The Specter

By Philip Bosshardt

This is the story of a family called the Perrys and the terror they bring to the small mountain resort town of Scotland Lake.
Alex Perry is the latest in a long line of Perrys stretching back to the mid-17th century, when an English rascal named William Stiles St. Jean Perry was forced out of England and came to the New World to prey on the settlers there. What Alex doesn’t know is that he and all his male ancestors since William's time are the offspring of a demon which took possession of William's body just before he landed in Carolina.
Thus begins an unending nightmare of anguish and horror for all his friends and family.
And it’s not the Lake's first experience with a string of unsolved murders.
There follows a period of terror and frustration as the people vent their passions on each other. It has been a slack tourist year and money is short. There's a recession and a gasoline crisis. People are angry and edgy.
Through all of this, Alex has been bothered by recurring periods of illness and a kind of “double vision." He imagines and remembers things that make no sense, images of brutality and cruelty that spring full-blown, completely unbidden from some source deep inside his memory. It turns out that these memories are from past lives and excesses of the demon.
Let loose upon the people of the Lake, the Perry demon is an awesome, malignant evil, hellbent on revenge for being rousted out of its home, determined to force or trick its way back into Alex Perry, now protected by a mystical token-- an iron pendant.
In the climactic final part of the story, when it seems there is no other way, Alex finally accepts what must be. In order to spare the town any more destruction and to protect his family from further depredations, he voluntarily allows the demon to re-enter his body. Events swiftly follow as Police Chief Dick Mosley and a squad of townspeople realize it isn't their original suspect they should be following but Alex Perry.
A long perilous pursuit through the woods and hills around the town eventually leads them into Cathedral Caverns, where the Perry-thing has taken refuge. They must contend with the confusing twists and turns of that labyrinthine complex as well as with the fact that Alex's wife and children are also following him and will be in mortal danger if they find him before Mosley's men do.
In the end, Alex is trapped in the chamber of a spectacular waterfall. He is cornered and Mosley hopes to coax him down. Against their will, Mrs. Perry and the kids are escorted back up to the surface. There is very little of the original Alex left in the beast, but there is just enough to outwit the thing one last time.
But the epilogue shows us just how fleeting our relief may be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Bosshardt
• Release date: May 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463028445

Philip Bosshardt

Philip Bosshardt is a native of Atlanta, Georgia. He works for a large company that makes products everyone uses...just check out the drinks aisle at your grocery store. He’s been happily married for over 20 years. He’s also a Georgia Tech graduate in Industrial Engineering. He loves water sports in any form and swims 3-4 miles a week in anything resembling water. He and his wife have no children. They do, however, have one terribly spoiled Keeshond dog named Kelsey.For details on his series Tales of the Quantum Corps, visit his blog at qcorpstimes.blogspot.com or his website at http://philbosshardt.wix.com/philip-bosshardt.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

September, 1644

A stiff gust of wind rattled the shroud lines of the main course as Captain Whitsmith stared hard into the dark eyes of his companion on the quarterdeck. Colonel Samuel Cochran didn't blink and didn't repeat what he had just said.

Whitsmith grabbed a backstay to steady himself as the Christina heaved about in rough seas. With all respects, sir, we’ll not make landfall tonight, not in this weather. Look yonder, through the ratlines. See that scud? Whitsmith rubbed his stubbly chin wearily, No, sir. we've quite a storm brewing out there.

Cochran stared imperiously at the chop in the distance. Jamestowne is expecting us by the twenty-third, Captain Whitsmith. I’ll not disappoint the Governor, nor any of these brave settlers. He shifted his gaze slightly until it met the eyes of the Master. Do you understand? I want the sails up and sheeted throughout the night. He fixed his eyes to Whitsmith’s for a moment, then made for the hatch. In seconds, he was below and Whitsmith quivered with rage.

The First Mate, Mr. Garrett, appeared at Whitsmith’s side and laid a hand on the Master’s shoulder. A sea lawyer if ever I saw one, Captain. He’ll have us in splinters before the day is out if I know him.

Whitsmith took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Not the Christina. Not my ship. I’ll see the wag in irons before that happens. He studied the clouds for a moment, sniffing the air and watching the topman steady himself as he worked with the foreyard jackstays. We've a stiff cross-sea, Mr. Garrett. The First Mate spat out a chunk of the salt horse he had been chewing. Aye, sir, and broken water to the larboard quarter."

Whitsmith turned to see and muttered blast these God-cursed shoals. That’s it, then. We've no choice. Have Mr. Howse order the Able Seaman to stand by. We'll be sharpening up the yards shortly.

Aye, aye, sir. Garrett watched as the Captain went aft to the poop, then hailed the Boatswain.

The Christina had been at sea for the better part of two months, following the routes pioneered by His Majesty’s galleons since the founding of the settlement at Jamestown. She was a stout three-master in the Merchant Service, square-rigged fore and main with a lateen hung on her mizzen. It had not been the smoothest voyage in Robert Whitsmith's long career--they had nearly capsized fifteen leagues south of La Palma when a sudden whirlpool had beset them--but at least they had made the ocean crossing intact and had land off the larboard side now. The nor’east trades had been kind to them after the whirlpool but the Christina still faced several weeks of hard work beating up the coast toward Virginia.

Whitsmith was no more suspicious than any good seaman but as he stared landward, he couldn't help but shudder. The Admiralty did not give its official approval to omens in navigating a merchantman across the ocean but the whirlpool had shaken the crew badly. Now the Christina was tacking north with a gale brewing out to sea and dangerous shoals to be negotiated.

