Deeply Odd(100)

A couple of SUVs were pulling out of the parking area, but they didn’t get far. Both tumbled away as if they had been hit hard by the shock waves of a powerful explosion, though no explosion had occurred. The other vehicles began to rock back and forth, shuddering together into a tighter and tighter space, as if they were inside a circular car-compacting machine similar to those that reduce a full-size sedan into a cube of metal no bigger than an armchair, although this one would be a disc or a ball of many vehicles. Windshields burst, metal squealed and crackled—and the people trapped in the cars screamed.

I smelled something familiar. That scent as sweet as incense yet suggestive of decomposition. I had experienced this malodor only once before, when it came to me from the empty black-and-yellow trailer, through the steel filigree of the elaborate gate of symbols. And again I felt the chill draft that came with the smell, not like a breath as before but a full breeze that prickled my face as though with tiny bits of sleet.

When I glanced toward the lake, I saw torchlight reflected on water. The link between this place and the wasteland had been broken. But the thing that Lyle Hetland had conjured and contained in his eighteen-wheeler was loose now and intent on kicking butt.

A cultist appeared on foot, running for the driveway. Spun off his feet, flailing at nothing I could see, he suddenly came apart in midair in such a spectacular fashion that I recalled Mr. Hitchcock’s warning about dismemberment, and I ran for my life.

As I raced along the tunnel formed by the pines that overhung the private lane, the racket behind me increased, and I expected to be suddenly flung into the air, but I passed the halfway point with my head still on my neck and all limbs functioning. I saw the portly director standing on the farther side of the low ranch-style gate, where he had fled in his magical way. He waved at me as I approached, pleased that I had finally gotten the message and acted on it.

The moment that I stepped around the gate, the escalating tumult behind me instantly ceased. Startled by the sudden hush, I stopped, turned, and peered back. The house and grounds were at too great a distance for me to see much, but I could discern that chaos still reigned there.

Mr. Hitchcock said, “They are quite loath to be overheard by neighbors even though none are close, so a certain spell was laid down around the perimeter of their property.”

When I stepped behind the gatepost, setting foot in the tree-canopied lane once more, the thunderous noise might have been that of the celestial foundry where entire worlds were cast and set spinning. I preferred the silence where the director stood, and I returned to him.

The night was cool, the mountain bathed in silver light. The moon no longer seemed like a ship on a dark sea. It made me think of a cataracted eye that might suddenly open to stare out from the rotted burial wrappings that swaddled a mummy’s face.

“Sir,” I asked worriedly, “when does it stop—the destruction, the revenge?”

“Never fear, Mr. Thomas. The entity’s rage will be restricted to this property.”

“Entity.” I let the word have its rhythm, pronouncing the three syllables distinctly, perhaps hoping that it would make more sense to me. I knew its definition. It just didn’t make sense. “Entity.”

“It doesn’t belong in this world, you see. Now that it has been released from its bonds, it will settle scores, so to speak, and then depart.”

“You’re sure?”

“Very.”

“Entity,” I said.

“This is all new to you, Mr. Thomas. Now that you’ve learned a bit more about the true nature of the world, you’re worried that from here on, it’ll be one damn thing after another.”

“Yes, sir. My very thought.”

“Take heart. It’s unlikely that anything this spectacular will ever happen to you again.”

“How unlikely?”

“Highly.”

“Entity,” I said again.

“Give it time, son. To settle in.”

“I’ll give it a little time to settle in.”

“There you go.”

From two hundred feet uphill, where she was parked on the shoulder of the state route, Mrs. Fischer switched on the headlights of the limousine, flashed them at me a couple of times, and then switched them off.

“She has the children safely gathered, Mr. Thomas. Not a one was lost or even injured.”

“Good old Boo.”

“Dogs,” he said with evident fondness. “I have always had dogs. As will you, Mr. Thomas.”

“You can call me Odd. I’d like that. Or Oddie.”

“Yes, Mr. Thomas. And you may call me Hitch.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”