The Altar (9 page)

No, Dovecrest knew that he couldn’t stop the nightmare by himself. But he didn’t know where to turn to for help. His own people were useless. And the white man would just think he was crazy—and why wouldn’t he? The story was certainly beyond anything in modern culture—the kind of things that bad movies were made about.

The boy was the only one who would believe him. The boy knew, and Dovecrest sensed it. But what good would one little boy be against this? Unless the boy could make others believe. Maybe his father. Maybe the preacher. Maybe even the sheriff.

Dovecrest was torn. Part of him felt that he should rush out into the woods right now and confront this thing before it became more powerful—and its power was increasing each and every day. And part of him felt that he needed to wait, recruit others and develop a plan.

He feared that by the time he could do that, though, it would be too late.

Whatever he decided, he needed to do something and do it fast. He felt his window of opportunity leaving him. It was already too late to help the girl, he realized. She was gone, taken away to some place where she would be dealt with later, at a time and place of the being’s own choosing. He knew the place. The time was less certain.

Tomorrow would be the day when he would begin his recruitment efforts. He would go and see the boy and his father, and try to make the man understand the truth of what the boy had seen in the woods. He would make him understand what was happening—what had happened and how history was poised to repeat itself in a new and improved version. The man—Erik Hunter—had seemed intelligent. He could make him understand. He could make him believe.

Then he would at least have an ally. Together they could perhaps recruit others and make a plan.

Otherwise, Dovecrest feared that this sleepy little town would never be the same again.

CHAPTER TEN

-1-

The Chepachet Public Library was something right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. The small, stone building was well over 150 years old, with ivy crawling up the sides like ancient weeds. The place even smelled like an artifact, Erik thought, as he opened the heavy oak door and stepped inside.

The library itself was smaller than many executive offices Erik had seen, and as he looked at the two men standing behind the reference desk he wondered why it took two people to run the place. He’d met them both before on a previous trip, though, and had taken an immediate dislike to them. When he’d asked them to order his book for the library, they had given him a hard time. The acquisitions guy, it seemed, didn’t read fiction and, therefore didn’t order any.

“What do you read?” Erik had asked.

“Magazines,” he had snapped, and walked away.

The director, a thin, fragile-looking man, always looked like he was going to cry, and when he wasn’t crying he was constantly whining about something. He hadn’t been much help either about ordering the book.

This time he avoided the two and went right to the reference shelves. They didn’t even acknowledge him, and Erik understood why the library was always empty. Although the library in Foster was a good five miles further down the road, it was well worth the investment of time to deal with librarians who actually liked helping people.

But this time he knew the information he needed could only be found here, in the local village vaults. He found the section on local history and began his search.

Most of the published history books weren’t much help, except for some pictures of the village from the past century. He found a couple of pictures of the old library—it really hadn’t changed in the last hundred years, and Erik suspected that Jane Austen was still catalogued under “new fiction.” He found some old pictures of the village, and even of some of the woods along Route 102, where the new road had been cut. He also found some pictures of the Narragansett Indian tribe, and one of Dovecrest. Although the picture was a hundred years old, Dovecrest looked exactly the same. It must be his father, Erik thought, but the name in the caption was clear enough. It had to be a misprint.

He rummaged through the ancient card catalogue—although the library system was on computers, no one had bothered to computerize the local records. Erik did ask the director about that.

“Oh, we haven’t gotten to that yet. We’re too busy cataloguing the video tape collection.”

“Won’t the videos be obsolete now that people have DVD players,” he’d asked, but the director merely shrugged and went on to complain about the burning pain in his stomach, so Erik merely threw up his hands and went back to the musty card catalogue.

One entry referred to a vertical file on Chepachet history, which Erik couldn’t find anywhere. With a sigh, he went back to the reference desk.

Both the director and his partner were glued to their computer screens and wouldn’t acknowledge him, so he went around the desk and stood in front of them. He couldn’t help noticing that the director was fooling around on E-Bay looking at lace curtains. Your tax dollars at work.

“Ah, you’re not supposed to be back here,” the director said. “It’s employees only.”

For emphasis, he pointed to a sign on the wall.

“I need to find the vertical files on local history,” he said.

“Ah, those don’t go out.”

“I know they don’t go out,” Erik said, as if speaking to a child. “I don’t want to take them out. I just want to look at them.”

“What for?”

“What is this, twenty questions? Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m doing research for a story I’m writing. I need to see the files. This is a library, isn’t it?”

