of the spit touch his lips.

“What do we do, Michael?”

The priest knelt by the bed. “Pray, Sam—let me do the rest. Pray harder than you've ever prayed in your life. We've got to fill this room with the power of God.”

And the men prayed.

Michelle howled like an animal on the bed, fighting her bonds until her ankles and wrists were raw and bleeding. She cursed their prayers, screamed as the Holy Water touched her flesh. She yelled filth and profanity, working as hard against the exorcism as they worked toward saving her soul.

Dogs barked in the streets of Whitfield; the crow, the owl, the night hawk hooted and cawed and screeched their outrage; and a summer storm sprang up in the dark skies, sending flashes of lightning licking across the heavens, thunder rolling in waves.

And the men prayed and worked.

Michelle strained against her bonds, blasphemy from her tongue opposing the supplications from the men of God.

An owl bashed itself to blood and broken feathers against the house, the Doberman from across the street ran around the parsonage, frantically seeking entrance into the house, its bloodlust high, the only thought in its brain: KILL. And in the homes of the possessed in Whitfield, eyes turned in the direction of the parsonage, mouths snarled, and tongues uttered chants learned in the pits of Hell.

“NNNOOO!” Michelle screamed, lunging against the bonds that held her. Her body arched upward in pain.

The minutes passed into hours as the power of God fought the mind-possessing tyranny of the devil. Michelle seemed to grow no weaker as the sweat gathered on her body, darkening the sheets.

Sam placed his hand on her forehead. “Speak of God's love, Michelle. Ask Him for help. Ask him! He will help.”

She snarled and attempted to bite Sam. “Fuck God!” she hissed. “Fuck Jesus! Praise the Prince of Darkness. Hail the Lord of Flies!”

She pulled back her lips and the men watched in horror as her teeth yellowed, enlarging, becoming fanged. Her eyes narrowed to slanted slits, yellow shining from the crooked apertures.

Father Dubois drenched her with Holy Water, and she squalled in pain, the metamorphosis reversing as she transformed back into Michelle.

“I thought so,” the priest muttered. He rose from his kneeling, a look of hate on his usually serene face. “It's no use. She's one of Them. Very old.”

Sam had backed against a wall, seemingly frozen there. Not so much from fear, although that was certainly a part of it, but more from shock at what he had lived with for years.

Dubois glanced at his watch. “Five minutes,” he muttered. “Only five more minutes and
she'll
have
us
.”

He walked out of the room, returning with a broom. He handed the broom to Sam. “Break it, Sam. I need a stake.” Sam hesitated. “BREAK IT!” Dubois shouted, slapping Sam across the mouth.

Sam came out of his shock with a lurch. He snapped the broom handle, leaving one end jaggedly pointed. “Sorry, Michael,” he apologized. “It just got to me.”

Watch me, son,” the priest ordered. “For when I'm gone, it's going to be up to you to do this—and you will have to do it many, many times. Be strong.”

And Sam watched in horror as the priest whirled, raised the stake with both hands, and brought it down, the jagged point driving into Michelle's chest.

Blood spewed from her mouth, both men ducking to avoid the gushing crimson.

But Michelle would not die.

She howled at them, blood spraying from her lips. Her teeth grew fanged, her eyes wild and yellow.

“Missed the heart,” Dubois said calmly, ignoring her shrieks of pain. “Pull the stake out for me, Sam. I don't have the strength.”

Sam jerked the stake from his wife's chest. He gave the dripping stick to Dubois.

The priest raised the stake far above his head. “Give me the strength, my God, to destroy this creature of Satan. In Your name, Lord.” He drove the stake deep into Michelle's heart.

Still she howled as the hands of the clock drew only seconds from midnight. The town seemed to hold its breath. All the howling from the animals had ceased; no birds called in the night.

Dubois was covered with sweat from his exertions. He worked the stake deeper into her chest. As the stake ruined the heart, the woman on the bed changed before their eyes. Where there had once been a healthy, beautiful woman, there was now a dirty hag. The hag changed again, into a smaller younger woman, but a woman covered with thick hair. The transformation back into time continued to run its course, until what was left on the bed did not in any way resemble a human form.

The thing on the bed was of such horrible features it was disgusting to look upon. It was an animal, but it was more; it was a Beast, but it was not. It was, to Sam, indescribable.

A stench filled the room, winding throughout the house. Both Sam and Father Dubois fought back vomit at the smell. It was the odor of thousands of years of evil, of sickness of the soul.

Wiping his face with his hand, Sam said, “You mean—you mean, I've been married to THAT? All this time!” He looked at Dubois. “You never liked her. I sensed that. You KNEW!”

“I suspected, Sam.” Both men seemed unable to pull their eyes from the rancid sight on the bed. “But I could not be certain. How could I tell you? I couldn't.”

Sam shuddered at the sight on the bed and of his own memories of Michelle. He was still somewhat in shock. “Wh—what do we do with her-it?”

“First we wash and change clothes. Then we wrap the thing up and take it out to Tyson's Lake. Dump it over the fence. Give it to the Beasts.”

“We killed—”

A
thing
!” Dubois finished Sam's sentence. “Something of the most perverse evil to ever walk God's earth. She—it never accepted our God, Sam. She only pretended to accept, all the while working toward her Master's ultimate goal.”

“Michael, what was she?”

“One of the originals, I believe. A—witch, I suspect. She's been here on this earth for hundreds—perhaps thousands of years, in one form or another, changing with the times, and always . . . waiting for her Master's signal to do evil—to strike. There is no way of knowing how much evil she has spread over her many lifetimes and lifestyles. How many lives she has ruined. She was very difficult to destroy,” he mused. “She must have been very old and very powerful.”

The men washed the stink from them, Sam giving Dubois some of his clothes to wear. The shirt and pants were far too large, but they were clean.