Greg Gifune: Kingdom of Shadows

He followed her to the counter, grabbed his cigarettes and lit one. “Do you believe in them?”

“Demons?” she asked, busying herself with the oven. “Do you?”

“The book supposedly shows what they look like, and it has incantations written in Latin. Is that how people summon them?”

“Why would anyone want to summon demons?” Gaby unwrapped both dinners and left them on top of the stove. “It’ll just take a minute to preheat and I’ll get these in.”

“I called Snow,” he said. “We met this afternoon.”

“Is that where you got the book?”

“That and the briefcase,” he said, motioning to it.

“Why would he give you a book like that? And what’s in the briefcase?”

Rooster took a couple drags before answering. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

“Is that why he kept calling? So he could tell you secrets?”

“Gaby,” he said, clearing his throat. “I need to ask you something.”

She stopped futzing about the kitchen and focused on him, dark eyes narrowed as if trying to see him more clearly. “OK.”

“How long have we known each other?”

“Seems like forever, doesn’t it?”

“How did we meet?” he asked.

She smiled uncomfortably. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t remember?”

Tears filled his eyes. He shook his head no, brought the cigarette to his lips and drew on it, hard. “I can’t…I don’t know what’s happening to me but—something’s wrong, Gaby—I think I’m losing my mind or… worse.”

She put a hand on his forehead. “You’re warm. Feels like you’re running a bit of a temp. Let me get you some aspirin.”

He gently pulled her hand away but held on tight, watching her blur through his tears. “I know I know you but…Gaby…I don’t know who you are. I’m not even sure who I am.”

“You haven’t slept, you’re drinking, and now you’ve got a bad influence from your past giving you scary books and making things worse.” She moved by him, grabbed the book from the table and tucked it into the briefcase. “No wonder you’re not feeling well and can’t think clearly. Get this out of here or I’ll take it out to the Dumpster myself. I’m serious.”

“I need you to tell me, Gaby, please, I—”

“You need something to eat, a nice hot shower and some sleep. I’ll—”

“Stop it!” He smashed a fist on the counter. The entire room shook. “Fucking answer me!”

Gaby remained where she was, hugging herself. In a tiny voice she said, “You’re frightening me.”

“I’m sorry.” Rooster threw the remains of his cigarette into the kitchen sink then began pacing like a caged animal. “I’m sorry, I—Jesus Christ , what’s happening to me?”

She cautiously stepped closer. “It’s going to be all right.”

No longer able to control it, he wept openly.

Closing the gap between them, Gaby cupped his face in her hands. “Look at me.” He did. “ It’s going to be all right .”

“Am I crazy?”

She pulled him into her, held his head tight to her breasts and kissed the top of his head. “No, baby, you’re not crazy. You’re just trying to find your way.”

“I think they’re after me, Gaby, I think the demons are—something’s happened to me, I can’t remember things and—”

“Nothing can hurt you while you’re with me.” She gave him a quick wink. “My love’s way too powerful for any demon, real or imagined. They mess with my man I’ll kick the slithery-tailed little pukes back to Hell where they belong.”

Rooster wanted to smile, but the terror remained.

“Come on. Rest while I get some chores done and dinner together.” She led him into the den, helped him onto the couch then switched on the console television in the corner. “Watch some TV.”

As the set came on, Gaby retreated to the kitchen, leaving him alone. He wiped his eyes and nose and sunk deeper into the couch, hiding in the shadows.

A news anchor with bad skin and an even worse comb-over sat at a stylish desk, an ACTION NEWS 8 banner on the wall behind him. Decked out in a yellow polyester blazer and ridiculously wide tie, he shuffled a stack of papers and continued relaying a story he’d begun a moment or two earlier. “According to eyewitnesses, the black male exited the bar on Cafferty Boulevard and darted directly into traffic. He was struck by what has been described as a large black sedan, possibly a Ford, which fled the scene. Paramedics are working on the man now and we hope to have a live report from the scene very shortly.”

Rooster sat up. The bar he’d met Snow at earlier was on Cafferty Boulevard.

“One eyewitness told Action News 8 the man appeared disoriented and was running as if being chased, though that did not seem to be the case. It’s not yet known if the man was intoxicated or under the influence of narcotics, but—one moment…” The anchor put a hand to his ear, listened to the voice in his earpiece then paused for dramatic effect and frowned as if personally devastated. “This just in: the victim, identified as Terrell B. Snow, has been pronounced dead on the scene. As further details become available on this horrific hit-and-run tragedy, we will—”

Rooster turned the television off. The apartment was quiet. He looked to the kitchen. The TV dinners were still on top of the stove but Gaby was nowhere to be found. He hurried through the apartment to the bedroom.

Light filled the room as he flipped the switch. Half-expecting to see the horrible winged and long-tailed creatures in the book flying about, he was relieved to find only shadows, an aged bedroom set and the usual open window. He went directly to the closet and pulled an old shoebox down from the shelf. Inside, a 9mm, a full clip and two boxes of ammunition were wrapped in a cloth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even touched the gun, much less fired it, but he scooped it up, deftly slapped the clip into place, chambered a round and released the safety. Something about holding the gun steadied his hand.

A cold breeze blew through the room, disturbing the curtains. He moved to close the window but froze. Beneath a streetlight just beyond the courtyard, a lone man was watching the building.

A priest.

“What’s wrong?”

Rooster glanced behind him. Gaby stood in the doorway, a laundry basket of freshly folded clothes in her arms. “How did you know that would be on the news?” he asked.

“How did I know what would be on the news?” She noticed his weapon and her face went pale. “Michael, why do you have a gun?”

“Turn off the light,” he instructed. “Do it now.”

She did. They fell into darkness.

Rooster looked back out the window. The priest was gone.

Silence fills the night again.

“Starker’s right,” Nauls says, “six scarecrows… six of us.”

“Not anymore.” Landon makes sure he smiles at Snow before he takes the lead, moves by the first scarecrow and heads for the rotting remnants of the old farmhouse. “Scratch one Carbone. Dead guys don’t count.”

“Before this night’s over,” Snow mutters, “I’m gonna end that fuck.”

The others move on, following Landon now, who has gotten several yards ahead of them and is barely perceptible in the darkness and fog. When they catch up to him, they find themselves standing before a ramshackle two-story structure with a dilapidated porch. To the side of the house and further back on the property is a barn in even worse shape. From the face of the farmhouse, a series of blown-out windows stare down at them, opaque eyes gaping in judgment, perhaps in warning.