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Entry tags:
"Doors Closed For Good Reason"
"Doors Barred For Good Reason"
8/28/2019
I.
The killer awoke before dawn. That had been an hour ago. Even now, only a dim grey half-light showed outside. Having circled through the small, one-story brick building already, Jeremy Bane returned to the killer's room for final observations. At sixty-two, Bane looked and moved like a trim athletic man in his mid-thirties. Only a few scattered white flecks in the short black hair hinted at his age.
The Dire Wolf stood unmoving in the filthy bedroom and his pale grey eyes moved quietly around one more time. The narrow bed had not been slept in. There was not even a vague depression left by an occupant, the blankets were taut. But up against a corner was a tangle of clothing that had been piled up to make an impromptu pillow. Monaghan had slept on the bare hardwood floor. That wasn't suprising. For the past two years, Monaghan had been a fugitive living on the room and resting wherever he could.
Six feet away from the crude pillow were two dirty cotton socks, left half-inside out. Bane figured this meant that the lunatic had plopped down, tugged off his infamous cowboy boots with their red star, then kicked off his socks and slept for a few hours otherwise full dressed. His family had not known he had returned home through the unlocked window of his old room.
Then, not more than a hour earlier, Monaghan had stirred. Forgetting the socks, he put his boots on. One wall held a waist-high bookcase crammed with cheap paperbacks about true crime, black magic, war atrocities and worse. Three nails above the bookcase had held handmade papier-mache masks. Two remained, one bright yellow and one a venomous green, demon masks with staring eyes and tusked mouths that gaped ferociously. The nail in the middle was empty.
The killer had selected a face from that gallery to wear. Maybe he still had it on. He wouldn't be the first fiend to hide beneath a mask constantly.
There was no need for Bane to return to the three other bedrooms. Checking them out had been his first action once he had tracked Monaghan this far. Upon rising, Monaghan had moved down the straight corridor that made up most of the house. He went into the room where his sister lived, and then he paid a visit to his brother, then he walked on down the hall. The parents' bedroom had been much worse a shambles than the brother's or sister's. Not much blood had been left unspilled in the bodies, and their faces were unrecognizable ruins. Whether it was normal for him or part of a passing frenzy, Monaghan was remarkably strong. The position that the mother's body had been left posed in suggested he had violated her after death.
Suddenly, he had to get outside. He turned on one heel and left through the living room door that had been wide open. Outside, the air was warm and oppressive under a layer of black storm clouds. Still, being out of the house was better. He took deep calming breaths as he strode back to where he had left his Mustang. He had definitely touched nothing inside the death house, not even brushing up against a wall. Bane chirped open the driver's door, saw no cars in sight on the isolated highway and eased up onto the road. His chest felt tight.
All these years, he thought, and I'm still not toughened enough to shrug off a scene like that. How did medical examiners get callous? He had known forensic photographers who were perfectly capable of documented that house of horror and then casually going back to their car to munch on a PBJ. But he, the famous Dire Wolf, feared in the Midnight War for decades, was fighting down the urge to be sick as he drove.
Maybe it was for the best, he thought. After he put some miles behind him, the tension in his body eased up. He felt the muscles in his shoulders and arms loosen. Now came another distasteful duty. It had to be down, he didn't want any relatives or friends of that family to happen upon the scene. Better that it be closed off by police.
On the center console between the two front seats was propped a flat metal device that resembled a cell phone. He had earlier arranged the controls on his Link, now he simply pressed one of the buttons and placed a call that went to both the nearest 911 office and to the Fulton County Sheriff's Department. He told them there had been a murder at the Monagahan home, then broke the connection. The signal from the Links could not be traced, and he had arranged for his voice to be distorted so it was intelligible but not his.
So far, no one knew he was in this part of Southern California, so near the Nevada border. Even if later his presence was revealed, that call would provide no corroborating evidence. Bane drove south. If he was right about Monaghan's motives, the killer's next visit would be to his ex-girlfriend and her lover, Monaghan's ex-best friend. Attempts to call them had not been picked up so far.
As he sped along, Bane scowled. Off the shoulder to his right stood a young man in blue work coveralls, thumb up hopefully. You don't know the danger you're in, the Dire Wolf thought. If Monagahan had seen this hitchhiker and picked him up...! There's a killer on the road, Bane thought, a killer with a brain squirming like a toad in pain. He roared past the disappointed man and hoped his could intercept Monagahan before the next outburst.
II.
"Well, I woke up this morning and I got myself a beer," said Fay. "The way my head hurt, I figured it might help." She leaned way back in her seat and hung a bare arm out the passenger window. The long fine hair whipped wildly in the morning light. Except for an unfortunately beaky nose, she was pretty enough and a likable, laid-back woman.
