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  EVIL HEIGHTS

  BOOK I

  THE MIDNIGHT FLIER

  By

  MICHAEL SWANSON

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  ISBN 1-58873-813-2

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2005 Michael Swanson

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information:

  [email protected]

  PageTurner Editions/Futures-Past Horror

  FIRST BOOK EDITION

  PROLOGUE

  Inside, it was still, so terribly still. The late afternoon air, stifling and hot, pressed heavily against the curls and flecks of dead paint peeling from the four walls and ceiling of the small, single room. All around grayish-white flecks littered the windowsills and the yellowed linoleum floor, and an abundance of the flakes dusted the top of a cheap, folding card table; having fallen unnoticed months, minutes, or maybe even years ago.

  Outside, seen through the window's thick greenish glass, the sun glared down, washing out all true color and causing the world to appear as if seen in a feverish dream. Within the panes was captured a view out to a decaying formal garden populated by an odd collection of weather-stained marble statues posturing gracelessly about the landscape. As if in an aged old photograph, the scene remained deathly still, the presence of the hush hanging in the air so much more than merely the silence. Nothing moved, nothing at all, save for the occasional quick flick or twitch of a leaf when fingered by the passing of an unseen breeze.

  And nowhere amongst the entire expanse of the rose garden was there the saving grace of a single colorful bloom; just a few burnt and brownish petals remained, nothing more than lingering, miserable remnants clinging to the dried up buds like the forlorn leftovers from an unhappy game of, “He loves me ... he loves me not.” For all it might once have been in some grandeur long passed, the rose garden was now just an overgrown copse of stands of gnarled stems infested with a dreadful overabundance of purplish and toothy thorns.

  Just up the hill, a wicked tangle of fierce rose creepers enveloped a heavy, white trellis, which formed a porch arbor sweeping all the way around the length of the back wall of an elegantly-aged, antebellum mansion. Black shutters were fastened securely to the red brick walls, and behind every window white lace curtains were properly hung.

  Below, across the lawn, a ponderous shadow stretched down and out, cast off from the high walls and eaves of the big house. And at this afternoon's late hour, the tip of the roof's shadow almost just touched a corner of a little, white frame house, which stood out, achingly naked and alone, as though placed in that very spot to serve as the shadow's marker for the end of day and the coming of night.

  She was in there, alone in the little house, today as yesterday and the day before that. As stolidly stoic as a statue herself, the old lady sat unmoved amid the swelter. Her withered hands were folded upon her lap, and the sweat rolling down her cheeks and neck and sides had long ago soaked her corset and dress clear through.

  Enshrouded within the musty dead air, from which she sipped her occasional tiny breaths, she kept her place with her back to the sun, the window frame's spidery shadow drawn like a cross upon her back. Her own silhouette was a gray form on the back wall; the object of her fixed gaze a queerly narrow door with a finely cut crystal doorknob, the tarnished brass latch securely closed and locked.

  And down below, when the shadow in the yard at last crept up to touch the corner of the little house, what lie below became restless and stirred, rising up from the pitch-blackness to rush up upon the stairs, and reach out, rattling and trying the knob. The old woman's lips drew tight as she kept to her silence. And she, and she alone, knew what was there.

  CHAPTER ONE: SEMINOLE ROAD

  Seminole Road, just a few long, dusty miles of crushed gravel and potholes, strayed in from the state highway, its destination nothing more meaningful than a dead end. Meandering lazily like the curves of the Yalahalla River, just to the south, it passed by a lonely little drive which lead back in to a slate roofed house built of cedar and stone, an old Southern house on an old Southern road.

  Out on the lawn, way up high in a fat magnolia tree, a mockingbird sang stolen notes, while a pair of young blue jays played tag amongst the long beards of Spanish moss draping the live oaks, flashes of blue and gray amongst the deep, green leaves. A child's voice and the sounds of a family just finishing up from their supper spilled out through the open windows of the house and down onto the lawn, mixing naturally with the mockingbird's trill and the heady perfume from the magnolia's draping of enormous, white blossoms.

  Suddenly, the screen door burst open, smacking back against the front of the house, and a blonde haired boy flew out and down the porch stairs.

  "For heaven's sake, Lee!” a woman's angry voice called out, “Don't slam the door!"

  The reverberating bang announced, too late, Lee was already gone.

  His arms worked the air, and the wind tickled his ears. Already at a fast clip as he neared the end of the drive, a brand new pair of PF Flyers sneakers flashed red and white, kicking up little puffs of dust with each pounding crunch of the worn, gray gravel.

  Entering the road, with a little drop of his shoulder, just as his dad had taught him, the boy cut quickly. The pretend linebacker crouching in the road never even had a chance. Lee's feet sailed through the air as he scored his first touchdown of the evening, leaping across the ditch into the Riley's front yard. The sharp smell of greens and ham hocks lingered in the evening air, third time this week.

