The Devouring (5 page)

“You’re late,” he said, not turning around.

“You’re old,” she replied, stashing her stuff behind the counter.

Eben grinned.

“Reggie, you have no idea
how
old.” He was precise yet not stuffy in conversation. His accent defied classification, lilting on some words, throaty on others. Eben claimed to be from too many places to name — none of them interesting. He stepped down with his habitual grunt, grabbed his steel-tipped cane, and limped toward her. Reggie wasn’t sure how he’d gotten the injury; she assumed it was in a war because she knew he’d once been a soldier, but he never talked about it. He raised his cane and pointed at a half-finished book display in a corner.

“That was supposed to be done
yesterday.
Finish it, please.”

“Yes, sir, right away,” Reggie said. “We sure want to be ready for the horde of last-minute Christmas shoppers.”

Eben lowered his glasses down his nose at her, which meant his patience was wearing thin. She got the message and went to work, constructing a “house of books” on the table with hardcover copies of Stephen King’s latest, and Eben settled into a leather wingback chair.

“Pick your poison,” he said. “Poe or Lovecraft?”

Reggie grinned at the start of their ritual.

“Mmm ... Poe,” she said.

“All right.” Eben thought for a moment. “‘Masque of the Red Death.’ First line.”

“Maybe we should play patty cake,” said Reggie. “How about a challenge?”

“Let’s hear it, Miss Halloway,” he said.

“Okay,” she said, closing her eyes. “‘The Red Death had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal — the redness and horror of blood.’” She opened her eyes. Eben was smiling.

“Almost perfect,” he said. “You left out a ‘the’ but we’ll give it to you.”

Reggie resumed balancing the novels one on top of the other.

“My turn,” she said. “Poe or Lovecraft?”

“Lovecraft,” said Eben.

“Okay,” she said. “‘The Rats in the Walls.’ Last sentence.”

“A nice choice,” Eben said. He cocked his head in thought, and then spoke in a hushed tone. “‘The slithering scurrying rats whose scampering will never let me sleep; the demon rats that race behind the padding in this room and beckon me down to greater horrors than I have ever known; the rats they can never hear; the rats, the rats in the walls.’”

“Sounds good to me,” said Reggie, fitting one more book in at an angle. The house collapsed. She sighed. “Typical of this stupid day.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Oh, Henry’s sick and being weird.”

“Weird?”

“He pulled all the fur off his favorite stuffed animal. He said he wanted to see what it looked like naked. Weird enough?”

“Does your dad know?”

“He wasn’t home.”

“You should tell him.”

“Why? He won’t do anything. It works for him because he doesn’t
notice
anything, either.”

Reggie sat on a stool opposite Eben.

“Your father loves you, Regina,” he said. “He’s learning to cope with a big change. Give him a chance.”

“And
I
know how to cope? I just started high school! And now I’ve got a mothering gig to boot.”

“Unforeseen challenges. You do the best you can. Henry will be okay.”

“Henry doesn’t have his mom anymore.”

“But he has you.”

Reggie smiled a little. This was why she loved her conversations with Eben. He didn’t sugarcoat, he didn’t make excuses, and he didn’t treat her like a snotty teenager. He was everything her father wasn’t.

“And I’ve got you,” she said.

“Yes, you do.” Eben smiled back. “Always. Poor girl.”

The bell on the door jingled and Aaron walked in wearing his pith helmet.

“My book come in, Eben?”

“That it did, my lad.” Eben pulled a parcel from behind the counter. Aaron ripped off the brown paper wrapping.

“What is it?” asked Reggie.

“Murder, Mayhem, and Madness: A History of Serial Killers!”

Reggie rolled her eyes. “Not more serial killers.”

“This is great stuff, Reg,” said Aaron, flipping through the book. “Take Richard Chase, the ‘Vampire of Sacramento.’ He put the blood and brains of his victims in a blender and then drank them; he thought his blood was turning to powder and he needed fresh goods to replenish it.”

Reggie grimaced. “Thanks for sharing.”

“You like your horror to stay make-believe,” Aaron said. “I like mine served up real.”

“So was last night real or make-believe?” asked Reggie.

“What happened last night?” asked Eben.

Aaron grinned.

