Chapter Seven

 

I

 

"Jesus Christ, Chief!" the voice erupted over the radio.

Steve keyed the intercom unit in the car. "What! What's wrong?"

A pause. "This is not looking good."

"What the hell is wrong!" Steve blared. "Where are you? Are you in the building yet?"

"I'm ..." A burst of static. "...I'm heading up the stairs to the second floor, where the dorm rooms are. There was nobody downstairs in the reception area, but I didn't check around. I thought I heard something coming from upstairs."

"What did you hear?"

"Not sure. A shriek maybe."

"Have you seen anyone in the building yet?

"No, sir, nobody, but...but...my God, Chief, there's footprints running up and down the hall floor."

"Footprints?"

Another burst of static. "Blood. It's got to be blood."

"Get up there! Find out what's going on!" Steve rekeyed the mike. "All units, this is Unit One. Respond Code 3 to the Seaton School for Girls on Fourth and Westmore! Suspect is a white male, approximately 180 pounds, brown hair, in a postal uniform. Consider him dangerous."

Jane sat back in her seat, aghast. "Bloody footprints? Is that what he said?"

"That's what he said." And Steve floored it.

The school was just around the next bend, sitting at the edge of the woods that front the bay. Several police sirens were already screeching in the distance. Jane felt the inertia shove her back when Steve fishtailed around the fountain at the center of the court. The car shuddered, its brakes shrieked. Jane whipped forward and back when the car finally stopped.

Steve popped off his seat belt, drew his gun from the shoulder holster.

Jane was staggered. Something very serious was happening here and she was sitting in the middle of it. Could Carlton really have exhumed Marlene's body? And the footprints? Could those really have been Carlton's bloody footprints that the cop on the radio was talking about? Finally, she just said, "This is impossible for me to believe."

Through the open window they heard a long, loud, terror-driven scream.

"Believe it," Steve said and jumped out to join his men.

Jane felt as though his urgency was dragging her behind him on a towline. Other patrol cars raced into the front court. Uniformed police officers were jolting out of their cars and rushing toward the dormitory's entrance from all points; Jane couldn't sort her thoughts for all the noise: sirens, radio squawk, shoes tramping pavement.

Just inside, though, there was dead silence.

"Careful," Steve ordered, holding his pistol upward, finger off the trigger. "Is that blood there?"

A uniform confirmed it. So did Jane's eyes. A line of what could only be blood led from the chair, behind the desk. Now every set of eyes followed the smear like line; it tracked back to an office.

Two cops stood at each side of the door. One opened the knob, while a third officer three-pointed into the room.

A second of silence, then they heard: "Oh...my...God..."

Everyone poured into the room, and when Jane saw what they were looking at, she almost fainted.

A nun hung from the farthest wall. Jane could only tell that she was a nun by the wimple around her face, and the veil-the rest of the woman hung naked, white skin badged with crimson smudges. Her head leaned to one side, her mouth agape. Her arms spread out as if crucified, from nails driven into her palms. A puddle of blood ten feet wide shined below her feet.

Jane put her face in her hands.

"Who was the first on the scene?" someone asked.

"Jackson."

"Well then where the hell is he?" someone else answered.

"He's upstairs," Steve said. "Said something about the showers."

The trampling shifted now, out of the office and a stampede up the steps. Again, Jane felt as if in tow. The first cop up the stairs stopped at the landing, holding up a hand.

"Watch it," Steve warned.

They all saw it, a leather mail pouch sitting on the floor, its top flap hanging open.

"Don't touch it," someone said. "It could be a bomb."

"It's no bomb." The cop leaned over, picked up the pouch. Steve stepped over and looked in. The pouch was full of knives, awls, nails, and other similar implements. A dozen razor-sharp edges glinted upward.

They proceeded down the hall. Jane didn't want to go, she didn't want to see what else might have happened here-but she had to. They think it was Carlton, she kept fretting. But she knew the worst fret of all.