  Crossing the yard and suddenly spinning, he dodged a dented oil drum nearly full to the top with scummy green water. Just behind the barrel, an abandoned tricycle with a bent wheel seemed to make a go for his ankles, but he scissored it and high stepped by, crossing the edge of the overgrown driveway for his second imaginary touchdown of the evening. Spurred on by the echoing cheers only he could hear, Lee sprinted full speed down a narrow dirt path, splitting the gap between the thick, rambling oleanders choking either side. A minute later he burst out of the shortcut and was back on Seminole Road.

  Ahead, a gray and white striped hazard barrier loomed, blocking the path down to the creek below. Head down, the boy approached at a dead run, slowing only at the last moment to leap it sideways, using his right hand to swing up and over. Caught up in his run, Lee didn't look over to the Fuentes place, the last house before Spit creek. But he couldn't miss the wonderful, spicy aroma hanging in the evening air. Old Javier must be coming home tonight.

  Arms held high, he leapt out off the embankment just to see how far out he could fly. Leaving his shadow to follow in the dust Lee soared free kicking his feet and hollering out. Coming down and careening, almost out of control, Lee skidded wildly on the crooked path leading down the steep gully to the muddy wash below. Stumbling momentarily near the bottom, he caught himself, swinging his arms ‘round for balance. A well-timed jump coupled with his break neck momentum carried him almost clear across the shallow stream to the other side.

  Even as Lee began to climb the trail up the other side, the shabby l
ittle trickle of water spilling along continued on its way towards the river, but it did take the time to seep over and fill the waffle mark Lee's sneaker had left stamped in the red mud. Spit Creek ran through town emptying into the Yalahalla River just below the falls, about a mile further south. Most always the creek ran nearly dry, just thorn bushes, chipped rocks, and here and there a busted washer or spent tire lurking down in the milkweeds. But high up in some of the brush, higher than a casual passerby might think possible, pieces of trash, like dirty little warning flags remained, hard reminders that Spit Creek might sometimes be more than it might appear.

  Working hard, Lee came up out of the gully. Turning right as soon as he hit the broken asphalt of Arbuckle Ave., he quickly regained speed, the white rubber soles of his fancy, new sneakers smacking the pavement. Cutting and dodging, he ran easily, weaving in and out just for fun between the parked cars spaced along the curb.

  Suddenly, Lee peeled off, keeping over to the far left side of the street. Slowing warily, he cautiously approached the overgrown dandelions and drooping sunflowers, which made up the Leroy's front yard. He knew full well that old Mr. Leroy's mongrel, Sticker, was a Houdini when it came to slipping his collar, and to run past this place was to go looking for trouble.

  Easing off and taking his time, Lee caught his breath, enjoying the cool tickle of the sweat rolling down his ribs. While running, he never felt the heat, just the cool blast of the air whipping past; but when he slowed down and walked the heat washed out, and that too was a special feeling all its own. Breathing heavily, yet alert for any movement, Lee was ready in a heartbeat to jump for the safety of Mrs. Barton's picket fence, which ran alongside the buckled sidewalk. All the while he maintained a sharp eye out on a dark hole under the Leroy's porch; the hard brown dirt below was furrowed by telltale rows of deep claw marks.

  The house right next to the Leroy's was unoccupied, had been for some time. In passing, for a moment, Lee's let his attention be drawn into the empty front room windows. From out here on the sidewalk he could see clear through a couple of the rooms in the vacant house and out through the windows in back. In one window, part of a crumpled Venetian blind hung down, and on the walls, dirty outlines of shadowy squares remained where pictures once had hung. For some reason, looking into the closed up house always affected Lee with a queer sensation, as though even from outside he could actually sense something hollow and lonely about the stillness within. Through some trick of perspective, Lee felt as if he could even see how he looked from the inside, passing by on the sidewalk. It was as is he could see himself from the point of view of whatever, or whomever, might be inside and peering out. Always unable not to look, he was only too happy to let it go and bring his attention back to the Leroy's yard.

  Still, no sign of Sticker.

  In the South there are dogs, and then there are dawgs. Sticker, a striped, yellow butt biter was pure dawg, born and bred. Every kid in Pickford Acres knew it didn't pay to flash past Sticker's hole under the porch. If he were loose, he'd get you, if for no other reason than just to show you he could.

  Without so much as a warning growl, the dog came bursting out of his hole. The mongrel's claws ripped the earth as the scroungy, long legs frantically worked to gain speed.

  Even though Lee had been half expecting it he started, adrenaline burning his stomach.

  But before he could react and jump the fence, Sticker met the end of his chain, lurching around by his neck and off all four feet entirely. The dog hit the ground hard in a cloud of dry dust. Rolling and twisting Sticker scrabbled around and got back to his feet. Straining and jerking his head side to side in an effort to slip the collar, the angry animal now growled furiously while slinging slobber off into the air. Today though, his collar was tight, and despite his efforts to pull free, Sticker only succeeded in choking his ugly self.

  Quickly looking around to check that no one had witnessed Sticker had made him jump; Lee ignored the dog and walked on. Swinging his arms casually, he made a point to act as though nothing had happened at all, even as Sticker gave up on his fury and settled down to give himself a lick.

  The evening felt so good; it was almost exciting. Taking one lunging step forward, Lee planted his feet and leapt up as high as he could, stretching out and catching the end of a high branch above. He came down with a few new, green leaves between his fingers and then tossed them up in the air, leaving them behind to flutter down to the sidewalk behind.