It was hard not to feel they were being stalked. Damn that Cochran. He's no feel for the moods of the sea at all. But we’ll--

His thoughts were interrupted by shouting from the half-deck. Whitsmith whirled and saw a fight underway just abaft the mainmast. Two burly men were grappling with each other, rolling about the deck, to jeers and cheers from the rest of the deck crew.

Whitsmith bounded down from the poop and went after them.

Break it up! Break it up! He could see that it was the topman, Gillis, and one of the carpenter's mates going at it. Whitsmith reached the melee and grabbed Gillis' hair, yanking it back hard. Mr. Howse, get the Master-at-Arms up here immediately.

The carpenter’s mate had a bloody nose when it was over and the Master-at-Arms had him secure on the deck with his arm twisted behind him in seconds. The Boatswain's mate and two deck hands held the topman back.

Whitsmith glared angrily at the carpenter's mate. He was a gaunt fellow, sallow-cheeked with cruel lines about his mouth, now lined with the blood streaming freely out of his nostrils.

What's your name, seaman?

The mate started to answer, then bit his lip and said nothing.

He returned the Captain’s glare, eyes black with hatred.

William Davis, the Master-at-Arms, twisted the mate's wrists a bit and the man groaned. Answer the Captain, lad, before I pull your arms from their sockets.

The mate glowered and spat blood. "Perry...sir!"

Whitsmith studied him coldly. You're the rascal the Colonel saved from the gallows, aren’t you? Manchester. I believe it was.

One of the deck hands guffawed. Another debtor pressed into His Majesty’s service, eh Captain? There was a rumble of laughter about them. Wonder what the crimp got for shanghaiing this scum?

That's enough! yelled Garrett.

Whitsmith signaled Davis to let the man up. Perry staggered to his feet and wiped his nose with a grimy forearm. The Colonel has a weak heart for the downtrodden. Mister Perry, but I do not. On this ship, you’d best praise your good fortune. I'd as soon see you back in prison as among my crew. Another row like this and I’ll have you lashed to the gratings and flogged. You too, Mister Gillis. Mister Davis, escort them both to the bilge room. They’re to lay in irons for the night, with short rations.

Aye, sir. He poked Gillis in the ribs with his cobbing board and said, Come on, lads. it's--

But he never finished the sentence for at that very moment the Christina was struck amidships by a furious sea, which leaped the bulwarks and crashed over onto the deck, scattering men and gear everywhere.

At the same instant, a strong gale roared through the ship's riggings and masts, snapping the foretopgallant and forecourse backstays with a shrieking crack. The ropes whipped down with deadly force onto the half deck, flaying two seamen who didn't dive aside in time. They rolled along the deck in agony, but there was no time to see to them.

Another gust had broadsided the ship and this time, the storm loosed her rains with a vengeance.

Captain Whitsmith clung tightly to the mainmast and shouted, Stand by the topgallants, Mr. Garrett! His voice was weak and nearly lost as the men strained with the clew lines to furl in the thundering canvas to the yards. Ready the halyards and sheets!

Through the torrents of rain, Whitsmith could see the First Mate mouthing the words. Aye, sir!

The next few minutes seemed to last forever. The gale bore down on the Christina with unabated fury, pounding her toward the reefs that lay just off shore. Already she was listing to her beam ends on the larboard side as wave after wave smashed into her. The crew worked desperately to get her sails shortened but the winds were frenzied and tore at the tops without let-up. Several seamen were hurled from the yards out into the foaming froth of the ocean and swept under. The Boatswain himself, Mr. Howse, just caught hold of a main shroud, else he too would have been cast overboard.

Then, suddenly, the Christina shuddered mightily, striking a reef with such force that it splintered the mainmast. The gale seemed to gain force and it drove the ship against the reef again and again, viciously, relentlessly slamming her wales on the rock and sand beneath. At the moment of impact, when the mast cracked and gave way, all the shrouds and stays shot loose with the sound of musket fire and sliced through the mizzen and foretops, shredding what was left of the drenched canvas to pieces.

Whitsmith was hurled to the deck and struck by a flying clew-garnet. He slumped forward, trying to get up, and died seconds later. Garrett saw what had happened and staggered across the pitching deck to the Captain's side. He soon realized there was nothing to be done.

Garrett stood up and boomed, Come on men! Brail in the spanker! Secure those braces before we lose another mast!

Mr. Garrett! cried Moorcock, a seaman clinging to the stump of the bowsprit. Mr. Garrett, she's making water fast! I can see where she's stove in, back there along the wales!"

I see it, Mr. Moorcock, I see it! Burns, hey and Mr. Lyttle, take your hands forward to the hatchways and start bailing. Get the pumps manned too!

Aye, sir, came a distant voice.

The Christina shuddered again and heeled over further.

From belowdecks came the cry, ''It's the rudder, Mr. Garrett. She's knocked out of her gudgeons!"

Howse scuttled along the splintered planking of the quarterdeck, clinging precariously to the bulwarks and came up to the First Mate. He squinted in the blinding rain.

She’s lost, sir! She'll be pounded into dust on the reefs!

Garrett nodded grimly. The captain's dead, Mr. Howse! See to the boats! Howse turned to carry out the orders, but Garrett grabbed him back. And get that bloody carpenter's mate and some other men to thrumb a topsail under her bottom—maybe we can still fother her!

Aye, sir—I’ll keep the rest bailing and pumping to the last! Howse broke away and soon disappeared into the storm.

The gale raged throughout the night and the Christina was soon wedged stern first against the sand shoals. By the time the first faint gray of dawn came, it was clear that she could not last another hour. The winds tore angrily at the broken mastheads and rigging and the bow was now so far out of the water that the pitch of the deck made standing impossible. All along the yards and booms, men had huddled for shelter during the night, praying that the gale would abate before she broke up.

