Authors: Don Sloan
Tipton crept up the final two rungs of the ladder leading into Sarah’s bathroom from the room below. Luckily for him, Nathan had left it unlatched after he had gone down to retrieve Moira’s diary the night before. He stealthily pushed open the small door that led into the half bath and crept inside. He stood upright, then, quietly, he opened the door into the main hallway. It was dim in the half-light of the noonday old house, but the silence was complete, like the inside of a mortuary. He made his way down to the foot of the oaken staircase, where he paused, listening. He thought he heard a heavy breath inhaled like a wet bellows.
He turned to see the red, fiery eyes of Bakka behind him, in his man-shape of seven feet.
The monstrosity lolled his long, red tongue out of his mouth and lo, it was covered in scales, each one silver and gold; and as it emerged from his mouth, the tongue sought purchase on Tipton’s body as Tipton stood rooted to the spot, horrified at the apparition before him. The tongue licked the side of Tipton’s face and he recoiled.
“This is not possible!” he cried. “You do not have the ability to exist without me!”
The tongue probed Tipton’s thin white lips and lingered on the bridge of his nose. Bakka regarded him, an amused twinkle dancing in his ruby eyes. He uttered a low growl and extended a long, heavily muscled black arm toward Tipton.
That was all Tipton needed to break the brief spell Bakka had cast over him. He bolted and ran like a deer up the stairs.
Tipton stood in Sarah’s attic, panting, the door bolted behind him. Something drew him to the window ledge. Twenty-four small wooden idols were lying in a neat row on the windowsill.
As he got over his fright, he felt something—an odd presence that he had not felt before. These idols were all subtly different from the one of Bakka, yet Tipton could tell that they were clearly made by the same carver—a practitioner of the dark voodoo arts in Africa. He wondered if—
—he touched one of the idols and a great snarling wolfhound sprang to life before him, slavering and snarling, yet not threatening him. It was simply awaiting a command from him to rip and sunder human flesh, any human flesh. It appeared to be eagerly awaiting Tipton’s bidding! This was a fine discovery, Tipton thought. He began stroking each one in turn. Soon the small attic was filled with beasts of all shapes and sizes, each one worse than the other, and each one ready and willing to wreak havoc at Tipton’s command. He silently visualized the parlor of this home in his mind and the collective power of the tribal gods transported him there, along with the two dozen black deities.
He was just in time to meet Bakka, who had re-materialized in the front hallway.
“So, my dark friend,” said Tipton. “We meet again. But this time under very different circumstances. You apparently are master of yourself at last. How long has that been the case, I wonder? And I now have all these fine friends at my command.” He swept his arm behind him where the twenty-four demons danced and howled, a veritable Dante’s Inferno of living beasts. “Let the games begin!”
Tipton gestured for two of the beasts to move forward and engage Bakka. One was about six feet tall, but very muscular and shaped like a warthog. His tusks protruded from a long, snoutlike beak and his eyes bulged with crazed fury. The other was taller, standing upright and man-like. He had wavy blonde hair but was unlike any man Tipton had ever seen before. He was thin to the point of emaciation, but his ropy muscles bunched and flexed around his arms and legs like so many elastic bands. His grinning teeth were filed to razor points and his green eyes flashed merrily with manic amusement at the prospect of battle. He had skin of soft gray fur. The two of them fell upon Bakka, who had assumed his half-man, half-horse incarnation. Bakka turned, dropped onto his hands and kicked both powerful hooves at the warthog, sending him across the parlor, unconscious and out of the fight. The other demon took a step back, now wary.
Bakka swung a mighty roundhouse punch at the beast-man’s head and connected with its temple. The demon went down where he stood, as though he had no bones inside to hold him up.
Tipton waved for several more to come forward, and Bakka dealt with each one similarly, driving his mighty fists into and through each monster. They fell like tenpins in a bowling alley. He moved toward Tipton, his red tongue lolling.
Tipton gave a great cry and the rest of the demons ran forward to surround Bakka. They overwhelmed him in a biting, thrashing, beating fury of activity that bowled the man-god over and brought him to his knees. With a roar, he tried to thrust his way up. It was no good. There were just too many of them. He started to make them disappear into other lands, other dimensions, and he was successful at first, but he found after a little while that he was actually importing other beasts from other lands at the same time: massive, belligerent unicorn creatures, full of blood lust; they quickly impaled him upon their horns, with no thought of gratitude for his having transported them into another world. On and on they came. He began to whirl like a cyclone, creating a perimeter of death and destruction all around him that was terrible to behold. Tipton stood well back by the hearth, his thin arms folded over his chest, awaiting the outcome of this bloody melee.
Finally, the cyclone slowed, then stopped, and the twelve beasts that remained standing around its perimeter, holding back, closed in. Bakka did his best to resist but the result was inevitable. The wolfhound that Tipton had first released—a massive creature ten feet tall at the shoulder—opened its great maw and leapt at Bakka. Too weak to do more than throw up an arm now, Bakka succumbed, and the beast tore it off, chewing greedily. When Bakka had last assumed corporeal reality, it had sapped him of the ability to come and go at will, to dissolve and disappear, so he could not simply vanish now. He was literally at Tipton’s mercy. Tipton threw back his head and laughed. Then he held up a hand and his creatures stopped their advance. Bakka, now limbless and hunched over, panting harshly, eyed his former master with hate-filled red eyes.
