Chapter Twenty-Seven

Halfway to Buffalo, NY, July 19th, one year ago

Route 219N stretched on in front of Rob, the dark macadam extending onward until it narrowed to an invisible point at the horizon. The setting sun cast elongated shadows from trees and utility poles, their shapes disfigured like reflections in funhouse mirrors. On either side, low, rolling hills mimicked the silhouettes of ancient behemoths crossing a plain.

The lightning attack of the Brock sisters had shorted out his radio, leaving him with only the droning hum of the tires and the gentle hiss of the air-conditioning. The white noise of the highway did nothing to calm his nerves.

Since leaving Hastings Mills, he’d been plagued by a nasty feeling in his gut. It started out as a nervous wriggling, the adult version of that weird tingling he used to get before a big exam. But as the miles passed, it had grown. Changed. Become something he’d never felt before, a wet, slimy eel of fear swimming circles in his stomach.

But you have felt it before, haven’t you? When Evan Michaels opened his eyes and spoke to you.

“Hello, Robert. Kylie says fuck you from Hell.”

That had been the moment the fear eel hatched. His pride at defeating the supernatural presence turned into soul-rending terror as Brian’s body rose up from the bed and mad laughter burst from the child’s throat.

The boy, floating there, while you stood frozen in terror and did nothing to stop what happened. Stone Graves shouting, “Do something!” Randi Zimmerman’s video camera being yanked from her hands and thrown across the room by the invisible entity. Everything moving in slow motion while you stood there, helpless in your fear. Brian gliding across the floor, the same way Kylie did that awful night at school. Heading for the window.

Just like Kylie.

You knew it then. Knew what was going to happen. And you didn’t stop it.

You never even tried.

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Rob said, unaware he’d spoken aloud.

The coward’s excuse.

“I couldn’t!” Rob’s shout echoed off the closed windows, startling him. His eyes shot open and he cut the wheel right just in time to avoid hitting the guardrail on the wrong side of the road. The car swerved back into the right lane, tires screeching from his overcorrection, and then jerked the other way as he got control.

Panting, chest pounding, he let the car slow to forty. Adrenaline coursed through his body and his hands gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles ached. The idea that he’d dozed off, lulled into sleep or some kind of zombie-like state, scared him almost as much as the unwanted memories his subconscious had delivered. If something happened to him, all hope was lost for Abigail Rawlings. And maybe the whole town.

I need coffee. And food.

What he really wanted was a drink, but that craving, that wild animal pacing its cage inside him, would have to wait until after he spoke to Father Leo. Once the priest had all the information, the ball would be in his hands and Rob could sink back into his bottle.

Like a coward.

Ignoring the voice of his self-hatred, he slowly increased his speed, keeping both hands on the wheel. A green sign appeared up ahead, indicating an exit. No number, just the words FOOD GAS RESTROOMS 1 MILE.

I’ll stop there. Put something in my stomach. And I can look up the number for the hospital, find out what room Father Leo is in.

The exit ramp came up on the right and he eased onto it. At the end, a road stretched to the left and right, with nothing but cornfields as far as he could see in the last rays of light. Directly across the street was a wide gravel parking lot. At the back end of it sat an old-fashioned diner, modeled like a silver Airstream with windows across the front and a pink neon sign on the roof that read DINER OPEN 24 HOURS.

One car sat in the lot, and Rob hoped that had more to do with the diner’s location in the middle of nowhere than with the quality of the food.

How bad can it be? All I want is coffee and pie. Or maybe a buttered roll. No one can screw up a buttered roll. Still, his misgivings remained until he pushed open the glass doors and stepped inside.

His first impression was that he’d traveled back in time to his childhood. There’d been a restaurant on State Street, the Keystone Luncheonette, where he’d gone for lunch every Sunday with his family after church. A real mom-and-pop place, with Mr. Mallory doing all the cooking and Mrs. Mallory running the counter. Their two daughters had filled in as waitresses when needed.

The menu was small and the food dripped with grease and butter, but to a ten-year-old boy the place was heaven. He got the same thing every time: a grilled cheese with bacon on white bread, with French fries and a Coke. The air had always been redolent with the smells of frying meat, sautéed onions, and coffee.