“Oh, last night we did a fear —” He caught Reggie’s warning eye.

“Fear
what
?” Eben asked.

“Nothing. Just a dumb game,” said Reggie. “You know — geek stuff.”

Eben looked her over.

“Don’t ever go into politics, Regina,” he said. “You can’t lie to save your life. What did you two do last night?”

Reggie knew that tone. You could tell Eben
anything
and never worry about being judged, but he was not a person you lied to.

“We, uh, took a fear test. A ritual, sort of.”

“I failed,” Aaron confessed. “Not exactly the apt pupil. But Reggie passed with flying colors.”

“Ritual?” Eben asked. “What ritual?”

Reggie sighed, pulled the journal from her backpack, and then handed it to Eben. He adjusted his glasses, opened the book, and read the first paragraph aloud:

The Vours are all around us. They wear our names

and faces, but they are not us. The most dangerous

thing we are ever told is, “There is nothing to be afraid

of,” because, in truth, there is so very much to fear.

Eben glanced from Reggie to Aaron.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“It came in with one of the shipments. A few weeks ago,” Reggie answered, doing her best to sound nonchalant. “No idea who wrote it.”

Eben flipped through the pages, scanning the spidery handwriting. Here and there he stopped to examine a sketch or a diagram.

“I don’t mind if you borrow books, but I expect you to tell me when you do,” he said. “And it would be nice if I could at least see it myself first. This is a singular find, Regina.”

“It’s just the diary of some crazy old kook, Eben. She writes about these monsters called the Vours that attack humans when they’re most afraid — like, can’t-speak-or-blink-or-breathe afraid. They take over your body and send your consciousness to some demonic hell, then they live your life out. And they look and act like regular humans, so it’s impossible to tell who’s a Vour and who’s not. A pretty fun read, actually.”

“Better than most trashy thriller novels, I’d say,” added Aaron.

Eben stopped at another page.

“On the Winter Solstice night, shun your fears. Bury them. I know it. I saw it. They’ll take your soul.”
Eben looked up and scowled. “The winter solstice was last night. And you tempted these creatures to come take you?”

“Eben,” Reggie said, “we were just playing around.”

“No,” said Eben. “Cowboys and Indians is playing around.”

“Don’t tell Native Americans that,” Reggie said.

“Come on, Eben,” said Aaron. “It’s not real.”

Eben closed the book.

“Aaron. Reggie. Nobody loves settling down with a horror tale and getting chilled to the bone more than I.” He waved a hand around the store. “It’s my life! But
this
 . . .” He rapped the book with his knuckles. “This is insanity. This is
cult.
Dark magic, chants, rituals, secrets . . .”

“All that stuff is our bread and butter!” Reggie countered.

“Yes, but we sell fiction. You don’t know anything about this book, or where it came from.”

“We know it’s not real,” Reggie said.

“But ritualizing makes something real
in here.
” He tapped his head. “And that’s when it gets dangerous. So, the author . . .” He wagged the book at Reggie. “Ever wondered what happened to
her
?”

Reggie and Aaron shrugged.

“It’s just a book —”

“A book that doesn’t belong to you.”

“I’m sorry, Eben,” said Reggie, “I won’t do it again. But it’s not like we believe in it.”

“If you didn’t believe in the possibility, you wouldn’t have challenged these creatures. And the minute you start to believe in something, it begins to have power over you.”

The door jingled and two black-clad goth girls from Cutter High slinked in.

“Customers, Regina.” Eben turned to greet the girls. “Go finish the display. I feel a holiday rush coming on.”

A little after five, Reggie waved goodbye to Eben and headed home. It was already dark.

The ice reflected green and red from the Christmas lights strung across lampposts. Cutter’s Wedge Wines had its annual window display of gnomes toasting each other with rosy-cheeked grins. Safko’s Hardware had its plump Styrofoam snowman out on the sidewalk, shovel in hand. Mr. Safko had given it glass eyes instead of using coal or black buttons, and the effect was more unsettling than festive. The eyes were too realistic. They gave the impression that a living human was trapped inside the snowman, his wide eyes pleading for rescue, his mouth unable to scream.