Maybe it really was.

There were no maybes about it when they all piled onto the landing.

Oh, my God, no, Jane thought.

Carlton had hanged himself in the main dorm hall, from the head of one of the sprinkler nozzles in the ceiling. He looked as though his entire naked body had been immersed in blood. His face had turned nearly black from the noose around his neck, his hands limp, and blood dripping from his fingertips.

"Holy shit," someone whispered.

"That's him, isn't it?" Steve asked.

"Yes," Jane choked.

She stared at her friend's dead face. Pressure from the ligature bloated his face; his eyes were puffed but open. Jane would never have thought that that could happen. He seemed to be grinning.

"Somebody cut him down," Steve solemnly ordered.

No one was enthusiastic to do the job, but eventually two cops stepped forward, one wincing as he wrapped his arms about Carlton's waist, the other cutting the rope with a knife. They laid the body on the floor, but both cops, now, were peering.

"What is that?" one asked.

The cop who'd done the cutting knelt down, seemed to be looking at the cut end of the rope. "Hey, Chief. This isn't rope."

Steve bulled forward, impatient. "What do you mean it's not rope? What is it, then? Wire of some kind?"

The kneeling cop was turning pale. He gulped. "I think... I think it's ... intestines."

Jane could see it, could see that the thin, stretched material couldn't possibly be rope. Intestines? Is that what he said? If they really are intestines, then...whose are they?

Steve shook his head. "This is crazy," he said under his breath, then louder: "Jackson! Where are you?"

"In here," came the eventual reply.

The troupe rushed into the nearest door. Now Jane remembered the previous radio transmission. There were indeed footprints in blood leading straight to the spot where Carlton had committed suicide. Jane followed the others into the room.

A shower room, like the one Jane remembered from her own college dorm, years ago. A long room walled by pretty pink-and-white tile work, ten shower nozzles. Lockers and benches up front, a multi-stalled bathroom off to the left. Total silence pervaded the entire area save for a single drip.

But that wasn't the first thing Jane noticed, not by any means. It was impossible not to notice the shower's most recent adornment.

Half a dozen teenaged girls hung in a line on the rear shower wall, crucified as the nun had been. Naked, arms outstretched, masonry nails driven through their palms and wrists into the tiles. All of their heads were bloodied from multiple hammer blows. A towel clogged the center drain, leaving an inch-deep pool of blood stretched below them.

No one said a word. Jane just stared, shocked numb.

More tires could be heard screeching outside, more sirens wailed. Ambulances were arriving one after another. A crowd was forming as cordons were drawn.

Jane and Steve exchanged the most somber of glances. Everyone was staring wordlessly at the room's final detail: a bell, drawn in wide smears of blood, on the adjoining wall.

Jane knew it had to be her imagination but when she looked a final time at the line of naked bodies hanging on the wall, something shifted in her vision. If she'd actually seen what she thought she'd seen, then everyone else in the room would've noticed it too. But no one said a word.

I'm not seeing this, I'm not seeing this, she kept pleading with herself. It's impossible. It's not there.

For the merest moment, the six dead girls on the wall all opened their eyes at the same time, looked right at Jane, and smiled.

Jane collapsed.

 

II

 

What's all the commotion? Annabelle wondered.

Sirens blared outside, rising then fading as quickly as they'd come. What was going on?

Annabelle was probably the most petite woman in town, just a shade under five feet tall and a hundred pounds on a "fat" day. She looked like what she was: a classy upscale housewife, elegant facial features, always meticulously manicured, just the right makeup. The shimmering but simple sherbert-green sundress seemed incandescent from its fine material, and had cost $300 at the International Mall, plus another $100 for designer sandals with sparkles across their straps. Her body was well-pronounced in its curves, her breasts erect, and when she walked down the street in the sun, her straight cinnamon hair radiated. In all, Annabelle was the ultimate Florida housewife, and in her wake many men turned their heads, only to bite a lip in envy of her husband.