The same exact odors washed over him as he entered the unnamed diner. His stomach let out a sonorous gurgle and saliva filled his mouth. His pace increased and by the time he reached the long counter he’d decided to forgo the pie in favor of a cheeseburger. Two men in dusty coveralls sat at the far end, and he caught a glimpse of people in two or three of the booths, but his attention was focused on the giant coffee urn behind the counter, and the window next to it that offered a view of a cook in stained whites flipping burgers, sandwiches, and eggs at a large grill.

He took a seat at the center of the counter just as an older woman in a starched white blouse and black trousers approached him.

“Coffee?” she asked, her blue eyes as faded as her slate-gray hair. Even her skin had a grayish-blue tint, like when you spent too much time in cold water, and her lips had lost almost all their pink.

“Please. And I’ll have a cheeseburger and fries. Make it a double burger.”

The woman nodded and jotted his order on her pad. “Comin’ up.”

A second later a giant mug of steaming black coffee sat in front of him, the rich aroma of dark roast beans wafting up. He took his first sip and let out a satisfied sigh.

How is it the cheapest diner can make great coffee but the big-name coffee places give you burned tar, at three times the price?

“Where you headin’?” a voice asked. Rob turned and saw the two men looking his way. Both wore John Deere caps that hid their eyes in shadow. They sounded honestly curious rather than small-town suspicious, so he answered.

“Buffalo,” he said. “Gotta see someone.”

“Family?” The second man gave him a slight smile.

“Old friend,” Rob replied. An image of Caitlyn’s face appeared out of nowhere in his head and he forced it down, wondering why he’d suddenly thought of her.

“Good to see friends,” the waitress said, placing napkins and silverware in front of him. A bottle of ketchup joined them. “So many memories, am I right?”

She walked away before he could answer. One of the old men nodded. “Sure are, Lori.”

Rob jumped at the name.

Stop. It’s just a coincidence. You’ve had Fifth Dallas on your mind. Plenty of people named Lori.

Still, he found himself watching her as she moved back and forth behind the counter, refilling coffee for him and the old men, consolidating the contents of two donut plates under glass domes, and adding more cream to a half dozen little aluminum pourers.

“You were a chickenshit, Rob.”

“What?” Rob swung around on his stool to face the two old men. “What did you say?”

One of the men frowned. “I said, I had a chicken farm job, once. Down by Hastings Mills.”

Rob’s blood froze. “Hastings Mills? Why would you—”

“That’s nice farm country,” the other chimed in. “Good, fertile soil. Old. You need centuries of death to make soil like that.”

“I don’t—”

“Ain’t there a college that way?” the first man asked, cutting Rob off again. “You look like a college fellow.”

“Yes. St. Alphonse. I graduated from there.” The rapid changes in subject had Rob’s thoughts whirling and he responded out of habit.

“Here you go, college boy.” The waitress slid a plate to him. He looked down.

A grilled cheese with bacon. On white bread. With a side of golden-brown fries.

“Wait. This isn’t what I ordered.” Rob pushed the plate back.

“But it’s what you really wanted, ain’t it?” Lori raised an eyebrow at him and walked away. The two old men snickered behind raised coffee cups.

Rob eyed the sandwich. Gooey American cheese oozed out from the sides, and the bacon was crisp and brown, just the way he liked it.

He had wanted it more. In fact, he’d ordered the cheeseburger only because it seemed silly to get a sandwich just to relive a bit of childhood. The same reason he hadn’t had one in years.

How had she known?

“Lori thinks she’s psychic.” The men laughed and the waitress shrugged.

“Doesn’t take a psychic to tell when someone’s not feeling right. College boy’s got troubles. Blind woman could see that.” She tapped her pen on the counter in front of him and headed over to one of the tables.

Blind woman? Maggie ended up blind that night.

“Sometimes life throws a fella curve balls,” one of the old men said. Rob frowned. He was having trouble telling them apart. He wished he could see their faces.

“Got that right,” the man’s partner said. “People get hurt. Get sick. Die. Sometimes by their own hand.”

Rob’s gut twisted. How the hell had they got onto the subject of suicide? Caitlyn’s face rose up again, making it hard to follow the conversation.

“Hey, college boy. You married? Got kids?”

