Fervent Haight

By Christopher J Proft

People everywhere search for purpose and fulfillment in their lives; the residents of rural Haight, Nebraska, are no different. While some indulge in pleasures of this world and others seek edification through spirituality, a local man named Jim finds his purpose deep beneath his fieldsand something deep beneath the fields finds in Jim the vessel needed to fulfill its destiny and his.

For many years, Jim struggled to find any meaning in his lifeany hint that would allow him a glimpse of his lifes purpose. On his quiet piece of farmland, he has finally found what he seeks. He alone knows the secrets, the power, and the evil that dwells beneath this quiet, bucolic townan evil long forgotten. Yet these are but vague glimpses of the unfathomable terror that lies in wait for a horrific new cycle of birth and rebirth.

The fulfillment of Jims life wish comes at a high price for the town. As people mysteriously disappear, it is up to the towns sheriff and a handful of locals to discover what is happening to them. What they find is worse than death and more horrifying than their imaginations can conjurean abomination stuck on the wrong side of hell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Nov 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781426996665

Christopher J Proft

Christopher J. Proft was born in southeastern Minnesota. He graduated from the University of Minnesota at Morris in 2002 with a BA in German. He is currently a small business owner in his hometown and lives quietly with his wife and daughter.

Book preview

1

Jim walked along the deserted stretch of back country road alone. The corn on either side had grown tall, some tassels turning brown indicating the coming of harvest. A large bright green road sign stated he was only five miles from Haight (A Nebraska Star City, the sign read), a small rural community of less than nine hundred people. Had it really been so long? Jim thought it felt like a lifetime since his last excursion from his prairie homestead into the wider world of man. He remembered making frequent trips before his discovery. Ah, but that seemed so long ago; like part of some horrifying nightmare that haunts your day with subliminal, almost casual interference.

Jim paused, drew the canteen from his pack and washed the late summer’s heat from his coarse throat. His canteen away, Jim’s feet resumed their original pace, carrying him closer and closer to Haight.

His business in Haight was nothing routine this time. He needed fuel, shotgun shells and rifle rounds. He could see the heat radiating off the whitewashed buildings now less than two miles ahead; the heat emitted a hallucinogenic display of a distorted reality and that was indeed how Jim had felt as of late. A feeling of sureness and purpose washed over Jim as he watched the natural mirage play its little games in the afternoon heat. Yes, today was most assuredly the best day of his life. He had been having the best day of his life more often lately. Yet all that was achieved until now was minor in comparison because today he would get fuel. And that, by God, was all he needed to start the cycle again. To further his new found purpose and sense of direction. All his life he had searched for purpose and fulfillment. Now, on a moderate piece of land in the middle of nowhere, he had indeed found it. The cycle would restart; he would make sure of it.

The corn thinned and gave way to soy beans, which then gave way to unplanted, natural prairie. Beyond that was the outskirts of the small town, a very small town indeed, Jim thought. And a small town was exactly what Jim needed because it would contain just enough fuel to take Jim to the next stage of development with his discovery; to restart the cycle. It would be the perfect source of inspiration to further his purpose, leading him ever closer to his fulfillment.

As Jim entered the town he saw a small gas station with faded yellow paint cracked and flaking from the exterior like crusty piss around the sanitary and sweet smelling cake in a public urinal. The gas station (Haight Fuel, it was called) had only two pumps, the old kind with a crank handle on one side to reset the counter, which Jim noticed was at exactly at 4.20 gallons. Interesting, Jim thought, 4/20 was the day I found it. Jim remembered that day well. It felt like ages ago and just yesterday simultaneously. Jim was vaguely aware of the eyes digging into his flesh like claws as he stood staring at the pump. Yes! It is a sign! This proves it! He reached out and touched the pump. I am supposed to get what I need here, and it is the perfect place for sure. He stood there a moment more, the cold metal pump casing under his hands, and upon realizing he was being watched Jim regained control of his thoughts and composure. Mustn’t let go like that again. People will think you’re fucking crazy. Just standing out here at the pumps, eyes buggy and hands touching the pump like its some goddess! Without a doubt a very insane looking person!

Jim composed himself just in time. The glass door to the gas station swung open on screaming hinges and a grungy adolescent poked his head out with comical curiosity, a look of both intense interest and suspicion lit his acne pocked face like the euphoric and masochistic look of a dental patient far gone on nitrous oxide who still feels the drill bit biting away little chunks of decayed tooth but does not care.

Ya gonna have a hard time pumping that gas without a tank to put it in, sir, called the pubescent boy, his dark hair was as greasy as his face; both glistened in the sunlight. Did your car break down back there? I got a three gallon filler-tank if ya need to borrow it… but I’ll need some collateral.

No need my friend. I have no car and need no gas. I was merely admiring the age of your pumps here. You can’t find an old pump like this just anywhere, replied Jim with a smile that was more comforting than he thought he was capable of. Yes, Jim thought, this young man will do nicely to start. He hardly suspects. He will come willingly enough. I don’t remember the last time I saw pumps like these. A lie, but Jim thought it would do. He had seen these pumps many times before as he came into town, but he had scarcely been to town in the last four months and had never seen the boy. Ryan Parker, First Year of Service, read the nametag on the left breast of his smock. He is new; he has never seen me before either.