By dawn, the First Mate ordered the boats away and when the orders came, men swarmed about the roundhouse, ready to descend by the stern ladders. The ship was listing badly by then and her wales had been stove in for the better part of the night. Panic ripped through the crew as the men fought their way to be first off.

Three men never made it to the boats however. Carpenter's mate Perry clung tenaciously to the end of the jib-boom at the bow, as the Christina settled deeper into the water and began to come apart. Topman Gillis and Master-at-Arms Davis were both hanging by their arms from the bobstay, lashed by wind and rain and shrieking for the others not to cast off without them. The carpenter’s mate gulped hard as the ship lurched badly.

Mother of God, we're done for, he muttered to himself, choking on his words as the rain filled his mouth. I’ll have to leap from here...and hope.

The gale drove a solid wall of water from the starboard beam and the wave broadsided them, wrecking what was left of the ship's rigging and mastwork. It rose in a majestic curl high over the channels and bulwarks, then roared down on the two men swinging helplessly from the stays. They disappeared in an explosion of foam and were swept out to sea, dragged under amidst thin cries for help. Perry stared in horror and swallowed hard.

Merciful God. Take me now before I end up like them.

The carpenter's mate had only a few seconds to pray before another sound reached his ears. Not the rumble of another wave abuilding, this was different. Much different. In all his miserable life, the man had never heard a wailing hiss so awful, so tormented, as he did now. In spite of himself, he scrambled around on the other side of the boom and tried to see what would cause such a sound. Sighting it, he felt a cold chill deep in his stomach.

It was a waterspout, tickling the crests of the waves maybe two cable lengths distant and bearing down on him relentlessly.

He had only time to endure one final lashing before the eerie lull becalmed him. In that instant of quiet before the waterspout’s leading edge of squalls hit, Perry could hear his own heart marking time. Then, the winds came anew and with fatigue cramping his arms and shoulders, he knew he could not hold on.

He braced himself for the impact, falling as he knew he would right for the massive wall of water that would finally dash the Christina to pieces. But it never came. Gradually, he realized he felt light-headed and dizzy. He opened his eyes to a cautious squint and felt the rain sting them immediately.

Shielding his face--strange for his arms to fall away from his chest like that--he opened his eyes further.

No! Madonna, it can’t be!

The whitecaps of the breakers were dwindling beneath him. Holding his eyes open to a slit with his fingers, he stared down and saw the wreckage of the Christina strewn about the surface of the sea like kindling. As he brought his vision up, he became dizzier and nauseated. He blinked the water out of his eyes and looked again.

It can’t be! But…but…Great God…it is…I’m….

Aloft.

The spout had snatched him from the jib-boom and instead of hurling him into the ocean, it had carried him up, into the clouds, into the whirling heart of the vortex. He put out his arms and felt the wind yank hard until they were nearly torn off. Gingerly. he brought them back in, wincing at the pain of wrenched muscles. His head felt as though it would burst--all the blood had run up to his face. Sick to his stomach, Perry vomited only to have the crap flung back at his mouth and nostrils. He coughed and choked and felt a dagger twisting in his skull.

The gale seemed mindful of his presence too, for every time he tried to open his eyes, it flogged him with violent gusts of wind and rain. His face felt battered and puffy after a few minutes of this and he soon learned that he was better off blind.

In time, he became aware of subtle shifts in the whine of the storm. Breathing was difficult and he panicked when even the deepest, most painful breathing could not gather enough oxygen. He clawed madly at his throat, at his lungs, beating them to work better, to breathe, Goddamnit! but his lungs felt as though they were swollen with ballast stones. He realized that the gale had saved him from an early death, just so it could torment him in this new, more horrible way.

Blast your foul, stinking innards to hell and back! Go ahead and kill me if that’s what you want! He screwed his eyes shut to wait for the inevitable.

Some hours later, Perry awoke with a start. He had lost consciousness for how long--he didn't know how long--but the wan sunlight had become stronger so he supposed it had to be near noon. He remembered a dream he had--a voice, thin and shrill, speaking to him. He couldn't recall the words. But the voice…it was pleading, begging him for something. Christ- it could have been my voice, he realized.

Is this the way Hell is?

He couldn't actually hear his own words. The thunder of the gale smothered any sound he could make. But he could feel the cords of his neck vibrate as he spoke. Somehow, that was reassuring. He tried to take stock of the situation. He was battered and waterlogged, from head to toe. His muscles were taut cords, strained to the breaking point. God alone knew how long he had been aloft. His head was so tender that any move to change position made that dagger in his skull twist a bit more. He hadn't dared to touch his face. It felt swollen and bloody.

How long?

The thought scuttled around in his mind like a filthy rat. He tried to shoo it away but it always came back, to lie there in the dank corner and glare at him, waiting.

How long can I hold out?

William Stiles St. Jean Perry was not a strongly religious man. His Majesty’s jurists had made that clear enough on the day of his sentencing. Scoundrel, they had called him. Despicable rogue stealing like that. We’ll see you get what you deserve, sir. It was funny, you know, the way they acted. So high and mighty and righteous, convicting a man for stealing cloth to make his little daughter a proper petticoat. When you consider he had slit a doorman's throat not two months earlier for a shilling and some grog.

The worthless scum. They’ve no more sense than an Irishman. I’d gladly rip out a man’s gizzard and give it no more thought than kicking a bitch in heat. But to hang a man for stealing cloth, the bastards.

That thought again. It keeps staring at me. It’s God’s revenge. That bloody Cochran saved me from the hangman, for what? For this?

Cripes!

William Perry was not a religious man, not at all, but he wanted to live. He wanted to live very much.