“No.” He thought about telling them it was none of their damned business but starting a fight wasn’t high on his list of things to do so he bit his tongue and returned to his food, which no longer seemed so appetizing. The cheese had gone cold and the bacon limp. Congealed grease covered the bottom of the plate.

“Ever fuck a blind girl?”

“What?” This time he dropped the sandwich and came halfway off his stool. Both men had their heads down.

“I did,” one of them said. His voice had grown deeper, and hoarse. “She had scars all over her face. Black chick.”

Bitter laughter came from one of the booths. “That’s right. And then he dumped me.”

Rob turned to see who’d spoken and got his first real look at the other patrons in the diner. A woman and child sat with their backs to him, with only their hair – his brown, hers onyx black – visible. Across the aisle from them were two women in a booth, one with dark skin and hair, the other with long, curly brown hair and freckles, just like—

Don’t even think it.

“How ’bout a little girl?”

Rob spun toward the men. They stared at him with narrowed eyes. One of them made kissing noises and licked his lips.

“Ten goin’ on eighteen,” the other said, and both of them burst into laughter. Rob’s stomach clenched as a different memory emerged from the closet of his past. Just as bad as the others, in its own way.

I didn’t mean for it to happen. But she’d been so innocent, so beautiful, so—

“You want more coffee, Rob?”

He jumped a little as the waitress’s words returned him to the present. Somehow she’d gotten back behind the counter without him noticing.

How did she know my name?

He started to ask, but when he glanced her way, she looked different. Thinner. Younger. Familiar….

Lori Sweeney. It’s her, if she’d never been…hurt. Had lived a normal life.

The waitress winked at him and stuck out her tongue.

Just like Lori used to do.

“It was all your fault, you know.”

That voice. The brown-haired girl in the booth. Her. He slowly turned around on his stool. He didn’t want to see. But he couldn’t help himself.

Caitlyn Sweeney stared at him. Older, but no mistaking her.

“You’re the reason I killed myself.” Her face was pale as milk, each freckle standing out. “What happened to Lori destroyed me. Just like you destroyed her.”

“No!” He took a step toward her. Stopped when the other woman got up. She wore dark glasses, like a—

Blind woman? “Maggie?”

“How do I look, Rob? Have the years been good to me? I used to be beautiful. You never came to visit me in the hospital.”

“That’s not true.” Rob shook his head, even though she couldn’t see him. “I tried. You wouldn’t let me. Then you moved away.”

“You never came. None of you did. I lost everything because of you. School, a job, even my boyfriend.”

“Damn straight. I didn’t want no blind chick,” one of the men said. Only now it was a teenager’s voice. Rob recognized it right away. Michael Choi. And next to him, Patrick O’Hare. The one who’d brought the Ouija board that night. The one who’d—

“They all hated me because of you,” Patrick said. “You talked me into it, said it would be fun. But after, they blamed me just as much as you. It weighed on me, Rob. Weighed on me till I couldn’t take it anymore.” He held up his arms. Dark blood dripped from his wrists.

“It was your idea!” Rob said. And it had been too. Pat had found the game, suggested they play.

“But you convinced everyone to do it.” Lori came around the counter. Most of her hair was gone and one side of her skull was misshapen. Her eyes stared in two different directions and a line of drool hung from her mouth. “They locked me away ’cause of you. Did you know I had a baby? In the institution. Some of the orderlies like to rape the women. Fuck the dummy, they used to say. Fucked me all the time. Wanna fuck me, Rob?”

She lifted her skirt, revealing gray hospital underwear with brown stains on it.

“Go ahead.” Caitlyn came up next to him. Gave him a push. Her hands were ice on his arm. “Fuck her. Fuck my sister like you fucked me. Fucked my whole family.”

“Fucked us all,” Michael said. He and Patrick stood only a few feet away, their faces corpse pale. Rob tried to back up, but bumped into Maggie. Her breath was warm against his neck and the sweet, rancid smell of old meat wrapped around his face. He gagged and moved forward.

Lori jiggled her hips at him and made kissing noises. Spit flew from her lips.

“Maybe we’re too old for him,” Maggie said. “Maybe he wants to dip his stick in a sweet young thang.” She and Caitlyn moved apart, revealing a young woman with black hair and pale skin. Blood stained the front of her shirt. Shadows hung beneath her familiar violet eyes.

