In June of 1958, the radio station abruptly went out of business and off the air, to the sorrow of many and the almost total relief of the few music lovers in Whitfield.
The Crusader made a few polite inquiries about the archaeologists working around what was always presumed to be an ancient Indian burial ground and the often laughed-about home of some kind of monster. Nervous laughter. Almost everyone in Whitfield believed it was a burial ground; almost no one believed it was the home of any type of monster. Still, though . . .
No one knew the site of the Digging was linked to natural tunnels to the stand of timber at Tyson's Lake.
"It's weird out there, partner," is the standard when one asks about the strange formation of rocks out in the Bad Lands. "It's hard to get to and there ain't nothing out there when you get there. Stupid circle. Indian mumbo jumbo. Big deal. Now, I ain't been out there in years. I ain't goin', either."
No one goes "out there" after dark. Very few go "out there" during the day. Even before the archaeologists put up a fence to keep people away from the circle, no one went "out there." Down through the years there have been reports of deaths "out there." Rumors of horrible creatures "out there."
Yes, Whitfield and that part of Fork County has had its monsters for hundreds of years—according to stories handed down. The legend is they are fanged and clawed creatures, with enormous strength and a vile stench about them.
Scary.
But no one has seen them. And, no, the creatures have never been known to venture into Whitfield.
Not yet.
The people of Whitfield and that part of Fork don't like to speak of the monsters—and don't. It is a close community, and outsiders are carefully scrutinized before being accepted into the fold—if they ever are.
The Project Director of the Dig, Doctor (Ph.d) Black Wilder, had refused to allow any pictures to be taken of the Dig, or of himself, or of any of his people. That irritated Wade Thomas. Wade, a typical reporter, took some shots, anyway. They didn't develop. Bad film, he concluded, and put the Digging out of his mind.
Really, the archaeologists made for pretty dull copy. Wilder had insisted upon using words so technical Wade didn't know what he was talking about, and if he didn't understand them, he knew perfectly well his readers wouldn't.
But something about the Dig nagged at Wade. Something—intangible—bothered him. Something about Wilder bothered him, too. And his workers—they rarely came to town. When Wade tried to talk with them, they answered him in monosyllables. They were not rude in their brevity, they just didn't have a damn thing to say. They would smile, nod their head, and walk off.
"Arrogant bunch of eggheads!" Wade muttered.
But if they were a bit strange—to small-town philosophy—they were well-behaved. They bought their supplies in Whitfield, paid in cash, were polite—standoffish, some said—and caused no trouble for the local law.
It was Sam who noticed they all wore the same kind of medallion around their necks. And they did not attend church—none of them.
But Sam kept his suspicions to himself.
And Wade kept his to himself.
And Jane Ann kept hers to herself.
All of them almost waited too long before bringing their suspicions to the attention of what few friends they had left.
Three
The archaeologist, at first, viewed the stone and the writings upon it with mildly concealed humor, believing some of his fellow workers were having a joke at his expense. But when he carbon-tested the stone and the edge of the cutting in the tablet, his smile faded abruptly. The stone tablet was thousands of years old. He double-checked his findings. When he finished the second testing, the young man sat in silence, smoking his pipe, looking at the tablet, his eyes not quite believing what was in front of him.
"Impossible," he said.
He then began the task of translating the ancient symbols cut deeply—and perfectly—into the stone. When the translation was complete, the young man shivered as he read the words. He simply could not believe what he was reading.
But there it was, in front of him, on the workbench in his small trailer/lab. Again, he checked his findings. The symbols cut into the stone were perfectly formed. They could not have been cut with any tool known to exist five thousand years ago—or more. Then, how?
The supernatural entered his mind. He shook his head at that. "No, that's not possible."
Or, was it?
He read again the translation. HE WALKS AMONG YOU. THE MARK OF THE BEAST IS PLAIN. BELIEVE IN HIM. ONCE TOUCHED, FOREVER HIS. THE KISS OF LIFE AND DEATH.
What did it mean?
A cool breeze blew through the open window of the trailer. The young man shivered.
Under the words cut into the stone, a strange marking of some sort. The young man studied the marking. It was very complicated, yet somehow familiar. Where had he seen it? He remembered. A medallion—yes, that was it! He had seen the markings on a medallion. But where had he seen it?
He took a magnifying glass, studying the markings more closely. A sensation of pure terror overcame him. He felt his lips pull back in revulsion. Under very close inspection, the marking was—horrible. Despicable. A man/creature, but yet, so much more, cut with such fine detail. A scene of debauchment, of total human depravity and ugly corruption.
The archaeologist covered the tablet with a piece of canvas. Just doing that made him feel better. But the scene cut into the stone haunted him. There had been people in that scene, humans, but they seemed more animal than human. He threw back the canvas to study the scene. Disgusting! He felt ill. The scene depicted an orgy, yet so much more than that. It went against everything the young man had been taught. Men with men; women with women; adults with children. He had never seen such detail cut into stone. In the very back of the cutting, a human sacrifice. Beyond that, a crucifixion.
He covered the stone tablet with the canvas, and, saying nothing to any of his fellow workers, drove into Whitfield. He'd been raised in the Christian church, but had not attended services in years. Today, though, he felt he needed to speak with a minister.
At the parsonage, he introduced himself to Sam Balon. He found himself liking the big, rough-looking minister with a rose tattooed on his left forearm.
Over coffee, the young man suddenly felt himself unable to speak of the tablet. Unable to speak because the minister's wife had entered the room, and the young man knew, then, where he had seen the medallion with the evil markings. Of course! It was worn by his fellow-workers—all of them, and by the project director, Dr. Wilder. Wilder, it was said, was humping a local woman. This woman. The minister's wife!
The woman looked at him with eyes that seemed to burn into his brain, silencing his tongue. The medallion around her neck seemed to glow with life. He could see the medallion and what it depicted—all the evil and debasement—why couldn't the minister?
Because he's not looking for anything evil in his wife, the young man answered his own question.
He was both fascinated and frightened by the power the woman seemed to hold over him. When he met her eyes, they seemed to control his thoughts, his tongue.
He chatted with the couple for a few minutes, then left. It was only while driving back to the Dig that he realized he did not know where he'd been, could recall nothing of his visit to the minister's home, or of seeing the man's wife. He did not recall the woman walking him to his car, he had no recognition of her kissing him on the mouth. He could not know he had been marked.
ONCE TOUCHED, FOREVER HIS. THE KISS OF LIFE AND DEATH.