Fallen Stones Page 9

As he looked into the near darkness, his flashlight being the only source of illumination in the dismal room, his eyes immediately focused in the direction of a large dressing mirror across the room. It was about six feet tall, constructed of wood, perhaps once polished and fine looking but now worn, dull and scratched. It was oval and was suspended in a rectangular framework with two large supporting feet anchoring it to the tattered carpet. Halfway up the weathered frame two iron handles, their black paint chipped and tarnished held the mirror in place and allowed it to tilt as necessary, enabling the user to attain the best view possible.

  When Jack had first observed the mirror upon entering the room he noticed it had been tilted back slightly, however now it was slowly moving into a vertical position, as if someone were standing in the darkness behind the piece pushing it into a specific position, although he could see no one. He suspected if a person was actually hiding behind the mirror somewhere in the shadows, then that person would likely be the one who had called his name, perhaps trying to spook him, to frighten him into leaving the property. Jack slowly reached around to the small of his back, each movement feeling as awkward and cumbersome as if made while neck-deep in quicksand, and carefully removed the revolver he had stashed there earlier. Then he laboriously brought it around to be ready to use on whoever might be found lurking in the darkness.

  The now vertical surface of the mirror suddenly seemed to change before his eyes; looking less like a mirror and more like the surface of a reflecting pond. From a point in the center of the mirror a series of ever-growing concentric circles seemed to emanate, resembling the ripples one sees after dropping a stone into a still body of water. “Jaaaaaaakkk” he heard the voice call somewhat louder and more distinct than before as if to suggest whoever was summoning him was getting closer. Unbelievably, the voice with its liquid quality seemed to be coming from deep inside the mirror itself. Jack’s common sense told him such a thing was not possible, yet regardless of what he believed, it truly was nonetheless occurring.

  From within the undulating ripples in the mirror, Jack saw a form begin to take shape and to his dismay and horror, he realized it was the same image; the same skeletal face he thought he had briefly seen downstairs. He recognized the face as that of his recently deceased enemy, Emerson Washburn. He had convinced himself the countenance in the downstairs living room mirror had been a product of stress or an overactive imagination. However now it was obvious to Jack the thing was far too real. The creature looking out from the glass was not only as hideous as it had appeared to be earlier, but Jack could see immediately it was far worse than he had thought. It was not quite Emerson Washburn, but was some sort of Washburn-like incarnation born of some unimaginable accursed womb of Hell, now manifesting from the rippling mirrored surface. Its face blurred in and out of focus twitching spasmodically, which left Jack uncertain of what he was actually seeing.

  The creature looked to Jack to be skeleton-thin and its flesh seemed to hang in folds, as flesh often does when an overweight person suddenly takes ill and sheds far too many pounds much too quickly. The skin covering the hideous being was mottled, rotting and even sloughing off in places revealing the glistening white bone beneath and resembling some sort of horror movie zombie. Jack could see what appeared to be small white insects; he suspected maggots of some sort, crawling in and out of holes they had bored sporadically about the specter’s face. The vision continued to twitch and move in and out of focus, in a jerky motion reminiscent of an old fashioned black and white silent movie. In fact, the image itself appeared to be almost entirely black and white, save for a few slivers of crimson where its flesh was cracking, preparing to slip from its skull and in those places the red was far too pronounced; almost phosphorescent with its eerie ruby glow.

  It seemed to Jack that perhaps the unimaginable world from which this atrocious version of the now dead Emerson Washburn was trying to emerge, might be one virtually void of all color except for the vibrant luminescent red which seemed to captivate if not hypnotize him. In his mind he seemed to be repeating the words "red, red, red" as if his brain was unable to comprehend the existence of any other colors save red.

  Jack wondered if it could be possible the unholy being might be planting this unimaginable black, white and crimson fantasy in his mind and in reality did not look quite as revolting as the image portrayed. If Jack could bring himself to accept the fact that Washburn had been able to pull himself forth from the world of the damned, then it seemed logical the undead specter could also be capable of creating such an illusion. Before this thought had a chance to completely shape itself into a cohesive idea, something more unacceptable and even more revolting occurred, which Jack was certain was beyond his own imagination's ability to fabricate.