From the back to the sky-blue mini-bus, Ray snorted. He had pulled his dark blond hair into a ponytail which only emphasized the retreating widow's peak. "I already had a bowl packed. Baked before sunrise makes the day go better, I always say. Right, Moe?"
At the wheel, Moe Monaghan did not answer. He had kept a strange sly half-smile on his face since picking up his old amigos. Monaghan was thin, almost frail-looking, with hair cut so short it seemed like stubble growing in. His odd light brown eyes gave nothing away of what he was thinking.
"You ain't had much to say, old bud," continued Ray. "Not like you."
"Keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheel," interrupted the young woman they had both loved. "Always good advice. I like this little blue bus, Moe. It zips along like a bullet, but where the hell are we going in this direction?" When she received no answer, she demanded, "Driver, where you taking us?"
Turning his head slightly, Monaghan fixed those amber eyes on her for a second and her heart missed a beat. But his voice was calm and normal. "We're going to the Roadhouse," he said. "Gonna have a real good time."
"Oh, well, that's different," Ray laughed from the back. "Why didn't you say so? The Roadhouse never let us down yet."
"Yeah, they're outside city limits and between county lines," Fay added. "Most anything goes."
Ray whooped. "Cold beer, warm women and honky-tonk playing loud. Let it play all night, I say."
"When the music's over," Monagahan whispered, "Turn out the light."
"Huh? I don't get you, boy."
"These are strange days. People are strange. There is so much waiting on the other side of the door," the killer continued as if to himself.
Both Fay and Ray exhanged uneasy glances. "You got something special in mind, Moe?"
For the first time, Monaghan laughed. "Oh yes. Yes indeed. Have I ever let you down?"
OVerhead, thunder rumbled in the distance. At ten in the morning, it was almost dark as the middle of the night.
III.
A sheet metal sign held up between two rocks announced SELKIRK TRAILER PARK and gave a phone number. There were two rows of trailers facing each other across a narrow dirt road, each hooked up to a short post which provided electricity. A variety of vehicles in various stages of disrepair were parked beside the trailers, mostly battered pick-up trucks and rusted-out cars. Several of the trailers had children's trikes or wagons near them, and a few had brave attempts at flower boxes to add some life and color to a dismal scene.
When Bane swung off the back road and rolled slowly down the aisle between rows of trailers, one old woman in a lawn chair glanced up from her magazine but then ignored him. The only other people in sight were two teenage boys fiddling around under the raised hood of an old Volkwagen Jetta that was up on blocks and they were too preoccupied to notice his arrival.
The Dire Wolf swung around at the end of the dirt road so his car would be facing outward if he needed to leave in a hurry. He wasn't sure that his information about the whereabouts of Ray and Fay Lucas was up to date. It was the best his network of observers could provide. The end trailer was a fourteen foot model with a heavy curtains over the window and an empty hummingbird feeder hanging from a wire coat hanger wrapped around a nearby tree branch. The side of the trailer facing out toward wilderness had been painted vivid swirls of crimson, black and yellow.
As he got out of his Mustang, Bane frowned at the patterns painted on the trailer. They weren't random designs inspired by psychoactive drugs. Several odd symbols were close to Darthan ideograms. Central to the swirls was an oval split by a jagged bolt from upper right to lower left... the emblem of Red Sect. This was not coincidence. Someone here had been delving into forbidden knowledge.
The Dire Wolf always seemed somber and even grim, but now he was scowling as if about to enter a fight. Midnight War, here. He strode toward the trailer as its aluminum door swung outward. Bane slowed. The man emerging was elderly, even frail, wearing only pajama bottoms and a baggy white T-shirt too large for him. No weapons were visible.
"Mr Lucas?" asked Bane as he got within reach.
"You're not with the government," the old man said. "No, not FBI or an undercover cop. Not coming here by yourself." Sean Lucas had bristly white hair and beard which were both evidently trimmed by himself with scissors. He pulled over a wooden stool that had been leaning against the trailer and fell down to sit on it rather than lowering himself. "I believe I know what you want."
"Your son and his girlfriend are in great danger," the Dire Wolf told him. "Monaghan came here and took them, didn't he?"
"Maybe. I don't know if I should be telling you."
"My name is Jeremy Bane. I'm a retired private investigator from New York. Mr Lucas, you know that Moe Monaghan was suspected of four murders, don't you? He was being held for observation but he escaped and has been on the loose for eighteen months now." There was quiet unstressed conviction in Bane's voice. "Your son and his girlfriend are out there with a serial killer."
"I don't know about the truth of that. Moe was kinda wild, but then so's my boy. So's Fay. They party hard, I can't say they haven't done some drugs and fooled around with wicked matters but that's not my place to judge. Some of us weren't meant for regular lives. Some are born to endless night."
