"When I finally made it past the dreadful glow of its eyes, the rest of the thing's face came into focus. It was no less sinister looking. It looked like that of an old man's, all brown and wrinkled like a crumpled paper bag that's been smoothed out. There were some colored streaks on its cheeks and forehead, made with spoiled berries, and in its hand was a pointed spike of slate. It aimed the makeshift weapon in my direction and jabbed the air as if to say,
come near my warm meal and I'll scalp you, you motherfucker.
Of course I stood my ground, and at that moment I felt as though I'd been scared sober, my body stiff and poised to flee at the first indication of threat. Slowly it crawled up on the rock, taloned feet gripping the smooth surface as deftly as its hands, those golden eyes not leaving me for one second as it patiently claimed its prize.
"The first thing I noticed about its body was that it had been clothed, crudely however, with nothing more than dirty rags shrouding the groinal area. The torso, arms, and legs on the slight creature were emaciated, covered with patches of coarse hair. The skin beneath was thick and calloused and mottled with warts. At this proximity I could really smell the thing now, a horrid stench of bodily filth and decay. God-damned awful. It speared the animal with the slate spike, then grinned, showing a mouth filled with thick brown teeth. And then...it
laughed
. Michael, the damn thing laughed at me, made this deep chortling sound that was instantaneous, and utterly deliberate."
I shuddered, envisioning the scene in my head, trying very hard not to believe him.
"It stood up on its hind legs, holding the possum above its head in a prayerful stance; from head to toe the thing couldn't have been more than four and a half feet tall. With an alarming quickness, it jumped down from the rock and darted back into the woods with the speed and accuracy of a frightened squirrel."
At this very moment I wondered if there was something intrinsically wrong with Phillip. I didn't doubt for a moment that something happened here all those years ago. After all, I
did
see the golden lights, and when I looked in Phillip's eyes I saw something sorrowful in them, telling me that he truly believed everything he saw that night. However...for
me
to assume this story as a whole truth would be utter madness, and I forced myself to conclude that Phillip had been the victim of a vivid dream, a sleepwalk perhaps, or maybe even some odd hallucination brought on from one of Rosy's medicinal teas.
"Somehow I found my way back, but I don't recall how. Apparently I blacked out—it might've been the alcohol but was probably yet another flick of the old lady's spellslinging wrist—and the next thing I remembered was waking up in bed the next morning with all my clothes on. My boots too, and for weeks I caught hell from Rosy for all the mud I dragged though the house.
"And you say that Rosy never found out?"
Phillip nodded. "Yep. Never told her. It was part of the deal. Old Lady Zellis told me that the sacrifice should be kept a secret from my family, otherwise they would fall victim to the savagery of the Isolates.
"Like the native legend..."
Phillip nodded. "Just like the legend."
Something he said then hit me like a sledgehammer. "Wait, Phil...a secret from your
family
? You mean Rosy? Or..."
Phillip nodded. At once tears filled his eyes. "You're probably wondering why I brought you here, Michael?"
"Suddenly...suddenly I'm getting the picture, Phil."
"Michael...this is extremely difficult for me to talk about. Although it's never left my mind after all these years, it also hasn't left my lips either. And if you ask anyone in town about it they'll pretend that you're as nutty as Old Lady Zellis, but believe me, they'll know
exactly
what you're talking about. Some things are better left unsaid, and this is one of them."
"So why are you telling me?"
"For the same reason Old Lady Zellis told me all those years ago."
"For my protection?" I added an ineffectual tone of incredulousness to my voice.
"You're a resident of Ashborough now," he said. "Your new government lives right here in these woods, Michael. You best live by their laws."
"This is crazy..."
He shook his head. "It's not." He pulled a fresh cigar from his pocket, unwrapped it and stuck it between his lips. His hands were shaking a bit.
I laughed uncomfortably, then said, "Gee whiz, Phil. For a second I thought you were gonna pull a dead possum out of your pocket."