More sirens quickly rose, then faded again.

She'd just walked through the automatic doors of the new west branch post office, relishing the cool air, when the sound of screaming vehicles startled her. She turned in a rush, saw several police cars accelerating down Rosamilia Avenue. Must be a big car wreck, or a fire, she guessed.

"Lord, can you believe all that noise?" came another woman's voice. Mrs. Baxter, one of Danelleton's most infamous gossips, was weighing a package at the self-serve counter. She was a squashed little curmudgeon of a woman, stoop shouldered, white hair bunned and, netted. "I haven't seen that many police cars all at once since that time last year when Corey Halverson caught his wife cheating on him-remember, with that man who'd come around and cleaned the leaves out of your gutters? Remember him? Turns out he was sowing quite a few oats with some of the local women, and he was an ex-convict to boot! Anyway, poor Corey Halverson caught the two of them together at one of those fleabag motels over in

St. Pete Beach, and he got so depressed he climbed to the top of the Danelleton water tower to jump. Must've been twenty police cars there that day. Of course, he didn't jump but he was going to. Do you remember that, Annabelle?"

Annabelle did not. In fact, she rather doubted that anything like that had happened at all; Mrs. Baxter had a knack for fabrication. Outside, though, more police cars sped by. "Whatever it is, it must be serious," she said.

"I saw more cars racing down Main Street when I was on my way here. It looked like they were heading for that Seaton school, and I can tell you, I've heard a story or two about that place."

I'm sure you have, Annabelle thought.

"All those teenaged girls in there, no contact with boys their own age? We can only imagine what goes on in their minds ..."

Annabelle rolled her eyes. What a pain in the butt. She tuned the old woman out as best she could, heading over to the stamp machine and then the drop box. She hoped the old woman would just leave, but then she heard a rustling sound from the corner. I don't believe it! Mrs. Baxter was rummaging through the trash can by the self-service counter, opening junk mail that post office box customers had thrown out. Annabelle dawdled, pretending to be putting stamps on her own letters, until Mrs. Baxter left.

Annabelle wanted to go home right away and take a nap. She'd sat up late last night with her husband, Mark, watching some ludicrous horror movie, something about colonial settlers finding an evil root in the ground. The movie was so campy and badly done that Mark had been honking with laughter. Annabelle laughed, too, but not quite so hard. She'd wound up having nightmares, waking up half a dozen times, and when morning finally arrived, she felt exhausted. Mark was working today, a construction contractor. I've got the whole day to myself, she thought. What a luxury. First a long lazy bubble bath, then a nap before Mark got home. But there's one thing to do in between.

Annabelle quick-stepped to her PO. box. Seven to ten days for delivery, she reminded herself. Today was the tenth day. God, I hope it's here.

Annabelle had the PO. box for just such events as this. A little indulgence wasn't a bad thing; in fact, she felt she deserved it. It wasn't like she was cheating on her husband or anything. She'd never done that, in spite of innumerable opportunities and sometimes, when primal urges collided with moral sensibilities, the former had come very close to winning out.

Sometimes Annabelle just couldn't stand it.

Hence, this confidential mail-order purchase, this clandestine indulgence.

She felt tingly approaching her PO. box, then a sudden discontent swept through her, leaving her utterly depressed. Hope for the best but prepare for the worst, Mark always said.

It's not going to be here, she immediately knew. More disappointment. I'm going to open this box, look inside, and it'll be empty. The friggin' thing probably hasn't even shipped yet, won't get here for another week. Or maybe they'll never send it. Maybe I just got shafted.

She turned the key, opened the box...

Jesus!

...then jerked her head around again at another salvo of screaming police sirens. What is going on out there? she thought.

When the sirens faded, she looked into the Post Office Box.

