What Do Monsters Fear Page 15

  “We can only hope not.”

  Something shuffled in the shadows.

  Peter swung around and eyed the barrels on the far wall. The light flickered overhead with a zapping noise. Peter heard his own neck creak in the silence. Then someone spoke.

  “Don’t hurt me . . .”

  “Jerry?”

  A filthy hand appeared around the corner of an end barrel. Squinting in the light, Jerry Fisher stepped out into the room.

  Peter guessed the man had been pressed behind the wine rack all along, flattened against the stone wall. The space looked so constricted that Peter thought there couldn’t be enough room to take a full breath without feeling pressure.

  “You’re here to hurt me,” Jerry said. “Aren’t you?”

  Fisher looked like a madman, his eyes vibrating in their sockets. Dust caked his black polo neck, his skin dirty and blotched. His hair stood up at awkward clumps, as if he’d been tearing at it. Or if someone else had. His right cheek was swollen to the size of a tennis ball.

  Well, Peter thought. Paul told the truth about getting him in the face with the crowbar . . . He looks absolutely psychotic.

  Peter’s throat clicked as he tried to swallow. Jerry’s right hand was hidden behind his back. “What’ve you got there, Jerry?”

  “I know why you’re here.” Jerry sounded sedated, his voice docile and dreamlike. “You’ve come to hurt me.”

  “No. No. We just want to talk . . . Show us what’s behind your back.”

  Slowly, Jerry revealed the crowbar. “It’s just this thing,” He said. “That’s all.”

  “Put it down.”

  Jerry eyed the bat like a lover, turning it over gently in his palms. “You’ve come to hurt me. That’s what you’re here to do. I know you.”

  Peter’s voice broke. “Not true. Now put it down.”

  Jerry’s face twisted in a snarl, his lips quivering. His knuckles whitened around the bar. “I know you!”

  “No!”

  Fisher swung. Peter threw his arms in front of his face, deflecting a whack of the crowbar. It bounced off his forearm, a bite of pain blooming instantly. Peter balked and reached for the weapon, his shaking hands clasping the metal as he wrested the bar free.

  “Drop it!”

  They smacked to the stone wall, both snarling like feral dogs. Peter’s arms trembled from the hit, but he ignored the pain and whipped the crowbar first to the left, then the right, trying to loosen Jerry’s grip.

  “Drop it!”

  Useless words, Peter knew, but they still came out of instinct. “Jerry, drop the goddamn bar!”

  “Uh!”

  Jerry pulled to the right, sending them both staggering up the room, the crowbar keeping them glued as one. Henry reached for Jerry as they passed, wrapping his arms around the counselor’s neck. Jerry’s eyes bulged, trashing like a wild animal avoiding captivity.

  Spit flew from his lips. “Let go of me!”

  He threw his body in a frenzy, trying to toss Henry from his back, but the old man held tight. Peter grasped the crowbar and yanked, but the mad man wouldn’t let go. Then they crashed into the table where Shelly Matthews lay.

  Peter’s lower back pressed into the squishy, cold meat of the carcass. He cried out as Jerry crammed him against the table, the counselor fighting to free himself of Henry. A smell wafted from the disturbed corpse, making Peter gag, then Shelly’s body slopped from the table and splashed to the floor. Peter’s back arched over the table, the hard wood forcing its way into the center of his spine. The weight of Jerry and Henry pressed him harder and harder. He couldn’t breathe. Still, he held the crowbar, his lungs burning. With a grunt, he forced the weapon down to his right side. The crowbar shuddered from the opposing force.

  Jerry cried out and tried to wrench the weapon back, his eyes bulging from their sockets and his face purpling as Henry squeezed. Spittle flew from his lips.

  His voice came out a gargle. “Let it go!”

  He yanked hard and the three men stumbled onto the destroyed corpse of Shelly Matthews. And slipped.

  They shouted in unison, crashing to the mess of spoilt innards, shattered bone and rotting flesh. Cold liquid seeped through Peter’s shirt and jeans, kissing his skin. Bile rose in the back of his throat that Peter fought to keep down.

  Unfortunately, Jerry Fisher couldn’t do the same.

