“Cody would have some Creekers waiting, then they’d overpower the john and sacrifice him to Ona.”
Phil still couldn’t believe this, but then he couldn’t deny how well the pieces fit. All those murder victims found. All drug dealers from nearby towns. All regulars at Sallee’s.
All skinned.
Then another word emerged into his head: Skeet-inner, he thought. Then: Skin-eater
“Turn here,” Vicki told him.
Phil slowed and steered the cruiser onto a road that was little more than a rutted path twisting up into the woods. Like skeletal fingertips, the ends of branches reached out and scratched deeply into the cruiser’s paint. Mullins won’t complain, not now, Phil reminded himself. The sound, as they traveled farther up, was worse than nails on slate. And the cruiser’s wheels rocked over the road’s ruts so much that Phil’s teeth began chattering.
Several more turns onto even narrower roads took them into a no-man’s land of vines, brush, and hugely knotted trees. They passed rotting timberfalls; foxfire glowed green on enslimed logs; networks of spiderwebs glistened between drooping bows. The hot air smelled sweetly putrid.
All these roads, all these turns. Christ, no wonder I couldn’t remember the way. The woods were a labyrinth now, the road a juddering maze to nowhere.
But then another road opened to moonlight. An unkempt field, high with dying grass and weeds, swept to their left. And to their right—
Phil recognized the hill, which rose upward against the forestbelt.
And there it stood, before the hundred-foot oaks and bare in the moonlight, the abode of his worst nightmare.
The House, he simply thought.
His eyes felt glued to it.
It had changed little from what his memory offered: graying whitewash, narrow windows, a slightly sagging roof. Decrepit. Worn down by the weight of age but somehow still standing.
“Turn off your lights!” Vicki whispered.
Phil cursed himself, then quickly switched them off and cut the engine. Suddenly the air was alive with throbbing nightsounds, gently deafening, gracefully chaotic. The heat bore down, seemed to press against his face.
Something was calling him, his past perhaps, or the fears he’d kept buried for the last twenty-five years. Something was in there. Right this instant. He wasn’t sure what, but somehow that didn’t even matter. A demon, or a cult, or just a bunch of crazy inbreds—it was more than any of that. Something powerful, and something equally insane.
Waiting for him.
He grabbed the Remington pump, then stuffed a second pistol into his pants. The third he gave to Vicki. “Wait here.”
“No way!” she objected. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to sit here by myself.”
“All right, then, come on, but stay behind me and keep quiet.”
They both got out. Phil, feeling like a vagabond mercenary, wiped sweat off his brow and stuffed loose ammo into his pockets. Then he clipped a flashlight to his belt and motioned Vicki to follow.
A dirt path wound around some trees up the hill; suddenly the moonlight blared at them. Perfect targets for these hayseeds, he realized. Some Creeker with a long rifle is probably scoping us right now. He leaned low and quickened his pace with Vicki in tow, moving in a rough zigzag. Sweat drenched them both when they got to the top of the moonlit hill. They ducked by the side of the house.
Phil leaned against cracked siding, staring down the hill at nothing. This is suicide, came the bald and very sudden thought. We don’t stand a chance, we won’t make it ten feet past the front door. I’m gonna wind up getting us both killed…
Vicki’s hand touched his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
There are probably fifty Creekers in there…
“Phil?”
Phil turned slightly; his stare lost all focus. You must be out of your mind. Take Vicki, get back in the car, and drive away. Go somewhere, anywhere. Start again, and live…
Just as he considered throwing in the towel and abandoning this madness, a high scream from one of the upper windows shrilled into the night—
Susan’s scream.
They’re torturing her, they’re tearing her apart—
“Come on,” he said. “We’re going in now.”
Lightly but quickly, he crept around to the front and mounted the wood steps to the porch. All the windows were vaguely dark, but he detected the faintest fluttering orange light from within. Candles and oil lamps, he realized. No electricity. “Anything that moves,” he whispered to Vicki, “shoot it.”
Shotgun at the ready, he stepped to face the front door, then paused. The strange brass knocker—a blank face bereft of features save for eyes—stared back at him. He remembered it, from all those years ago. A face from his past, beckoning him now. But there was another face from his past, too, wasn’t there? Natter’s face—
And that was one face Phil couldn’t wait to have in his sights.
The door stood slightly ajar, and it creaked appropriately when he pushed it open and aimed the Remington. Several candles flickered; it took Phil a moment for his eyes to adjust, then another moment to digest what he was seeing…
“Good God,” he murmured.
There were indeed Creekers waiting for them. Several waited right here in the foyer. But none of them were armed.
And none of them were alive.
Five or six of them lay in a heap on the threadbare carpet which was now just a sponge of wet blood. Knives lay on the floor too, having recently fallen from limp hands. Their swollen heads hung off their necks at impossible angles to show grisly gashes cut deep across their throats…
They all killed themselves, Phil realized.
Vicki gasped behind him. Phil stepped in. He spotted more bodies lying in the halls to either side, all pale in death, all throat-cut. What in God’s name… Each room off the hallways, too, were now death chambers. And when he’d finished checking all of the rooms on the first floor, he realized there must be over thirty dead Creekers total. All suicides.
It was hard to fathom so many dead bodies at once. Phil felt winded, and Vicki looked like she was about to pass out. “Come on, we gotta check the next floor,” he said.
The stairs were a slow waterfall of blood, and once they got to the second-floor landing, they saw more piles of bodies, more slashed throats, more dead-staring crimson eyes and twisted death-grins. “Why are they doing this?” he muttered to himself.
“I told you, they’ll do anything for Cody,” Vicki whispered. “Suicide is the ultimate homage to their god…”
He stood in ragged shock in the hall. More candles flickered about the heaps of disfigured and swollenheaded bodies. Homage? Phil thought. More like madness, sheer and total madness.
“Mannona!” a voice shrieked. A figure wheeled out of the dark, a Creeker. Phil brought the shotgun to bear and fired. Half of the Creeker’s head flew away in chunks. “Onnamann!” shouted another flawed voice, and then another Creeker, with a bivalved head, limped quickly out of the flickering darkness. Phil fired again. The report caught the inbred square in the chest and carried him halfway down the hall. Then—
Holy shit!
Every door in the hall flew open, and a legion of Creekers converged on them. Vicki fired ineptly behind him, screaming, as Phil emptied the shotgun into the approaching mass. Bodies fell only to be replaced by more. Then Phil whipped out his two pistols, pinpointing and dropping targets one after another in a hail of concussion and muzzleflash. He managed to reload twice in the melee, firing repeatedly, the guns bucking in his hands, and more inbreds fell like hinged ducks in a shooting gallery. When he was done, a lone overalled Creeker with a cleft face grinned at him, raised his arms, and said, “Mannona!”
Then he lunged.