I keep telling my boss that we should upgrade to those fancy digital pumps they got at Harrow’s gas station at the other end of town, Ryan pointed down the deserted street with wave of his hand. Yep! I hear that they are twice as accurate and three times faster than these old ones. A look of false intelligence crossed his face. It was the old I-know-something-you-don’t-know-and-ain’t-I-smart-about-it look. Jim had seen it many times before. All really stupid people had mastered that look and sweet Jesus had there been a lot of stupid sons of bitches in Jim’s life.

Really, responded Jim, feigning interest remarkably well. How long have you been working here? You must be the new manager because you sure know your business and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.

Flattered, young acne faced Ryan blushed. Aw shoot mister, I ain’t nothing but a clerk. I’ve only been here a month and a half, but my step dad thinks I’ll be able to start running it after I graduate next spring. I don’t know if I want that but a job’s a job and money’s money, so says my step dad.

Well good for you Ryan.

How did you know my name? he was astounded.

Your nametag, stated Jim. The boy looked ashamed and embarrassed. I do need to grab a few things from inside if you don’t mind, and it would do us both good to get out of this burning heat, don’t you agree? Jim was just as pleasant as could be. He did not mean to upset the boy with the nametag comment. He merely wanted to earn his trust and was trying to be friendly.

Yes sir, you’re probably right. I sure feel stupid ’bout not remembering my nametag.

Think nothing of it, Ryan. May I call you Ryan? Oh you clever, evil bastard, Jim thought, yes, you ask to use his name, he’ll love that shit! He is as good as yours!

Why sure you can! Ryan’s reaction was just as Jim had hoped. His face regained that smart look about it and he opened the door for Jim. Now what can I help ya find today?

Do you carry shells and rounds here? asked Jim.

Of course we do, sir. If you’ll just follow me up to the counter I’ll get ya whatever you need. Ryan’s smile was pleasant as Jim walked past him into the store. He was immediately chilled to the bone by the air conditioner running full blast in the window. Ryan hurried past Jim and got behind the counter where there was a glass display case full of various ammunitions. Jim picked out six boxes of twelve gauge slugs and a dry box of 7.62mm rifle rounds. Five-hundred rounds, Jim thought, that should last the winter if all goes according to plan. And if all fails, there will be one hell of a fight on their hands! Waco, eat your fucking heart out! Jim laughed at this and smiled. It was not the same as the one he had flashed Ryan earlier. Thankfully the kid did not seem to notice. Good news for Jim; it was time to slip the noose around this kid’s throat.

As he was paying Jim inquired, So I’m looking for some help this fall… harvest you know. I need a few good hands to help and I’m willing to pay well, are you interested in making some extra money?

Naw mister, I do fine here… and besides, school’s coming up and I’ll be busy with that, replied Ryan. What are you offering though in case my… uh… friends are interested. His greasy face betrayed his lies and Jim could see that this boy was very interested in his offer. Stupid people are rarely good liars.

How much do you make a week here? asked Jim.

About a bill-fifty, Ryan responded, his eyes darting around and a cautious thinness on his lips. Another bad lie, Jim thought, you may be the worst liar and dumbest person I have met in years. You’ll do better than fine. Oh yes! You’ll be perfect!

How does four hundred a week sound to you?

The boys face went pale, his mouth agape, a tinge of drool collecting at the corners. Mister, you’re pulling my leg, no farmer would pay that much unless he were harvesting pure gold.

Who says I’m not? asked Jim, his face becoming stony and very serious. Jim could almost feel the electric impulses ripping through the kid’s brain like wind over the prairie. He could see that his offer was more than just intriguing to the kid; it was too good to be true. But it was true, Ryan was sure of it; the seriousness of Jim’s face convinced him of that.

When can I start? asked the boy.

How about right now? Jim asked with a malevolent smile on his lips and reached into his pack. His hand plunged deep into the corner where it clutched a soft velvet cloth. He drew out the cloth and slowly opened it as he continued speaking, Right now. You will come with me and forget about this white trash town. His voice was monotone but the boy was entranced.

Ryan’s eyes were intent on the object in the cloth; drool began running from his mouth. Yes. Now. I will come with you. I will forget. I have already forgotten. His eyes were still fixed on the object in the cloth as he came around the counter moving stiffly like a zombie. There is much work to be done.

2

Ryan was a normal boy and until the day Jim walked into the gas station he assumed that he would be going back to school in the fall, would continue working part time, and would eventually end up running the station himself. But the thing Jim showed him changed everything. It took him far away, deep into the recesses of his mind. There he saw much but remembered nothing; there everything was perfect and flawed simultaneously; but mostly, there he was submissive.