Under heavy black brows, the Dire Wolf's pale eyes fixed on Lucas intensely. "Monaghan has killed again. Today, early this morning. He intends to murder Ray and Fay in agonizing drawn-out ways and I'm the only one who can stop him. Where did they go?"
That did it. Lucas could tell that this stranger meant every word he said. The old man swallowed, gazed down between his slippered feet. and took a breath. "The Road House. 'Bout twenty miles from here, off Route 88. It's a dive, there's a few bungalows behind it where everything from shooting up to hookers can be found. I'm not proud of it but I know my boy and Moe have spent a few weekends there raising Hell."
"Raising Hell is exactly what Monaghan intends." Without a further word, Bane turned and raced back into his Mustang to speed off away from the trailer park. Left behind, Lucas squeezed his bony hands together and stared down at the dirt. Far off thunder rolled and sheet lightning flickered in the distance. He hoped where there was no hope. Expecting a thunderstorm, he was nevertheless waiting for the sun.
IV.
An L-shaped building of rough pine boards, the Road House wouldn't open for hours. Not even the owner was there at this point. The neon tubing in the smoked window was dark, the sign on the roof that promised LIVE MUSIC FRIDAY AND SATURDAY had its lights turned off. Monaghan swung into the gravel parking lot and brought the blue mini-bus to a halt alongside the honkytonk.
Behind the bar, three tiny bungalows stood in a row. Each was not much more than a bedroom with a toilet and sink behind a draw curtain in one corner, these were not approved for residence. Officially, the owner of the Road House let drunk customers sleep it off in these shacks rather than drive. But for almost twenty years, many drug deals had been made and escorts servicing their clients had met in these huts.
"Oh, the memories," mumbled Fay with a dreamy smile. "Remember, babe? We have some good times here. Whatever happened to Laurie and her sister?"
"Haven't heard from them in years," Ray answered. He blinked up at the nearly black sky and felt the damp breeze. "Man! Thunderstorm coming and no mistake. We made it here in time."
"We are riders on the storm," Monagahan said almost inaudibly. "When the days are bright, they're filled with pain for the likes of me. When I'm enclosed in gentle rain, I'm delivered."
"You always talked so poetic," laughed Fay. "Lots of times I wished I'd written down the things you'd said." She hitched up too-tight jeans over a waistline that was starting to thicken. "Keep talking pretty, boy."
The weird golden eyes studied the couple for a long moment. "You are among the few of this realm who I hope will understand. We are going to open a door that is more of perception than of space."
"I can dig it," said Ray, "We had some wild nights tripping balls here. I used to think I suddenly understood the meaning of it all, a revelation of why we're here. But the next day the knowledge faded away. Lead on, buddy."
"The gate is straight, deep and wide," said Monaghan. "We will break on through to the other side. Follow me." He swiveled and walked slowly past the last bungalow to their left. Behind it was a broken chair, some soggy cardboard boxes and a propane tank up on short legs. Only a few feet behind the rear of the buildings, tangle bushes and pine trees formed a solid barrier.
While Ray and Fay watched without understanding, Moe Monaghan forced his way through the bushes and hauled up a door, complete with its frame. He stood it up facing west. The wood was stained dark, even the round knob was black.
"That's surreal," the young woman breathed. "Like what they have in Japan, what are they called? Shinto gates? You go through them and there's nothing different."
Monaghan satisfied himself that the doorway was standing securely. He tested the knob and found it turned easily. "See for yourself what lies beyond. All your lives you sweat and save, building for a shallow grave but you never take off your blinders."
Coming up behind him, the couple watched as the door swung out toward them. Through the opening, they saw only the woods beyond as one might expect. And yet... the scene had a lurid scarlet tinge to the air, the trees swayed visibly. Hot dry air seeped out from the opening.
"That's funny...." Ray mumbled in a way that implied he did not find it at all funny. Cautiously as a mouse peeking out of a hole, Fay moved behind the doorway and raised a hand to them from the other side.
"Everything seems puffectly normal over there," she said. "Just a regular door except it's standing up by itself instead of being in a wall."
"Yeah? Yeah? Well, it didn't look too normal to me!" Ray raised his voice so it cracked. "Honey, you had a red coloring to your skin and hair. And you shimmered, like... you know, the hot air over a road in the summer time. Moe, what IS this crap you're pulling?"
"Doors are barred for good reason," Monahan replied. He was standing with feet together, palms pressed against each other in prayer. "Great Draldros craves entry to this world. He is denied that. But ever does he call out to those minds open to him. Minds like mine!"
"That's it, I'm getting scared and I don't mean maybe," Fay yelled. "Come on, Ray. We'll start walking. We can phone for a taxi to meet us along the way. This is all wrong, we shouldn't be seeing this or hearing this."