Her heart jumped in her chest-she nearly shrieked in delight. Inside the box sat a package.

She slipped it out. The return address said Erotronica, Inc. This is it! I finally got it! Annabelle stuck the package under her arm, like something forbidden, like a cocaine dealer having just made a secret pickup, and she whisked herself away, flip-flopping briskly out the doors and into the parking lot. Her brand-new, ocean-green Mercedes convertible sat in wait.

She couldn't wait to get home.

But...

Oh, damn it! She had to go back. I left the box door open and my key in the lock! The package was an excusable distraction, but that didn't abate any frustration. Annabelle was an instant-gratification type of woman. She didn't want to have to wait even an extra minute for what she wanted.

She threw the package into the Mercedes, and her flip-flops snapped right back into the post office. There was her box, door still open, bronze key sticking out of the lock. She reached forward to clack it shut but paused.

This time another police car screamed by but Annabelle didn't hear it.

She was looking at the open box. It occurred to her to reach forward and close the door, but, for some reason, that wasn't possible. She couldn't concentrate. Perhaps she'd been in the sun too much today, and she hadn't had breakfast this morning either. That combined with a bad night's sleep from horror-movie nightmares had brought her well under the weather.

Or maybe not. Maybe it was something else.

Annabelle was only thinking in snatches. She felt sick to her stomach, and she smelled something so foul-something like waste and rotten meat and unwashed Bums all mixed together. She wanted to throw up, yet another part of her felt keenly excited. Her nipples ached against the shiny fabric of her sundress. She began to tingle between her legs.

She was reaching forward, frowning at the atrocious smell, but she knew she wasn't doing so to close the box door. She meant to reach inside.

But there's nothing else in there, she thought with the tiny sliver of reason remaining in her mind. I know it's empty. I put the package in the car. So what am I doing this for?

A flap! startled her. Annabelle froze, then jerked around. It was five o'clock. The front service area was closed now, and someone on the other side had locked those doors and flapped the closed sign around. And the self-serve area remained empty.

What...am...I...doing?

She lowered herself to her knees, looked into the box. It remained empty; in fact nothing could be seen behind it, either, just darkness. Someone must've turned out the lights back there.

She ground her teeth against that stench. She was right-it was coming from the box, flowing out in a disgusting gust. Nevertheless, she put her hand in ...

She reached into the box.

There's nothing there, there's nothing there! So why am I putting my hand in?

Her hand was all the way in. Slowly, slowly. No, her arm was going in, an inch at a time, halfway up the forearm, then to the elbow. Then-

She was touching something-something warm. It was slimy, too, like that time she'd found the pack of ground sirloin in the back of the refrigerator. She'd opened it, thinking it fresh, but then the smell had hit her just after she'd touched it. Viscid slime. As it turned out, the meat had been in there for weeks. That's what whatever she was touching felt like.

Oh, God, she thought now. What was this?

Thoughts more foul than the smell swarmed in her head. In her mind she saw things, bodies, reveling over her in some stinking grotto, figures hauling her down-into slime-to slake their lusts. She was molested and prodded and licked, she was mounted and humped, her own body mauled in every position. The figures doing this to her were enslimed as if the pores of their skin were sweating mucus. Every detail of these goings-on absolutely repulsed her, yet she felt more aroused than she had in...

 

...well...

 

Ever.

 

It couldn't be mouths that suckled every inch of her body-the orifices were too large to be mouths. Yet her nerves detected teeth in them, and great, fat, budded tongues. Not human mouths at any rate. One such mouth sucked her feet, another sucked her stomach, centering on her navel, yet the diameter of the lips were nearly that of a dinner plate. When the mouth slid down lower, the tongue like a flap of flank steak entering her, Annabelle climaxed spontaneously, orgasms detonating. The immense tongue remained within her, and then yet another mouth clamped all the way over her face, then her entire head. Her head was being sucked like a lollipop.