Once back at the homestead, Jim took Ryan upstairs. Ryan, still dazed with vacant eyes, allowed himself to be led by Jim into what Jim said would be his room. It had a small bed, a desk, and a dresser. The walls were a yellowing white with no pictures or paintings. The hardwood floor was dull and faded and retained little luster in the light of the single sixty watt bulb that sat dead center in the ceiling under a heavy and cheap glass fixture. Ryan was far too tired to notice any of these things, let alone think about them. His mind had gone far when he gazed upon the object in Jim’s cloth. It’s some sort of wonder, that’s for sure, Ryan thought, but he could not exactly remember it. I wonder if I’ll see it again soon? It is such a pretty, oh yes it is, so precious and delicate. Was it a coin? A gem perhaps? Maybe it was, maybe not; does it matter? Ryan didn’t think so. He lay down and slept.

In the short hours just before darkness swept the land and just after Ryan had fallen asleep, Jim prepared for the night’s activities. Tonight was a very special night for Jim. He had done well so far, he was certain of that. He loaded up both his shotgun and rifle and stuffed a few extra rounds in his pockets. In his pack he stuffed rain gear and the velvet cloth, the object secured inside.

Be prepared, he thought, the Boy Scout motto. Yeah, sure, he was a real scout these days, always going out into the grove, spending hours out there, sometimes he would spend all night there. It was his Mecca and all the preparations for his pilgrimage were ready, soon he would face west and pray.

He went outside and walked the mile and a half from his house to his find. Nestled deep in one of the groves of trees that dotted the edges of individual fields and marked places either too wet or too rocky to be planted, just at the end of his property, Jim had discovered it. As he drew closer his heart beat faster, he felt vomiting butterflies in his stomach and adrenaline coursed through his veins. His balls drew up tight into his crotch and he lost feeling in his toes and finger tips. His mind began to calm despite the anxiety and Jim knew that it would not be long now. Oh no, not long at all anymore, he thought, soon is the time. All shall be revealed and with the first long awaited re-energization complete it shall become and so shall I. My purpose is to serve and my reward will be fulfillment.

Jim took the rifle off his back as he approached the grove, chambered a round, and continued walking, drawing ever closer to it. Remember what happened last night! Better to be packing iron than to have another close call like that! No way, not again.

At first Jim had believed his previous night’s encounter to be some fluke of nature. But he knew better. The night before he had come out such as he had on many different occasions, but as he approached the grove he realized something was amiss. A cold sweat had come over him, more and more nerve endings had screamed ominously becoming a chorus of negativity; he felt like he was being watched. No, he had been sure of it. There had been a rustling in the bushes that froze Jim’s blood. He had strained his eyes, scanning the edge of the trees for whatever had noticed him. He started walking again, more slowly this time and had preceded no more than three steps before a monstrous shape charged from the tree line, grunting and snorting, dirt and underbrush being kicked up in little clouds, and its eyes appearing pure white under the moon’s soft glow. It has come for me, Jim’s mind had screamed in bewilderment and terror. It is not time! No! It cannot be! He tried to move but was paralyzed, his eyes turgid with fear. Then he realized what it was: a large buck, hooves kicking, antlers down, rearranging space, looking for something to gore.

A fresh load of adrenaline pumped into his veins and thawed his frozen muscles. He had lunged aside just in time. Jim could smell the rank stench of urine and feel the wind created as the buck passed; its ghastly white eyes looking at him, burrowing deep into his mind’s eye. He would remember those eyes; two fluorescent golf balls unblinking in the night.

The buck had continued off into the field, grunting and snorting and ripping up clumps of grass with his antlers as he went.

Jim knew this was no fluke of nature. It had drawn the deer as surely as it had drawn him. The deer had become and was driven mad by what lay in the grove no doubt. And why else would the normally dark eyes of a deer be white? Cataracts perhaps? Jim did not know for sure about the eyes, but he was certain that his find played a role. Jim was afraid. But he had come too far to turn back now, right? Of course he had. He had made promises and promises had been made to him as well.

On this night Jim had heard and seen nothing so far. Maybe last night was a fluke. Yes, it must have been. I am paranoid; yes, paranoid, that’s all it is. There is nothing out here tonight and that deer was surely just an ill-tempered son of a bitch gone crazy from disease. Yes. Just a crazy fucking deer with fantastic cataracts. Fucker was probably blind from ’em and startled by my approach, Jim thought. However, all the thinking and rationalization in the world did not set his mind at ease. He continued walking along, his eyes keeping constant vigil on the edge of the trees. Forget about it, Jim old pal. Put your mind at rest; you ain’t going to do any good fretting over it. Regardless, Jim’s finger switched the gun from safe to fire. Black, no crack… red, you’re dead.

He was less than forty feet from the grove when a growl arose, sending chills down his spine and making the small follicles of hair on his neck stand at attention. He continued on, despite the fear welling in his gut, his pace unfaltering.

Even now it draws. It calls to all living, harnessing their essence and becoming. Jim knew. So did the howling beast just inside the trees.

