Of Daughter and Demon by Elias Anderson Page B

on his head, and the hair of his little beard,
was white. Only his eyes looked young and alive, if not for them,
I’d of swore I was lookin’ at a walkin’ corpse, one a them mummies
that is centuries old.
    He turned and walked back inside without
saying anything, but left the door open. I followed him in and
closed the door behind me. I couldn’t tell if this was a store of
some kind or the old guy’s house. There was stuff everywhere, weird
stuff, things in little jars and carved figures that looked like
they was movin’ even though they was standin’ still, and made of
stone. There was heavy incense in the air, but it was a nice smell
so I didn’t mind.
    Everything seemed to be on display, but
nothin’ had a price tag on it, most of it was dusty, and there
wasn’t no counter or cash register or nothin’. We walked through
the room, through an aisle where one wall was made of nothin’ but
all these chests and boxes with drawers stacked together, they fit
perfectly, like they was all part of one big piece a furniture.
    The old man was standin’ at the far end of
the room next to a small fireplace where there was two chairs. He
motioned to one and I sat down.
    “I guess you know Mr. Dulouz then?” I
asked.
    He nodded, and seemed to be waiting for
something.
    “He said you might uh, be able to help
me?”
    He nodded again, held up a finger to me,
turned, and walked off, leavin’ me by the fire. I craned in my seat
but I couldn’t see him. I heard him diggin’ around though, mumblin’
to himself for a second, then a crash of what musta been a whole
mountain of stuff fallin’ over.
    “Hey, you need help back there?”
    No answer.
    A few minutes later he came back carryin’
something about six feet long, wrapped in a old black cloth. “This
will need blessed,” he said, holding the bundle out to me.
    I took it, feelin’ the weight of whatever it
was. It was heavy but seemed well balanced, and strong. The fire
flashed bright for a moment, musta been a pine knot or something
flarin’ up. I unwrapped the black cloth and found I was holding a
five-foot long iron pole with a foot-long crucifix welded to one
end.
    “What do I--”
    The old man nodded to the end without the
cross. “Sharpen,” he said. I looked, and saw what I had was more of
a spear than a pole. And the pointed end was stained black.
    “Take this to where you found your daughter,”
he said.
    Somethin’ was familiar about his voice. “You
was the one that called me, wasn’t you?”
    He didn’t say nothin’.
    “How’d you know where her body was?”
    “I was told.”
    “You know about all of this, don’t you?” I
asked. “About what happened to Alice? It’s real then? The
demon?”
    He sat down in the chair across from mine,
and folded his bunched and gnarled hands in his lap.
    “What about Bobby? How’d that thing get
inside him? Will he get better? I mean, come outta his coma?”
    Nothin’.
    “Can you tell me anything about my ex? About
Angie, I mean? Why she was actin’ the way she was? Is that thing
inside her, too?”
    Nothin’. Maybe I ain’t askin’ the right
questions.
    “How can a cross do anythin’? Cain tole me he
worked for the two real gods, so this, it’s just a symbol,
right?”
    He nodded again, slowly. “A symbol is a very
powerful thing, if in the right--or wrong--hands.”
    “What about this Father Valentine? You know
of him?”
    Another slow nod.
    “Do you know where I can find him?”
    “The demon will tell you everything if you
can keep it from destroying you.”
    “So I gotta go kill it, that it?” I hefted
the cross. “That why you gave me this thing?”
    He leaned forward, slowly. I heard his joints
creak and pop, and when he smiled, he looked like a shrunken head.
“I am thirty-five years old, Mr. Mitchell. Take care it does not do
to you what it has done to me.” He leaned back, his hands shaking,
and closed his eyes. I took this as my cue to leave. And he’s only
thirty-five?