  The strangled man, his face now a deep shade of purple, vomited. It splashed from his lips, joining the rotting remains of the fermented body and missing Peter’s face by inches. The counselor tried to swallow but Henry’s arms locked tighter around his throat, keeping a mouthful of puke lodged.

  He’s going to choke to death!

  Peter pulled the crowbar, his hands slick with sweat and gore and splashed in vomit.

  One wrong move and this thing slips . . .

  He whipped back and forth, his elbows working into the slop beneath him, fighting to find purchase. In his mind, Peter saw a kid’s pool full of butcher waste and cringed. Then his left elbow slid from under him. The crowbar pulled free of Jerry’s grasp.

  Hands now free, Jerry reached for his throat, slapping to open Henry’s grip.

  “Stand up!” Henry ordered. “Get off him and stand up!”

  Henry pulled Jerry by the throat and the two stumbled back, then Henry threw the counselor towards the far way. Jerry gasped for air, his complexion returning to normal. A slop of brown film from Shelly’s corpse glistened on his clothes. He looked to Peter, his eyes full of hate.

  Peter stumbled to his feet with the crowbar, his heart hammering. “You going to talk now?”

  “You’ll never get out of here alive,” Jerry spat. His voice sounded like sandpaper, raw from acidic vomit and lack of air. “None of us are getting out alive. He won’t allow it.”

  Peter’s grip tightened on the crowbar. “You mean Phobos? We found your books, Jerry, we saw him. Now how in the world do we get rid of him?”

  “You don’t.”

  Peter and Henry exchanged a look of frustration, Henry breathing heavily through his nose.

  “You called it here, you have to know how to send it back.”

  Fisher coughed and rubbed at his throat. “I would be killed. Harris Dawson’s a very powerful man. He’s the one with the money and the ideas. But even he’s not to blame for this.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Things happen in this world you wouldn’t believe, Mr. Laughlin. I mean, would you honestly believe me if I told you this little, how should I call it? Experiment? Yes, experiment. That this little experiment of ours was funded by an external company? A legitimate tax-paying company?”

  Henry shook his head and planted his hands on his hips. “What are you talking about, Fisher?”

  “They know exactly what they’re paying for when they funded Dawson. The big heads at the top of that company just don’t want to get their hands dirty, that’s all. So, instead, they seek out people such as Harris Dawson . . . People with an esoteric interest. Offer to fund their ventures.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Control, Peter? Why else? Imagine the pure power one would possess if they managed to tame a god? Do I need to spell it out for you?”

  “And where do you fit into all of this? What are you?”

  “A hired hand. A contractor. Just a lower rung on the ladder. Dawson’s research is funded by these people, he’s contracted by them, and I’m contracted by Harris.”

  “If Harris is the one with the ideas, and he’s the one they’re funding, then why did he hire you?”

  “We’re old friends, Laughlin, and that’s what friends do. Harris and I participated in linguistics courses back in college, something I was always better at. He asked me to decipher a family heirloom. A page. No prize money for guessing what I discovered. It took months, but together, we put enough of the pieces in place to have a clearer picture of what we possessed. I had no money, no job, no plan . . . And I loved to act.” H
e smiled a toothy grin. “One afternoon, when Harris came to see me at the actors’ society rendition of Hamlet, his eyes absolutely beamed. He had a plan. He always did. He could earn us a living. Some people had been to see him, he said. Men in Black, he called them, only half joking. They knew what his family possessed, that page, and it interested them greatly. They offered to fund a project for Dawson, one to continue his research on other papers. Can you believe, I was simply trying to make a go in the entertainment industry up until that point. I wanted to be an actor.”

  “Fisher,” Peter said, gritting his teeth. “How do we destroy this thing? Tell us.”

  Jerry massaged his throat. “I’m telling you what I know, Peter. Context is important . . . You see, Dawson knows things about this universe that if others heard, they would disregard as the ravings of a lunatic. He’d be locked up. But with funding from The People, as Harris called them, we were free to explore our new discovery. They had even more pages for us . . . And when we figured out what was written on those pages . . . My god.”

  “This is insane,” Henry said. He rubbed at his temples. “Absolutely crazy.”