A low growl rose from the edge of the grove and Jim froze. He was dreadfully close to it now. Just a short run and leap and it’ll be on top of me! His mind became cold and dry; all thoughts seemed to fly by at magnificent speed making analysis impossible. But what was there to analyze anyhow? When it came, he would kill it. No sense at all in bothering with thought; this was a time for action.

When it happened it was abrupt and Jim could not remember it later on.

A wild cat sprang from the tree line, snarling, saliva spraying from its open lips. Jim could see its eyes, as bright as bleached teeth. Pure white. No pupils or color at all; strictly white. Jim raised the gun in a blur and was deafened by the report as he squeezed the trigger. The two white eyes disappeared momentarily and there was a misty spray shimmering in the moonlight as the wild cat’s right front leg was clipped brusquely from its body. The white eyes blinked on and off like gigantic fireflies flashing their beacon’s abdomen. The wild cat made a series of quick, short yips and then crashed to a stop at Jim’s feet. It breathed heavily its last few conscious breaths and as Jim chambered a second round (just in case… be prepared, Boy Scout) the wild cat went under. The beast was about the size of a full-grown Collie or German Shepard, although somewhat emaciated. It was unconscious and undoubtedly in shock; breathing slow and deep of the cool, late summer night air.

Jim slung the rifle. What if there are others? This had not yet occurred to Jim, but after a quick mental debate he decided there was only one. It has not gained the potency for multiples. If it had I would certainly have been the first. That shall come, but not now. No; there’s much to do first. Jim picked up the wild cat’s nearly deceased body, a heavy burden under the circumstances, and proceeded into the grove.

Ryan awoke to that crack in the night. Gunfire, for sure, he thought. Good, it has already begun. His eyes shut. Sleep returned and dreams of the object in the cloth overcame him.

3

Jim stood beside it and it whispered up to his ears from deep inside the earth. The hole Jim had found was its lair. There, under the earth it had slept for decades, waiting, biding its time until the time was right. And that time was now—the time of its return.

You have done well, it said inside Jim’s head, oh so well, my Jim. Our time is soon. Yes! Soon indeed! I shall fully awaken and we shall prepare for your becoming.

Yes, we shall, spoke Jim. He dropped the wild cat beside the hole and said, You must feed. I will prove to you that I care and give you the boy tomorrow. But tonight it will be the wild cat. He dropped the wild cat carcass into the hole. It tumbled head over heels ever further down, thudding against the granite walls of the hole. At long last, Jim heard it hit bottom with a sick thump!

Wind began to rush past his face. The hole was sucking in air. Leaves and pine needles were drawn inside in a whirlwind, spiraling downward, rushing to hit bottom unlike the easy and graceful way they had fallen from the trees last autumn. Jim’s eyes widened, his breath stolen from him, but he did not back away. He stared blindly into the hole, a malevolent smile on his lips bared his gritted teeth. He thought he heard something over the air rushing into the hole. He was not sure but in his mind he clearly saw what dwelt in the hole. Later, Jim could not recall what he had imagined. His only memory was dumping the wild cat down the hole and hearing that sucking sound as wind rushed in.

Tomorrow… it whispered from deep in the hole, bring me the boy.

Yes, replied Jim, his eyes far away and milky, drool leaking from his agape mouth. Tomorrow I bring you the flesh of man. He will become all he is not through you. Jim reached absently into his pack and pulled out the velvet cloth. He produced the artifact and pressed his face upon it. Through his mind’s eye things were made clear to him. There he stayed, hunched over the hole, the relic pressed against his head, until the first breaking rays of light crept over the horizon. As he knelt, that which dwelt in the hole spoke to him and Jim listened.

4

Ryan awoke with a scream. Light was seeping into the room from behind the closed drapes and his nightmare faded fast. In it he had been chasing a man through trees shrouded in mist, his excitement too great for him to comprehend. He caught the man with a leaping tackle, leaves and branches crunching under their combined weight, the moon piercing through the canopy of trees and dazzling the ground in a kaleidoscope pattern.

Ryan rolled the man onto his back and was horrified at what he saw. He was stunned to see his own face grimacing back. It was an exact replica except for the eyes. Milk swam in those deep sockets. My eyes! He thought wildly. What the hell has happened to my eyes! That was when he screamed himself awake.

Ryan got up quickly and barely made it to the bathroom before he threw up. That finished, he washed up in the sink, looked into the mirror, and fainted.

5

Let me get this straight. You have nothing to go on. No physical evidence at all—like he just up and disappeared. Probably he went off with some girl somewhere. Steve Hanson, ever the skeptic, said carelessly. He had been down at the Sheriff’s Station since Lucy Parker, Ryan’s mother, had begged him to help that morning. She panicked when Ryan never returned home and asked Steve to go look for him. She had called the local Sheriff’s station herself the night before but they had not been cooperative.

