Dark Rite

Chapter 10

The first thing Grant did upon arriving back at the cabin was retrieve the old single-shot, bolt-action .22 he'd found in the bedroom closet. He wished for something with more stopping power, but this was the only gun in the house, save the Civil War rifle. Leave it to his dad to be the only man in the southeastern United States without his own personal armory. Not that Grant was dying to shoot someone, but if the Stallards had killed the professor, they could very well kill him too.

He'd found half a box of shells in the kitchen. He slipped one into the chamber, and pocketed a handful before stepping outside. He'd been a decent shot with a rifle when he was a kid, but hadn't touched one in years. His dad had enjoyed small game hunting, mostly squirrels and rabbits, and took pride in his marksmanship with the old .22 that had belonged to Grant's grandfather. To the elder Shipman's disappointment, Grant's interest extended no farther than target shooting. It had been one of the many small differences that served to distance them from one another.

He dismissed the memory with a shake of his head and looked around for a target. He needed to test both his skill and the rifle itself. He assumed his dad had kept it clean and in good order, but what did Grant really know about rifles? Suddenly paranoid that it might, he didn't know, blow up in his face or something, he held it out away from him and fired off a shot into the soft earth up near the smokehouse.

The recoil was minimal, but he was so out of practice that he hadn't expected it, and almost allowed the weapon to slip from his hands. He grabbed hold of it and looked around, fully expecting Carl or the Stallards to be standing somewhere nearby, pointing and laughing. Finding himself alone, he managed a laugh, reloaded the rifle, and picked out a target- a fat pine cone about fifty yards away, limned in moonlight on the end of a long branch.

He lined up his sights, took a deep breath, relaxed, and searched for his center. Shooting was a bit like the martial arts he so enjoyed studying- it required focus and control of your body and emotions to do it well. A familiar sense of calm confidence settled on him like a cloak and he squeezed off a measured shot.

He missed.

The bullet clipped the limb an inch to the left of his intended target. He reloaded, adjusted his aim, and grinned when the pine cone exploded in a shower of gray-brown bits. He wanted to keep shooting, but that would be a waste of time and bullets.

Emboldened by his intact skill, he decided to take a walk down the road and see if one or all of the Stallards were camped out on his drive. He wasn't sure what he'd do if he did find them there, but he wanted to at least see if they were still standing guard over him.

Using the moonlight to navigate, he kept to the forested hill above the dirt driveway. No need to provoke a confrontation unless absolutely necessary. He walked all the way to the main road and saw no one. Why had the Stallards suddenly left him alone after following him home? It didn't make sense. It ought to be good news, but it filled him with a sense of dread. Something about the situation had changed, but what?

Movement in the trees to his left made him jump. He turned, swinging the rifle up. A group of figures drifted through the trees, glowing with a soft, spectral light. Five or six of them moved like smoke, insubstantial as they slid over the rough ground. Grant’s hands shook as he gripped the weapon, his eyes wide, mouth open and dry. The group turned towards him, their hands rising, arms outstretched, reaching for him. Grant let out a strangled cry, backing up. The group moaned and wailed, speeding up as they closed the gap between themselves and Grant. He could see the trees behind them through their shimmering forms, their faces twisted in pain and longing as they shot forward, almost flying through the woods. Grant screamed and turned to run. He tripped over tangled roots and slammed into the ground, his breath escaping in a rush, the rifle tumbling from his grip.

Gasping, desperately trying to suck new air into his lungs, he rolled over, hands raised against what ghostly assault might be coming, but nothing was there. The forest was still and dark.

Shaking, nauseated with shock, he got to his feet and retrieved the weapon. Just how many strange and frightening things could happen in this godforsaken shithole of a town? He wanted to get back into his car and keep driving until Wallen’s Gap was a distant memory, but all he could see in his mind’s eye was Cassie, looking back and mouthing Tonight! He couldn’t leave her now. What he really needed was answers. Understanding was the only defence against whatever was going on here.

He headed back up towards the cabin and thoughts of the strange book in the smokehouse drifted through his mind. If he wanted to know more about what was going on, perhaps some answer could be found there. He needed something to go on. He grabbed a flashlight from the cabin and trudged up the hill.

He found one answer when he reached the smokehouse, but it was to the question of why the Stallards had stopped camping in his driveway, not what he might do for Cassie. The door was kicked in and the compartment where the book had been now stood open. He could see scrapes and indentations where it had been pried open with a crowbar. The Stallards had taken it. It was too great a coincidence to have been anyone else. Their mother had tried to get it, they'd shown up poking around. It had to be them.

“Son of a bitch!”

Knowing it was futile, he reached inside and felt around inside the hollowed-out space. No book.

And then his fingers fell on something small and hard. It had a waxy feel to it, a short narrow thing, with lumps and a slightly sharp, flat end.

He drew it out carefully and held it up in the beam of the flashlight. With a bark of surprise and disgust, he dropped it on the dirt floor. A finger. Stunned, thinking he must have got that wrong, he crouched for another look. Sure enough, it was a finger, but ancient and blackened, like something from The Mummy. The nail was long and ragged, that must have been the sharp end he felt. The skin was tight across the knuckle bones, and the end that should be attached to a hand was dry and hard, the skin edges flaky around the circle of bone sticking out. A smooth edge on the bone, like the finger had been cut off with a sharp knife. Before or after death? he wondered.

It was small, no surprise the Stallards had missed it. And if his dad thought it important enough to hide along with the book, it must have some value. He picked it up again, held it up in the flashlight beam again for a closer look. A sensation drifted through him, like the feeling when a spider runs over your arm. A kind of repulsion that shivers deep in the core. But something else too. A sense almost of power, of direction. Like there was something about the dessicated old finger that reached beyond the obvious and into realms less traveled.

“Where did my dad get you?” Grant said softly to himself. “And why did he keep you?”

The finger flexed at the middle knuckle and twisted, pointed out the door of the smokehouse.

Grant cried out in alarm and the finger hit the dirt again. Panting, heart jackhammering his ribs, he stared at the thing on the floor. A part of him was embarrassed that he had screamed like a little girl. Another part told him to run the hell away and keep going until Wallen's Gap was far in his rear view mirror.

The finger was still and straight on the ground, inert. He crouched and prodded it. Nothing. Surely, he'd imagined it. But somehow, he knew that wasn't the case.

With a trembling hand, he picked it up and held it by the stump of bone. It was hard, dry and immobile again. He felt an urge to ask another question, felt the insane certainty that, in some way, it would answer. The sensation of power swelled inside him. And with it, the revulsion, a blackness soaking into the edges of his soul. This thing was clearly potent, yet it was undoubtedly dangerous too.

Grant tucked it into his shirt pocket, unsure quite why, but reluctant to leave it behind. He grabbed the rifle, and stalked out into the night.

Right now, his most fervent wish was that the Stallards would return. In the mood he was in, he figured he could take all three of them at once.

“Dammit to fucking hell.”