For a moment, when Moe Monaghan smiled, he was again the friend they had known for years. The drunken failed poet, the guitarist who never found his niche, the lover who drifted away from those who cared about him. He held out a thin long-fingered hand and took Ray Lucas by the upper arm.
"One look. One glimpse at Fanedral. You've been searching for answers all your life, Ray. Trust me." He exhaled sadly. "You know our way of life is running out of time. The future's uncertain and the end is always near."
Ray gave his girlfriend a resigned shrug, then moved over to stand in front of the open doorway. The air was growing a deeper crimson, wavering, foggy. Ray leaned closer. Did he see something moving? It couldn't be. There was nothing on the other side of the opening but the woods.
Something thick and rubbery snapped around his middle with bone-cracking pressure, yanking him bodily through the opening as the door slammed shut behind him. He hadn't had breath enough to scream.
V.
Pulling into the gravel lot facing the Road House, Jeremy Bane felt a hot stinging on his forearms. Secured in their sheaths were the matched silver daggers he had been given by Kenneth Dred so long ago. The blades grew warm in the presence of malevolent gralic force. Right now, they were painfully hot and he knew he had found the threat.
Vaulting out of the Mustang, the Dire Wolf twisted his upper body and got a reading on where the menace was. Behind this road house. He reached up to loosen the daggers for ready access and trotted quickly around the corner of the building. In front of him were three run-down bungalows and he heard the crash of a door slamming. Bane whipped to the corner of the farthest shack and saw the door standing on the grass, the gasping young woman with hands pressed to her face and Moe Monaghan.
As the Dire Wolf strode angrily toward the killer, Monaghan reached up behind his neck and drew out a knife with a seven-inch serrated blade. It had been cleaned but dark rust stains still showed.
"I saw what you did to your family," Bane growled. "Your brother and sister, your mother and father. Maybe the insanity plea will work this time, but I promise you today is the last time you will be outside without shackles and a guard on either side. Don't even try to explain."
Next to Monaghan, the door swung open by itself. Hot sulphurous air rushed as if a blast furnace had been exposed. The killer held that knife low, point up to tear as he intended to gut this stranger in black. "Deliver me from reasons why," he said.
Fay Lucas tried to speak but could only sob, and she sank to her knees.
"Fool. Your brain is bruised from the mundane life you endure. You know not the Dread One you defy," Monaghan began.
"Draldros? That bastard? I've been challenging him for forty years," Bane snapped. "He keeps finding poor lost souls to manipulate... like you."
As Monaghan drew one foot back and placed his weight on his forward leg, knife ready, open hand raised to strike at any opening, Bane responding by whipping the silver daggers out, one in each hand. Their thin narrow blades shone white as if reflecting spotlights. Even the demonic Monaghan was taken aback by that.
"I personally think it's too late to save you," the Dire Wolf, moving a few steps to his right. "Even before you got into the Midnight War, you were hopelessly sick in the head. But if you put that weapon down now and clasp your hands behind your head, I guess I should turn you in."
"To die for Draldros is to rule forever...."
"Huh. Be that way." Bane took one more step to the side, manuevering Monagahan where he wanted him to stand. In blur quicker than a real wolf, Bane hopped in sideways and blasted a straight kick to the chest that hurled Monaghan backwards through the open door. This time, a piercing scream rang out to echo through the woods before the door crashed shut again of its own accord.
Still holding the daggers one in each hand, the Dire Wolf kicked the door so it fell over to lie face down in the grass. "I'm glad he didn't surrender," he grumbled. "This is more final." After a second, he raised his knives and found that the blades were cool to the touch. The danger had passed for the moment.
He saw Fay was kneeling where she had fallen, staring up at him but not seeing him. "Ray'll come back some day. I know it. I must leave every door open for him. Don't you see that?"
Bane did not answer immediately. He knew that the realm of Fandedral had the same conditions as the interior of an active volcano. Unprotected Humans like Ray and Monaghan had been charred instantly. But what could he tell her? "That's a good idea," he said finally. "Leave doors open. Wait and watch. Maybe someday..."
She pressed her hands to the ground and forced herself upright. Bane thought she was in shock from what she had seen, but she didn't seem likely to go into hysterics. The thin young woman gingerly touched the edge of the doorjam with her toe. "Not this door though. This is one-way to Hell if I ever saw one."
"Fay, listen to me. I'm going to take you back to Ray's father. You can tell him what happened. He might believe it, he knew Monaghan was dabbling in forbidden arts."
"Okay. Sure. Old Man Lucas always treated me right. We'll wait together for Ray to come back."
"First, I have to get some incendiaries from my car. C-126 discs. I'll burn this door so nothing remains of it and no one else can be lured into it. Are you okay with waiting a few seconds?"
"Oh, sure," said Fay Lucas. She had barely cried. Her manner was too calm. "On the way back to the trailer, though, we have to keep an eye on every door we go past. Just in case Ray comes back."