Listen ma’am, the dispatcher had told her, until twenty-four hours have passed we cannot file a Missing Persons report. You’ll have to come to the station tomorrow if he doesn’t turn up. The dispatcher continued to explain that kids of Ryan’s age often don’t come home late in the summer. They go out to party in the fields and oftentimes they stay there all night drinking—which is better than them trying to drive home and crashing. You remember what happened to that Brownstone boy two years ago I’m sure. Lucy did and the memory was not comforting.

Brownstone had partied all night in a field south of town. At some point just before dawn Brownstone, soaked to the gills on cheap whisky and beer and hopped up on methamphetamines, had loaded up his car with two girls and his buddy Tom for a joy ride at eighty miles an hour across an unplanted and neglected field. Somewhere in between the booze and meth, Brownstone had lost control of the vehicle and they slammed into a grove of trees. Tom was thrown forward, his head impacting on the windshield, bursting like an overfilled balloon. Brownstone’s chest crashed into the steering wheel, breaking his sternum and crushing his heart against his spine. Even if he had survived he would not have lived longer than a few agonizing minutes because his ribcage had collapsed, puncturing both his lungs in several places. Mercifully, he died quick and relatively painlessly. The two girls in the back were thrown forward against the bench seat and only received minor injuries. They were lucky; but that didn’t stop one of them from slitting her wrists less than a month later, which begged the question, how lucky were they really?

Lucy refused to believe that Ryan, a mostly well-behaved boy, would ever partake in such criminal behavior and by ten in the morning, after the longest night of her life, Lucy had convinced Steve to go down and file a report. She had wanted to go herself but Steve refused to humor her.

You won’t do anyone any good at all going down there like you are, Steve explained, you should stay here in case he does come home. It is nothing to worry about, dear, just relax and let me take care of this. When I was a young buck, I pulled some all-nighters that scared my ma half to death too. And indeed he had… but that was not very comforting for Lucy. She knew something was wrong. You cannot fool mom; she knows.

Steve drove to the station, parking his beater of a car in a handicap stall. There’s no goddamn crips in this town anyway, he rationalized, hauling himself inside. The young lady who sat stoically behind heavy bullet-proof glass that must have been two inches thick eyed him with obvious disapproval and apprehension.

WENDY FAIRCHILD, DISPATCH

This was engraved on a placard in front of the woman.

Hi there, he said. My name is Steve Hanson… I called earlier about my step-son Ryan’s disappearance. He then added as an afterthought, Well, I didn’t personally call, my wife did. Ryan’s her son… biologically anyway. He paused, waiting for the woman to say something but she just kept on staring at him, not nodding or showing any signs of recognition at all, she didn’t even blink. I just thought you should know this because I’ll be filing the report. Lucy’s too wound up to come in herself. He smiled, trying to appear friendly.

The woman remained grim but patient, her eyes unblinking and locked on his. Finally, after what seemed to Steve like a lifetime, she said, Okay. I’ll buzz you in to see the Sheriff. But I’ll have you know, Mr. Hanson, that he is not in the best mood today and you should really wait until after he’s finished his breakfast.

She reached under the desk and Steve could hear a whirring of gears and motors as the heavy steel door leading to the interior of the station opened up. Steve had seen it before, a couple of times in fact. He had not always been such a good man (and how good of a man he was currently was debatable, especially with his seperated wife, Lucy). Truth be told, he had spent several nights at what the locals called The Cheapest Hotel in Town. Most of the times he had earned such hospitable accommodations were for brawling with some other yokel down at one of the three bars that lined Haight’s main street. Yet this time was different, he was here of his own accord. Bad memories be damned, he thought, I haven’t got time to reminisce… Lucy needs me to do this and by God I mean to file this report, head on down to Larry’s Bar, tie one on… or perhaps a dozen . . . and then take a long afternoon siesta. That goddamn kid is probably coming home right now; hungover, tired, and burned out, I’d wager!

As Steve entered the single narrow hallway that led past the offices and eventually to the cell block (cell block, he thought, what a joke! Three cells and two drunk tanks is hardly a block), Deputy Miller came out to greet him. Well I’ll be dipped in shit and baked in an oven, if it ain’t old Steve Hanson coming to see the Sheriff. What’s the matter Steve? Got a problem you can’t solve with whisky and fists, eh? Deputy Miller, ever the ball-breaker, was just as sarcastic as he could be and raised his fists in jest, Put up your dukes you old sonsawhore. His smile was ominous and said more than Miller’s mouth could ever have said alone. It seemed to say, See? You’re in my territory now! What cha going to do to me you little bitch? Who then now, asshole?

Steve felt his stomach clench up, making its own little fist deep inside him. His hands, the same ones that normally would have boxed this little prick’s head in on a different day, came up in good natured jest. Steve forced a fake but pleasant smile. I got ’em up now, Miller. Now are we gonna go round for round, or are you gonna let me see the Sheriff?