  “There are books in this world that would melt your brain to read, Mr. Randolph,” Jerry said. “De Vermis Mysteriis for example, or even the discovered writings of Frank Carpenter, although they are considered drivel by many. There’s The Necronomicon . . . Many, many more. And each hold a grain of the real truth.”

  Peter shook his head. “The Necronomicon? That’s fiction, right?”

  Jerry chuckled. “Wrong. Very wrong. There are monsters, gods I would call them, desperate to get back into this world, Peter. And they’ll stop at nothing to do so. I believe you’ve met one already.”

  “Phobos . . .” Henry said the name like an unwanted chunk of phlegm caught in his throat. “And those books upstairs, are they copies of this Necro-something?”

  “Oh my, no. They are nothing more than feeble transcripts and hand-me-down tales, told by men who only wished to gaze their eyes upon the one true sacred book. Chinese whispers, if you will. Even the Necronomicon pales in comparison to the true book. But, each holds a grain derived from the original. Some sliver of importance, but never the whole thing. One should not take a single teaching as the entire truth. That’s where the world’s belief denominations are off the mark. The works of John Dee, The Golden Chain of Homer, the writings of Aleister Crowley, Frazer’s The Golden Bough, Dogme et Rituel de la Haute Magie, the Theatrum Chemicum, hell, even the Judeo-Christian Bible, all contain some piece of the greater puzzle.”

  Henry rubbed his eyes. “If you and this company only have pages, who owns the real book?”

  “The real book?” With that, Jerry clapped his hands and barked a laugh. “Mr. Randolph, no one has the whole book! The pages are scattered far and wide. If one man held the entire thing, he’d hold all the power of the universe! All Harris and I have are these Chinese-whisper books and hand-me-down tales. A little piece of truth sprinkled here and there, that’s all . . . But those tiny sprinklings can be very helpful. They’re clues. What I do, Mr. Randolph, is look for similarities within the texts and the writings of our pages, and try to find a lead.”

  “Why do you do this?”

  Fisher’s face fell. “To call something more powerful than you could ever imagine into this world. For it to be grateful, and in return, bestow more power than you could ever dream of on both myself and Harris Dawson. We would be the rulers of this world, don’t you see? And all others, every last one of you, would bow before us . . . And just so you know, we would have prayed to any of the gods we discovered. Any of them. It just so happens that the pages we got our hands on told the tale of Phobos. The Great God of Fear.”

  A wave of dizziness overcame Peter and he gripped the wall for support. He looked to Fisher. “You mean there are more of these things?”

  With a shake of the head, Fisher said, “Many, many more . . . And now Phobos now exists on our plane of existence. He’s here. Once He finds a suitable host and is strong enough to grow within it, the transition between the Otherworld and ours will be complete. He will be here to stay.”

  “And you honestly believe that he won’t waste you as easily as he’d waste the rest of us? You honestly believe this company funding Dawson’s research won’t just dispose of you once they know your work is done now that Phobos is here?”

  Jerry looked confused. “People believe in stranger things all the time, Peter. Suicide bombers blow themselves to smithereens in the name of their creator. People go to war all over the world because they believe their god said so, or because their country did, and what is country worship without liking it to godly? The only difference is I can see my god with my own two eyes. That tends to persuade me . . . And He’s here all because of me.” Fisher looked to Henry, then to Peter. “You can kill me now, if you wish. It doesn’t make a difference in the long run. My job’s finished. Whether I rule here alongside Phobos and Harris, or you kill me and my Lord sends me to the Otherworld, it’s all the same.”

  “No,” Peter said. “No, that would be too easy. You’ve got more answers. Like how to stop him.” He gave Fisher a steady stare. “There’s something in one of those books, isn’t there? I couldn’t quite place it at first, but now it’s making sense. Why the books were littered on the floor. You have thought about Dawson and that company killing you, haven’t you? You were getting a backup plan. Insurance. Figuring out a way to stop Phobos in case they betrayed you.”

  Something flashed in Jerry’s eyes.

  “Deep down, you’re scared of it, too . . . What can stop it, Jerry?”

  Jerry backed towards the cellar door. “I bow before my god, and take no false gods before Him.”

