Fallen Stones (12 page)

The water-like film on the face of the mirror began to ripple more rapidly as Jack saw that the thing, which might have once been Emerson Washburn and was now some sort of Hell-spawned demon, was slowly beginning to emerge from within the mirror. Jack wanted to turn and run screaming from the unbelievable living nightmare unfolding before him but was now completely paralyzed; perhaps by some unknown power this ghastly thing possessed; perhaps by his own primal terror. The twitching specter floated out of the mirror and within a few seconds drifted across the room until it loomed just a few feet in front of Jack. It hideous face was still all that was visible in the glow of the flashlight, but Jack knew there were more horrors lurking in the blackness below that head.

Jack was thankful for the shadowy darkness of the room. He had absolutely no desire to see the revolting creature in its entirety. Seeing only its hideous maggot infested face in blurry twitching glimpses was horrifying enough. Jack could only imagine how the rest of the thing might appear, and he tried his best not to do so.

"Oh...Jack," the specter said with a condescending, almost mocking tone, its voice now clearer outside the confines of the mirror. "You didn't really think...you could get the better of me... did you? Even in death...you must understand...I am better than you... I see everything... I know everything... I even know what you were planning... I know about your scheme to burn my lovely house...to the ground... But sadly for you...you will never have that opportunity... You see, I have left this house...and all my possessions...to my long-lost niece. And I must keep it safe for her…the others have commanded it...as they have very special plans for her...and for her family.

Jack had no idea what the specter was talking about, nor did he care. He had come here to find his ring, then destroy the house and everything inside it. Now all he wanted was to escape with his life and his immortal soul intact.

Then suddenly, the ghostly phantom began to dissolve right before Jack's astonished eyes, breaking up into billions of tiny glowing particles. For the briefest of moments, Jack began to believe the repulsive thing was about to vanish, when abruptly, the mass of glowing specks flew rapidly toward him encircling his head like honeybees swarming to protect their queen.

Jack felt the accumulation of the luminous flecks tightening around his skull, felt tiny barely detectable elements slithering up into his nostrils and creeping between his tightly closed lips. His eyes burned, and he assumed the particles were even working their way inside him through his tear ducts. Then the entire swarm seemed to melt into the very pores of his flesh. Jack could feel a tingling sensation all around his skull as each microscopic glowing element passed into his body.

Within a few seconds, he felt an incredible cold spreading throughout his body. It started with his head, the crept down along his spine into his chest, down into the pit of his stomach and eventually all the way to the tips of his toes. Whatever the Washburn-thing had been, Jack understood it had now somehow become part of him. Jack realized he was no longer just Jack Moran. In fact, he could sense the very co-consciousness of Emerson Washburn inside his mind and his body.

The sensation was far beyond terrifying. Jack could still sense his own presence but could also feel Washburn's persona in there with him. Jack suddenly had an instantaneous recollection of Washburn's entire life. It was as if all of the man's memories had directly downloaded into his own brain, and they had become his own memories. One specific recollection, which seemed to keep repeating simultaneously from both Jack's own memory as well as Washburn's was from that life-changing night when Washburn severed Jack's finger. It was almost incomprehensible to Jack how he could see the same scene played out from two different perspectives at the same time; his own and that of Emerson Washburn. And what was even stranger was Jack actually reliving the emotions of that excruciating experience from two separate and opposite points of view simultaneously.

Jack's own personal impression of the event was filled with pain and terror, while the Washburn side of the memory was one of sheer pleasure; the sick thrill the twisted man had gotten from inflicting incredible agony on another human being. Although Jack as Jack could have never experienced such a sensation, Jack combined with the presence of Washburn most certainly could. It was then Jack realized, although Washburn was someone deserving of his hatred and disgust, the man was also a mentally deranged creature incapable of distinguishing right from wrong or from controlling his sadistic homicidal impulses.

