Devil's Kiss Read online

  Miles owns a very profitable department store. His best friend is Sam Balon.

  In Fork, cowboys still ride horses on round-up, still carry guns. The six-guns, though, are usually carried in the saddlebags, not belted around the waist. Quick drawing is something that can now be seen at the County Fair. Amuses the kiddies. Sport. Occasionally, someone emulating Wes Hardin will shoot off his toe. Amuses the adults.

  The one newspaper in this part of Fork, the Fork County Crusader, is conservative Republican, owned by its editor, Wade Thomas. The newspaper was passed on to him by his father, and to him by his father, who came to what is now Whitfield in the 1860s. The newspaper is published weekly, serving the eastern half of Fork County. Due to a range war in the late 1890s, the western half of Fork does not get along with the eastern half. Memories die hard in Fork County.

  The Crusader is a good, solid, small-town newspaper.

  Whitfield had, until recently, a radio station. The airwaves would alternate painfully between the nasal honkings of country music and the primal gruntings of the newly discovered rock and roll.

  Sam, a lover of the classics, did not listen to the local station. It was not that Sam did not like some country and some rock and roll; for some reason, listening to the local station made him very nervous. He assumed it was only his imagination and thought no more of it.

  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 by natural tunnels to the stand of timber at Tyson’s Lake.

  “It’s weird out there, partner,” is the standard reply 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. Naw, 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 much 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. Wilde
r, 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. He 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, and 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.

  The sun cast brilliant light through the open windows of the small trailer/lab at the Dig. The stone tablet, uncovered, seemed to glow with life, somehow mocking the young man.

  “This is ridiculous!” he said aloud, rising from his stool. A rock is a rock. A stone cannot mock a living person.”

  But mere words spoken aloud could not calm him.

  Tim was not overly religious, but he did believe in Cod—and Satan. The young man felt a shiver of fear race through him, touching his spine, moving upward to settle in his brain. The lab seemed to become very stuffy. It was difficult for Tim to breathe. And his memory—something was wrong with his memory. He could remember finding the tablet . . . yesterday; yes, it had been yesterday. But what of yesterday afternoon? He could not remember.

  Looking at the stone tablet and its markings, Tim suddenly felt he had opened the doors to Hell, and could hear the cries of the damned and smell the stink of burning flesh. He felt he could sense the agony of the forever condemned.

  “Calm yourself,” he said. “Control yourself. There is an explanation for everything, remember?” Well, almost, he thought ruefully. Don’t forget, you’re a scientist.”

  His words did nothing to calm him.

  He poured a glass of water from the pitcher in the small refrigerator, drank it, then sat down on the stool in front of his workbench. He glared at the tablet.

  The tablet glared back at him.

  Tim realized, although the day was cool, he was beginning to sweat. His face was damp with perspiration, his shirt sticking to him. He reached out to touch the tablet, jerking his hand back as his fingers touched the stone.

  The tablet had burned him!

  “Goddamn you!” he cursed the stone. He looked at his fingertips in numb shock. His fingertips were raw from blistering.

  The stone was glowing, pulsing with life, almost as a heartbeat from within.

  Tim was suddenly ill, fighting back sickness that threatened to erupt from his belly.

  He looked at the stone. It had ceased its throbbing.

  “Ugly,” Tim said. “Profane. The stone is evil.”

  He glanced at a hammer on his workbench and knew, somehow, as if spoken to by a voice from afar, what he must do—and do it quickly.

  No! a voice screamed from inside his brain, stilling his hand as he reached for the hammer.

  Do it! another voice cried, as if in great agony. The voice seemed to be speaking from a great distance. Destroy the stone, the voice screamed. You must destroy the tablet!

  The voices battled within his head as Tim sat very still on the stool, listening to the utterances within him. One voice seemed to be almost pure in its vocalizing. The other voice was very evil.

  The voices fought, long and hard and loudly. Tim found the strength to reach once more for the hammer. Something with great force knocked him from his stool. He clawed his way to his feet, his head ringing with sound. His hand closed around the handle of the hammer.

  The voices ceased their battling as the trailer door opened. Sweat dripped from the young archaeologist, and his body was strangely exhausted. He looked toward the open door.

  Black Wilder, the project director, stood looking at him, smiling. His shirt was open to the waist, the sunlight bouncing off a medallion hanging from a chain around his neck.

  The stone tablet began its pulsing, seeming to draw life from the medallion. The pure voice in Tim’s head screamed just once, then faded away into a silent void. A piece of a long-forgotten sermon entered Tim’s mind: God rules the Heavens, but Satan rules the earth.

  Tim tried to scream, but no sound came from his throat.

  “What were you going to do with that hammer, Tim?”

  Tim’s voice returned with a gasp. I—ah—was going to chip away a piece of that stone, sir.”

