But they were not guilty. They had freed Thomas Terrywile from an eternity of hell, from being a plaything for a demon summoned by crazed men with dead faces. He saw it all in the dream, the hallucinogenic vision that left him paralyzed on the rocks. He and the Braddick brothers thought they had come back to Coombs’ Gulch to save themselves; instead, their trip was a desperate attempt to cling to the trappings of their lives – an elaborate fate set in motion by a being that could see in and out of time and space. They were here to be tortured and killed. They had taken its plaything away and would suffer for it.
Jonathan sat up quickly, his back frozen and wet from lying on the rocky beach. His face numb with cold. The open case with Thomas Terrywile’s remains sat inert and uneven before him, the lid open to the world. He saw the raft where they had left it, stirring slightly in a breeze, snowflakes gathering on its swollen sides. He heard Michael’s voice, choking, insane. Jonathan turned and saw him sitting on that lonely shoreline, rocking back and forth, his eyes staring at the box, his lips whispering something Jonathan couldn’t make out. Conner stood on the other side of the coffin, still staring down into the darkness. He looked up at Jonathan and then back down at the box. “We have to finish this and leave,” Conner said.
The sky was darker now, but not just with cloud cover. Jonathan checked his watch. Four hours had disappeared. The snow fell gently. It would grow worse.
“What happened?” Jonathan said. “What did you see?”
“I don’t know. It was just a nightmare. Some kind of reaction.…” Conner said.
“None of this is right,” Jonathan said. “I don’t think we know what we’re dealing with here.”
Michael sat cross-legged before the case. He whispered and mumbled. Conner walked to him and pulled him up by the collar. Michael’s eyes refocused for a second on his brother, and they stood, face-to-face, in a momentary embrace, staring into each other’s eyes.
“Pull it together,” Conner said softly to him.
“We’re not pulling anything together,” Jonathan said. “We’re just walking into this thing! We’re just doing what we’re told! It’s like being stuck in a film. It’s all predetermined.”
“I don’t believe that,” Conner said. “This is reality. This is where we are and this is what we have to do. It doesn’t matter what you dreamed up. If it’s all fate, then it won’t matter what we do anyway. You said it yourself! So we might as well do what’s in our best interest.” Conner bent down and took a large rock from the shore and dropped it into the case. Thomas Terrywile’s former body splashed up and spattered his pants, black droplets that blended in with his hunting fatigues. He grabbed another rock and another. “I’ll sink this thing to the bottom, so deep it will be like it never existed.”
“You’re overloading it,” Michael finally said, clear and cogent.
“Are you helping or not?” Conner said.
Jonathan looked at Conner for a moment and then at the mountains around them, dark and wet. He looked out across the lake and up the hill they would have to climb to get home. There was no other place he could be right now. He was here, trapped in an unfolding tragedy of his own making. He waited a moment for the veil to be lifted, but nothing came. He imagined himself transported to another reality where one wrong decision hadn’t set his life on such a fatal course, but it was pointless. The true horror of life is that it continues on without miracle, without reprieve, until the end. We are powerless before it. He thought of the creature in his vision: Do you see? He picked up a small stone, walked to the box and dropped it inside. He crossed himself and said a prayer he didn’t believe, the same as he had done over Gene’s casket.
Conner closed the lid and sealed it shut again. Michael kneeled before the case, took out his Bowie knife and plunged the stainless steel through the hard plastic as if he were killing a man. He did it with violence and speed, his features distorted under the strain. The box they had carried across miles of forested mountain was now riddled front and back with thick gashes. It leaked onto the rocks.
Jonathan took one hundred feet of nylon rope from his backpack, tied one end to the raft and left the rest coiled on the shore. The snow fell harder now. The air was wet and heavy, his back numb. He could see the brothers shivering beneath their coveralls. There was no way they could attempt a hike back to the cabin tonight. They would need to set up camp, make a fire and dry their clothes. The temperature was dropping as evening approached. Conner looked frantic to leave, his normally calm demeanor replaced with desperation and fear.
“We will have to set up camp,” Jonathan said. “There’s no way we’ll make it back tonight.”
“We’ll make it back,” Conner said.
“You’re freezing,” Jonathan said. “And so am I.”
“We’re dropping all this stuff here,” Conner said. “We’ll be able to move faster. This will all work out. It’ll be fine.”
Jonathan saw no use in arguing further.
“Just get in the goddamned raft,” Jonathan said.
Jonathan walked to Michael, and together they took up the coffin one last time and clumsily walked it over the rocks and placed it in the center of the raft. It was heavy – much heavier than before, now that it was laden with stones. Jonathan nearly slipped under its weight.
Conner sat down in the rear of the raft so he could paddle, keeping his mass in line with the case, and waited; he