  The mouth of the hideous being hung wide open and when it once again whispered his name Jack could smell a vile and nauseating odor coming from the mirror, like that of a dead animal carcass baking in the broiling summer sun along a country road; the smell of decay; the smell of death. Coming back to reality from his near hypnotic state, Jack didn't take the time to consider what he might or might not be seeing; instead, he did his best to muster all of his strength to lift his hand pointing the revolver directly at the mirror. He had made up his mind, if the origin of the ungodly specter before him was that mirror; then he would shoot the glass and hopefully send the Washburn-like thing back to whichever torturous pit in Hell it was trying to crawl from. Then when he regained his ability to move he would go from room to room destroying every mirror until there was no possible way for the creature to manifest itself again.

  But he discovered he could not pull the trigger; his ability to will his finger to do so was suddenly gone. Mysteriously, the gun felt as though it weighed a ton as his right hand dropped back to his side, unable to continue pointing, hanging uselessly at the end of an arm, which dangled helplessly like some useless vestigial appendage.

  "I see...you found...your precious ring," the image in the watery mirror hissed. The being sounded as if speech might be something which was very difficult for it to accomplish from deep inside the glass. Jack wanted to reply, wanted to scream and curse at the heinous ghost of the man he had hated for so many years, but he was unable to speak or move.

  The water-like film on the face of the mirror began to ripple more rapidly as Jack saw that the thing, which might have once been Emerson Washburn and was now some sort of Hell-spawned demon, was slowly beginning to emerge from within the mirror. Jack wanted to turn and run screaming from the unbelievable living nightmare unfolding before him but was now completely paralyzed; perhaps by some unknown power this ghastly thing possessed; perhaps by his own primal terror. The twitching specter floated out of the mirror and within a few seconds drifted across the room until it loomed just a few feet in front of Jack. It hideous face was still all that was visible in the glow of the flashlight, but Jack knew there were more horrors lurking in the blackness below that head.

  Jack was thankful for the shadowy darkness of the room. He had absolutely no desire to see the revolting creature in its entirety. Seeing only its hideous maggot infested face in blurry twitching glimpses was horrifying enough. Jack could only imagine how the rest of the thing might appear, and he tried his best not to do so.

  "Oh...Jack," the specter said with a condescending, almost mocking tone, its voice now clearer outside the confines of the mirror. "You didn't really think...you could get the better of me... did you? Even in death...you must understand...I am better than you... I see everything... I know everything... I even know what you were planning... I know about your scheme to burn my lovely house...to the ground... But sadly for you...you will never have that opportunity... You see, I have left this house...and all my possessions...to my long-lost niece. And I must keep it safe for her…the others have commanded it...as they have very special plans for her...and for her family.

  Jack had no idea what the specter was talking about, nor did he care. He had come here to find his ring, then
destroy the house and everything inside it. Now all he wanted was to escape with his life and his immortal soul intact.

  Then suddenly, the ghostly phantom began to dissolve right before Jack's astonished eyes, breaking up into billions of tiny glowing particles. For the briefest of moments, Jack began to believe the repulsive thing was about to vanish, when abruptly, the mass of glowing specks flew rapidly toward him encircling his head like honeybees swarming to protect their queen.

  Jack felt the accumulation of the luminous flecks tightening around his skull, felt tiny barely detectable elements slithering up into his nostrils and creeping between his tightly closed lips. His eyes burned, and he assumed the particles were even working their way inside him through his tear ducts. Then the entire swarm seemed to melt into the very pores of his flesh. Jack could feel a tingling sensation all around his skull as each microscopic glowing element passed into his body.