6/20/2020
8/28/2019
I.
The killer awoke before dawn. That had been an hour ago. Even now, only a dim grey half-light showed outside. Having circled through the small, one-story brick building already, Jeremy Bane returned to the killer's room for final observations. At sixty-two, Bane looked and moved like a trim athletic man in his mid-thirties. Only a few scattered white flecks in the short black hair hinted at his age.
The Dire Wolf stood unmoving in the filthy bedroom and his pale grey eyes moved quietly around one more time. The narrow bed had not been slept in. There was not even a vague depression left by an occupant, the blankets were taut. But up against a corner was a tangle of clothing that had been piled up to make an impromptu pillow. Monaghan had slept on the bare hardwood floor. That wasn't suprising. For the past two years, Monaghan had been a fugitive living on the room and resting wherever he could.
Six feet away from the crude pillow were two dirty cotton socks, left half-inside out. Bane figured this meant that the lunatic had plopped down, tugged off his infamous cowboy boots with their red star, then kicked off his socks and slept for a few hours otherwise full dressed. His family had not known he had returned home through the unlocked window of his old room.
Then, not more than a hour earlier, Monaghan had stirred. Forgetting the socks, he put his boots on. One wall held a waist-high bookcase crammed with cheap paperbacks about true crime, black magic, war atrocities and worse. Three nails above the bookcase had held handmade papier-mache masks. Two remained, one bright yellow and one a venomous green, demon masks with staring eyes and tusked mouths that gaped ferociously. The nail in the middle was empty.
The killer had selected a face from that gallery to wear. Maybe he still had it on. He wouldn't be the first fiend to hide beneath a mask constantly.
There was no need for Bane to return to the three other bedrooms. Checking them out had been his first action once he had tracked Monaghan this far. Upon rising, Monaghan had moved down the straight corridor that made up most of the house. He went into the room where his sister lived, and then he paid a visit to his brother, then he walked on down the hall. The parents' bedroom had been much worse a shambles than the brother's or sister's. Not much blood had been left unspilled in the bodies, and their faces were unrecognizable ruins. Whether it was normal for him or part of a passing frenzy, Monaghan was remarkably strong. The position that the mother's body had been left posed in suggested he had violated her after death.
Suddenly, he had to get outside. He turned on one heel and left through the living room door that had been wide open. Outside, the air was warm and oppressive under a layer of black storm clouds. Still, being out of the house was better. He took deep calming breaths as he strode back to where he had left his Mustang. He had definitely touched nothing inside the death house, not even brushing up against a wall. Bane chirped open the driver's door, saw no cars in sight on the isolated highway and eased up onto the road. His chest felt tight.
All these years, he thought, and I'm still not toughened enough to shrug off a scene like that. How did medical examiners get callous? He had known forensic photographers who were perfectly capable of documented that house of horror and then casually going back to their car to munch on a PBJ. But he, the famous Dire Wolf, feared in the Midnight War for decades, was fighting down the urge to be sick as he drove.
Maybe it was for the best, he thought. After he put some miles behind him, the tension in his body eased up. He felt the muscles in his shoulders and arms loosen. Now came another distasteful duty. It had to be down, he didn't want any relatives or friends of that family to happen upon the scene. Better that it be closed off by police.
On the center console between the two front seats was propped a flat metal device that resembled a cell phone. He had earlier arranged the controls on his Link, now he simply pressed one of the buttons and placed a call that went to both the nearest 911 office and to the Fulton County Sheriff's Department. He told them there had been a murder at the Monagahan home, then broke the connection. The signal from the Links could not be traced, and he had arranged for his voice to be distorted so it was intelligible but not his.
So far, no one knew he was in this part of Southern California, so near the Nevada border. Even if later his presence was revealed, that call would provide no corroborating evidence. Bane drove south. If he was right about Monaghan's motives, the killer's next visit would be to his ex-girlfriend and her lover, Monaghan's ex-best friend. Attempts to call them had not been picked up so far.
As he sped along, Bane scowled. Off the shoulder to his right stood a young man in blue work coveralls, thumb up hopefully. You don't know the danger you're in, the Dire Wolf thought. If Monagahan had seen this hitchhiker and picked him up...! There's a killer on the road, Bane thought, a killer with a brain squirming like a toad in pain. He roared past the disappointed man and hoped his could intercept Monagahan before the next outburst.
II.
"Well, I woke up this morning and I got myself a beer," said Fay. "The way my head hurt, I figured it might help." She leaned way back in her seat and hung a bare arm out the passenger window. The long fine hair whipped wildly in the morning light. Except for an unfortunately beaky nose, she was pretty enough and a likable, laid-back woman.
