Psychlone (11 page)

It looked like the boar that had tried to pull Fowler under the gravel. But as they watched, the features seemed to blur and subside, until only shadows remained.

They dug out the mound and spread it back across the drive.

The temperature was dropping rapidly.

“I think it's starting again,” Fowler said.

“What, just like that? Like clockwork, this thing, huh?” Prohaska paced back and forth across the cabin, clapping his arms against his sides and breathing into clasped fingers. “How cold is it?"

“Fifty in here. Dropped eighteen degrees Fahrenheit."

“Oh, and how much centigrade?” Prohaska asked sardonically.

“Celsius nowadays,” Fowler said. “I don't know. I'd have to compute it ... about ten degrees."

“Fine. Now I know. What in hell is it doing?"

“I think it's gathering energy for something."

“What?"

Fowler shrugged and smiled wanly. “You tell me. Last time, nothing happened. Nothing that I saw."

“Good, good. They should have you on Fright Theater. Real low-key horrors. Pardon me if I'm glib when I'm worried."

“That's okay. My girl friend's the same way."

“Have to be properly introduced some time. Could this be due to catastrophic failure of insulation?"

Fowler shook his head, still smiling. This was a little better—introducing another human being to the unknown was much more agreeable than facing it alone. It was almost fun, in the same way scaring the shit out of each other had been fun as kids.

“Down to forty-five, inside and out,” Fowler said, looking at the graph as it crept through the chart recorder. “Microwave emissions up and at a plateau."

“Mind if I smoke?"

“If you can get your match lit, go ahead."

Prohaska struck a match and watched it flicker in his hands and go out. “Something wrong with the oxygen around here?"

“No. I don't know what causes it. Look at the fireplace.” The flames were darkening, just as they had the night before. “It's sucking all heat out, radiant heat, heat in the air, in the ground, the wood. Everything."

“How the hell could it do that?"

Fowler shrugged. “Okay—now look at this. I want you to see everything I'm doing.” He set up the camera in the window and recorded the shutter speed and film type—infrared. “I'm going to make a scan of the front yard around our cars."

He snapped the pictures and turned the camera between each shot. Then he brought out another camera and shot pictures inside the cabin with regular Tri-X film. “I've also got pieces of black-and-white negatives in my camera bag.” He removed several small sheets pre-wrapped in black plastic. He proceeded to pin them to the walls around the cabin. “Radiation streaks will show up on them, if there are any."

“And on your film in the camera, too."

“Maybe."

Prohaska bent over the chart recorder and looked at the digital display on the thermometers. “Down to thirty. It's below freezing."

“Yeah. The air's very moist, too. Pretty soon you'll have frost all over you. Careful you don't get chilled.” Fowler handed him another coat and suggested he put on ear muffs.

“This is incredible,” Prohaska said, huddled on the couch, trembling uncontrollably. “H-how much longer?"

“I don't know. Maybe it's hungry."

Prohaska shook his head. “Stop being funny,” he said.

“Funny, hell. What other kinds of m-motivation could it have?"

“Maybe it's after our souls. Out to scare us to death. Maybe it j-just hates human beings, can't stand being around them."

The chart record levelled off at twenty-nine degrees Fahrenheit, about two degrees below zero Celsius. “Okay,” Fowler said. “It has enough now."

“Enough for what?"

“Patience."

Something slammed against the door. They both jumped. “There are two of us,” Prohaska said. “If it doesn't like people, now it's twice as mad as when just you were here."

“Might have been a bird. An owl."

“Flying into the door in the dark. Jesus, there's frost on the logs in the fireplace!"

“I told you about that,” Fowler said.

“Now I believe you."

The thump on the door came again. Fowler brought up the camera loaded with infrared and snapped two pictures of the door.

“Maybe we should answer,” Prohaska suggested.

“You answer."

“I'm not insured for that sort of thing."

This time, the thump became regular, insistent.

“It's the old problem,” Fowler said. “Do you keep the door closed and stay afraid, wondering what it is, or do you open it and know for sure?"

“Neither."

Fowler laughed grimly. “A man after my own heart. But that isn't a very scientific attitude. Maybe someone wants in.” In a louder voice, he called out, “Who is it?"

