C.H.A.R.O.N., page 9
“Yeah, but what causes that to happen?” Brent poured himself another cup of coffee from the pot Chris brought to the table.
“Dunno—but we better figure it out fast.”
The door banged open, making Travis startle. He and Brent reached for their guns before they realized the source and stopped mid-motion. A tall man in a construction worker’s heavy raincoat struggled to shut the door against the wind.
“Yo, Mike. What’s it like out there?” Chris hailed the newcomer.
“Not good,” Mike replied. “We’ve gotten enough rain that there are mudslides and rock falls on some of the side roads. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get a sinkhole or two before it’s all said and done.” Given the man’s raincoat, Travis guessed he was with the county road crew or public works department.
“Is Pete back yet?” Mike asked. Travis remembered that Pete was the man who went to check on the earthen dam.
“Not to my knowledge,” Chris replied. “Anyone seen Pete today?” The bar customers shook their heads or grunted negatives.
“Well, if he isn’t already back, he’s not going to get home on the main route. It’s flooded. He’ll be going the long way around—and I don’t envy the drive with the weather out there.”
Mike took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we get some power outages,” he told Chris. “The wind’s blowing hard enough to bring down branches. I hope folks have their generators ready.”
“Liz and her gang would probably have the emergency plan activated by now, but after what happened to Shelly…”
Mike looked up. “What?”
Chris gave the short version, leaving the worst details up to the imagination. “I’m sorry,” he told Mike. “I know you were classmates.”
“This has to stop,” Mike said.
“I think Tony’s working some new leads,” Chris replied and nodded toward where Travis and Brent sat. “And he brought in some outside experts.”
“I don’t care if Tony brings in Batman—someone’s got to figure out the South Fork curse and break it.” Mike took a long pull from his beer with an expression that said he wished it was something stronger.
The wind howled, and rain pelted the bar’s roof. “That’s it, folks,” Chris announced. “We’re closing early. Make sure you’re good to drive—this isn’t a night to push your limits.”
The customers trickled out, leaving Travis and Brent alone with Chris after he sent the kitchen staff home. They put away their laptops and walked to the bar.
“Put us to work,” Brent said. “I bussed tables in college. The sooner you’re done here, the quicker we can all leave.”
Chris gave a sigh of relief. “Thank you. That’s a big help. When Mike Sokolowski thinks it’s a bad night, we’re already past the ‘fucked up’ stage.”
They made quick work of the cleanup. Chris locked up behind them and turned his back against the storm. “Follow me to the house,” he yelled above the wind. “It’s not far.”
Despite their slickers, Travis and Brent were uncomfortably damp by the time they got into the Crown Vic. They followed Chris, sometimes only able to make out his taillights given the downpour and the moonless dark.
Chris parked in the driveway of a modest post-war bungalow on a side street not far from Fisher’s while Travis found a spot at the curb in front. While their host unlocked the door, Travis and Brent grabbed their bags and computers and followed him into the house.
“Thanks again for putting us up,” Brent said.
“Thank you for coming out to deal with our crazy.”
Chris rummaged in the fridge and emerged with beer for each of them and a plate of cheese cubes and carrot sticks. “I need a beer—and something to eat. I don’t always get to finish my dinner.”
They took the snacks and beer into the living room.
“Well, you’ve seen Fisher’s. Welcome to my world. I know my neighbors way better than I’d like to. And any optimism that survived Iraq is long gone.”
Brent managed a tired smile. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have called us. South Fork may have bad luck, but it’s got a lot of good people. They’re doing courageous things—and they don’t even see themselves as brave.”
Chris scrubbed a hand down over his face. “I know. I’m just tired. And I understand why Father Prochazka crawled into a bottle. Bartenders hear confession every day, not just on Sundays.”
“Who’s Mike?” Brent asked, popping the cap on his drink and raising the bottle in a mock salute.
“We grew up together. I left and came back. He stayed. We played on the football team in high school. He’s in charge of the town’s road services. So if there’s anyone who knows South Fork’s infrastructure for good and bad, it’s Mike,” Chris said and took a long pull from his beer.
“Tell me about Father Prochazka,” Travis said.
Chris looked surprised. “He’s a guy who lost his way a long time ago and has been white knuckling it ever since. He sleepwalks through his job most of the time because this town scares the piss out of him, but I figure he’s only got a year or two until retirement, and his superiors probably know about his drinking problem. Other than being soused in the evenings, he’s okay. None of the hanky-panky you hear about. More like he stared into the void, and the void blinked and said ‘boo,’ and he’s not handling it well.”
“And the booze you sold him?” Brent asked.
Chris shrugged. “There isn’t a State Store for twenty miles, and Father Prochazka doesn’t like to drive far. I order a couple of extra bottles for him, and he pays me back.”
Travis made a mental note to pay the priest a visit in the morning, wondering what had terrified him.
“You know, I’m used to customers who are bitter and angry or who’ve just given up,” Chris said. “But after the deaths in the last couple of days, there’s a fear in the folks in town I haven’t felt since we were over there.” He looked toward Brent, clearly meaning Iraq. “It’s that warning in the back of my mind that things are about to get really, really bad.”
