Stories (2011) (103 page)

Dag slipped off her pack and frame, leaned them against the
wall; Kevin, who had been carrying his in his hand, tossed it next to Dag’s
pack.

Dag bent over her pack and removed a Coleman and a handful
of candles. She lit the candles, and with Kevin guiding her with the
flashlight, placed them about the room in a circle. They lit the candles on the
old fireplace mantle last.

"Don’t throw out a lot of light, do they?" Kevin
said.

"Reddi Kilowatt they’re not," Dag agreed.

"And they smell funny."

"Cheap."

"Tell you what," Kevin said. "I’ll go out and
see if I can scrape up a bit of firewood. Provided I can find something that
isn’t snow covered."

"There’s a little shed out back. Used to be a pump
house. There’s some wood there. Some of it might be rotten, but it’ll do for
tonight, throw off a little light and heat."

"Sounds like my best bet."

"Yep."

"You coming?"

"No, I’ll stay here and make sure these cheap candles
don’t go out."

"Don’t talk to any ghost while I’m gone."

"Don’t even say that, Kevin."

"Hey, sweetheart. This was your idea."

"Don’t remind me. Go on before I tag along in your
shoes."

Kevin kissed her on the forehead, said, "Right
back."

He went outside and around to the old pump house. The wind
howled through the pines like a dying wolf.

The fire crackled pleasantly. Kevin and Dag sat together,
Kevin’s flannel jacket draped over their knees. Strobe shadows and orange-red
glints filled their faces.

"Not so bad, huh?" Dag said resting her head on
Kevin’s shoulder.

"Well, the rooming isn’t great, but it isn’t as bad as
the food."

"Last time I ever buy Spain."

"This old house," said Kevin, "didn’t you say
something at school about it being haunted?"

"No. I said there was an old legend about it. Not
exactly a haunting. No ghost. Let’s don’t talk about it. I’d forgotten about
it."

"Crying out loud. You talk me into this and won’t even
tell me the ghost story that goes with it?"

"It’s a silly story."

"It’ll entertain me."

"Roll out those bedrolls and I’ll entertain you!"

Kevin laughed, took Dag’s hand. "Come on, tell
me."

Dag sighed, lifted her head from his shoulder. "It’s
just a bunch of nonsense. It’ll give you nightmares. Worse yet, it’ll give me
nightmares and I’m the one that thought up this screwy idea."

"The cold does take some of the charm out."

"Uh huh."

"Very well. You talked me into this, so that puts you
on the spot. Dag, spill the story."

"All right, but it’s screwy. My grandfather, who owned
this house last, was as rich as they come. He could do what he damned well
pleased. He pleased to explore the world, and did. Down in South America he
found Huitzilopochtli, or so he claimed."

"Who?"

"Huitzilopochtli. Let me tell you a bit of the
background behind that. It helps for understanding the story."

"Are you making this up?"

Dag held up her hand. "Girl Scout’s honor. This is for
the family legend. I’ve heard it all my life. I was interested in it enough to
do some reading on it. There really isn’t much about Huitzilopochtli, or
witchy-wolves, as the Spanish called him. As far as I can tell the
witchy-wolves stuff had nothing to do with werewolves and that sort of thing.
Some other connotation altogether.

"The Aztec, as the Spanish called them, supposedly,
early in their history, found in a grotto an idol. This idol was
Huitzilopochtli, and through the idol a god lived. The god offered the Aztec
advice. It was a constant oracle if they would satisfy certain conditions. They
were to carry the idol with them like a banner and feed it on fresh hearts
ripped from the breast of recently sacrificed victims. This was part of the
Aztec preoccupation with human sacrifice, the satisfaction of Huitzilopochtli."

"And your uncle found Huitzilopochtli?"

"So goes the legend. After the Spanish came and
destroyed the Aztec, the idol was hidden, and eventually when its keepers died
it was forgotten. Without human sacrifices it became nothing more than stone
again.

"While exploring some ancient caves my uncle came upon
the idol. All this was recorded in his diary. What happened after the discovery
of the idol was also recorded, and when his diary was read it was determined he
claimed the idol made him a promise."