Prohaska yelped. “In the window,” he said. “There's something in the window!"

Behind the curtains, Fowler could see two points of light, like eyes, moving back and forth on the other side of the glass. He started to move closer, hesitated, then forced himself to look at the lights squarely. He was barely a yard from whatever was outside. Behind the curtains, he could see the two spots were moths, each burning with the red glow he had seen before.

“They're insects,” he said.

“They're moving like eyes."

Something tinked against the glass, then again. It became a suggestive, metallic rain of tiny stones, and then it stopped. Prohaska's breath was ragged. The cabin was not getting any warmer.

“Build a fire,” Fowler said. “Let's get some heat in here.” He didn't bother checking the thermostat and the gas heater—the pilot light was probably out. They pulled logs out of the hopper and stacked them above crumpled newspapers, then lit a match and started the blaze. Fowler looked up and the moths were gone. For the moment, the noise had stopped. Prohaska held his hands out to the fire and sighed.

“How did this thing get the old man to kill his son?"

“How the hell should I know?” Fowler said, suddenly irritable. “Possession."

“You're suggesting it's a demon of some sort?"

“Jordan Taggart didn't think it was a ghost. It doesn't behave like a ghost—no human form, for one thing."

“How about a poltergeist?"

“I don't think so."

“But don't demons have to be conjured up or invited in or something?"

Fowler shook his head. “I'm no expert, Sam. I've only done scattered reading, and I'm sure none of the authors I've read knew what they were talking about. They express everything in religious terms, applying a ready-made metaphysic to it. Maybe this isn't connected with religion. Maybe it's a natural phenomenon."

“I find that hard to believe."

“It's happening, isn't it?"

Prohaska held up his hands helplessly. “Not at the moment. I don't believe a thing when it isn't happening at the moment."

Rocks began to fall against the roof. “Now there,” Prohaska said. “As a reporter, I can handle rock falls on the roof. That's an old poltergeist trick."

Again the door was hit by pebbles. “Squirrels playing baseball,” Fowler said. The muffled thumps resumed, and resolved into a steady knock. “It wants in."

“By God, I feel like an asshole,” Prohaska said. “What if somebody is outside, hurt or sick?"

Fowler didn't answer. He stood by the couch, looking steadily at the window. Nothing was visible except a dim reflection of Prohaska and himself.

“If it can't get in, I don't see why we should let it in,” he said steadily. His hands were shaking and he stuffed them into the jacket pockets. “If it's any consolation I feel pretty stupid, too."

“No consolation at all."

“Then open the door."

Prohaska screwed his face up like a kid faced with a particularly unpleasant dare. “If it wants in, it can break a window. It hasn't tried yet. It's only seen people go in and out the door. So it isn't very smart, is it?"

“I don't think so."

“Good, good. We begin to establish parameters. If it isn't an injured hunter dying while we futz around in here, it's some sort of immaterial force that gets energy by freezing things, and it isn't very intelligent. But it doesn't like people."

“I have to go to the john,” Fowler said.

“And leave me alone out here?"

Fowler chuckled. “You'll survive until I return.” He walked down the hall and left the door open as he urinated. A thin layer of ice melted under his warm discharge. He flushed the toilet and turned to look in the tub.

The growth was back, worse if anything. The crayonlike marks had started to make a pattern. It resembled a body curled up in the tub, drawn with a thousand frenetic lines. The smell was awful. “Sam, bring some disinfectant and come in here. Bring the cleanser, too."

Prohaska rattled under the kitchen sink, then came to the bathroom and stood by the tub with Fowler. “You sound like this has happened before,” he said softly.

“It goes away with cleanser.” Fowler picked up the scrub brush and poured disinfectant into the tub. “I don't know what will happen if it keeps growing,” he said. The amber fluid poured toward the drain. Where it touched, the mould began to dissolve. He sprinkled green powder into the tub. The disinfectant crossed a few puffs of green and met the head of the figure.

It flinched.

Fowler backed up against the wall. Prohaska stood transfixed. “Did you see that?” he asked.