Then Jack realized it was not simply that Washburn was sharing space in his body, but Jack could instantly tell Washburn was in physical control of him. Although Jack's persona was still present it was now only a spectator, helpless to work any of his own bodily motor control. Washburn was operating Jacks body like a puppet master with a marionette.  Jack felt his right hand reach around and tuck the revolver back into his pants. He still held the flashlight in his left hand and could feel Washburn position that hand downward to provide light for him to see ahead. In the mirror across the room Jack could see his own reflection moving without his actually being in control. For the briefest of moments, Jack looked at his own face in the mirror at his own eyes but no longer recognized the look they held. His eyes now reflected the violent and deranged soul of Emerson Washburn.

Jack felt his body begin to turn slowly as he clumsily staggered out of the dismal bedroom, then travel along the upstairs hall toward the stairs. He was terrified at not being able to control his own motion and feared the being, which now inhabited his body, might throw that same helpless body down the stairs, not necessarily to kill him outright, but to injure him and make him suffer. Washburn could simply cripple him and leave his broken body to die alone, helpless and in agony. He envisioned himself in a heap of shattered bone and flesh crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. No sooner had Jack experienced the mental image than he became concerned that the horrific thought might not actually have been his own, but might have been one that Washburn actually had planned for him. Had he known what fate actually awaited him, Jack would have been grateful to be thrown down the stairs instead.

Jack made it safely down the stairway without incident, and then his body continued shuffling awkwardly along the downstairs hall occasionally banging against the wall, stumbling past the living room and dining room, out into the kitchen then finally out the back door onto the deck. After the door was closed and locked, Jack's left hand clicked off the flashlight and tucked it into his pants pocket while his right hand reached down and picked up the gasoline can. Jack's fear began to increase as he sensed for the first time what the creature might have in store for him. He had no way of distinguishing between his own thoughts and those of Washburn.

Next, his remotely controlled body trudged through the back yard past the swimming pool, around the back of the house, through the side yard, around to the front of the house then down the long moonlit driveway. The stolen car Jack had used to travel to the property was parked a few hundred feet up the main road from where it intersected with Washburn's driveway.

Jack felt his body move toward his car, which he had hidden to the best of his ability along the side of the road, where it was concealed in the shadows of dense overhanging trees. When Moran reached the sedan, Washburn commanded his arm to open the driver's door, as well as the door to the back seat. Next Jack was forced to dump the gasoline inside the car, allowing it to soak into the cloth carpeting in both the front and back. He then took what was left in the can and lifted it high over his own head, allowing it to trickle down over his face completely saturating his clothing. His eyes, which Washburn had forced to stay open, burned unmercifully as the gasoline streamed over and into them. His sinuses were likewise singed by the caustic vapors emanating from the flowing fuel, and Jack's lungs burned from the vapors, which were apparently damaging him internally; not that such a problem would be a concern for very much longer.

Before Jack had sufficient time to realize the extent of his suffering, Washburn commanded Jack's helpless body to sit in the front driver's seat and start the engine while leaving the door open. Jack looked into the rearview mirror and at first saw only his own blurry, reddened and terrified eyes looking back at him. After a moment, Jack once again saw someone else looking at him through those same eyes as they changed to reflect a much more hateful and sinister appearance. At that moment, Jack heard Washburn's voice speaking to him from inside his own head.

Washburn said, "Too bad you just couldn't let things go, Jack; too bad for you indeed." Jack sat in the car smelling the pungent odor of raw gasoline as it permeated the air in the close confines of the sedan. He started to feel dizzy and nauseous from the gas fumes. His lungs burned as if on fire. Suddenly Jack's body revolted from the ordeal, and he vomited involuntarily down the front of his shirt and onto his lap. After a moment or two of silence, while Jack sat smelling the sickening sour stench of his own puke mixed with the gasoline fumes, Washburn said in Jack's mind, "Well I suppose we had better get on with this." Then Jack felt his right hand reach into his right pocket and grasp tightly on his cigarette lighter; the same lighter he had brought with him with the intention of burning down Washburn's home.

"Oh my Lord in Heaven, no!" Jack's thoughts screamed in his mind. "Please, please don't do this" But Jack realized Washburn's plan was irreversibly set in motion and no power could do anything to stop the unearthly fiend.