This foul ecstacy never dwindled. The image or dream or hallucination ground on for what seemed hours, these things in rut, these creatures, lining up for her. Annabelle had no objection. She was stretched and pulled, splayed and spread, sat up, flipped over, turned upside-down, to be used over and over again...

She couldn't see the things at all, there was no light. All she could do was feel them as she shuddered beneath each one, nipples gorged, back arched, legs open, begging, begging for more.

When they were done, Annabelle sighed. Had she worn them all out? They were dragging themselves up, disinterested in her now, now that they'd spent themselves. She could hear them scuffling away through muck and then, for the merest moment, a light flickered-firelight, she guessed-and she saw them.

Tall lean things. Ridged in muscles yet emaciated. Knobby joints, hands with fingers a foot long. Their skin did indeed shine with slime, the hue of old, old paraffin. One looked back at her with black orblike eyes; Annabelle shuddered at the long slack-mouthed face, slits for a nose, and horns sprouting from the warped forehead.

Demons, she knew now.

Then the light went out, and there she was, on her knees in the post office, with her arm halfway into the post office box.

Her eyes felt pulled open by hooks. She knew what she was doing. She knew what the hot, organic thing was in her hand.

Eventually, something wet and just as hot emptied into her palm. Did she hear a moan? The smell was still overpowering. She slowly retracted her arm.

Hand to elbow was covered in slime. Pearl-like globs clung to her palm and fingers. Oh my God. What in God's name is behind there?

She was about to fall over and vomit, when someone nudged her.

"Miss? Miss?"

Annabelle dragged her eyes upward. A postal clerk was standing behind her, a concerned look on his face.

"Are you all right?"

Annabelle's head was spinning. She looked at her arm. It was clean, normal.

"Here, let me help you up."

She struggled off her knees, wobbled a bit once she was back on her feet, then leaned against the wall of post office boxes and sighed. "I'm sorry. I don't know what happened to me. Dizzy spell, I guess."

"Happens a lot this time of year." The clerk smiled. "Hot and sunny all day, you get dehydrated."

"I'm sure that's it," Annabelle agreed, because there was nothing else she could believe. "And I'm fine now." She told herself, too, that she felt perfectly fine but her hand shook when she closed her box door and withdrew the key.

The clerk raised a brow.

"I'm just a little jittery", she said. "If you want to know the truth, my husband and I sat up late last night and watched a horror movie that wound up giving me terrible nightmares." Demons, she remembered. She'd just had some sort of waking dream about demons having sex with her, the day after seeing that movie about demons. That's all this is. "Then, I guess, something triggered the memory when I got here. Flashback or something."

A long hand the color of old wax opened on her chest. It stank. And it landed against her skin with a wet slap. It was humid, slimy. Annabelle was paralyzed. She wouldn't look up at the thing's face because she'd already seen what their faces looked like. All she would do was convulse as the hand slid down her top, rubbing infernal slime over her breasts.

"You like that, don't you?" the corroded voice bubbled. "I know you do, I feel your precious little tits getting hard, like they did a few minutes ago in the grotto. My brothers and I enjoyed you very much, and later, when you're with us forever, we'll enjoy you every night for the rest of eternity."

Annabelle's teeth chattered.

"I'm one of the Messenger's sons," the voice from Hell burbled on. "He has many, many bastard sons. We help him spread the word in the domain of our lord. My father needs you to spread the word here. You will do it."

The hand was lathering her breasts in slime, the grub-like fingertips twisting her nipples. Annabelle couldn't breathe.

"The arrival of the Messenger is at hand."

She broke from her paralysis, shrieked in a breath, and ran out of the post office.

"Miss? Miss?" The perfectly normal clerk trotted after her. "Are you sure you're all right? Want me to call a doctor?"

The Mercedes whipped out of the lot and squealed away.

The clerk shook his head. "There's sure as hell a lot of screwy people in this town," he muttered and went back inside.