  “With a carpenter’s hammer?” the older man laughed. If Tim had known just how old Wilder was, he would have died from fright. “Now, Tim, really!” Wilder’s eyes burned into Tim’s. “That’s a very interesting tablet. Find it at this Dig?”

  “Yes, sir. I—ah—was just about to call you.”

  “Were you?” Wilder’s tone was doubting.

  Tim moved away from the workbench, away from Wilder and the glowing medallion. “What is that thing, sir?” he glanced at the stone.

  Wilder smiled. “Why didn’t you call me yesterday, Tim? When you found the tablet. Why did you visit that minister in Whitfield—Baton?”

  Tim’s memory came rushing back, flooding his brain with remembrances. He recalled the minister’s wife, Michelle, and her burning eyes. He remembered his mixed emotions as her lips touched his mouth. “Why are you answering a question with a question, sir?”

  Doctor Wilder’s smile was very unpleasant. “You’ve never liked it here, have you, Tim?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  Wilder’s smile was all-knowing. The medallion glowed. The stone tablet pulsed.

  I—uh—like it fine, sir. I—just can’t seem to make any friends with your people, that’s all. Most of them aren’t even civil with me. I think they dislike me for some reason, and I don’t know why. I wasn’t wanted on this Dig, I know that, and I’m sorry I raised such a fuss about going, now.”

  “You haven’t given us a chance, Tim.” Wilder moved closer to the young man. “You know that’s true. Why, you’ve only attended one of our talk sessions for the new people.”

  “That’s something else. What has happened to the new members. We were friendly when we first arrived. Now they won’t even speak to me. I don’t like your talk sessions, sir. I don’t like the way you and your people scoff at God. And why is it I’m always sent to Lincoln on Fridays. I get the feeling you don’t want me around here on Friday nights. Why?”

  Wilder laughed at him; an ugly laugh. “Such a pious young man, Tim. And such a suspicious one. Too bad.”

  Tim was suddenly angry. “You tell me what this is, Doctor Wilder. You tell me what’s going on. This is not a Dig—most of your people don’t know a dog’s hind foot from a dinosaur dropping. I’ve never seen such careless digging in my life!”

  “Are you doubting my reputation as an archaeologist?”

  “No, sir. Just your explanation for being here. We’ve uncovered nothing of any importance here, and no evidence to suggest there is anything of any importance.”

  “Oh, my, yes, Tim,” Wilder’s voice was soft. “And you’ve found it.”

  The trailer became hot—stiflingly so. The stone tablet began to pulse as Wilder moved toward Tim. The medallion glowed. Tim began screaming as Wilder reached for him. The man’s eyes were wild, burning with the same intensity as the medallion and the tablet and had Mrs. Balon’s eyes at the parsonage.

  Terror washed over Tim. “Leave me alone!” he screamed.

  Wilder touched him on the arm, the touch searing Tim’s flesh through the cloth of his shirt.

  Tim screamed in agony. He screamed for a long time, the pain moving through him in
ever-heightening waves of torment. In his tortured mind, he imagined the small room filled with demons, Wilder the host demon. The trailer filled with stinking smoke, engulfing Tim in a mist of evil-smelling fetor.

  Tim lost all sense of date and time. He knew only his horrible pain, wondering why this was happening to him. Then, as the mist cleared, Tim found himself naked, his clothing torn from him, not by hands, but by claws. Filthy claws. His agony was unbearable, but somehow he could not escape it, his mind refusing him the luxury of unconsciousness. He was dragged outside to the ground. He screamed, but no friend came to his aid.

  Claws ripped his flesh as the people of the Digging surrounded him, tearing at him, their eyes burning with hate and evil.

  At a word from Wilder, the clawing ceased. The man leaned close to Tim, his breath reeking, offending Tim’s face. The young man looked up into eyes as old as evil, as old as time.

  “Won’t you join us, Tim?” Wilder asked. “You can. Just repeat the oath. Say this: God is filth. God is shit. Reject Him!”

  “No!” Tim screamed.

  “Reject Him,” Wilder urged. “It’s so easy, Tim. Join us. Accept the Prince of Darkness. Drink the blood of the Believer. Let the Lord of Flies fill your life with all the pleasures you have but dreamed of.”

  “NO!”

  Wilder hissed his outrage at this rejection, spittle from his mouth dripping on Tim’s face. Again and again he urged Tim to blaspheme his God. The young man would not deny his God.

  “Then you will die!” Wilder stood over him.

  “Oh, my God—my Savior!” Tim cried out his pain. “Help me.”

  The others began laughing as they danced around the young man, their tongues spewing blasphemy. The sunlit day grew darker, gray clouds moving restlessly overhead.

  Where is your God, now?” Wilder laughed profanely. ”You call on Him, but He does not hear you. Are you sure He even exists?”

  “He hears me,” Tim said, his faith growing stronger as his body grew weaker. “He is real.”