What can it hurt, eh? A little prayer, a little beseeching, maybe a little forgiveness. If my sins were a lighthouse, He’d have no trouble finding me.

"God in heaven--hey, God, is that where I am?—God, most merciful in heaven, I accept what I am but I've no more stomach for this. I can’t take it no more. You win. You're the Holy Father, you could get me out of this god-cur--that is er. this blasted infernal storm. I’d be eternally grateful, you know. I’d see the minister and confess. A great story--my life. The women love a wretched tale like mine. What d'ya say? An old boy like me--" He stopped abruptly, for the whine of the wind had slackened. An eerie calm fell upon him and he listened to his own heart thudding. A slight rustle and he cracked open an eye.

God-?

ln an instant, the air turned bitterly cold, frosty and heavy, and he shivered uncontrollably. The light of the sun was pale and crystalline and around him a solid bank of gray clouds spun. His nerves tingled.

Is that you, God? Can you get me down from this--aarrgh! Grrrgh! He gagged and spat out a wad of sputum. By the Madonna's face, what is that smell? A wave of nausea clenched his stomach.

--only i can set you free, perry--

Aarrgh! He spat again and tasted blood What was that?

--i will release you--

Who's that? Who’s there? I've gone bloody bonkers, I have.

--i am nameless but your god is nothing before me--

For a moment, he said nothing. I must hold my wits together. He was numb and frozen and exhausted and hungry and now delirious...why shouldn't he be? Truth was he had died when the Christina broke up--it was the jib-boom that had killed him, sliced him right in two and now he lay dead and cold in Davy Jones' locker. Fish food. Ha, maybe some cabin bov'll drop a net and haul me up for dinner.

God. I am tired...

--i will strengthen you--

And I’m hungry too, you know.

--i will feed you--

And a warm bunk--what about that?

--i will comfort you--

Right. Hmmm, what about a woman, can you--

--perry. do not toy with me--

WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH ME? He cried hot tears and felt no shame at it.

--only you--

Me? I’m dead, don’t you see that? Dead as that wretched cockhead Farley I stabbed. Deader even...HELP ME. Goddamn you to hell and back!

--i can help you, perry--

HOW? FOR THE LOVE OF--WHO ARE YOU?

--i am the shadow of every seaman, perry--i am the lord of the ocean, if you like--i am the tempest-bringer, the sovereign of the sea., whatever name you choose -.-.

You're the Devil, sir!

--if you wish--

Lord, what fortune--I pray to God, the Father Almighty, and look what I dredge up--a demon, a blasted, accursed, bloody demon! He let the laughter go until he cried again.

--perry, let me help you--

WHAT DO YOU-- he choked and coughed up some phlegm. What do you want? I'm in Hell already."

--i want an earthly home, perry--i want to live as men live, that’s all--

And me? What about me?

--grant me this, perry, and i will end this gale and set you safely aground, that i promise--

Damn but this is funny, beast! Is there a notary about to witness our contract?

--perry. must i beg you--

Beg me? I’m the mate who's dying, chum. You’re a fine one for a demon, to be begging me for anything. He felt his face gingerly. It was hot and flushed. The fever, that would explain it. His eyeballs had gotten so numb that they didn't even register the motion of the clouds, though the vertigo had never subsided. Hey, beast, are you still there?

The whine of the wind was rising. Perry felt a knot of cold fear.

Are you there? He listened, straining, for anything. Any sound at all. God, forgive my blasted imagination. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DON'T LEAVE ME, YOU FILTHY, LYING MURDEROUS BEAST!

--say yes, perry--

It was so weak, so fragile, he wasn't sure he had heard it at all. A dying man will hope for anything, even the impossible.

YES. GODDAMN YOU TO HELL AND BACK--YES, YES!

He didn’t remember the bump at all. It must have knocked the crackerjack right out of him.

The jib-boom, that's what it was.

He opened his eyes to a slit. Everything swam in front of them. At least, he wasn't too dizzy. The nausea was gone now but his gut burned with the fire of molten pitch. He smelled something peculiar. An odor that for a split second, he couldn't place and then-- He shifted on aching muscles and chanced a better look, opening his eyes further.

Fatigued as he was, he hadn't at first realized that he was on solid ground. I must have nearly drowned out there. Bobbed about like a cork for the better part of a day. But it hurt to think too much, so he let the view come to him.

He seemed to be at the edge of a forest, for tall, spindly trees swayed gently overhead, nearly blotting out what light there was. He could smell stagnant water nearby, perhaps a swamp of some kind. The remains of his clothes were completely water-logged and clung like a second skin. Gingerly, he peeled off some patches of cloth from his forearm, and some vines and mossy threads as well. Guess I’ll molt if I don’t get dry soon. He raised up on an elbow.

There was a small fire crackling some ten yards distant, on top of a rather steep mound of twigs and kindling and dry brush. A black kettle bubbling over with some liquid hung suspended from a cord and rod arrangement over the flames. Perry took a deep breath.

My God, it’s tea! That’s what I smelled.

He sat up further and tried to focus. Somewhere behind the kettle, attached to a pair of hairy, mud-caked arms, was a face, a man’s face. Even as he stared, the arms hoisted the kettle off its hook and quickly set it down on the dirt, then hung up a big black pot in its place. Two white eyes stared back.

Yer feelin’ any better, mate? The voice was deep, hoarse and most welcome.

Perry sat up abruptly and winced as the dagger in his skull twisted a bit. His gut grumbled at the smell of tea and roasting meat.