Phillip grinned. At that moment I thought he was gonna burst out in laughter and brag about how he
really had me going
, but that didn't happen. Instead he said, "No, the animal can't be dead, Michael. It has to be
sacrificed
on the big stone."
In a sudden jerk, Phillip's cigar fell from his mouth. He brought his hands to his face as if in shock or pain. My paranoia was instantly replaced with concern and I stepped over to him. "Phil? You all right?"
He pulled his hands away from his face. There were dense tears filling his eyes.
"I didn't listen to her, Michael," he coughed. "I should have, but I didn't."
"Listened to..?"
"Old Lady Zellis." His voice was a strangled mess. "This place...it seemed too special for me to hold inside. It'd
haunted
me for weeks, years, all day long and then in my dreams. There was no escaping it. It'd grabbed me, held on until it became a part of me...like a virus in my veins for which there was no cure." He sat back down on the stone and broke down in sobs. He looked like a sickly old man in wait for the reaper to come sow him into the earth.
"I'm sorry Michael...I'm so sorry that I have to do this to you. But I have no choice...it is my duty. I know, I know, it is impossible to find it in yourself to understand me right now. But in time you will."
"I think I understand..." I lied. There was no proper way to express the alarming images rolling around in my mind, nor was there a way to make thing less painful to Phillip. But what I had to say wouldn't quell my sudden fear either. "You
did
tell someone else, didn't you? About that night. About the Isolates. Didn't you, Phil?"
Weakly, he nodded.
"Not once, Phillip, have you ever mentioned anything about your daughter to me. But I saw her picture on the wall in your bedroom the day I moved in, when I went upstairs to fix my wound."
He stayed unspeaking. His sobs lightened, but remained constant.
"If I'm to believe this story you're telling me, and I admit I'm having a difficult time doing so, then your daughter...are you trying to tell me that your daughter was killed by the Isolates?"
He nodded.
"And Rosy?"
He nodded again. "Not Cancer."
"I'm a doctor...that much I figured out." I paused, then said, "And it's also in this doctor's opinion that you seek some professional help. To help you deal with the trauma of losing your child. You may be suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."
"You don't believe me, do you?"
I felt a surge of exasperation well inside my lungs, and I blew it out. This conversation, which began on mindful intellect and radiance, had three-sixtied into opinions that danced solely on the tips of our nerves. Phillip and Michael: we were two well-cooked men more than ready to call it a day.
There was no way I could answer him truthfully; frankly, I didn't know what to believe at the moment. So on my suggestion we called it a day, and kept silent while walking back home. During this time my mind raced, and it became all too obvious to me that the entire experience—seeing the circle of oaks for the first time, hearing Phillip's tale of the Isolates and Old Lady Zellis—seemed much too rehearsed, much too
convenient
to be true. I told myself that even though nature works in mysterious ways, there wasn't enough disorder here to make it all non-coincidental. I took one last look back into the woods upon crossing the backyard of my home, and it wasn't until later that night while I lay in bed did I finally answer Phillip's last question.
No Phillip, I don't believe you. Not one little bit.
T
he next day I pretended that none of my conversation with Phillip had ever happened. I told Christine that I'd taken a walk into the woods, spent most of my two hours there following the random paths that sprung up. But I never mentioned Phillip, nor did I say anything about the circle of stones, much less what I knew about Ashborough's shadowy legend. Withholding this information was my only way of keeping it under a shroud of secrecy, and it helped me maintain my belief that the whole tall tale was nothing more than just that: a fable strong in the hearts of the town's staunchly devoted residents.
The day was filled with patients, and that kept me mostly distracted from Sunday's events. By the end of the day seventeen people had passed through my office with minor aches and pains, both physical and mental, and my mind's labored thoughts had been replaced with mostly work-filled specifics. That is, until Jessica came into my office.
