Back on the Job
The phone rang. Picking it up, Damien put his feet on the desk and turned it on.
"Sidekicks Detective Agency," he said, yawning and stretching. [Note--a lame-o concept which is totally dropped in the newest storyline.]
"Hello, is Damien there?"
"Speaking."
"There's been a strange occurence [sic] down here--in the swamp, I mean--not too far away from th' bridge."
Damien sat up. "What kind?"
"Dead dog, throat severed--and some strange signs, painted in blood on th' trees. Can you come see?"
Damien rubbed his tired eyes. "Yeah, sure. We'll be there." He hung up and turned to his uncle. "Well, we're back on the job," he sighed.
"You're right to've been worried," Damien said, looking at the tree. His friends gathered around, interested. "These are definitely Satanic symbols."
The farmer nodded. "I t'ought so. Don't get out much, but I know'm when I see'm." [Note--why would a farmer be living in a swamp? No clue. And what the hell is with that accent??--this is northern Michigan!!]
"Well, now what?" Chernobyl Cat asked. "Some Satanist nut is on the loose. So?"
Katrina Witchita looked at him. "'So'? Whaddya mean, 'so'?"
"Just what I said. What's so big? This ain't nothin' new."
"Ah! You might get killed in your sleep by some crazed devil worshiper and all you can say is 'so'?"
"Quiet!" Damien snapped. "We'll have to investigate further. Do you know of anywhere nearby to stay?"
The farmer thought, then said, "Only one. The Dayson place."
Damien looked at him. Chernobyl noticed that he looked anxious. "The Dayson house?"
The farmer nodded.
Damien heaved a deep sigh, then said, "Okay, we'll stay. We'll come tonight."
That night came fast. The few cars pulled up to a long driveway going uphill, near a bend in the river, not far away from the old, rickety railroad bridge. Even when it had been in use, trains rarely used it. It was said that a train would pass over it once in a long while, but the bridge itself was abandoned. [Note--I obviously didn't know much back then. I remember hearing trains in the distance when I was very little, but my earliest memory of walking this bridge had me picking up every rusty railroad spike I could find and carrying them back home--the tracks had been torn up long before. Back then, there were spaces between the wooden slats on the bridge; some years later, when I was grown, the bottom had been thoroughly boarded over. It's now part of a snowmobile trail. Meaning, by the time of this story (1990), there were DEFINITELY no trains still using the bridge.] The ties were beginning to rot and the metal was rusted reddish-black. The kids had never seen the bridge so close, and they were fascinated.
The house itself was forbidding. A rusty mailbox sagged over the drive. A closer look at the house proved that it was badly in need of repair. A rusted sign, once saying DAYSON, swung from an equally rusty hinge. Parts of the roof sagged in, and the stone steps were overgrown with weeds. Most windows were either broken or boarded over, with only a few surviving. A bird's nest rested on the porch roof, itself abandoned as snowy weather approached, like a huge cat ready to spring. [Note--a bad simile referring to winter, not to the nest or the roof.] The house was huge, and dark brown, with a gabled roof. The door, however, wasn't locked. It opened with a creak as the group went inside.
There was still furniture! Sheets covered couches and chairs. The room seemed full of wraiths. Dust was everywhere, and a stairway loomed before them. Damien scanned it all over as if he knew every nook and cranny. What he said next surprised the others.
"The same as it used to be," he mumbled.
Choby glanced at him. "What do you mean?"
Damien looked taken aback. "Oh, I've--I've been here before."
"Really? When--"
A gust of cold air interrupted them. Amy came in, shivering.
"Brrr!" she exclaimed, chattering. "I'll be glad even to stay here." She sat on a couch. "Hey, a fireplace. I hear it's s'posed to storm tonight. Why not build a fire and tell stories?"
"I like that idea," Choby said, before Damien could protest.
As it grew dark, the others straggled in to warm themselves by the fire, which was crackling and casting strange shadows over the room. [Note--Damien sitting anywhere NEAR a fire, telling stories, is kind of farfetched. See the prologue of any version of Lucifer and you'll know why.]
"I wanna hear a story!" Esmeralda said.
"Me too!" all of the other kids shouted.
"A scary one," Lawrence added.
"Real scary!" Sadie grinned.
"That's really scary," Belinda corrected. "And I think this is scary enough. I'd rather be back at Little Rock University, doing homework!"
"I'll hate myself in the morning for saying this, but so would I," Chernobyl shivered, glancing nervously at the shadows playing on the walls. "I'd tell ya a scary story, but it ran away."
"You want to hear a scary story?" Damien suddenly said from his corner.
Everyone looked at him, curious.
"Do you have a scary story?" Harvey asked.
"Not only is it scary," Damien said, "but it's true."
"Where'd it happen?"
"Right here, in Cheboygan. And some of it happened right in this house."
Everyone's eyes opened wide.
"Ooh, tell it! Tell it!" Susie chimed.
"It all started," Damien began, "in about the year 1976, I think. I was about eight, your age, Ez. I'd lived in Cheboygan all my life with my brothers and sisters with a nun, named Sister Mary, because we had no parents, and I didn't know Father Damien was alive back then. We lived not too far away from here. [Note--Dami's story about living with the nun is entirely incorrect, according to the storyline as it exists now--he and Lilu were homeless and separated from the rest of their family, and did not attend school. While I'm at it, I doubt Dami would tell this story to kids, seeing what happens in it...] Things really started when a new kid moved to town, a kid with the name Luther Broderick..."
No comments:
Post a Comment