With a trembling hand, he picked it up and held it by the stump of bone. It was hard, dry and immobile again. He felt an urge to ask another question, felt the insane certainty that, in some way, it would answer. The sensation of power swelled inside him. And with it, the revulsion, a blackness soaking into the edges of his soul. This thing was clearly potent, yet it was undoubtedly dangerous too.
Grant tucked it into his shirt pocket, unsure quite why, but reluctant to leave it behind. He grabbed the rifle, and stalked out into the night.
Right now, his most fervent wish was that the Stallards would return. In the mood he was in, he figured he could take all three of them at once.
“Dammit to fucking hell.”
Chapter 11
Grant sat up late into the night, watched the hands of the clock creep past eleven, through midnight, towards one a.m. Cassie had said she would come later, and there were no Stallards camping in the driveway to stop her this time. Or were there?
Exhausted, but too wired to even contemplate sleep, he took the .22 and headed out again. He left the flashlight behind and relied on moonlight to show the way. If anyone was waiting down the drive, no sense in alerting them to his presence. He crept through the trees, all the way to the road and sure enough, the Stallards were nowhere to be seen. So perhaps Cassie was not coming to him after all. He ground his teeth, wondering if she had changed her mind and decided not to come, or if, for some reason, she couldn't come. He remembered the slap through the car window, the anger and hatred plain on Brunswick's face. And Carl's. He imagined Cassie bruised and beaten, locked in her bedroom.
He felt helpless and it only made him more furious. What could he do? He wanted to protect her, but she went willingly with her father. Of course, he couldn't blame her for that. He was her father and she had to make her own decisions. But Grant was falling for her, ached deep in his bones to protect her, and he knew the only way he could really protect her was to take her away from Wallen's Gap. He needed to convince her there really wasn't anything to hold her there. These were big decisions, but Cassie was abused and scared and the only way out was all the way out. That didn't even begin to take into account what else might be happening in her life. The stories about sleepwalking and finding blood on herself, her dreams that matched his vision in that hideous book. Not to mention all the other weird shit that he desperately tried to ignore.
Standing in the deep shadow of a pine, Grant jumped as something squirmed against his chest. The finger was still in his shirt pocket, almost forgotten. Reluctant to reach in, he pulled his pocket forward and leaned out into the moonlight to see. The finger sat in the lint at the bottom of his pocket half curled like a comma. As he looked, it straightened and curled up, straightened and curled up, jabbing at his shirt.
“Shit!” He sprang backward, the severed digit tumbling out onto the dirt. He'd almost managed to convince himself the scene in the smokehouse had been his imagination. Clearly not. As he watched, the digit once again flexed and extended, somehow conveying insistence in its motion.
“Are you pointing me to something?”
The finger fell still. As Grant drew a breath, it flexed again, more insistent than ever. With a small intake of breath, he picked it up and held it by the smooth stub of bone. The thing squirmed in his grip. He turned his body and the finger crooked forward, jabbing at the air. He turned further and the digit twisted and squirmed. When he turned back, it jabbed again, pointed up over the hill in the direction of higher ground, somewhere north of Wallen's Gap.
“There's nothing up there but more freaking trees,” Grant said softly. “What are you trying to tell me?”
The finger stiffened and all sensation of animation left it. Grant held a hard, dead bone wrapped in age-blackened skin once more.
“Am I really talking to a dead man's fucking finger?” he said, and dropped it back into his pocket. Once more the sensation of dread and power washed through him, enhanced him somehow. There was no doubt this ancient bodypart had been alive and moving moments ago, even if it was dead again now. He didn't like anything about it, considered throwing it away into the night-shrouded forest.
Immediately despair swept over him. He could never throw this thing away, he needed it! He took a shuddering breath, the desperation of the feeling made his guts icy. “Dad kept it for a reason,” he said aloud to the night, rationalizing his reasons for holding onto it. At least for the time being. He stomped back up to the cabin, locked the doors and fell into a rough, restless sleep filled with monsters and threats he could not quite recall upon waking.
The morning dawned clear and cool. Grant dragged himself from bed not long after sun up, still dog tired but beyond trying to sleep any more. He felt like he hadn't slept properly since he got to this shithole town. During his tossing and turning he’d come to one conclusion. First thing today he would go to Cassie's house and insist that he talk to her. If he had to beat his way to her through Brunswick and Carl, or any other fucker, so be it. He was at the end of his patience.
Grant downed coffee and toast to quell the hollow rumble in his gut, and drove into town. As he cruised along the main street, it occurred to him that it was still only a little after seven and that was too early to go calling on anyone. He should at least try to start without pissing them all off. The diner was just opening, so Grant pulled up and went inside for more coffee.
As he sat and sipped, he stared into a large mirror on the wall opposite the counter. A crack ran down the wall behind the man, the plaster separating as the line of darkness widened. Grant froze, eyes wide. The crack opened further and flames appeared to flicker inside. Dark fingers with black talons slipped through and gripped the ragged edge, taking hold of the other side, as though they could rip the wall apart so whatever it was could step through. The owner turned from his grill and made to walk right past the yawning fracture.
Grant spun in his seat. “No, look out!”
The diner owner scowled. “Something wrong with you, boy?”
The wall behind him was smooth and unblemished, apart from grease stains on the pale paint. “No, sorry,” Grant said weakly. “It’s nothing.”
The man shook his head, disgust evident in his expression. His eyes seemed to glow momentarily red as he turned away.
Suppressing a shudder, Grant returned to his coffee. The sooner he got to Cassie and out of Wallen’s Gap, the better.
As the clock on the wall ticked past eight o'clock, he went back to his car and drove up to the Brunswick house.
The street was quiet, no people walking and only one or two other vehicles sliding slowly by. He parked along the curb and walked to the front door. Before he lost his nerve, he knocked firmly. Footsteps rang out almost immediately and the door flew open.
Brunswick stood there wearing nothing but striped boxers and filthy, stained white t-shirt. “What the hell do you want, city boy? Didn't I tell you to stay away?”
Grant stood tall, refused to be intimidated. “I want to talk to Cassie.”
“What did you say to me?”
“I want to talk to Cassie.”
“Yeah? Well, she don't wanna talk to you. You just run on, now, before I get my shotgun and encourage you along.”
Brunswick began to close the door and Grant put a hand against it. He looked past Brunswick and yelled out, “Cassie! It's Grant. You there?”
Brunswick yanked the door wide open and slapped a palm into Grant's chest, and shoved him back across the porch. “Who the hell do you think you are, boy? Get outta here!”