Miller dropped his hands and the smile disappeared. He replaced it with the contemptuous look of a child who did not get the present he wanted in the big box under the Christmas tree. Indeed that is exactly how Miller felt. Cheated; cheated out of his chance to get that old Steve-the-Sonsawhore’s goat. Miller gestured with his hands towards the door he came out of. It was the most ineloquent after you my dear gesture Steve thought he had ever seen. Steve and Miller stepped into the Sheriff’s office and there, behind disorganized piles of papers, stacks of manila folders, and heaps of loose-leaf notes sat Sheriff Jarvis; a forty-some year old, fat, balding, somewhat brutish-looking man with a fine reserve of hidden intelligence. He was shoveling scrambled eggs onto his buttered toast and had made quite a mess of his uniform. The eggs, it seemed, really did not want to stay on either the toast or his plastic fork; they preferred the soft worn cotton of Sheriff Jarvis’s uniform and left subtle greasy stains on the khaki fabric.

Ach, grunted Sheriff Jarvis as he choked down a very big mouthful of toast and eggs, you caught me in the middle of breakfast. Sorry about this. As he spoke, chunks of egg and toast crumbs fell from his lips onto his shirt leaving wet oily trails as they tumbled down his ample belly. How are you, Steve? I was told you needed to see me and that it was rather urgent? He paused, glaring at Miller and swallowing before speaking to him, What are you still doing here? Get out.

Miller did not catch it; he was too busy eye-fucking Steve, contempt dripping from his sockets like venom from fangs. He smiled broadly at Steve, his smile sharing that same contempt that his eyes exhibited, and said, Yeah! You best get the hell outta here you stupid sonsawhore! Miller turned to see the Sheriff’s approving face and was shocked to see that Jarvis had set down his fork and was glaring back. Redness bloomed like wildfire, racing up Sheriff Jarvis’s neck over his face. His eyes became two oven-fired bricks. The speed with which he stood up was tremendous; his oversized gut flipped the plate of eggs and toast, which thankfully was almost empty, and scattered a greasy mess over the already disastrous desk.

I was speaking to YOU! Goddamnit Miller, GET OUT! Miller had never seen Jarvis so angry in the nineteen months he had been a deputy (although the Sheriff had been pissed at him constantly for his arrogant and idiotic behavior). Miller’s face became the epitome of embarrassment. His cheeks flushed, his eyes watered, and the contemptuous smile that had been slashed across his face became a thin pout.

Through gritted teeth and on the verge of tears, Miller was barely able to spit out a good, old-fashioned, Yes sir. He left the room like a child; his head down and lower lip stuck out so far a bird could have shit on it. I bet if he had a tail it would be tucked so far between his legs that it’d make his balls ache, thought Steve with a slim smile blooming across his face. Miller got no more than four steps down the hall before he began muttering juvenile obscenities like goddamn stupid-ass Sheriff and I ought to castrate them both, then we’d see who’s who around here.

MILLER, the Sheriff bellowed from behind, freezing him in his tracks. Get back here, NOW!

Miller sighed, turned about-face and walked swiftly back to the office. Yes Sheriff? he asked. There was no longer any hostility in Miller’s voice. Perhaps the Sheriff was just joking. That must be it, he thought, he really did mean that Steve bastard and not me.

Were you born in a barn? Or are you just an imbecile? Close my goddamn door when you leave my office! The Sheriff had not been joking after all.

Sorry Sheriff, I’ll do better next time. Miller closed the door and continued back down the hall. Maybe Wendy will talk to me, he thought, flirting with her always cheers me up when I feel like a jack-ass. No, who the hell am I kidding? I’ve tried for three months to get in her pants… or even her shirt! She may listen and nod at appropriate times, but she really wants nothing to do with me. Miller went to flirt with Wendy anyhow. It was the last time he would speak with her.

6

You’ll have to forgive young Miller there, spoke Sheriff Jarvis, he’s got a thing against you, as I’m sure you’re already aware of. The Sheriff sat back down, his chair groaning and creaking under his weight.

That is where you are wrong, Sheriff, replied Steve, the smile fading fast from lips, Miller has it out for everyone. If he was just a mean asshole with a gun it’d be one thing…

But he is mean and stupid, interrupted the Sheriff. He knew. That goddamned Miller was certainly the biggest mistake he had made in some time. And being both mean and stupid is down right dangerous when you mix in that gun and badge. I do apologize for him. The Sheriff was shaking his head slowly as if to say, Damn man, I can’t believe I hired that guy!

Well Sheriff, I accept your apology but as for Miller, I’d sooner shit in his pillow case than forgive him. The Sheriff laughed heartily at this and it made Steve laugh too. They both sat there for a few seconds imagining the scene. Mean-stupid Miller, coming home from a hard day of ball-breaking, getting ready for bed and laying down, face pressing deep into the plush pillow, only to discover that it was full of shit; human shit… Steve’s shit. Steve could see the surprised look of disgust Miller would have on his face (not to mention his defecation). That look would turn to rage as Miller turned and ran for the bathroom screaming about how he would kill whoever did this. Both the Sheriff and Steve had decent enough imaginations for such a thing and both found their separate versions of the same scene very amusing.