"I suppose I'll see you in Hell someday, Jack my boy," he heard Washburn say as his right hand flicked the thumbwheel on the lighter. It didn't light or even spark and for the briefest of moments, Jack thought he might be spared the fate he saw ahead of him. Then two clicks later, it finally sparked to life, and the car was engulfed in a flaming inferno.

The sparkling particles began to stream from Jack's body and rapidly reassemble themselves outside of the fiery conflagration by the side of the road. Then the specter of Emerson Washburn, having completed the task which he had been required to perform floated back through the darkness toward his home to prepare for the coming of the new homeowners: the Wright family.

Jack sat helpless in the car, paralyzed but still able to feel everything that was happening to him. Emerson Washburn had made certain of that. Washburn did not want the man to miss one single moment of his flaming agony and, as always, he had gotten his wish.

Jack Moran experienced unfathomable pain as his flesh, bubbled, broiled and eventually either melted from his body or was charred to his bones, while every single nerve ending in his body simultaneously fired electronic impulses to his brain synapses, which silently screamed with unbearable agony. In his mind, Jack discovered he was now alone and in his dying misery, he mentally howled a final death shriek. He could smell his own skin and hair burning from his body as the world around him eventually, mercifully faded to blackness.

Chapter 6

 

“Excuse...me?” Stephanie questioned, obviously discomforted by the way the lawyer had answered his phone. Suddenly she felt as if a squirming centipede was gently scooting across the back of her neck with its feather-light legs, as an icy chill shivered down her spine. She had been taken completely by surprise and she asked, "Wa...what? Mr. Armstrong? Yes...um...yes, this is Stephanie Wright, but...how...how did you know...it was me?"

"Good evening, Mrs. Wright," the lawyer repeated with a deep baritone voice; one which sounded accustom to public speaking. "Of course I knew it was you. Please allow me to explain. First of all, I assumed you would be calling me sometime today after receiving your registered letter. And since you had not yet called, I deduced you would do so after speaking with your husband when he got home from work. Secondly, I am not expecting calls from any of my other clients this evening. Third, and perhaps most important, is that I have caller ID on my phone and your name came up.” He gave a bit of a chuckle, “You see, it was as simple as that. No mystery whatsoever.”

“Oh…" she said with surprise, feeling a bit foolish, "I suppose… I guess I didn't think you… I mean I didn't realize…you know, Ashton is such a small town. I mean...you are...way up there… ” Stephanie was fumbling to find the right words. However, the harder she tried to get out of the embarrassing hole she had dug herself into, the deeper it got.

 Armstrong seemed to understand her dilemma and chose to have a bit of pleasure from her obvious discomfort suggesting, “Believe it or not, way up here in the coal region we actually have such modern conveniences as running water, electricity and even flushing indoor toilets. Not to mention other amenities such as cable TV, cell phones, the Internet and yes, even caller ID.

"I'm so terribly sorry, Mr. Armstrong" Stephanie said when she heard the obvious sarcasm in his reply. She didn't mean to suggest Schuylkill County was akin to some sort of third-world country by any means, although she and many of her friends often did think of that part of the state as being a bit “behind the times”. The truth was she had not expected Armstrong to be in his office and was caught by surprise not only when he answered the phone, but also when he did so by using her name. She hoped the man had good sense of humor and had been simply offering the self-deprecating comment to break the ice. She couldn't be certain if she had genuinely offended the man by insulting his hometown but most definitely hoped she had not.

"You...you just caught me by surprise, is all," she said in a feeble attempt at explanation.

He replied, "No need to apologize, Mrs. Wright. I understand completely. You see, I have to admit I am actually a transplant to the area and not a native. I moved to Ashton some thirty years ago when I married my late wife, Margaret, and have been living here ever since. We met back when we were in college; she was born and raised in Ashton. After we moved here I realized there was something so inherently special about this area that I found very appealing and still do lo these many years later." He hesitated for a beat and said, "But then again, you didn't call to hear my life story. No doubt you called regarding the inheritance you were bequeathed by my client, the late Mr. Emerson Charles Washburn."