From the back to the sky-blue mini-bus, Ray snorted. He had pulled his dark blond hair into a ponytail which only emphasized the retreating widow's peak. "I already had a bowl packed. Baked before sunrise makes the day go better, I always say. Right, Moe?"
At the wheel, Moe Monaghan did not answer. He had kept a strange sly half-smile on his face since picking up his old amigos. Monaghan was thin, almost frail-looking, with hair cut so short it seemed like stubble growing in. His odd light brown eyes gave nothing away of what he was thinking.
"You ain't had much to say, old bud," continued Ray. "Not like you."
"Keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheel," interrupted the young woman they had both loved. "Always good advice. I like this little blue bus, Moe. It zips along like a bullet, but where the hell are we going in this direction?" When she received no answer, she demanded, "Driver, where you taking us?"
Turning his head slightly, Monaghan fixed those amber eyes on her for a second and her heart missed a beat. But his voice was calm and normal. "We're going to the Roadhouse," he said. "Gonna have a real good time."
"Oh, well, that's different," Ray laughed from the back. "Why didn't you say so? The Roadhouse never let us down yet."
"Yeah, they're outside city limits and between county lines," Fay added. "Most anything goes."
Ray whooped. "Cold beer, warm women and honky-tonk playing loud. Let it play all night, I say."
"When the music's over," Monagahan whispered, "Turn out the light."
"Huh? I don't get you, boy."
"These are strange days. People are strange. There is so much waiting on the other side of the door," the killer continued as if to himself.
Both Fay and Ray exhanged uneasy glances. "You got something special in mind, Moe?"
For the first time, Monaghan laughed. "Oh yes. Yes indeed. Have I ever let you down?"
OVerhead, thunder rumbled in the distance. At ten in the morning, it was almost dark as the middle of the night.
III.
A sheet metal sign held up between two rocks announced SELKIRK TRAILER PARK and gave a phone number. There were two rows of trailers facing each other across a narrow dirt road, each hooked up to a short post which provided electricity. A variety of vehicles in various stages of disrepair were parked beside the trailers, mostly battered pick-up trucks and rusted-out cars. Several of the trailers had children's trikes or wagons near them, and a few had brave attempts at flower boxes to add some life and color to a dismal scene.
When Bane swung off the back road and rolled slowly down the aisle between rows of trailers, one old woman in a lawn chair glanced up from her magazine but then ignored him. The only other people in sight were two teenage boys fiddling around under the raised hood of an old Volkwagen Jetta that was up on blocks and they were too preoccupied to notice his arrival.
The Dire Wolf swung around at the end of the dirt road so his car would be facing outward if he needed to leave in a hurry. He wasn't sure that his information about the whereabouts of Ray and Fay Lucas was up to date. It was the best his network of observers could provide. The end trailer was a fourteen foot model with a heavy curtains over the window and an empty hummingbird feeder hanging from a wire coat hanger wrapped around a nearby tree branch. The side of the trailer facing out toward wilderness had been painted vivid swirls of crimson, black and yellow.
As he got out of his Mustang, Bane frowned at the patterns painted on the trailer. They weren't random designs inspired by psychoactive drugs. Several odd symbols were close to Darthan ideograms. Central to the swirls was an oval split by a jagged bolt from upper right to lower left... the emblem of Red Sect. This was not coincidence. Someone here had been delving into forbidden knowledge.
The Dire Wolf always seemed somber and even grim, but now he was scowling as if about to enter a fight. Midnight War, here. He strode toward the trailer as its aluminum door swung outward. Bane slowed. The man emerging was elderly, even frail, wearing only pajama bottoms and a baggy white T-shirt too large for him. No weapons were visible.
"Mr Lucas?" asked Bane as he got within reach.
"You're not with the government," the old man said. "No, not FBI or an undercover cop. Not coming here by yourself." Sean Lucas had bristly white hair and beard which were both evidently trimmed by himself with scissors. He pulled over a wooden stool that had been leaning against the trailer and fell down to sit on it rather than lowering himself. "I believe I know what you want."
"Your son and his girlfriend are in great danger," the Dire Wolf told him. "Monaghan came here and took them, didn't he?"
"Maybe. I don't know if I should be telling you."
"My name is Jeremy Bane. I'm a retired private investigator from New York. Mr Lucas, you know that Moe Monaghan was suspected of four murders, don't you? He was being held for observation but he escaped and has been on the loose for eighteen months now." There was quiet unstressed conviction in Bane's voice. "Your son and his girlfriend are out there with a serial killer."
"I don't know about the truth of that. Moe was kinda wild, but then so's my boy. So's Fay. They party hard, I can't say they haven't done some drugs and fooled around with wicked matters but that's not my place to judge. Some of us weren't meant for regular lives. Some are born to endless night."