  Within a few seconds, he felt an incredible cold spreading throughout his body. It started with his head, the crept down along his spine into his chest, down into the pit of his stomach and eventually all the way to the tips of his toes. Whatever the Washburn-thing had been, Jack understood it had now somehow become part of him. Jack realized he was no longer just Jack Moran. In fact, he could sense the very co-consciousness of Emerson Washburn inside his mind and his body.

  The sensation was far beyond terrifying. Jack could still sense his own presence but could also feel Washburn's persona in there with him. Jack suddenly had an instantaneous recollection of Washburn's entire life. It was as if all of the man's memories had directly downloaded into his own brain, and they had become his own memories. One specific recollection, which seemed to keep repeating simultaneously from both Jack's own memory as well as Washburn's was from that life-changing night when Washburn severed Jack's finger. It was almost incomprehensible to Jack how he could see the same scene played out from two different perspectives at the same time; his own and that of Emerson Washburn. And what was even stranger was Jack actually reliving the emotions of that excruciating experience from two separate and opposite points of view simultaneously.

  Jack's own personal impression of the event was filled with pain and terror, while the Washburn side of the memory was one of sheer pleasure; the sick thrill the twisted man had gotten from inflicting incredible agony on another human being. Although Jack as Jack could have never experienced such a sensation, Jack combined with the presence of Washburn most certainly could. It was then Jack realized, although Washburn was someone deserving of his hatred and disgust, the man was also a mentally deranged creature incapable of distinguishing right from wrong or from controlling his sadistic homicidal impulses.

  Then Jack realized it was not simply that Washburn was sharing space in his body, but Jack could instantly tell Washburn was in physical control of him. Although Jack’s persona was still present it was now only a spectator, helpless to work any of his own bodily motor control. Washburn was operating Jacks body like a puppet master with a marionette. Jack felt his right hand reach around and tuck the revolver back into his pants. He still held the flashlight in his left hand and could feel Washburn position that hand downward to provide light for him to see ahead. In the mirror across the room Jack could see his own reflection moving without his actually being in control. For the briefest of moments, Jack looked at his own face in the mirror at his own eyes but no longer recognized the look they held. His eyes now reflected the violent and deranged soul of Emerson Washburn.

  Jack felt his body begin to turn slowly as he clumsily staggered out of the dismal bedroom, then travel along the upstairs hall toward the stairs. He was terrified at not being able to control his own motion and feared the being, which now inhabited his body, might throw that same helpless body down the stairs, not necessarily to kill him outright, but to injure him and make him suffer. Washburn could simply cripple him and leave his broken body to die alone, helpless and in agony. He envisioned himself in a heap of shattered bone and flesh crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. No sooner had Jack experienced the mental image than he became concerned that the horrific thought might not actually have been his own, but might have been one that Washburn actually had planned for him. Had he known what fate actually awaited him, Jack would have been grateful to be thrown down the stairs instead.

  Jack made it safely down the stairway without incident, and then his body continued shuffling awkwardly along the downstairs hall occasionally banging against the wall, stumbling past the living room and dining room, out into the kitchen then finally out the back door onto the deck. After the door was closed and locked, Jack's left hand clicked off the flashlight and tucked it into his pants pocket while his right hand reached down and picked up the gasoline can. Jack's fear began to increase as he sensed for the first time what the creature might have in store for him. He had no way of distinguishing between his own thoughts and those of Washburn.

  Next, his remotely controlled body trudged through the back yard past the swimming pool, around the back of the house, through the side yard, around to the front of the house then down the long moonlit driveway. The stolen car Jack had used to travel to the property was parked a few hundred feet up the main road from where it intersected with Washburn's driveway.

  Jack felt his body move toward his car, which he had hidden to the best of his ability along the side of the road, where it was concealed in the shadows of dense overhanging trees. When Moran reached the sedan, Washburn commanded his arm to open the driver's door, as well as the door to the back seat. Next Jack was forced to dump the gasoline inside the car, allowing it to soak into the cloth carpeting in both the front and back. He then took what was left in the can and lifted it high over his own head, allowing it to trickle down over his face completely saturating his clothing. His eyes, which Washburn had forced to stay open, burned unmercifully as the gasoline streamed over and into them. His sinuses were likewise singed by the caustic vapors emanating from the flowing fuel, and Jack's lungs burned from the vapors, which were apparently damaging him internally; not that such a problem would be a concern for very much longer.