The other man got up--he was a giant of coarse black hair and leathery skin--and brought a tin cup of tea over. He squatted beside Perry and lifted the scalding drink to his mouth. He gulped and it burned all the way down but it was the finest tea Perry had ever tasted. He burped and coughed a bit and while cleaning his face with an oily rag the man had left, the giant went back to refill the cup and fetch some haunches of meat. He set the cup down beside Perry and handed him a piece.

Perry took a bite and swallowed. It was rabbit and it was delicious. He tried to cram the entire thing into his mouth but the giant held his arm, then took the meat and fed him a few bites at a time.

Yer too sick to be gobblin', mate. Just take it easy.

When he had stuffed himself to the point of vomiting, the giant gestured that Perry should lie back down. He fashioned a pillow out of straw and brush and covered him with an old worm- eaten quilt that looked like it had lain in the bilge room of a third-rate while crossing the Atlantic. It was as good as the finest English wool to Perry though, and the last he saw of the giant before dropping off to sleep was an image of the man squatting before the fire, a dull black musket propped up between his big legs, cleaning out the works with a cloth and swab. After that, nothing.

It took William Perry several days to regain some measure of lucidity and clarity of thought. In that time, he learned that the giant was named Therrelby and that he had been a prisoner of the Spanish for years in Hispaniola before escaping from a carrack that was reconnoitering the coast of a land called Florida. He had spent years in these swampy woods by himself, hunting, trapping and building crude huts. He had never expected to hear the sound of another man’s voice again, let alone the sound of English. He told Perry that he had found him enmeshed in some vines deep in the swamp, in the lower branches of what he called a stringy-tree, the kind that had enormous sheets of moss on its branches. Thought you dead for certain, Therrelby croaked, slurping some tea as he squatted by the fire. What happened to ya?

Perry told him the story of the Christina's crossing and the gale, as best he could remember. As he talked, he became aware of how much better he now felt, how much stronger. Therrelby made marvelous tea and the rabbit and duck they had feasted on for the past few days had done him wonders.

Watching Therrelby's face as he related the tale of his adventures after the Christina had gone down, the mate could see that the old man was skeptical. Told dispassionately, like the story of some child's trip to the city, it did sound ridiculous even to Perry. His own words began to embarrass him and he was secretly thankful that Therrelby scoffed at them.

It was the fever, mate. That’s what it was.

You must be right.

Therrelby groaned as he stood up and stretched. "You say you were a carpenter's mate?''

Perry nodded.

Would ya possibly consider staying around here with me? I’ve lots of things I could use a carpenter for.

He wanted to consider it but an odd thought stilled his tongue and he said nothing for a moment.

An earthly home is a fine thing, lad.

It was that musket that bothered him. He had nothing at all to fear from Therrelby, indeed, he owed the man his life.

But still, he wondered. If I refuse, what will he do?

What sort of things did you have in mind?

Therrelby motioned for Perry to follow him. The giant stomped off through the woods, along a well-worn footpath that followed the edge of the swamp. Therrelby warned him not to stray from the dirt. Swamp water’s on both sides, mate, and it’s well hidden in all that viny stuff. There's some fearsome scaly beasts about these parts too but they'll pay you no mind if you leave 'em alone.

They walked for ten minutes, until another clearing was visible ahead. In the middle of it, situated on a slight rise built up from piles of branches and brush was a half-built shack, roofless and rotting. They stopped at the edge of the clearing.

"Could use some help getting that place into shape, mate. It rains something awful around here. What d'ya say?''

The way Therrelby clapped a hand on Perry’s shoulders annoyed him and he moved out of the giant's reach.

Oh, it’s a fine home i’m in, mate.

Perry took a deep breath. He had never felt this way before. So strong, so vigorous and robust. Why, he could--

What about tools? he asked, clenching his fists by his sides.

Therrelby grinned a toothless grin. He waved his arm. Over there, behind that woodpile. Everything you could need. Took it off a galleon that ran aground ten year ago. Go on, take a look.

Perry went over and checked. The old man was right. He stooped down to examine the tools, while Therrelby stepped inside the shack. From the sound of it, he was rummaging for something.

Quite a little stash of gear he had, too. Hammers, adze, trowel, axe, hooks, prickers. some carpenter's stopper. A sack of pegs.

It has been a long time, mate. Let's have a go at it.

He reached down for the axe. It had a smooth, worn handle, comfortable to grip. A keen edge on the blade. He picked it up and felt its weight balanced perfectly--a well-grafted Andalusian hacha. It felt so light in his hands, more like a halberd.

Therrelby stepped out of the shack and came around to see what he was up to. When Perry turned, the giant halted in mid-step, a queer twist to his face.

Mate? His eyes darted, seeking some weapon or cover.

Mate, what are you doing?

Perry's words were wooden, almost mechanical. It's been a long time. He hoisted the axe. I have so much to do.

Therrelby didn’t wait another second. He dived for the ground, going after his musket, which he had leaned against a tree at the edge of the clearing.

But the axe was quicker. It came with a speed and accuracy and a force that no human could have supplied. The blade struck the giant below the temple, where the jawbone bridges over the soft flesh of the neck, cleaving his skull into shards of bone and flesh and sinew. There was a dull thump and a spurt of blood, and the man rolled to the ground, twitching, his jugular still pumping red into the mud. In a few seconds, the twitching stopped.

William Perry studied the carnage for a minute. admiring the skill and artistry of the shot.

So many generations, lad, so many eons in the void. Now I have form. Now I live.

The storm came immediately, a resonant peal of thunder and a warm wind that blew through the swamp cypress like the foul stench of decay. The stagnant pools of water stirred and trembled while high in the lofts of the trees, a flock of crows shrieked in terror. The skies were soon dark with fluttering wings, beating against a gale that had suddenly risen.