The next morning, Travis woke first, padding downstairs before the others arose to make a pot of coffee and a couple of slices of toast.
Chris had left a note on the counter.
Don’t wait for me—I sleep until ten most mornings. You’re welcome to any food you can scrounge up. Plan on staying here for as long as you’re in town. Good luck and stay safe. —Chris
Brent came down shortly after Travis, and they ate in silence, neither of them conversational before coffee. When they finished and washed their dishes, Travis shot a look at Brent. “I want to talk to Father Prochazka. I’ve got a hunch he knows something.”
“Just drop me off at the library. Tammy is expecting me. Come join us when you’re done.”
The morning rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the forecast said another downpour was on the way. Travis let Brent off at the library and admired the Carnegie-era stone building with its wrought-iron fence. Then he headed for Our Lady of Tribulations, figuring the rectory wouldn’t be difficult to locate.
Three blocks later, a dark, misshapen form darted across the street. Travis steered to follow it, cutting in front of a Buick that laid on the horn in protest.
This time, Travis didn’t try to chase the creature on foot. He sped up, hoping to keep it in sight.
Whatever it was had a muscular, hairy body. It loped on four legs, which were longer in the back than in front. Fuck. If I didn’t know better, I’d call it a wolfman.
The rain didn’t seem to bother it, and at first, neither did Travis’s pursuit. Maybe it had never been chased before. Travis didn’t know what to expect as he veered down side streets and took corners too fast, hoping no pedestrians happened into his way. He expected the creature to scale a building or disappear into a storm grating at any moment.
He didn’t expect it to turn to face him, rising onto two legs and baring its dangerous fangs.
Shit, shit, shit. Travis hit the brakes and threw the Crown Vic into reverse.
The creature howled and launched at the car, landing on the hood. Claws dug into the metal, and its face—with red eyes, pushed-in nose, bat-like ears, and vicious teeth—was right against the windshield, impossible to miss.
At the next intersection, Travis hit the gas, cut the wheel sharply to the right, and slewed the car in a circle. That threw the creature off the hood, and Travis jammed the car into “drive” and sped forward, right over top of where the beast had landed.
He stopped half a block away and pulled out his gun. With all the talk of “devil dogs,” he’d loaded some silver bullets—just in case. Travis got out of the car, using the door as a shield until he could see the road behind him, and raised his gun.
The street was empty.
“No, no. That can’t be right,” Travis muttered, advancing on the stretch of pavement where the wolf-thing landed when it spun off the hood. “Where is it?”
No body, no fur, no blood, yet when he looked back at his car, he winced at the deep gouges on either side and the scratches on the hood. I’m not losing my mind. Something made those marks on the car. But what was it? Where did it come from? And how did it disappear?
Travis got back in his car and holstered his gun. He drove the rest of the way trying to make sense of what he’d seen and wondering if, by any stretch of the imagination, that qualified for “South Fork normal.”
The small salt box-style house looked neat and tidy, with a row of trimmed bushes in front. A single rocking chair and a wooden swing decorated the front porch. Travis knocked at the door and heard a dog barking as a man’s footsteps came closer.
Father Prochazka opened the door a hand’s breadth. He wore a black t-shirt over jeans, no clerical collar, and his gray stubble indicated he hadn’t bothered to shave yet. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Travis Dominick. I’m a friend of Chris Horvath’s—he asked my partner and me to help with some of the strange goings-on lately. I’d like to talk with you.”
The priest seemed to silently debate inviting him in versus shutting the door in his face. Reluctant hospitality won out. Prochazka stood to the side. “Come on in. Coffee?”
“I’d love a cup,” Travis replied, hoping kitchen table talk would ensue. The dog, a terrier mix, bounced around the priest’s feet and sniffed Travis thoroughly. Prochazka gestured for Travis to follow into the small galley kitchen. Travis tried to get a sense for the house without visibly looking around.
Dated but still serviceable furnishings looked cozy. Travis guessed they came with the house. Living in the rectory was part of the priest’s compensation. That would explain the somewhat generic department store landscape art on the walls, decorative but impersonal. The kitchen’s appliances in green and gold belonged to another era but looked in good condition and still functional. Only the dog seemed likely to belong to Prochazka himself.
“Down, Dante,” the priest said, affection thick in his voice. He tossed a treat to the dog, who caught it mid-air and retreated to his bed to feast on the bounty.
“Dante—like Dante Alighieri? The guy who wrote Dante’s Inferno?” Travis asked with a grin.
Father Prochazka shrugged. “The pup is a bit of a rascal. What can I say? I’m rather traditional.” He moved to the counter, fixing their cups.
“You just missed Marjorie—she’s the parish’s housekeeper. Cleans the church once a week, does the shopping, leaves me fixings for breakfast and lunch, and keeps the fridge and freezer full of homemade dinners-for-one so I don’t starve to death or accidentally set the place on fire trying to cook,” Prochazka said in a wan attempt at humor.