But I didn’t come here to talk about Miller, I came here to talk about Ryan, my step-son. Steve regained his former serious composure and continued, I know Lucy, my wife, tried to get in touch with you last night but she was told that we had to wait until today. So here I am, Sheriff, now let’s please get this over with… the boy is probably just fine… maybe he’s already back at home, getting whooped by his ma.

Yes, Wendy did mention something about a missing boy. But let’s save the speculations for later. Let’s just stick to the facts and see where they lead, okay? Sheriff Jarvis, however crude, fat, and stern he may have been, was indeed qualified to be the Sheriff. Steve didn’t like much about him, but he did respect the man. Facts and evidence: those were certainly the starting point. Speculations and conjecture could most certainly wait.

I agree, Sheriff. What would you like to know? Steve proceeded to answer the Sheriff’s questions. Where was Ryan last seen? When was that? Has he done this before? Has he had any girl problems? Who are his friends and are there any problems with them? What was he last seen wearing? What kind of car does he drive? Does he use drugs or alcohol regularly? These were all standard cop questions as far as Steve was concerned. He answered all that he could to the best of his ability.

Well, Steve, I gotta say that we don’t have much to go on here; but we’ll check it out. And when I say ‘we’ll’, I don’t mean Miller. He won’t be on this case because of… well, the history between you two… because of how he feels about you and how you feel about him. Do you see what I’m getting at? Steve knew exactly what the Sheriff was talking about (Jesus, I’ll never forget about that no matter what, he thought, and I really don’t even remember it) and this helped put his mind at ease. He did not want that stupid-mean prick working on the case for the same reasons as the Sheriff. Good, he thought, that little prick can stick to hauling off drunks and saving kittens from trees… that mean son of a bitch would probably use a bullet to get a cat down from a tree.

The Sheriff continued on, What I do mean by ‘we’ll’ is that Deputy Thomson and I are going to assemble a search party. We’ll split into teams and search the fields and groves around here… particularly where the kids go and party. I can only assume that you’d like to be on it, right?

This caught Steve off guard. He did not really want to help… he wanted a drink, a few drinks to be more accurate, but this was his step-son and despite the fact that he and Lucy were not on good terms he really did like Ryan. Of course, Sheriff, I’d be more than happy to help. Lucy will really want to help, though, and I hope you can make room for her too. Why, she’s probably gone half crazy waiting for me to return.

Not a problem. In fact, I planned on putting her in charge of the southern fields and groves. But she must remain in control of herself, you understand me? Steve started to reply but the Sheriff didn’t humor him. I absolutely cannot have her acting crazy, stirring up a panic, maybe actually doing something to someone she suspects or anything like that. Is that clear, Steve?

Crystal clear, Sheriff. I’ll head on home and we’ll meet you back here?

Yes, the Sheriff was deep in thought but his eyes were acute and alert. Let’s meet here at one this afternoon. That gives us nearly two hours to prepare. And who knows? Maybe Ryan will be home by then.

Steve stood up and so did the Sheriff. They shook hands and Steve actually felt like maybe he didn’t need that drink after all. Maybe, just maybe, everything would work out. As he left the station he saw Miller flirting with Wendy the dispatch girl. He was trying to poke her fanny with a ballpoint pen like some junior-high dumbass who thinks that is a great way to get a girl’s attention. Steve was just lucky enough to see Miller get slapped across his face.

Good girl! Slap that son of a bitch for me too, he thought, and maybe knee him one in the crotch for good measure. Maybe I do need that drink. Just one to celebrate what I just saw; but just one, I gotta be ready by one o’ clock.

Steve was out the door, down the block, into the bar, and in trouble within fifteen minutes.

7

What Ryan saw when he looked in the mirror was horrifying. His eyes were pure white. MY EYES! His brain cried. It’s taken my eyes! It has taken ME! Terror overcame him; he screamed and fainted. He body went limp and he fell backwards, tearing down the towel bar and leaving a head-sized dent in the sheetrock wall behind him.

Jim was upstairs in a flash. He had heard the scream and the loud thud as Ryan’s head impacted on the wall.

Ryan! Ryan! Are you alright my boy? There was genuine concern in Jim’s voice. He knew that Ryan had a job to fulfill tonight and he was not to be spoiled. Kneeling on the floor next to Ryan, Jim lifted up his head, Ryan. Wake up! Come on now. You’re fine… wake up!

Panic assaulted Jim’s mind. If he dies I’m totally fucked. I don’t have a chance! It needs this boy alive! His rational mind struggled through the panic, seizing control again. Stop it, goddamn you! Look! See? No blood! He’s breathing… shallow breathing maybe, but nevertheless he is alive! So stop acting like a moron and get him downstairs to a couch. He’ll come to and everything will be fine. Now get to it; nothing to freak out over.

Jim positioned Ryan’s limp body perpendicular to the doorway, grabbed him under his armpits, and dragged him down the stairs. Jim was very careful not to damage Ryan any further; he took it step by step. Ryan’s feet would get closer and closer to the edge of each stair and then drop off, one foot at a time, to the next with a wretched thud-thud! Jim thought it sounded like the massive heartbeat of nothing smaller than a whale; slow, steady, deep, and hollow… except that he would have to be inside whatever was so large to hear a heart beat that loudly.