  Peter stalked forward, crowbar in hand. “You’re a liar. You marked those pages in those books because there’s something there. What is it, huh? A ritual? What makes him disappear?”

  Jerry didn’t answer. Peter lifted the crowbar.

  “You’re going to send him back where he came from.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Banging came from the staircase outside the cellar door.

  “Is this your backup?” Jerry asked. “The cavalry coming to do away with me?”

  Peter flexed his jaw. “We’re not going to hurt you, because you’re going to stop this creature once and for all. Or else you’re going to tell us how to.”

  “Fine, fine.”

  The door burst open and Donald fell inside, his pants dirty from the crawl downstairs. Spotting Jerry Fisher, his eyes turned to slits. “You, you fuck.” He jabbed a finger at the man. “You’re a dead man.”

  Peter’s heart raced. “Donald, wait—”

  Donald took the room in two strides and swung at Jerry’s face. The punch connected with a dull thump and Jerry hit the floor. Donald straddled him, his weight pressing down on the man’s chest. “You’re a fuckin’ dead man, Fisher!”

  He brought his fists down again and again, Jerry’s head flopping from side to side with sharp smacks. Peter dropped the crowbar and rushed to Donald, pulling at the man’s shoulders. Donald swatted him away and continued his beating. The large man managed to get five more hits in before Henry was at him, too, ripping at Donald’s sweater.

  Henry sounded frantic. “Donny! Stop it, please!”

  Donald wouldn’t listen. His fists fell like anvils, mashing Jerry’s face to a pulp. Peter’s stomach churned as a puddle of dark red pooled around the man’s head, carrying two knocked out teeth.

  “Jesus, Don, you’ll kill him! Stop!”

  Donald roared, full of pent-up rage. Spittle flew from his lips and his hair fell into his face. Peter knew the adrenaline and primal rage coursing through his veins had taken over. Donald was seeing red.

  “Peter,” Henry said. “The crowbar!”

  Peter rushed and scooped it from the ground, steadying it like a baseball bat and eyeing the back of Donald’s head.

  No, he thought. Not there, could cause serious damage
. . . I only want him to stop, I don’t want to hurt him . . . Or give Phobos another body to host . . . His back. Yes. His back.

  But what if Donald’s high adrenaline rendered the hit useless and he turned on him and Henry? Could they take him down, even with two on one and a crowbar? Either way, Peter had to do something, because Donald’s hands came down again and again, getting slower. Each hit now sounded like he punched a bag of overripe tomatoes. His right fist came up, smothered in red, shaking, and he paused.

  “That’s enough,” Peter said, his voice weak. “That’s enough, Donny. Stand up, now . . . You’ve done enough.”

  Donald pushed himself off the man. He wiped his face, smearing it with blood. Tears glistened in his red, swollen eyes and his shirt clung to him, almost transparent with sweat. His shoulders jerked as he blubbered.

  “Sick fuck had to die. He had to, right?” Donald looked between Peter and Henry. “I was right to do it, weren’t I?”

  Peter lowered the crowbar behind his back, hoping Donald wouldn’t take any notice. He kept his voice calm. “Let’s get back upstairs, what do you say? Come on. Paul’s waiting. There’s nothing left for us down here now.”

  “Paul’s fuckin’ dead.”

  Oh, Donald, Peter thought. What have you done?

  Henry took a step forward, making Peter wince. Don’t get close, Henry!

  Henry cocked his head to the side. “Did you kill him?”

  A look of genuine shock passed over Donald’s face. “Me? Christ, no. Started hemorrhaging on the couch right after you guys left. I think this bastard musta given him a brain aneurism when he hit him on the head with that bar.”

  Donald’s eyes went to the crowbar.

  “You can drop it, kid. I ain’t gonna hurt neither of you. You know I had to do what I done.”

  Peter released the crowbar and it clattered to the ground behind him. “We needed him, Donny. He had answers. He knew how to stop this thing.”

  “You’re dumber than ya look if you think he would’ve told us jack shit.”

  “Oh yeah? Well then we would have made him tell us. You know Phobos might be able to use Jerry’s body now. Even if you ruined his head.”