  Pickford Acres, once the upper middle class section of Lenoir, had been in full bloom in the late nineteen twenties. Originally named for the developer's favorite movie star, Mary Pickford, the streets all carried the big names from the days of silent movies. Valentino Drive crossed into Arbuckle Avenue, just down from Normand, Crabbe, Keystone, and DeMille. The only one of those stars Lee had ever heard of was Fatty Arbuckle. He had been an immensely popular comic actor in the early days of silent films. Apparently, one afternoon at a private party in a posh Hollywood hotel suite, Fatty was accused of raping a young actress employing a champagne bottle to help him in doing the deed. According to the police report filed, the both of them were alone in an adjoining bedroom of the suite as a host of revelers swilled martinis laced with bathtub gin. Though he never went to jail for the crime, public outcry was such that Fatty Arbuckle's career was over. After reading about this wonderful tidbit of Hollywood lore, Lee had been surprised that the street had been allowed to still carry Fatty's infamous name. After all, he'd never heard of a Jack the Ripper Road or a Lizzy Borden Lane. But that was Lenior; life in the rest of the world didn't seem to matter so much around here.

  On either side of the neighborhood's streets, the homes sat back from the black, asphalt streets, surrounding themselves under huge, green live oaks, fiery crepe myrtles, and here and there an enormous magnolia or hemlock spread itself across a lawn. Like most parts of the South, a little degradation had crept in over the years. By far, many of the brick and frame houses were still nicely painted and the lawns well kept. But here and there a rusted car sat up on blocks in a driveway choked with weeds, and there wasn't a street that didn't have at least one house boarded up entirely.

  Safely past Sticker's place, Lee took a turn off of Arbuckle Avenue. Jumping off the sidewalk, he picked back up to a trot, loping along on the all too familiar cracked pavement of Valentino Drive. He'd lived every day of his life up until just recently in the small, wood frame house one block down and two houses to the right over on Keystone Street. It was odd, in the days since the move nothing had really changed, but suddenly everything that had always been so familiar, now looked so strangely different.

  Lee sped back up to a full run, careening around the thick oleanders which had overgrown the walkway up to Ronnie's house. Timing his jump just before the first cement step, he leapt up, landing flat on the smoothly worn boards of the McGiver's front porch. The tremendous “fwap” of the rubber soles of his PF Flyers, meant his knock at the door was a mere formality.

  The front door and windows of the two story brick and frame house were wide open, and gaped behind dented and rust stained screens. An attic fan was sucking in the air from outside, and the screens bowed in slightly. The loose, white curtains wafted freely inward under the steady draw of the fan.

  Something, possibly a fork, crashed down on a plate, followed by the grind of a chair rending a hardwood floor. An exuberant voice called out, “Lee's here! I'm done."

  "Sit your butt back down!” came a man's voice, “You'll finish your supper."

  Some snickers followed right along, as the chair scrunched back into place, and a young girl's voice was heard saying, “Daddy, he's already eaten half the table."

  "Shut up, Melissa!” the boy's voice came back.

  From the dining room, Ronnie's father yelled out, “Lee, you just sit yourself out on the porch ‘til Ronnie finishes his supper, y’ hear!"

  Lee put his face right up to the screen and hollered in, “Yes sir, Mr. McGiver.” He ambled away from the d
oor, his thumbs in his pockets and fell in backwards onto the porch swing hanging from the eaves in front of the big front window.

  Lee could smell the aroma of Mrs. McGiver's fried pork chops and gravy. She always used a little more garlic seasoning in her gravy than his mom did, and her home grown fired okra was the best in the county.

  "Goddamn, kids!” Ronnie's dad said, his mouth obviously full. “Y'all ain't never got time for chores, but there's always time for foolin’ around."

  This time there was no snickering.

  The porch was wide and cool, and the rusty old swing creaked in time while Lee kicked his feet out and back. The sky up above between the sweet, new leaves, high up in the trees, was blue as blue, and from up and down the block came the play of birds, the spin of bugs, and the sounds of families who were home for the evening. At a time like this, as Lee sat back, he could almost feel the day stretching out a little longer, while the sun swung low, languishing lazily, reluctant to give up its watch over the quiet, little town.

  Lee heard the screen door creak open behind him. He turned, but not quickly enough to avoid the knuckles that tagged his shoulder.

  The swing flung back, rebounding off the side of the house when Lee lunged off. Ronnie already had a good head start, having leapt off the corner of the porch, and was running as fast as he could. The lead wasn't nearly enough though, and Lee quickly hauled him down from behind, tackling him on the neighbor's lawn before Ronnie could even reach the next drive.

  "Thought you could sneak up on me, did ya?” Lee gritted his teeth, while grappling for position to drop his famous headlock around Ronnie's neck.

  A knee came rounding over and caught Lee in the chest. Both boys went rolling over and over. Ronnie ended up on top, pinning Lee and sitting heavily on his chest. Laughing with utter triumph, he doubled over the three middle fingers on one hand and applied a vicious dose of nuggies to his captive's skull.