  Before Jack had sufficient time to realize the extent of his suffering, Washburn commanded Jack's helpless body to sit in the front driver's seat and start the engine while leaving the door open. Jack looked into the rearview mirror and at first saw only his own blurry, reddened and terrified eyes looking back at him. After a moment, Jack once again saw someone else looking at him through those same eyes as they changed to reflect a much more hateful and sinister appearance. At that moment, Jack heard Washburn's voice speaking to him from inside his own head.

  Washburn said, "Too bad you just couldn't let things go, Jack; too bad for you indeed." Jack sat in the car smelling the pungent odor of raw gasoline as it permeated the air in the close confines of the sedan. He started to feel dizzy and nauseous from the gas fumes. His lungs burned as if on fire. Suddenly Jack's body revolted from the ordeal, and he vomited involuntarily down the front of his shirt and onto his lap. After a moment or two of silence, while Jack sat smelling the sickening sour stench of his own puke mixed with the gasoline fumes, Washburn said in Jack's mind, "Well I suppose we had better get on with this." Then Jack felt his right hand reach into his right pocket and grasp tightly on his cigarette lighter; the same lighter he had brought with him with the intention of burning down Washburn's home.

  "Oh my Lord in Heaven, no!" Jack's thoughts screamed in his mind. "Please, please don't do this" But Jack realized Washburn's plan was irreversibly set in motion and no power could do anything to stop the unearthly fiend.

  "I suppose I'll see you in Hell someday, Jack my boy," he heard Washburn say as his right hand flicked the thumbwheel on the lighter. It didn't light or even spark and for the briefest of moments, Jack thought he might be spared the fate he saw ahead of him. Then two clicks later, it finally sparked to life, and the car was engulfed in a flaming inferno.

  The sparkling particles began to stream from Jack's
body and rapidly reassemble themselves outside of the fiery conflagration by the side of the road. Then the specter of Emerson Washburn, having completed the task which he had been required to perform floated back through the darkness toward his home to prepare for the coming of the new homeowners: the Wright family.

  Jack sat helpless in the car, paralyzed but still able to feel everything that was happening to him. Emerson Washburn had made certain of that. Washburn did not want the man to miss one single moment of his flaming agony and, as always, he had gotten his wish.

  Jack Moran experienced unfathomable pain as his flesh, bubbled, broiled and eventually either melted from his body or was charred to his bones, while every single nerve ending in his body simultaneously fired electronic impulses to his brain synapses, which silently screamed with unbearable agony. In his mind, Jack discovered he was now alone and in his dying misery, he mentally howled a final death shriek. He could smell his own skin and hair burning from his body as the world around him eventually, mercifully faded to blackness.

  Chapter 6

  “Excuse...me?” Stephanie questioned, obviously discomforted by the way the lawyer had answered his phone. Suddenly she felt as if a squirming centipede was gently scooting across the back of her neck with its feather-light legs, as an icy chill shivered down her spine. She had been taken completely by surprise and she asked, "Wa...what? Mr. Armstrong? Yes...um...yes, this is Stephanie Wright, but...how...how did you know...it was me?"

  "Good evening, Mrs. Wright," the lawyer repeated with a deep baritone voice; one which sounded accustom to public speaking. "Of course I knew it was you. Please allow me to explain. First of all, I assumed you would be calling me sometime today after receiving your registered letter. And since you had not yet called, I deduced you would do so after speaking with your husband when he got home from work. Secondly, I am not expecting calls from any of my other clients this evening. Third, and perhaps most important, is that I have caller ID on my phone and your name came up.” He gave a bit of a chuckle, “You see, it was as simple as that. No mystery whatsoever.”