A habit that had been quickly formed, I was seated at my desk itemizing the day's charts in addition to returning the dozen or so calls that had come in while I was busy with patients (Christine still hadn't settled in to her secretarial duties as of yet; the house had pretty much consumed her time. It became apparent to me that interior decorating and housekeeping was a full time job in itself, especially when you had a little one vying for your attention all day long. The advent of kindergarten would alleviate much of this strain however, and place Christine where I needed her most).
I'd heard her footsteps coming in from behind me and turned to see her slowly approaching, looking a bit worried. Placing the folder I'd been holding down on the desk, I wondered for a moment what retirement in Florida would be like: children all grown up, far away with all-new worries of their own. The moment was silent except for the arrival of the night's first cicada, which blared its toll from the not-too-distant woods.
"Hi dear. Whatchya doin?"
"Uh...looking for Page," she said, but I could see a tell-tale lie in her features, the unconscious twitch of her upper lip, the quivering downcast gaze of her eyes. She leaned against the desk, wearing knit shorts and a tee-shirt that said
I may be small but I have my daddy wrapped around my finger
. She smelled of lavender, which meant she'd just taken a bath.
She then asked, "What are you doing?"
"I'm finishing up my work." Suddenly I wanted a shot of brandy from the liquor cabinet. Neil Farris's stock was still a-plenty.
"Oh. Boring," she said.
"Yes, it is kind of boring. But it pays the bills."
Jimmy Page had sniffed the lavender trail into my office. He three-sixtied around my legs then nestled himself under the desk for a snooze. Jessica backpedaled from the dog in a rather unusual way, as if somewhat repelled, or maybe frightened. This was odd considering the corny love she usually exhibited for him. She walked over to the bookshelf, thumbed the outside of one of the medical journals there as though she could actually read the spine, then asked, "Daddy, are there such things as ghosts?"
Once the words came out of her mouth, I knew there'd be a fair share of counseling sessions ahead of me. She'd gotten the idea from somewhere (those damn daytime talk shows; I'd have to have a word with Christine about this ASAP), and now it was sticking in her head like tar-balls on an unsuspecting wader's feet.
"Of course not, honey," I said. "And just where did you hear about such things as ghosts?"
"Scooby Doo," she revealed so matter of factly. Thank you very much.
I laughed inside. So much for my talk-show theory. No psychics in this girl's world just yet. "Scooby Doo. The dog from the cartoons?"
She nodded. And then she blew me away. "On the cartoon Scooby can always smell the ghosts before they come. And so can Page. He smells the ghosts at night in my room."
Hearing these words coming from my little innocent daughter's mouth sent wild shivers across my skin. It wasn't so much that Jessica might've spoken of a common childhood fear of things going bump in the night...it was more the fact that she said her
dog
was smelling something otherworldly in her room—an uncommonly alarming choice of words for a five year-old. Such a revelation might be expected from the daytime talk-show psychic, not my daughter.
"Honey, he can't possibly smell ghosts in your room because, as I said, there's no such thing as ghosts. They don't exist. Except in cartoons of course, and in the movies. But not in little girls' bedrooms. Not anywhere."
"Well...I guess Page can be wrong." There was a pause where I smiled and admired the naivety of my daughter. Her imagination had run amok, and I realized at that moment that the stressors of moving into a new home in a whole new town had finally taken hold of her mindstrings and given them a nice healthy tug.
"Does he bark in the middle of the night? Wake you up?" I'd never heard any late-night barking before and it occurred to me that Jessica might have simply dreamed it. Until she said:
"Yes, he does bark at night. Out the window. At the lights."
"The...lights?" There were sounds in the room, that of shuffling: Page finding a new position by my feet to lie in. His tail brushed against my exposed ankles and it exacerbated the sudden fear racing through my blood. Her words,
at the lights
, they'd been nothing I hadn't heard or seen before. But now they had a meaning, and her articulation of them equaled a slight form of horror, now out from the mouth of an innocent and into the open for me to case once again.