He turned, carrying a hot mug of coffee in each hand, and stepped over to the table, where Travis joined him. “Sit down. Tell me what’s on your mind. Excuse me for not having my collar on—despite rumors to the contrary, we really are permitted to remove it off-duty.”
Travis smiled. “I understand. I was ordained…left the priesthood several years ago.”
Father Prochazka raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. What do you do now?”
Travis saw no reason to lie. “I run a halfway house in Pittsburgh—and I hunt demons and monsters on my days off.”
He wondered if the priest would doubt him, but the older man nodded. “So…that’s why you’re here. Did Chris or Tony call you in?”
“Chris, He knew my partner Brent from their Army days. He asked us to help.”
“So why come here? Clearly I’ve been of no use ridding South Fork of its demons, real or imagined.” He looked down at his coffee, and Travis read shame in his expression.
“You’ve been in South Fork for a while—seen things change. I don’t think that the problem here is simple to fix, or someone would have taken care of it before this. I’d like to know what you’ve observed. Maybe we can get to the bottom of it.”
Prochazka shook his head without looking up. “I have nothing to offer. Don’t you think I would have done something before this if I saw a way?”
“Do you know if any of the priests in the past tried to banish ghosts or do exorcisms?” Travis knew that the average parish priest wasn’t trained or—under normal circumstances—permitted to drive out demons. But nothing about South Fork qualified as “normal.”
Prochazka sighed as if realizing Travis wouldn’t be sent away easily. “The elderly priest who was here before me died trying to cast out an evil spirit. I received strict orders not to do something so foolish when I received this assignment.”
He still didn’t meet Travis’s gaze. “When I first came here, I tried to follow those orders. That was twenty years ago. I was hopeful. I thought that if I took care of the parish like a regular priest, I could ease the strain and help them deal with their fears. But…it was too much. They never taught me how to minister to a haunted town. For some reason, they didn’t cover that in seminary.”
Actually, they did, and the unlucky ones who learned it were sent to the Sinistram. Be grateful you weren’t chosen.
“Have you ever dreamed things that came true? Or seen ghosts? Anything that was difficult to explain?” Travis pressed.
“You’re asking if I’m psychic?” Father Prochazka asked with a wry chuckle. “Nothing strong enough to be worthwhile.” He gave a forced laugh. “My professors would say I’m not even very intuitive. But have I seen things, felt things? Yeah, enough to give me nightmares and make me cross the street or stay inside some nights. My parents wanted me to go into the priesthood, so I went. I was good at studying, but not so much the people parts of things. I guess you could say I had the head but not the heart. I stumbled through the years of homilies and weddings, funerals, and baptisms. I did what was required. Then they sent me here. Probably to get rid of me. I guess I lasted longer than they expected.”
“Did people try to tell you about things they couldn’t explain?”
The priest looked out the window, glancing anywhere except at Travis. “A few. Their stories scared me. I wasn’t helpful and couldn’t ease their fears so I gave them the ‘party line’—told them they were imagining things or that the occult was against God. They went away and left me alone. I had a responsibility to help them—and I left them to struggle.”
“Have you ever seen a werewolf in town—or something that might be mistaken for one?” Travis asked, taking a risk.
Prochazka’s focus snapped from the window. “What do you mean?”
“Several times, my partner and I have seen shadowy creatures that look more like wolves than dogs—but not normal wolves. More like Hollywood were-creatures. We’ve chased them, shot at them, and on my way here, one of them attacked my car. The gashes in the metal are real. So it had to be too. But it vanished into thin air. Got any idea what I’m talking about, Father?”
The priest looked flustered. “I’ve heard stories. Never caught more than a glimpse myself—another reason I don’t go out often at night. I told myself I was imagining things.”
“But deep down, I suspect you know better.”
Prochazka sighed. “There’s an evil in this town that I can’t explain. People talk about curses and Hellmouths and visions. I don’t know what started it, but so far, no one’s been able to end it, and if it doesn’t fear men like you, it won’t run away at the likes of me.”
Travis wrestled with how much to say. “I know the Church discourages talk of demons and evil spirits—or exorcisms. But at the high levels, they believe. I was part of a Vatican group of demon-hunting priests—we were the Left Hand of the Holy Father. The Sinistram. I left because they were corrupt—but the work was real.”
Prochazka stayed silent long enough that Travis wasn’t sure he would respond. “So…they misled us from a truth at the very heart of heaven and hell.”
“I’m sorry.” Travis wasn’t sure Prochazka had any illusions remaining, but he seemed to take the information to heart.
“People ask me whether I believe in God or the Devil. I’ve never been too sure about God, but after twenty years in South Fork, I’m positive about the Devil…or at least, the powers of darkness.” He finally met Travis’s gaze. “You don’t have to die here. Get out while you still can.”
“For the record, I don’t think that what haunts South Fork has anything to do with Hell or the Devil. There are entities that feed on blood and death and suffering like we eat food. They aren’t evil—they’re amoral, indifferent, and hungry. Sometimes, people try to control them for their own purposes—and that is the true evil,” Travis told him.
“It’s too late for me,” Father Prochazka told him. “I have been ‘tried and found wanting.’ I hope you can do better. But hurry. I think time is running out.”