Under heavy black brows, the Dire Wolf's pale eyes fixed on Lucas intensely. "Monaghan has killed again. Today, early this morning. He intends to murder Ray and Fay in agonizing drawn-out ways and I'm the only one who can stop him. Where did they go?"
That did it. Lucas could tell that this stranger meant every word he said. The old man swallowed, gazed down between his slippered feet. and took a breath. "The Road House. 'Bout twenty miles from here, off Route 88. It's a dive, there's a few bungalows behind it where everything from shooting up to hookers can be found. I'm not proud of it but I know my boy and Moe have spent a few weekends there raising Hell."
"Raising Hell is exactly what Monaghan intends." Without a further word, Bane turned and raced back into his Mustang to speed off away from the trailer park. Left behind, Lucas squeezed his bony hands together and stared down at the dirt. Far off thunder rolled and sheet lightning flickered in the distance. He hoped where there was no hope. Expecting a thunderstorm, he was nevertheless waiting for the sun.
IV.
An L-shaped building of rough pine boards, the Road House wouldn't open for hours. Not even the owner was there at this point. The neon tubing in the smoked window was dark, the sign on the roof that promised LIVE MUSIC FRIDAY AND SATURDAY had its lights turned off. Monaghan swung into the gravel parking lot and brought the blue mini-bus to a halt alongside the honkytonk.
Behind the bar, three tiny bungalows stood in a row. Each was not much more than a bedroom with a toilet and sink behind a draw curtain in one corner, these were not approved for residence. Officially, the owner of the Road House let drunk customers sleep it off in these shacks rather than drive. But for almost twenty years, many drug deals had been made and escorts servicing their clients had met in these huts.
"Oh, the memories," mumbled Fay with a dreamy smile. "Remember, babe? We have some good times here. Whatever happened to Laurie and her sister?"
"Haven't heard from them in years," Ray answered. He blinked up at the nearly black sky and felt the damp breeze. "Man! Thunderstorm coming and no mistake. We made it here in time."
"We are riders on the storm," Monagahan said almost inaudibly. "When the days are bright, they're filled with pain for the likes of me. When I'm enclosed in gentle rain, I'm delivered."
"You always talked so poetic," laughed Fay. "Lots of times I wished I'd written down the things you'd said." She hitched up too-tight jeans over a waistline that was starting to thicken. "Keep talking pretty, boy."
The weird golden eyes studied the couple for a long moment. "You are among the few of this realm who I hope will understand. We are going to open a door that is more of perception than of space."
"I can dig it," said Ray, "We had some wild nights tripping balls here. I used to think I suddenly understood the meaning of it all, a revelation of why we're here. But the next day the knowledge faded away. Lead on, buddy."
"The gate is straight, deep and wide," said Monaghan. "We will break on through to the other side. Follow me." He swiveled and walked slowly past the last bungalow to their left. Behind it was a broken chair, some soggy cardboard boxes and a propane tank up on short legs. Only a few feet behind the rear of the buildings, tangle bushes and pine trees formed a solid barrier.
While Ray and Fay watched without understanding, Moe Monaghan forced his way through the bushes and hauled up a door, complete with its frame. He stood it up facing west. The wood was stained dark, even the round knob was black.
"That's surreal," the young woman breathed. "Like what they have in Japan, what are they called? Shinto gates? You go through them and there's nothing different."
Monaghan satisfied himself that the doorway was standing securely. He tested the knob and found it turned easily. "See for yourself what lies beyond. All your lives you sweat and save, building for a shallow grave but you never take off your blinders."
Coming up behind him, the couple watched as the door swung out toward them. Through the opening, they saw only the woods beyond as one might expect. And yet... the scene had a lurid scarlet tinge to the air, the trees swayed visibly. Hot dry air seeped out from the opening.
"That's funny...." Ray mumbled in a way that implied he did not find it at all funny. Cautiously as a mouse peeking out of a hole, Fay moved behind the doorway and raised a hand to them from the other side.
"Everything seems puffectly normal over there," she said. "Just a regular door except it's standing up by itself instead of being in a wall."
"Yeah? Yeah? Well, it didn't look too normal to me!" Ray raised his voice so it cracked. "Honey, you had a red coloring to your skin and hair. And you shimmered, like... you know, the hot air over a road in the summer time. Moe, what IS this crap you're pulling?"
"Doors are barred for good reason," Monahan replied. He was standing with feet together, palms pressed against each other in prayer. "Great Draldros craves entry to this world. He is denied that. But ever does he call out to those minds open to him. Minds like mine!"
"That's it, I'm getting scared and I don't mean maybe," Fay yelled. "Come on, Ray. We'll start walking. We can phone for a taxi to meet us along the way. This is all wrong, we shouldn't be seeing this or hearing this."
For a moment, when Moe Monaghan smiled, he was again the friend they had known for years. The drunken failed poet, the guitarist who never found his niche, the lover who drifted away from those who cared about him. He held out a thin long-fingered hand and took Ray Lucas by the upper arm.