And deep in a tiny hollow in the swamp, where the pine and oak trees groaned in the wind, a solitary man stood amid a pile of rubble, laughing and dancing an old sailor's jig.

PART ONE: AUGUST 1975

Chapter 1

1.

The Reverend Jimmy Doohan Holcomb had his usual after-lunch headache and told himself quietly that he would simply have to give up the gin and steak on days like this. He winced a bit as another throb hit but managed to keep up a professionally somber appearance for the family’s sake. Not many this time, he thought, looking over the group. Ten minutes for the service, a few more for the consolation. Then it’s back to that office, that wonderful, icy cold office.

It was always hot in Savannah in August but that summer in 1975, the heat was ferocious and Holcomb could hardly blame the gravediggers for choosing to stay inside the mausoleum un- til after the burial. It was better for the family too and Holcomb was annoyed with himself for wishing he were with them. Would you care to be seated here, ma'am? he asked. A tall dark-skinned woman wearing big round sunglasses nodded and placed herself in one of the metal folding chairs beside the grave.

There were two other women, one middle-aged with a hefty build and mannish voice--she fidgeted constantly with a paper fan--and the other considerably older, of olive complexion. slender with her hands clasped in a firm prayerful pose. Holcomb knew from her expression that she was a regular church-goer. He swallowed and ran a finger across his brow, to remove a line of sweat that was hanging there. There was one other person beneath the canopy that shaded them from the torrid sun. Holcomb looked questioningly in his direction but Alex Perry shook his head.

I’ll stand, thank you, Reverend.

Very well. I think we're ready to begin now. He swallowed again, tasting the furry residue of his lunch. Beyond the canopy, the pines and palmettoes of Hillcrest Cemetery wavered in the heat, while just behind them, a tabby walkway shone a blistering white, its shell and rook fragments reflecting off Bette Perry's sunglasses.

Holcomb opened the book and cleared his throat.

"Father, we gather to commend the spirit of Lucille Donellan Perry into Thy hands.

"The forgiveness and mercy of the Lord know no bounds.

"Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth; Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them.

"The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away: blessed be the

name of the Lord."

To Alex, the Reverend's words were no more than a distant din. His grandmother had died two days before, on Wednesday, at the age of 93, half mad and ravaged by illnesses he couldn't even pronounce. It was a peaceful death for her, Dr. Sarkis had told him. She was suffering, so it’s better this way.

Still, Alex wondered. Illness and insanity had dogged her since 1947, yet she was the toughest old woman he had ever known. It wasn't like her to give up life so easily. In her final hours, Rita and her nurses both said she had spoken constantly of losing, of failure and fate and of wishing for another chance. It must have been terrible.

He couldn't help noticing how pale and distraught Rita looked. That was understandable; she had been Lucille's house keeper and nurse for twenty-eight years. But he had never seen her look like this. She was taking it harder than any of them. Gently, Alex laid a hand on her shoulder, only to startle her, and momentarily distract Rev. Holcomb from his reading.

Holcomb smiled sympathetically at them and went on.

"The Apostle Paul provides us with some words of meaning:

"That which thou sowest is not quickened except that it die: and that which thou sowest, thou sowest not the body that shall be, but a bare grain, it may chance of wheat, or of some other grain, but God giveth it a body as it hath pleased Him...So also is the resurrection of the dead. It is sown in corruption; it is raised in incorruption; it is sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness; it is raised in power; it is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body.'

"I,ucille was a kind and generous woman, full of love and tender mercy for those who suffer. She often spoke to me of the Psalms, and in particular of the 5lst and 32nd. Let us pray with her:

'Have mercy on me, O God. according to thy loving kindness; according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies, blot out my transgressions.

'Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.

'For I acknowledge my transgressions and my sin is ever before me.

Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight, that thou mightest be justified when thou speakest, and be clear when thou judgest.'

Holcomb flipped a few pages, pausing only to daub some sweat from his lips and eyes with his thumb.

"'Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered.

‘I acknowledge my sin unto thee and mine iniquity have I not hid. I said, I will confess my transgressions unto the Lord; and thou forgavest the iniquity of my sin.'

"Amen.''

Alex placed his other hand on Rita's shoulders and tried to quietly comfort her. He could feel the sobs shaking her body though she managed to keep them low and hushed. Bette and Grace stared at the aluminum casket, now draped with roses and chrysanthemums, with stony silence.

Rev. Holcomb extracted a wrinkled sheet of paper from a pocket and said, "I should like to end with a few words which I believe best express our feelings today.

'Now the laborer's task is o'er!

Now the battle day is past!

Now upon the farther shore

Lands the voyager at last.

Father, in thy gracious keeping

Leave we now thy servant sleeping. '

"Let us pray.

"Thy love is everlasting, O Lord, for all the sheep of Thy flock. Give thee this family comfort and take unto Thy infinite heart the immortal soul of this Thy loyal servant.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.

Amen.

Amen, said the others, and Holcomb looked up, scanning their faces, nodding slightly at each as he caught their eyes. Not much grief, except for Miss Donze, he thought. I guess it's too hot for that. He could feel his suit clinging to his back and decided it would be better to console the family in its moment of grief inside the mausoleum, where the air-conditioning was going full blast.

Bette and Grace needed no gentle prodding to get up but Rita dropped to her knees and reached out with a shaking hand to touch the edge of the casket. For a second, Alex was afraid that she would faint before her fingers could touch it. But she gripped the metal for a moment. whispering something that Alex couldn't quite catch, then abruptly stood up. He expected to see tears streaming down her cheeks but instead, Rita's face had turned darkly grim. She was dry-eyed as she stared back at all of them.