Erik made a silent vow to speak to someone on the town council about this idiot.

“Ah, yeah. It’s just that no one ever looks at those files.”

“Well I want to look at them.”

The director looked at him for a moment, then decided Erik meant business and was likely to cause trouble if he didn’t get what he wanted.

“Ted, could you show this guy the vertical files and open them? I’m kind of busy right now.”

The dwarfish man scowled and walked off into the stacks of books at the rear of the library. Although both of these men were in their early thirties, they acted like old men—like trolls, Erik thought, guarding their little treasures under the bridge. God forbid that anyone would actually want to
use
any of the library materials. They must both have political connections, he thought, or else they’d never be able to keep their jobs.

The vertical file was exactly that—a tall, green metal filing cabinet filled with files—most of them misplaced. When the librarian opened the door, it kicked up a wad of dust that must have been fifty years old.

“Let me know when you’re done so I can lock it back up,” Ted said, then shuffled back to his computer.

The files seemed to be in random order, and most weren’t even labeled. Erik pulled out a packet of old photographs of the World War I veterans’ reunion filed with an old
Providence Journal
article about fly fishing in Western Rhode Island. None of it made any sense. It was almost as if no one wanted anything to be found.

After going through half of the top drawer, Erik was just about to give up when he came across a photograph and an article from the
Chepachet Call
, dated July, 1943.

“Ancient Altar Stone Found by Youth” the title of the article said. Underneath the title was a reprint of the photograph in the file.

The photo was of a huge black stone, an altar stone, set in the center of a clearing in the forest. Although the size was difficult to judge in the picture, the thing looked to be about eight feet long, three feet wide, and raised about three feet off the ground like a bed. What really troubled him, though, was that the thing was a deep, shiny black, like obsidian. It looked exactly like the rock that Todd had described.

The article went on to say that two boys had been playing in the woods and had found the rock. The boys had found George Fleming, the reporter and editor for the local newspaper, and he had accompanied them and had taken the photograph. Fleming speculated in the article that the stone might have been an ancient Viking stone—the Vikings had visited Newport and other areas along the East Coast, so why not here?

Behind the article, though, Erik found another one from the same writer and the same paper, proclaiming the whole thing a hoax. In the article, Fleming apologized for making up the story and involving the boys. The altar didn’t exist and never had existed, he said.

Erik frowned and made photocopies of both the articles and the pictures. He’d have to show this to Todd—and maybe to Dovecrest and the Sheriff as well.

-2-

Erik stopped at Burger King on his way home and brought lunch for everyone. He found Todd in his room coloring on a loose leaf notebook.

“What ya doing, Sport?” he said.

“Nothin’,” Todd replied.

“Well it looks like you’re doing something.”

“I’m just coloring a picture.”

Todd looked over his son’s shoulder at the drawing, and his heart chilled. It was a picture of the black rock in a field with a full yellow moon overhead.

“Is that the rock you saw?” he asked.

“Yeah. That’s it. But nobody believes me.”

“I believe you, Todd.”

“No you don’t. You’re just saying that to make me feel good.”

Erik took a deep breath, then pulled the pulled the photograph from his notebook and extended it towards his son. The boy’s eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open.

“See, it is real,” he said. “I told you it was.”

“Yes, it is,” Erik said. “Now, come on down and let’s get some lunch. I brought you back a burger and fries.”

“Ok,” Todd said.

“Oh, and just one more thing. Don’t tell your mother about this. At least not yet. Not until I figure out what to do about it.”

“Ok, Dad. Just...just don’t take too long.”

-3-

Seti spent the afternoon playing with the teenage girl until he became bored with her. She was pretty and innocent, but he knew that she was a slut and must have enjoyed it. They all did, even when they cried and screamed and whimpered. They all wanted it, deep down inside. He’d done everything to her that he could imagine, and had let his followers have her as well, while he watched. But now the girl was little more than a zombie, staring at him glassy-eyed and without emotion, no longer conscious of him or of her surroundings. Like a rotten fruit, she’d spoiled much too soon, he thought.

He looked at her for a moment and almost felt sorry. She looked like she’d been in a train wreck. Her hair was tangled and plastered with dirt, blood, and other bodily fluids. Her left eye was swollen shut and her nose was battered and broken. If he could have felt any emotions, he would have felt sorrow. But instead, he just felt empty. Besides, he knew she had loved every minute of it. They all did.

