"Nothing," he said.
"Well … I think Sam is trying to tell us something."
"Oh, shit! Sam is dead, Jane Ann. More than twenty years dead." Tony hoped Balon wasn't trying to tell anybody anything.
"As we knew him, yes, he is dead. But his soul is alive. We're mortals, Tony. We don't know what is behind the veil. And remember, Sam was touched by Him—chosen by Him, if you will."
"I don't believe that crap anymore," he said, the words tumbling hatefully from his mouth.
And Jane Ann's worst suspicions were now corroborated. She wanted to slap her husband.
His mood shifted as he forced himself to put his arms around her. He kissed her cheek and found it cool to his lips, very unresponsive. "Honey, we're the youngest of the survivors of that … incident. And we're not kids." He grinned down at her. "But you're sure sexy enough to be a kid."
She pushed him away from her. His body odor was awful. She could not remember the last time Tony had showered. More evidence against him. She walked swiftly from the room, returning in a moment with an 8 x 10 glossy of the late Sam Balon. The picture was in a frame with a glass front.
Tony's eyes narrowed at the sight of the minister. He hated that bastard. He reached out to take the picture from her.
"No!" She spun away from his hand.
"You think your precious Sam Balon is some kind of fucking saint? That he's sending you messages? Hell, baby, maybe he just wants some pussy."
"Pick up the letter!" she said, speaking through gritted teeth.
For some reason, unexplained in his mind, Tony was suddenly afraid of his wife. He picked up the letter without questioning her.
"Hold it against the glass," she said, lifting the framed photograph. There was a knowing smile on her lips that angered the man.
Tony pressed the letter against the glass. Within seconds, the envelope began to smoke. She jerked the letter from his hands before the smoke turned into a blaze. The front of the envelope was slightly charred.
She looked up at her husband, a smile on her lips. "Yes, Tony, I believe Sam is trying to tell me something. What's the matter, darling? You seem . . . afraid."
On Friday nights, the chanting would begin as no more than a low murmur in the hot night, then grow as the winds picked up in heat and velocity. The chanting would become as profane as it was evil.
The participants in this macabre chanting would gather around a huge stone circle, miles from Whitfield. There were carvings in the stones. On one stone, two figures were depicted: a saintly looking man and a beastly man-creature with hooved feet. The creature and the saint have been there for thousands of years, locked in silent combat, with no apparent winner.
This area was known as The Digging, the ruins of equipment and rusting old mobile homes still evident. The entire area is enclosed within a tall chain-link fence Roads to the area were destroyed in the fall of 1958. Only in the last few years have they been quietly reopened by some local people. The state bought the land and condemned it because of the dangerous caves in the area. So they said.
This was the area where, for centuries, sightings of monsters have been reported: hairy, ugly beasts with red eyes and huge clawed hands and large yellow, dripping fangs.
All nonsense, of course.
Suddenly the chanting would cease. The silence would grow heavy. The wind ceased its hot push.
And the screaming would begin, the agonizing, wailing pushing past lips, tearing out from a human whose skin was being slowly ripped from its body; who was undergoing more sexual depravity than was ever thought of by de Sade … in his blackest moments. The shrieking would continue for hours, the torches of the now silent witnesses to evil flickering in the night, turning the blood-stained altar dripping a slippery black.
The screaming would gradually change into a madness-induced moan, then into alow sob. And then silence. And then one by one the torches would cease their flickering fiery quiver and the area known as The Digging would become as black as the Devil's heart. And as still as a musty grave.
Dear Mom and Dad:
Sure is a change from the sand hills where I grew up, but I love it here at Nelson College. And guess what?: I'm rooming with a guy whose name is Sam B. Williams.
"I wonder what the B stands for?" Jane Ann asked.
"I don't give a damn what it stands for," Tony said. "Just read the damn letter."
Sam B. (he's called Black) has a really super-fine sister; she's going to school at Carrington College—that's just upriver from us. Black is going to fix me up with her soon; said he told her all about me and she's really anxious to meet me.
"I wonder what her name is?" Jane Ann asked. The name Black had triggered an old alarm within her.
Tony wished she would just toss the letter in the garbage and shut her fucking mouth.
I'm going home with them over the Thanksgiving holiday to meet their parents. They live up in Canada, right on the edge of Province Park—really wild and beautiful. Black said it's miles from any neighbors. I'm really looking forward to it. Black and I have a lot in common: we both spent three years in the military. He was in some Canadian outfit, paratroop-commando, and, of course, you all remember me: Ranger Sam. Black and I have done some skydiving together, and we've talked about a long camp-out this spring. Maybe his good-looking sister will go along, keep me warm? (Just a joke, Mom.)
Got to go. Will call later.
Love,
Sam
Tony stood up. "Very interesting letter. I have to go, Jane Ann."
"I want to know who this Black fellow is," Jane Ann said. "And I'd like to know more about his sister."
"I'm not going to sit here and argue with you, Janey. I don't give a damn what you do."
"I've realized that for a number of years, Tony. What did you mean about us being the youngest of the survivors?"
He shrugged. "Well … Miles and Doris, Wade and Anita … they're all in their sixties—all retired. Neither man is in good health. And for the last few weeks … neither Wade nor Miles has acted … well, friendly toward me."
"Since the hot wind began blowing?"
"Yeah, if you just have to connect it that way."
Across town a phone rang. Wade Thomas quickly silenced the jangling. "All right, Doris. Sure, I can come over. I know, I'll be careful. Miles wants to build a what? What the hell is a golem? Are you serious! Okay, I'll be right over." He hung up, his face holding an odd look.
"What's wrong with Miles?" Anita asked.
"Doris says he's cracked. Says the old momzer s nuts."
"What's a momzer?"
"I have no idea. But I'll bet you it isn't complimentary."
"Well, what's a golem?"
"Ah … well, Doris says it's a kind of monster made out of clay, endowed with life. A protector, sort of."
The man and wife exchanged glances. Anita shrugged.
Wade came to her, putting his arm around her shoulders. "Honey …-?"
"No, Wade." She was firm. "I don't believe it's happening. Not again. I will not leave our home."
"It is happening, Anita. And you know it."
"You go see Miles. I'll be all right."
Tony lit a cigarette, ignoring Jane Ann's shocked look. "Tony, you haven't smoked in years!"
"Well, I started again. It's my business, not yours."
"How is your practice, Tony?"
He shrugged. "You've been seeing a lot of Wade and Anita lately, haven't you. And that damned ol' Jew."
And with that remark about Miles, she knew all pretense had been ripped away. "You want me to leave this house, Tony?"
"I don't give a damn what you do."
"1 see."
"Look, Janey …"
"Don't say another word, Tony," The warning was softly spoken, but it held firm conviction.