"He claimed the idol made him a promise..."

"The same promise it made the Aztec. He brought the
idol home with him. Here. Used it to make things better for himself than they
were. Not that he needed it. He was rich, remember? But you see, the neighbors
started missing."

"I got it. He was killing them for
Huitzilopochtli."

"On the dot. He kept a diary of it all. How he killed
them and flayed their skin to wear as a robe."

"Yetch!"

"In this very house he killed and cut the hearts out of
his victims. The diary goes into great detail. It tells how he fed them to the
idol, a small black statue not over six-inches high with a leering face,
ruby-red eyes, and one of its hands holding an upturned plate."

"A plate?"

"That’s where the heart went, and once it was placed there,
still dripping blood, the statue would begin to come to life. The diary tells
how its eyes would be the first thing to reveal its life. Blood red they would
become, and then the statue, plate and all, would grow to the height of eight
feet."

"Jesus, that’s one tall tale. He was losing his
marbles!"

"When the heart was devoured, the statue would return
to normal size."

"And lifelessness?"

"Right. Well, it was never entirely lifeless. Just
limited in mobility."

"Why the skins? Why did he flay the victims?"

"That was another part of the Aztec custom. To flay the
victims and wear the skin to impersonate a deity."

"What happened to your grandfather?"

"That’s the interesting part. He went to prison. For
one night he was in the middle of one of his ceremonies when the law broke down
the door. They found grandfather wearing the unfortunate victim’s skin. The
body was on the floor, it’s chest torn open."

"The idol?"

"Nowhere to be found."

"Then it was all in his mind?"

"The victim’s heart was never found either, and
according to legend, there were deep grooves dug in the wooden floor planks as
if by something heavy being dragged across it."

"Huitzilopochtli making his escape."

"The scrapes got smaller outside, and they said they
tracked the scrapes for some distance till they disappeared into a stream. They
dragged the stream a couple of times, but decided the current must have carried
it out to the river."

"And your grandfather? You said he went to prison for
awhile."

"He did. He began to age radically. You see he was 65
then and looked 40. He’d looked 40 ever since he found the idol. He claimed
that was part of his agreement with the god. Fresh hearts for eternal life and
youth.

"He spent about six months in jail and looked 70 by the
end of that time, and then, by a stroke of luck he managed to escape."

"They catch him?"

"Never even saw him again. But legend goes that some
folks saw him, and that he was as young as before, and the story goes on to say
that when the heat died down he came back here, and off and on, it’s been his
headquarters."

"And the diary?"

"The police took it, turned it over to the family
eventually. That’s how we all know about it."

"Grisly!"

Dag nodded. "But you have to admit, eternal life is
quite a prize."

"I suppose," Kevin agreed.

That night they made love and Kevin could not remember it
ever being so passionate. Not even the first time when the thrill of sneaking
into her dorm room added to the pleasure. This was something else altogether.
Hot, unrestrained passion.

When they were through he slept with Dag close in his arms,
her sweet breath tickling his flesh.

It was the smell of the candles that first alerted him to
wakefulness, and then the sound of chanting. He blinked. Dag was gone. He
raised up on one elbow, and gasped. Before the fireplace, back turned, was a
figure, and on the figure’s back was a tattered skin. Enough of it remained so
that there was no doubt as to what type of skin. It was human flesh. Through
rips and rents in the skin the flesh of another showed. It was from this figure
the chanting came.

And as Kevin watched, frozen, the figure turned.

It was a man, about 40. But the eyes were much older, and
very wicked. Kevin found the courage to struggle out of his bedroll and to his
feet.

The man moved toward him. Kevin could see that the face of
the skin was thrown back like a hood. The man reached up and took it, pulling
it down over his face.

"Kevin."

He turned quickly. Behind him, wearing the same ghoulish
garb as the old man, was Dag.

"Dag... What?" And then he noticed what was in her
hand and what set on the floor beside her.

"Eternity is worth most anything," Dag said and
she lunged toward him with the obsidian knife.