“Not so high and mighty now, are ye,” Tipton crowed. “Well, I’ll not make ye suffer any longer. Ye have been a good and faithful servant all these years and ye deserve a fitting and swift end.” He gave a curt nod to the remaining dozen creatures surrounding Bakka and they moved in from all sides, some transforming into black mist, others retaining their beast shapes, ravaging Bakka’s few remaining limbs and torso as they went. Soon, there was nothing remaining of Bakka the man-god (formerly owned by Nagutu, the African slave) but a glistening red mound on the polished oak floorboards of Tipton’s parlor.
“That’s a fine day’s work for ye, boys,” Tipton said. “Take me back up to the attic now and let me sort ye out.” And they flew up the stairs once more to rematerialize by the dormer windowsill. “Take yer places, now. I don’t know which god goes with which carving. All but one now. You, there, stay by me” He pointed at the wolfhound. The others seeped into their respective carvings. Tipton grabbed the remaining carving.
“All right, you, get in here. I’ll have need of ye shortly.” When the beast had disappeared into its carving, Tipton put it into his jacket pocket—a pocket with no hole in it—and left the attic.
On the island Nathan and Sarah had made a discovery. Cresting a low rise just off the beach, they had entered a patch of jungle. Colorful macaws soared across a flawless blue sky and white-faced monkeys with brilliant orange fur dashed by them in packs of fifty or more, swinging with effortless ease from limb to limb. But what really took their breath away was the distant gleam of the noonday sun off tall green glass-fronted buildings in the near distance.
“It looks like the Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz,” said Sarah.
“Well, Oz it may be, but beware of Munchkins and Tin Men, is all I’ve got to say,” replied Nathan.
“Pooh, you’re no fun,” she said, grasping his hand and starting them off at a jog down what appeared to be a well-worn path. “Weeeee’re off to see the Wizard,“ Sarah sang.
And so they came to the great gates of the green city, situated as it was on a plain carved out of the jungle. More monkeys chattered at them from nearby hardwood trees, old-growth trees, and a few new ones. And birds: thousands and thousands of them thronged the air, filling the young couple’s ears with their song, sweet and harmonious. Sarah said she felt as though she was in a dream.
“Of course we’re in a dream, Sarah. But remember: this is also a separate reality, where pain will be as real as the pleasure you’re currently experiencing.”
“Oh, you had to go and say that, just to spoil my good mood,” Sarah grumped. “Think we should knock or just go in?”
“There’s no doorbell or knocker. And no sign that says what to do, so I say we just go on in.” And that’s just what they did, Sarah leading the way into—
—a deserted city, but one that had recently been the center of great activity, by the looks of it. Before them lay a wide cobbled square with rows of vendor’s stalls set up, as if for a fair. Indeed, merchandise and other items were on display: sides of beef and ham hung suspended in the warm, balmy air; woven baskets were stacked neatly in one vendor’s stall. Sarah wandered over and picked one up. There was no sign of the vendor—or of any vendor for that matter.
“Where do you suppose they’ve gone? Shouldn’t they be here to greet us?” She turned her head up and shouted to the sky. “Hey! What kind of goddam dream is this, anyway?”
Nathan touched her shoulder. “I’m not sure that’s going to be helpful.”
“Well, it was worth a try. Want a straw hat to keep the sun off, mister?” she asked playfully.
He responded in kind. “No, thanks, senorita. But I might be interested in kissing your lovely boca soon.”
“That better mean my mouth, senor,” she said, laughing.
“It does.”
“Good. Where to next?”
“Not sure. Looks like we’ll be here a while. Let’s continue on into this city and see if we can find anyone.”
“Sounds good to me.”
They continued their way down the wide, cobbled boulevard that ran into the heart of the city. Evidence of horses was everywhere—Nathan and Sarah had to watch their step as they goggled at the tall buildings and the elaborate facades. Some sported crouching lions with human heads, while still others showed upright totems of winged creatures with wingspans of more than twelve feet.
“Wouldn’t want to meet any of those anytime soon,” said Sarah, stifling a shiver that ran the length of her spine.
“Be careful what you ask for,” Nathan intoned. And they moved along, deeper into the city. Doves and pigeons circled over their heads and an occasional monkey scampered by, oblivious to their presence, but they met no other living human. Finally, they came to a two-story dwelling that might have been a condominium structure in their time period. It had a deep green awning and polished copper handles on its glass doors.
“Let’s look around in here. I’m kind of hungry. Maybe we can pillage a kitchen for lunch,” said Nathan.
“All right,” Sarah agreed. Nathan pulled the door open and was faced immediately with—
—a two-headed snake, twice his size, and poised to strike. The creature was coiled like a python and was positioned just inside the doorway of the condo’s lobby area.
“Oops, my mistake,” Nathan said, hurriedly closing the door in the creature’s angry faces. The glass was mirrored, so Nathan couldn’t see whether it struck the closing door or not. He didn’t hear a bump or bang on the door, but he hurried away from it nevertheless. “That was a close one,” he said.