I think we'd best let the men get to work. Holcomb suggested. He motioned up the low hill, where the baroque stone mausoleum sat.

Alex came around the edge of the canopy and gripped the man’s hands. "Thank you. Reverend, I think my grandmother would have been pleased with the service.''

Holcomb let a smile out. She was a wonderful woman, Mr. Perry. And she lived a long life. She'll be happy now. Is there anything I can do for the family? If there is, please let me know.

No. I can't think of anything right now. He pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed some sweat off his face and glasses. The sun was uncomfortably warm on his head and he stepped back under the canopy for some shade. Behind him, the gravediggers were already lowering the casket into the ground--Alex winced as the pulleys squeaked under their load. Well, maybe there is one thing, Reverend. Just a small thing.

Yes?

You were pretty close to Mrs. Perry, weren't you? I mean, I know she didn't go to church all that often but you--

I knew her well. Holcomb replied. She was a member of the congregation for many years.

Then you know she was a little...you know, not quite there at times, too?

Holcomb let his smile fade ever so slowly. It was getting harder to keep it up when he felt like melting. I was aware of her unfortunate condition, yes.

Maybe I'm wrong, Alex thought. It was so long ago. What, fifteen years at least? Seems longer... I was wondering... you saw her Wednesday morning? Before she died?

Just a few hours before, I'm told.

Alex felt vaguely uncomfortable asking, the way a child feels when being scolded for venturing into forbidden places.

Did Mrs. Perry tell you...did she say anything to you then? Anything...well, unusual?

It was an odd question but Holcomb knew that grieving relatives often made strange requests. He had learned it was always best to honor them.

"Mrs. Perry said many things when I was in the room but unfortunately I wasn't able to understand much of it. She could barely open her mouth after the stroke, you know. Miss Donze

helped me to understand."

Rita was there.

Yes. She was able to indicate Mrs. Perry's wishes. Thank the Lord for that.

Alex's shoulders dropped and his lips tightened perceptibly.

If Rita was there…. Thanks so much, Reverend Holcomb. I appreciate your being here. It means a lot to the family.

Holcomb nodded and shook Alex's hand firmly. God bless you and keep you well, son. Do you want to go up to the mausoleum? It's quite lovely inside and much cooler, if you don’t mind my saying so.

No, I think it would be better if I took them back to the motel. We've still got to see about Grandmother’s effects and it would be better to get on with it.

Of course.

They moved aside to let the men finish filling in the hole. The sound of dirt clods rattling on top of the casket made Alex uneasy and he had no wish to watch as they sodded the grave with big slabs of grass when they were done. He shook hands with the Reverend one more time, then left, heading for the car parked at the edge of the mausoleum's cobblestone driveway. The women waited for him beside the car, huddled in the shade of a grove of pine trees, fanning themselves vigorously.

Let's go, said Grace, stepping over to the car door. We’re all about to wilt out here. She yanked open the rear door and wriggled herself into the back seat. Turn that air on before I drown in my own sweat.

Alex grimaced as he held the door for Rita. He supposed that if you asked him the right way, whispering it behind locked doors in some vacant house deep in the woods, he would probably admit to loving his sister, or at least liking her sometimes. She had always been protective of him, possessive too, the way you'd hold onto a comfortable old coat. Bette despised her for that but Alex was just too close to her to stay mad very long. She was the kind of woman who could make you feel guilty just to be alive. It was that look--the set mouth, the disdainful eyes and big sigh that always infuriated, exasperated and eventually overcame Alex. Somehow, he would say to Bette, trying to explain it, it's the way she drops her shoulders. That slight quiver in her lips, like she's about to cry all the time. She reminds me of an old faithful dog who's just been swatted with the newspaper for pooping on the rug.

It made Bette want to scream.

I ought to keep the air conditioner off just to make her suffer. He would have too, if he hadn’t been so sticky and miserable himself.

He turned the car around and drove at a respectable speed back down the long palm-tree lined driveway, toward the entrance. They passed the big stone gate, with its sculpted sign saying HILLCREST CEMETERY, and pulled out onto Wheaton Street, going north. Innecken's Floral Center was just around the corner and Bette made some comment about the arrangements at the funeral service and burial. Alex didn’t hear it. He was thinking about something else.

They were quiet until Don’s Handy Pantry had gone by and the Liberty Street railyards were coming up. Traffic was heavy going into town and Alex had to slow down considerably.

Alex broke the silence. Rita, would you like to have dinner with us at the hotel? You ought to eat something before we head over to Grandmother’s house.

Rita was staring vacantly out the window. watching the grimy frame houses crawl by. Her voice was low and thick. No, I don't think so, Alex. Thank you for asking, though. She sighed. There are some things I want to do before you come over anyway. Just drop me off at my car and I'll see you later.

Honey, we could do it tomorrow, said Bette. She finally took off her sunglasses. rubbed her eyes a bit and then put on her other glasses, the ones with the smoky tint to them. "We’re all tired and irritable. The room's reserved through Saturday anyway. ''

Alex knew it was the sensible thing to do but the thought of Rita alone in that house, without Grandmother to occupy her disturbed him. He knew it was silly--Rita had lived there for years but he couldn't help it. He couldn't forget what had happened that summer of 1960. And he was reasonably sure that Rita hadn't either.

They were stuck in Friday afternoon traffic for nearly half an hour--some of it headed west and north toward Hilton Head, the rest toward Savannah Beach and the Islands. It was approaching four o'clock when Alex pulled into the Travelodge parking lot. They got out into the stifling heat and stretched.

Alex yawned and massaged his eyes. Bette fastened her hands around his neck and rubbed the muscles vigorously.

That feel better?