No. Not her too. She can’t be—

“Run, Rob. Run before it’s too late. I can’t stay long. He’s too—” Shari Brock’s face twisted in pain and then her expression changed from sad to furious. “You killed me, you bastard. Ruined my life and my sister’s.”

“This isn’t real!” Rob shoved his way between past them, got clear of the circle, only to find the little boy standing there. Blood covered his face.

Evan Michaels?

“You promised nothing would happen to me.” His voice was exactly the same as the last time Rob had heard it, just before he began the rites. “Now I’m dead and it’s your fault.”

Rob shook his head but couldn’t deny the charge. It had been his fault. And he’d been haunted by his mistake ever since. He should’ve listened to Graves and Zimmerman, should’ve taken their warnings seriously, should’ve—

“Should’ve died in that attic.” The guttural snarl of a second voice overlaid Caitlyn’s words.

The kitchen door banged open and Rob jumped. A figure came out, a woman in chef’s whites, body twisted and bent, shuffling instead of walking. Head down, wet hair dangling like a mop.

“It should’ve been you.”

Kylie Johnson.

“No, please, no.” He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see her. Body broken, skull crushed, lying on the ground…. “You can’t be here. You’re dead.”

“We’re all dead.” The apparitions spoke at once, voices mingling, joined by the deep growl. “Because of you.”

“Stupid sheep.”

For a moment Rob was transported back to that night in the attic room, Kylie Johnson hovering over the floor, floating toward the window. She’d said those words, right before….

“Sheep.” A low whisper. The stench of rotten meat stronger than before. “Look at me, sheep.”

Against his will, Rob’s eyes opened.

Kylie stood inches from him, her dead-gray face mottled with purple bruises. Blood dripped from her mouth, and when she smiled, her teeth were black and broken. Her knotted, wet hair stunk of mud and river water.

“Poor little sheep, you’ve lost your flock,” she snarled, her breath so rank his eyes watered and his stomach threatened to erupt. “Likes little girls to play with your cock.”

She laughed, spraying vile spittle into Rob’s face. The harsh cackling echoed through the room, coming from all directions at once. Kylie’s mouth stretched open farther and farther, the skin splitting across her cheeks to reveal white bone. The others crowded closer, their flesh peeling away and dropping to the floor with wet thumps.

The remains of Kylie’s face shifted, lost shape, reformed. Her nose flattened and bulged outward, her lips pulled back and jagged fangs burst from her colorless gums. Her ears disappeared and her hair fell out in thick clumps. Protuberances sprouted from her skull, bony growths erupting through the thin skin like a mountain range forming on an ancient plain. When the chorus spoke again, no trace of human voices remained.

“Better go now, Father Rob. You don’t want to be late for the slaughter.”

The laughter grew in volume, inside Rob’s head and out, so loud he thought his eardrums would burst. With a cry, he turned and ran out the door, the insane cackling following him. Glass case fronts shattered as he passed them, and the tables rattled and shook, threatening to break free from the floor.

He hit the door full speed and stumbled down the stairs, staggering as he ran across the gravel lot until momentum failed to carry him any farther and he fell to his knees halfway to his car. Certain the ghosts of his past were right behind him, he twisted around, throwing his arms up to protect himself.

Nothing happened.

Slowly, he lowered his scraped hands. A strong breeze peppered his face with dust and grit. Fifty feet away stood the ruins of an ancient Airstream, the walls rusted and dented, the roof sagging. Empty windows gaped in rotten frames and the doors hung half off the hinges. A broken sign leaned against the front, faded red letters spelling out INER and under that OPE 24 RS.

“Jesus.” Had any of it really happened or had he suffered some kind of hallucination? A reaction to stress and incipient DTs?

“Bring the priest.” The growling voice came from the darkness behind the doors and from inside his head. “We’re waiting.”

Rob got up and staggered to the car. His hands trembled violently as he pulled back onto the highway, and didn’t stop until he arrived at Buffalo Memorial two hours later. Tears on his cheeks and the demon’s voice still haunting him, he went to the front desk. A white-haired clerk eyed him up and down before informing him that visiting hours were over for the night. Instead of returning to his car, he went to the hospital’s chapel, where he took a seat in the back, pulled out a rosary, and silently recited twenty prayers.

When he finished, he started again.

And kept repeating the cycle until the sun came up.