They continued walking down the street. Banners fluttered loosely in a moderate breeze. They were colorful, all pinks and light blues to complement the green glass of the buildings’ exteriors. Red brick sidewalks ran the length of the boulevard, back the way they had come, into the heart of the city and forward, to the outskirts. The cobbles of the street on which they were walking held a rich green light all its own.
“I’m starting to wonder what the point of this little side-trip is,” Nathan said.
“Me, too,” Sarah answered. Both were still clad only in their swimwear. The temperature was a pleasant seventy-five degrees or so with a light breeze, so they weren’t uncomfortable.
Nathan didn’t know where they were or how they would get back. He sent forth a thought beacon to the wooden idol that Sarah had held in her hand back at her house, hoping the shadow-beast would come and get them. But there was no response. It was as though he was dialing a long distance number and there was no one there to answer. Bakka was dead, but Nathan had no way of knowing this; they were trapped in this alternate reality, possibly forever.
Tipton fussed about Moira’s secret room like an old mother hen, placing his supplies where he wanted them: hacksaw on the altar, along with the duct tape for binding Sarah’s hands and feet; ten-penny nails for nailing Nathan to the wooden cross he had made and propped against one of the pillars. And, finally the deed and title papers he had drawn up and had pre-notarized through a long-time friend who had owed him a favor. Now all he needed were the principal players in his little drama: Nathan and Sarah. But where were they? He had checked this house upstairs, but they weren’t there. The storm was slacking off, so he had trudged up to Nathan’s house, had broken in, and checked there as well: no luck.
So, now he was down here in the sub-basement. Everything was in place and it was eleven o’clock at night. He was starting to get very anxious indeed. He brought his idol out and rubbed it. Instantly, the huge dog-like beast appeared.
“Go and find Nathan and Sarah and bring them to me,” he commanded, forming a clear picture of the two of them in his mind, of their faces especially.
Poof! The creature disappeared—then reappeared, along with Sarah and Nathan, side by side, looking bewildered. Nathan still wore a bathing suit and Sarah still had on her string bikini. In a futile show of modesty she tried to cover herself.
“Well, that was a little too easy!” Tipton crowed. “I’m half tempted to send you back to wherever you were and be done with ye.”
“No!” Nathan cried. “Don’t do that! Please!” Sarah just stood there, still trying to make any kind of sense out of it all. She looked around the subterranean room.
“Nathan,” she said. “Do you realize where we are?”
Nathan licked his lips. Suddenly his mouth was very dry. “Yeah, I can see that. All right, Tipton. It seems as though you finally have us where you want us. What’s next?”
“Why, just both of yer names on the dotted lines of some deed transfer papers, that’s all,” Tipton replied amiably. “Step right over here by the candle lights next to the altar.”
“And if we don’t?” Nathan asked with a grim look on his face.
“Why, I’ll have Spot here send ye back to wherever he fetched ye from.” He indicated the seven-foot tall-at-the-shoulder wolfhound at his side. The hound grinned demonically.
Nathan looked at Sarah, who shrugged. She looked as exhausted as he felt. Perhaps it was time to give up. This was too much, Nathan thought. Before he had come to his house on Beach Avenue, he would have said that he put no stock in anything supernatural. But now—after everything they’d been through, maybe it was time to give in to this crazy old bastard and cut their losses while they still could. “All right,” he said, “where are the papers?”
“Step right this way, lad and lassie,” Tipton said, leading the way to the altar. He made a kind of flourish over Sarah’s deed papers. “Ladies first.”
Sarah bent over the altar and hastily scribbled her name on sheet after sheet of papers, signing over the Claymore residence to Mr. Thomas Tipton, effective January 31, 2014. Finally, she stepped back.
“Now, you, sonny.”
Nathan considered knocking the old fart down and grabbing all the papers, then making a run for the stairs. Then he looked at the wolfhound, still waiting patiently by Tipton’s side and decided against it. He began signing his own set of papers. After finishing the last one, he stepped back and reached for Sarah’s hand.
“Not so fast there, my young friend. I’m not quite done with Miss Sarah yet,” Tipton said.
The wolfhound grabbed Nathan with its gleaming white teeth and pulled him over to the corner. Nathan watched in horror as Tipton bent over Sarah, carefully binding her wrists and feet with duct tape.
Then, with a strength that belied his old age, he hoisted her onto the granite altar and picked up the hacksaw. Bright candles burned everywhere in the room, on ledges and in wall sconces and on elaborate candelabra, casting shadows and hideous highlights on the tapestries depicting apocalyptic doom.
Sarah lay still, numbed by a force she did not understand. All rational thought flew away and she waited and watched, as though these dreadful events were happening to someone else.
Tipton could not help but admire the beauty of the young woman who lay stretched out before him in a brief bikini: milk-white and rounded, chest rising and falling slowly, in a trance-like state brought on by abject fear. Ah, well, he thought. Time to get it done. Eternity awaited him, and he was ready. He placed the new hacksaw blade to her throat.
“Stop, Father!” cried a voice behind him.