Reggie paused under the lamppost where her bicycle was locked. She was bothered by Eben’s reaction to her having taken
The Devouring,
and even more troubled by his attitude about what she and Aaron had done with it. It was certainly possible that whoever had written it was completely mad — where there wasn’t scrawling handwriting, the author had sketched horrible images of smoky monsters, people with their eyes scratched out, and cryptic symbols. But insanity, as far as she knew, wasn’t contagious.

A sharp hiss startled Reggie, and she looked up. Steam rose from a manhole cover across the street. A sudden gust sent the vapors whirling, and for a moment two figures were revealed behind, one much smaller than the other, huddled together, talking.

Reggie’s pulse stuttered. She squinted, but the wind died and the steam folded back on itself like a curtain. She got up. She thought she knew the smaller person.

Reggie crossed the street toward them, when a white light burst out of the night. She raised an arm to shield her eyes, and looked into the headlights of an oncoming truck. She froze for an instant, watching the driver’s face, hearing the angry horn and screeching brakes. She darted out of the way just as the truck sped past. The two figures turned at the commotion.

“Henry!” cried Reggie, racing up to him. “What are you doing here?”

“Just, you know, coming to see you,” Henry said with a shrug. “Mrs. Boswell fell asleep.”

“Do you know what Dad would do if he knew you were out after dark?”

“That’s what I was just telling him.”

Reggie’s attention shifted to the other figure. She recognized the sweet smell instantly.

“Is this your little brother?” Quinn asked. He popped his gum and smiled.

Reggie nodded. “My soon-to-be-
murdered
little brother.”

“I was giving him the ‘Don’t walk around by yourself after dark’ lecture.” Quinn hesitated. “God, I sound like my mom.”

“I know the feeling,” said Reggie.

“It was light out when I started,” Henry said.

“So what brings you out on these evil streets after sunset?” Reggie asked nervously.

Quinn took his backpack off his shoulder. “Funny you should ask. You work at that bookstore, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Reggie was unable to form sentences again.

“I have something for you.”

He pulled a book out of the pack and handed it to Reggie. If it was even possible for Quinn to look sheepish, he did now.

“A thank-you for bailing me out the other day. You saved my butt in English class.”

Reggie looked at the cover; it was an ornate, leather-bound edition of Bram Stoker’s
Dracula.

“I confess,” said Quinn, “I’m a closet horror buff. We can be geeks together.”

Reggie blushed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Just say we’ll hang out some time, okay?”

“Of course.” Reggie beamed. Henry looked from his sister to Quinn and rolled his eyes.

“Can we go already?” he demanded.

Quinn looked down at Henry. “No more walking around at night, right? There are worse things than vampires out here.” He winked at Reggie and walked away. Reggie stood dumbfounded for a few more seconds, then turned to her brother.

“You were supposed to stay put. You’re sick.”

“I feel fine.”

“So what else did you talk about with Quinn?”

“Not you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I wasn’t — come on. We’re going home.”

Henry walked silently beside her as she pushed her bike along the roadside. It wasn’t just Mrs. Boswell being such an incompetent guardian, or Henry sneaking out in the dead of winter, that pissed her off so much. The truth was, she didn’t want to be the “Mommy.” She didn’t want to make dinner and do the laundry and the vacuuming. She didn’t want to have to look after Henry,
and
take his temperature,
and
worry about him,
and
scold him. She wanted Mom, wherever she was, to stop being a selfish jerk and come home.

When they got back to the house, Dad’s truck was still gone: a stroke of luck for everyone. Henry bounded up the stairs to his bedroom without a word, not even giving Reggie a chance to send him there. She kicked off her soggy wet sneakers and stormed into the living room.

“Mrs. Boswell!”

The old woman was slumped on the couch, her hair a silvery mop. The DVD menu cycled endlessly, playing the same forty-five-second clip of music over and over again. An untouched cup of tea sat on the table before her.

“Mrs. Boswell?”

Reggie crept closer, reaching out to take the woman’s shoulder and gently shake her. The old lady’s head flopped to the side, her hair tumbled from her face, and her blank, unblinking eyes stared into Reggie’s own. Her face had contorted into a rictus of terror. She was dead.

6

Reggie’s dad came home just in time to see Mrs. Boswell being wheeled out of the house on a gurney.