At the bottom of the stairs Jim took a breather. You’re one heavy sack of meat, you know that Ryan? Of course you don’t you ignorant bastard. You’ve probably never dragged an unconscious person down a flight of stairs, have you? Well, shit my man! This is a first for me too; I sure hope it is the last. Just one big-limp deadweight is what you are; an incredibly awkward, goddamn-heavy-big-limp-pain-in-my-ass deadweight!

Jim paced, his feet taking him through the living room, into the kitchen, and back again. He was not enjoying this chore and had certainly not planned on it. It was a necessary task that required immediate attention, however, and Jim knew his responsibilities. What Jim did not know was how to proceed. He moved Ryan to the couch, groaning as he lifted the boy’s weight atop it, and resumed pacing.

Ryan’s eyes fluttered before opening into thin slits. He looked up and saw the yellowing white ceiling of Jim’s living room. He could also see the stairs and wondered if maybe he hadn’t taken quite a spill. His head ached, his neck was sore, and he found that he could not remember what he had been doing last.

He tried to speak. Jim, he croaked. What happened? What time is it? Where are you? When did you… His eyes slid shut as he went out again.

Jim never even heard him. His pacing had taken him over to the bay window and he stood in front of it with his hands on his hips, facing the grove. He could almost hear it. It was trying to speak, Jim was sure of it. He closed his eyes and concentrated. THE RELIC! It tore through his mind quickly and painfully. Of course, he thought, the relic! Why hadn’t I thought of that already? Quit fucking around and consult with it… it has brought you this far hasn’t it? It will bring you home.

Jim ran to the backdoor, opened up his pack and grabbed the velvet cloth, the relic wrapped inside. He hurried back to the living room, knelt in front of the bay window, and opened the cloth. Again he pressed the relic to his forehead. It spoke to him and he listened. It told him what he needed to do; the mystery of how he was to give the boy was revealed and he calmed.

8

When Jim returned from his mental voyage it was late afternoon. Despite the length of time Jim had spent kneeling he felt fine… physically anyway. Upstairs, however, he was very tired. He often felt like that after it spoke to him through the relic. He did not understand what the connection between the two was, only that there was a connection; that, he felt, was all that he really needed to know. Beyond that he only knew that it was mentally exhausting. It’s like tripping. He had thought about this before and yes, it was very much like a drug induced psychedelic journey. It had all the classic elements: the distortion of space and time, his mind traveling far away into the micro-cosmos of his subconscious. He saw and heard things that may or may not have been real (or important for that matter), and when it was all over… when he came down, so to speak… he was unable to remember some of it and was always completely psychologically fatigued. But what he did remember had always been the important parts and this time was no exception. He had work to do and a mouth to feed.

Tonight, it whispered in his head, the words echoing hollowly, all this Ryan business shall be over. Jim was pleased and a smile blossomed like an opening tulip across his face.

9

I don’t understand why we can’t go now! Every minute we are not looking for him he could be getting further and further away! Don’t you understand that, Sheriff? Lucy had been on the phone with Sheriff Jarvis for the better part of half an hour. Why are we waiting until one? I’m coming down there; do you hear me Sheriff?! Her voice was nearing hysteria. I’m coming down there RIGHT NOW! DO YOU HEAR ME?!

I do and there is no need to shout Lucy, the Sheriff’s voice was quite patient. Now you need to hear me for a minute, at one o’ clock—

TO HELL WITH ONE O’ CLOCK, now she was screaming, her voice quivering with emotion, eyes pooling up water for the big flood, WE MUST START NOW!

Sheriff Jarvis held the phone away from his ear. His patience was failing. He could feel acid gushing into his stomach, working his eggs and toast into a storming sea of ulcer-rotting madness. She’s out of control, he thought… and he was right. Her emotions are my only leverage; play off them. Realizing this brought a sense of terminal relief and the acid bath churning in his stomach subsided from a hurricane to a tropical storm. He pulled the Mylanta bottle out from the second drawer in his desk and chugged nearly a third of it. She really wants to have the first and last word, he thought, let her have it. She’ll calm down soon enough . . . and if she doesn’t my ulcers will boil over and I’ll probably puke. Be patient, Jarvy old boy, be patient.

Are you finished, his voice was tranquil and soft, because if you are I can tell you what I need from you. Are you? She was quiet for so long that Sheriff Jarvis began to think that maybe she had dropped the phone and was indeed on her way down to the station right now. But then she spoke.

Yes, her voice now almost a whisper. I’m done. I’m sorry.

Good, because we’re going to need you and you must be strong, okay? He could feel the putrefaction in his gut die down to a mild grumble. "I need you to meet us down here at one o’ clock. We’ll start out from here and search all the fields and groves for your boy. We’ll check homesteads and farms, barns and sheds, streambeds and quarries… we will search all afternoon, all night, and all week if we have to, but we will find your boy. Do you