He had just enough time to scream before the old man grabbed
his hair and Dag planted the dagger in his chest. But before the blade ripped
his heart free, the thing that had been at Dag’s feet, a little, black,
grotesque statuette, moved on stone legs and feet toward him. In one hand,
balanced in the middle of its palm, it held a black, obsidian plate.

Empty.

For now.

“He’s really a very nice boy,” the father said, shifting in
his chair, adding, “when he’s asleep.”

The man behind the desk laughed. “Yes, we have a lot of them
here on the island.”

The boy, uncomfortable in short pants, white shirt, black
tie and sporty little jacket, squeaked his dress shoes on the floor when he
moved, said, “Sorry.”

It’s just his mother and I, well, we don’t have a lot of
time to ourselves, and he causes…trouble.”

I understand. We all understand here.”

“He has problems at school. Bullies pick on him. He doesn’t
fight back. He always wants books and such. Not much for sports, you see. It’s
not just the bullies. There’s other things. He wants lots of attention. We’ve
tried medication. Doesn’t help much.”

“Well, there’s good attention, and there’s bad attention.
And seldom think medication is such a good idea. As for good attention and bad
attention, here he’ll sort them out.”

I saw as soon as we got off the boat, as we were driven in,
that this could be the right place for him. I can see it’s the kind of place
that can mature a boy quickly.”

“Daddy, I don’t want to stay here.”

“It’ll be okay, son.”

“I don’t like it here.”

“It’s not about liking it, son. Is it Mr. Vesty?”

“No. Not at all. It’s about learning to stand on your own
two feet and becoming a man. Many have come here who were, well, weak, a bit
sissy. Some left here strong and powerful young men. That’s our hope for you.
And, if it doesn’t work out that way, I assure you, my boy, everyone is better
off.”

“But, daddy.”

“No, son. This is it. We’ve tried all the conventional
methods, but you stay the same.”

“I can change.”

“You always say that.”

“But, Daddy, I just–”

“Enough. We’ve been over it.”

“You’ll need to sign here,” Mr. Vesty said.

The father picked up the pen and signed the sheet of paper.
The scratching of the pen sounded very loud in the little room.

Finished, Mr. Vesty walked with father and son to the door.

“You’ll be escorted out the way you came in,” Mr. Vesty said
to the father.

“And, your boy, we’ll start on him immediately.”

“If it doesn’t work out…you’ll call me?”

“Of course. And we take care of all arrangements. Your fee
covers that.”

Father turned to his son, said, “Do your best. This is the
way it should be, and the best for everyone all the way around. You pay
attention to things, keep yourself alert, you’ll…probably be okay. And I’ll
come to see you in a few years…to pick you up.”

“But, Daddy, I’m small…I, don’t know.”

“Good, bye, son. I wish you luck.”

The father took his son’s hand and shook it. “Keep your
hands up. Anything goes in life, so you have to be ready. Hands up, now.”

The door to the armored car was opened and the father went
out between two armed guards who had been waiting. They guided him into the
vehicle and the father closed the door without looking back. The guards climbed
in up front.

The car drove off.

Mr. Vesty put his hand at the boy’s back, said, “Good, luck.
And don’t come back here. No one will answer the door.”

All about, boys were running wild, naked, with sticks and stones.
Fighting each other. One child lay on the ground with his eye poked out, the
stick that had done the deed was still in his face. He quivered and groaned,
finally lay still.

Smoke rose up in the distance.

“But, I’m not a fighter,” the boy said.

“You better try and be. This place is about survivors”

Mr. Vesty stepped briskly behind the boy, and placing his
foot to the seat of the child’s pants, shoved him face down into the dirt.

Mr. Vesty stepped back inside the bunker, and closed the
door.

The boy rose up on hands and knees. His nose was bloody
where it had scraped the ground. From his four point position, he saw a clutch
of grinning, yelling boys, all of them carrying sticks and clubs, rushing right
for him.

In the moonlight, in the starlight, the churning waves
seemed white with laundry soap. They crashed against the shore and the dark
rocks there, and when they rolled back they left wads of seaweed and driftwood
and all the tossed garbage and chunks of sewage that man had given the sea.