“Let's clear it out.” Fowler returned to the tub and took the bathroom scrub brush from its holder near the toilet. Bending over, holding his head as high above the tub as possible, he began to erase the lines with the brush. He ran water and repeated the procedure. A dull stain remained this time, but the buildup vanished, and with it the suggestion of a curled-up body.

“They found Taggart—Jordan Taggart—in the bathtub,” Prohaska said. He licked his lips. “I need something to drink."

“I didn't know they found him here,” Fowler said. He stood, holding his dripping hands away from his pants. “What about Henry?"

“Outside, on the porch."

The door rattled.

“Don't say it,” Prohaska warned.

“Say what?"

“That it's Taggart outside."

“Hell no, he was much too polite."

They looked at each other for a moment, and tears welled up in Fowler's eyes. A cloud of sadness and loss seemed to rise around them. “Why couldn't it be friendly?” Fowler said.

“What?” Prohaska voiced the word cautiously, as though he knew what Fowler meant, but the question was still necessary.

“It killed my best friend and his father. We haven't done anything to it, but it wants to kill us, now. Why?"

“Maybe we're thorns in its side.” Prohaska seemed to struggle for the proper phrasing, his lips working. “Have you ever been in a room with a very dull person, and watched the hate grow when he met a smart person? The resentment, the hackles rising, all covered by society?” He leaned against the bathroom door, head lowered as if he was going to be sick. “The stupid person knows that the smart person can destroy him if he wants."

“I don't understand—not completely,” Fowler said.

“If that thing outside is not intelligent, if it's dull and slow like a porcupine, it thinks we're dangerous. At the very least, irritating. If it's stuck here, stuck in the ground, in this valley maybe, we're not. We can go where we please. It hates us because we're freer than it is."

The door was hit by something infinitely heavy and slow. The air in the cabin seemed to thicken, growing more and more pungent. Fowler looked at Prohaska and suddenly loathed him.

“Your ideas don't make any sense,” he said thickly. His tongue was like glue. He could hardly talk. “I have to get out of here, I'm going to be sick."

“Me, too,” Prohaska said. They lurched against each other in the hall and Fowler felt like striking the reporter. They went to the kitchen tap and immediately began to slurp handfuls of water, butting against each other in their haste. Prohaska raised his hand, his eyes heavy-lidded.

“I feel dull too, now,” Fowler said, jerking his eyes back and forth between the raised hand and Prohaska's face. “It's making me stupid. Dense. Can hardly move."

“A weapon,” Prohaska said. Fowler could hardly hear him. “It gets rid of us by making us like it ... is...” He lowered his hand and looked at it sheepishly. “Don't you feel it? Plodding, slow, but clever somehow ... able to get into our minds and pick out the loathsome things, the things rotten with age. The fear. The bigotry. The greed. It knows these things, it knows how to use them."

“Stop talking,” Fowler commanded. “Your voice hurts my ears.” Every word seemed to pierce and irritate. He wanted to listen to something else but Prohaska was preventing him by chattering. That something else was the fall of gravel on the roof, soothing like rain. Perhaps it was rain. Rain had always lulled him, made him grow dull and sleepy. Now he wanted to sleep. He walked one step to the couch, to lie down, but stopped himself. “If we go to sleep, we've had it,” he told Prohaska. The reporter raised his head and looked at Fowler listlessly. There were tears in his eyes now, too. “It's so sad,” Fowler said, nodding.

“It's lonely,” Prohaska said. “It needs company.” He turned slowly and faced the living room. “If we're so fucking pure at heart and capable, surely we can teach it, make it more like us!” He walked toward the door. Fowler reached out to stop him, but his hand missed and dropped to his side. Prohaska stumbled on the throw rug and fell against the door. The infinite, single pound, in the lower registers of hearing, continued to roll against the outside, demanding, insisting, and now—Prohaska was weeping with it—pleading to be let in.

“Don't,” Fowler whispered. He was crying for the Taggarts, not for what was outside. His mouth was thick despite the water. He turned back to drink some more. His fingers twisted the faucet handle and he held his hand out.

Brown water poured from the tap across his fingers and palm. The odor was sharp and poisonous, like smelling salts and sewage. He backed away, holding out his hand. Then he saw it was clean, just wet, and the water was clear. It was a distraction. He heard Prohaska unlatch and unlock the door.