"One look. One glimpse at Fanedral. You've been searching for answers all your life, Ray. Trust me." He exhaled sadly. "You know our way of life is running out of time. The future's uncertain and the end is always near."
Ray gave his girlfriend a resigned shrug, then moved over to stand in front of the open doorway. The air was growing a deeper crimson, wavering, foggy. Ray leaned closer. Did he see something moving? It couldn't be. There was nothing on the other side of the opening but the woods.
Something thick and rubbery snapped around his middle with bone-cracking pressure, yanking him bodily through the opening as the door slammed shut behind him. He hadn't had breath enough to scream.
V.
Pulling into the gravel lot facing the Road House, Jeremy Bane felt a hot stinging on his forearms. Secured in their sheaths were the matched silver daggers he had been given by Kenneth Dred so long ago. The blades grew warm in the presence of malevolent gralic force. Right now, they were painfully hot and he knew he had found the threat.
Vaulting out of the Mustang, the Dire Wolf twisted his upper body and got a reading on where the menace was. Behind this road house. He reached up to loosen the daggers for ready access and trotted quickly around the corner of the building. In front of him were three run-down bungalows and he heard the crash of a door slamming. Bane whipped to the corner of the farthest shack and saw the door standing on the grass, the gasping young woman with hands pressed to her face and Moe Monaghan.
As the Dire Wolf strode angrily toward the killer, Monaghan reached up behind his neck and drew out a knife with a seven-inch serrated blade. It had been cleaned but dark rust stains still showed.
"I saw what you did to your family," Bane growled. "Your brother and sister, your mother and father. Maybe the insanity plea will work this time, but I promise you today is the last time you will be outside without shackles and a guard on either side. Don't even try to explain."
Next to Monaghan, the door swung open by itself. Hot sulphurous air rushed as if a blast furnace had been exposed. The killer held that knife low, point up to tear as he intended to gut this stranger in black. "Deliver me from reasons why," he said.
Fay Lucas tried to speak but could only sob, and she sank to her knees.
"Fool. Your brain is bruised from the mundane life you endure. You know not the Dread One you defy," Monaghan began.
"Draldros? That bastard? I've been challenging him for forty years," Bane snapped. "He keeps finding poor lost souls to manipulate... like you."
As Monaghan drew one foot back and placed his weight on his forward leg, knife ready, open hand raised to strike at any opening, Bane responding by whipping the silver daggers out, one in each hand. Their thin narrow blades shone white as if reflecting spotlights. Even the demonic Monaghan was taken aback by that.
"I personally think it's too late to save you," the Dire Wolf, moving a few steps to his right. "Even before you got into the Midnight War, you were hopelessly sick in the head. But if you put that weapon down now and clasp your hands behind your head, I guess I should turn you in."
"To die for Draldros is to rule forever...."
"Huh. Be that way." Bane took one more step to the side, manuevering Monagahan where he wanted him to stand. In blur quicker than a real wolf, Bane hopped in sideways and blasted a straight kick to the chest that hurled Monaghan backwards through the open door. This time, a piercing scream rang out to echo through the woods before the door crashed shut again of its own accord.
Still holding the daggers one in each hand, the Dire Wolf kicked the door so it fell over to lie face down in the grass. "I'm glad he didn't surrender," he grumbled. "This is more final." After a second, he raised his knives and found that the blades were cool to the touch. The danger had passed for the moment.
He saw Fay was kneeling where she had fallen, staring up at him but not seeing him. "Ray'll come back some day. I know it. I must leave every door open for him. Don't you see that?"
Bane did not answer immediately. He knew that the realm of Fandedral had the same conditions as the interior of an active volcano. Unprotected Humans like Ray and Monaghan had been charred instantly. But what could he tell her? "That's a good idea," he said finally. "Leave doors open. Wait and watch. Maybe someday..."
She pressed her hands to the ground and forced herself upright. Bane thought she was in shock from what she had seen, but she didn't seem likely to go into hysterics. The thin young woman gingerly touched the edge of the doorjam with her toe. "Not this door though. This is one-way to Hell if I ever saw one."
"Fay, listen to me. I'm going to take you back to Ray's father. You can tell him what happened. He might believe it, he knew Monaghan was dabbling in forbidden arts."
"Okay. Sure. Old Man Lucas always treated me right. We'll wait together for Ray to come back."
"First, I have to get some incendiaries from my car. C-126 discs. I'll burn this door so nothing remains of it and no one else can be lured into it. Are you okay with waiting a few seconds?"
"Oh, sure," said Fay Lucas. She had barely cried. Her manner was too calm. "On the way back to the trailer, though, we have to keep an eye on every door we go past. Just in case Ray comes back."
6/20/2020