“Be patient,” the voice cautioned. “Wait until the sun goes down. Then you will bring her to me and I will begin the process of becoming complete.”

“Yes,” Seti said. “When the sun goes down.” He only had an hour or so to wait. And then his dreams would be fulfilled.

“I will go gather the others and prepare,” he said, “for when the sun goes down.”

Then he kicked the girl to the side of his small camper and went out to gather his followers.

-4-

Dovecrest had planned to go and see the boy and his father, but he’d seen Erik drive by in the morning, and he never did quite find the energy to stop by in the afternoon. Now that the sun had set, he knew he had waited too long and would have to act on his own. He’d forgotten how the voice could influence you—sometimes, the influence was just to do nothing. It seemed to tap one’s strength, one’s willpower and one’s energy. Sometimes it caused people to do things; other times it caused people to just sit on the couch like a vegetable, and watch the world go by.

Yes, Dovecrest thought. It’s been working on my mind.

He knew that tonight was something big, something important. For one thing, the entity had left him alone for the last hour or so—he no longer felt its presence like a heavy blanket over his face. That meant it was occupied with other things. Like the girl he had taken.

It had taken the cat, and that had made it stronger. The life of a teenage girl would be most prized and would bring its strength to a new level. The girl was still alive. It had waited until the time was right. Now that the search party had left the woods and the police were concentrating on Route 102, it had the chance it was waiting for. He might not be able to stop the monster, or even stop the pawn it was using tonight, but if he could snatch the girl away, he might at least buy a little more time—and a child’s life.

This time he didn’t take the rifle, but stuffed the Beretta into his waistband, just in case. It wouldn’t have any effect on the entity, but a .45 caliper hollow-point could sure do some damage to its human helpers.

Dovecrest stiffened his shoulders and went out the back door. I am getting way too old for this, he thought, as he walked into the woods, relying only on his instincts to guide him. He knew where it would happen—he had always known that. And now he knew when it would happen as well, at least this first installment of horror, anyway. There would be more versions after this, new and improved versions, but he couldn’t worry about that now. One thing at a time.

He picked his way through the woods as effortlessly as if he were crossing his own bedroom. He had lived here for more than a lifetime, and had made it his business to know this land. It, and the knowledge of what was about to happen, were his only advantages.

The altar stone wasn’t very far away in terms of mileage—only about a half mile as the crow flies—but it was centuries away in terms of time. Dovecrest could almost feel himself traveling back in time as he walked. He felt the decades, the centuries peel away as he returned to a more primitive time, a time when good and evil were stripped of their trappings and laid bare for the world to see. A world where evil existed in its most pure, unadulterated form, not camouflaged by politics or culture or religion. This was a world where it dared to show itself as it was, without shame and without excuse, a world where it did not hide or justify its existence, but challenged good men to stare it in the eye.

As Dovecrest made his journey, he felt some of the old power returning to him, and even as he did he realized that he had made one critical mistake. He had failed to purify himself properly and make peace with God. How could one do battle against evil without seeking the protection of its counterpart? It had been easier in the old times, when worship was part of the daily life. Now, not even his own people believed anymore. And the white man was not much better. Sure, he made his weekly pilgrimage to whatever church he attended. He worshipped faithfully and then returned to his everyday life of lying, cheating, stealing....

But it was too late for such thoughts now, and he felt himself weakening beneath his own doubt, even as he felt the strength of the entity growing near. He was close to the altar now, and he could feel its presence radiating throughout this place. The white man was strange, he thought—he equated graveyards with supernatural power. That wasn’t to say there was no power in those places of death. But the truly powerful, once they were set free, preferred to infest and infect places of life and power, places where they felt strong and secure. This was such a place, and now it was cursed with this awful and awesome power, which would only grow stronger with each new death.

Dovecrest heard the sound of voices ahead and he knew he was near. He stopped and moved forward slowly to the edge of the clearing. He slipped behind the trunk of an ancient, withered oak tree and watched.

There were thirteen of them, as he had expected, carrying torches and dancing naked around the ancient stone. It would have almost looked comical if he didn’t know what was happening. It was the kind of thing they would make documentaries about, and show them on cable TV, and people would laugh and say, “look at those idiots, can you imagine!” Only this was not funny, and although much of it was little more than a silly ritual to entertain the thirteen, who, of course, needed carnal pleasures for their own fulfillment, the essence of it all was very real and very serious.