A lot. He squinted in Rita's direction. You’re sure you'll be all right? I don't want you to feel alone in that house tonight.

Rita seemed distracted, watching two panel trucks race each other down Broad Street. She was an ascetic woman, quiet, a little arrogant and her straight black hair and mystic’s eyes gave her a tragic yet sensual appearance.

She answered without taking her eyes off the stream of traffic. Alex, don't worry so about me. I’ll be fine. It's just that I want to make my peace with that house.

Alex took her hand and squeezed it. I understand. But you'll call if you need anything?

She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it delicately.

Of course. Will you come at ten tomorrow morning?

Alex glanced at his wife, who nodded. Grace gave her assent too. Ten on the nose. She started to leave, but Alex didn't let her hand go at once. And don't worry about anything, okay?

She got into her own car, a gray mid-60's Ford, and started it up. She was out of the parking lot and accelerating across three lanes of traffic a minute later.

Alex waited until she made the turn onto Oglethorpe, then said. Let's go get something to eat, girls.

Grace yawned wide and muttered, Not for me, Alex, dear. I think I’ll take a little nap first. I'm beat.

Bette breathed a silent 'thank you' while Alex replied, Suit yourself. But be ready by nine tomorrow morning. You know what room we're in?

I’ll find it, she said. Nitey-nite, you two. And she trudged up the stairs to Room 27, a few doors up and over from theirs.

I hate that woman. said Bette. She put an arm around Alex's waist. I can't help it but I do.

She's harmless for a sister. Just ignore her. Alex locked the car. .'Come on. Why don't you buy me a steak at the Holiday Inn? The walk’ll do us good."

2.

They ate in silence, chewing on tough, undercooked sirloin but grateful for the cold blast of the air conditioner above them and the frequent refills of iced tea the waitress offered.

For the first time since they had driven down from Scotland Lake, Alex felt depressed at Lucille's death. They hadn't been close--how could they have been when Emily refused to admit that side of the family even existed--but despite that, he felt a part of the woman. There was no explaining it and God knows he had tried hard enough. There was a feeling about her, some-thing almost tangible, like a rope pulling at him. It scared Rita and Emily both that summer and that's why his mother had never brought them back to that house in Savannah.

They finished dinner in silence and paid the bill. The walk back up Oglethorpe to their motel took ten minutes and, in that time, Bette sensed something was bothering her husband, something more than the funeral, much more. They stopped at the office, to change some bills into coins, then made a trip to the vending machines. Alex got a Coke, Bette a Tab, and they went to the room.

It was just after seven and the bed seemed awfully inviting. Alex switched on the TV and lay his head back on the cushion, watching Bob Barker and The Price is Right. Bette snuggled up next to him, sipping her Tab, shoes off and wearing her light blue robe. The TV droned on hypnotically and in the deliciously cool air of the room, she soon drifted off to sleep.

She thought she had only dozed for a few minutes but the TV voice was different now, not Bob Barker at all. She blinked and kneaded the sleep out of her eyes, squinting at the portable alarm clock on the table. It read twenty minutes to 10.

Alex was up. He had turned the lights off, except for the bathroom and was quickly and silently changing into a pair of white slacks by the cold light. Bette held up a hand to shield her eyes from the glow.

Honey? She sat up in bed and shook the hair out of her eyes. Alex? Where are you going?

He didn't reply at once and Bette could see in the shadowed furrows on his face a determined stare that worried her. He yanked on a black T-shirt and belt.

Alex?

I'm going over to Grandmother's house...to keep Rita company. She needs me and I think she's just too proud to admit it.

Now? Bette rolled out of bed and stood in front of her husband, helping him straighten his shirt out. Do you have to? She'll be all right, won't she?

Alex took her face in his hands and kissed it a few times. I have to do this. It's important.

If it's that important, maybe I should go too.

No, he told her. Stay here and get some sleep. It's better if I go alone. Okay? He kissed her again.

''I suppose."

Alex pulled on his shoes and stuffed his car keys, wallet and change into his pocket. He went to the door, stopped, and took out some coins, tossing them on the bed at his wife. Buy yourself a Mars bar while I'm gone.

Thanks a lot.

And Bette, please don't tell Grace where I've gone.

Before she could say another word, he had opened the door and slipped out.

3.

Lucille Perry’s house was dark when Alex stopped by the curb and cut the engine. He looked at his watch: a little after 10 P.M.

Rita must be as tired as any of us. She ought to be asleep.

He got out of the car and shut the door slowly, letting it latch with as little noise as possible. The street was deserted except for a few cats prowling the sidewalk. One of them, a black and white tabby, stopped by the car and glared up at him, eyes gleaming yellow-green in the light of the streetlamp.

Alex opened the wrought-iron gate and walked the twenty paces up the brick walkway to the front steps. He stopped there, listening, for what he wasn't sure.

It was a three-story affair, Lucille's house. A Georgian row house, built in the latter 19th century. There was a small balcony at the third floor, opening onto the master bedroom, his grandmother's since 1932. Ornate black wrought-iron trim. Brass dolphin-shaped rain spouts. Massive bay windows by the steep front stairs. The stonework had been painted recently-- by the light of the streetlamp, it was a dull, lifeless gray. He listened again.

Nothing. Nothing but the faint gurgling of the creek-canal behind the block. The sound was the same as it had been, fifteen years before.

Alex had a key of his own, that Rita had given him and he used it now. The door was a sturdy oak slab but it opened easily and Alex stepped into the dim candlelight of the foyer. He shut the door carefully and a rush of memories came flooding back.

He shuddered and felt his way to the banister of the stairs. Its heavily lacquered post was a welcome sensation in his hands and he rubbed a little sweat off on the wood.