Daemon: Night of the Daemon Read online

  Table of Contents

  INTRODUCTION

  PREFACE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  "The Intimacy of Terror"

  Daemon

  A novel by

  Harry Shannon

  This novel is dedicated to the late Connie Lloyd, a book-loving lady known to our message board crowd at Horror World.org as "Wicked." She'd know why and laugh.

  "There is something beyond the grave;

  Death does not end all,

  And the pale ghost escapes from the vanquished pyre."

  Dionysius of Halicarnassus

  54 B.C-A.D. 2

  INTRODUCTION

  I took my four and a half year old daughter to an excellent (2003) version of 'Peter Pan' the other morning. It was rated PG, and my wife and I spent most of the ninety plus minutes worrying about the content of the film, which had some minor violence and implied sexuality. (Okay, I know how it sounds, but this new concern has become one of the great ironies of my life.)

  What effect, if any, would the entirely appropriate demise of Captain Hook at the jaws of a giant crocodile have on her fragile psyche? Would those luscious mythological, Jungian archetypal underpinnings mean anything to her? Would subtle signals of awakening sensuality, gender identification and the assumption of adult masculine responsibility resonate with her, or be lost in the ethers? Ah, the torments of parenting.

  Of course, my daughter sat wide-eyed, devoured most of a bag of popcorn and watched every frame. She insisted she wasn't scared, although at times her body language, crawling up onto the seat and hugging herself, said otherwise.

  In short, she had a ball. I am happy to report that as of this moment she has not awakened with shrieking nightmares, spoken in tongues, summoned the devil or shot up her day care center.

  But this all got me thinking about something. Just how far back does my love of dark fiction go?

  In the introductions to the first two books in this trilogy, ("Night of the Beast" and "Night of the Werewolf") I touched on some fondly remembered short stories written by Saki, Ambrose Bierce, Poe, Dahl and John Collier; also expressed my love for the early work of men like Richard Matheson, Robert Bloch, Robert McCammon and Ray Bradbury. And let us not forget that massive, Stephen King-inspired paperback explosion the horror genre experienced in the 1980's. It was not to be believed. Year after year, every bookrack in the country was packed with lurid, macabre, attention-grabbing covers with reflecting skeletons, evil children and bloody blades…

  And, man, I thought that was SO cool.

  But what is it about this obsession we all have with fear? Because when I traced my own interest back, it just kept on going and going until it arrived at the nursery. My friend Richard Matheson's brilliant "I Am Legend" was probably the first full-length horror novel I can recall reading, but before that there were those short stories, and before them…Well, let me ask you something.

  Did you ever notice how grim Grimm's Fairy Tales are?

  I mean, take Hansel and Gretel. Jesus, we got an old hag who gets off on stuffing plump kids in an oven and roasting their little butts for dinner. I went to read some of those Grimm stories to my daughter when she was younger and ended up chickening out and rewriting them on the fly. Man, that stuff is harsh! So why are those tales so famous around the world, so timeless?

  It's because the stories—like life itself—are at once both beautiful and happy and dark and terrifying. The plots offer no happy ending without first having followed a road fraught with peril. Whatever happens therein has weight, it matters and there is always something at stake.

  Many of the ideas also have moral value, once you ponder them. (Sadly, it seems that Tyco guy and the Enron in-crowd totally forgot about King Midas and what happened to everything he loved).

  A tale that takes us for a ride is a treasure indeed. It is just delicious to be thrilled, frightened, startled, informed and thus greatly entertained. Think about it, though. How much excitement would there be without mortal danger? With no issues of weight, like someone's very existence, at stake?

  …In other words, facing the grim reaper.

  Yeah, death is the BIG DEAL. It kind of bookends life, doesn't it? We come from the unknown and must return to it. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

  Hey, man is the only creature who knows his death is inevitable. Oh, other animals can have a sense of grief and loss for a fellow dog or cat, but they don't sit around wearing a black French beret, drinking espresso, smoking and whining that life, in and of itself, has no intrinsic meaning. Only human beings are conscious enough—not to mention self-involved enough—to do that.

  So death is on our mind all day, every day, perhaps under the surface but omnipresent. Dark fiction hooks that awareness and yanks it to the surface of the pond, let's us toy with the awareness for a while; perhaps even begin to adjust to the awful reality of it.

  Freud once said that the ego is an observer by nature, and cannot imagine not being there to observe not being there. Thus the very concept of dying sometimes provokes what therapists euphemistically refer to as 'death anxiety,' a devastating psychological and physiological assault on the senses that can leave vulnerable persons helpless and weeping.

  Ask anyone who has seen combat. They will tell you that until the bullets start flying you haven't a clue who will stand up to it and who will just fold on the spot. Death is blunt and brutal and so terribly final.

  The idea takes some getting used to.

  Death.

  Good horror fiction doesn't just discuss death it rubs our noses in it. Certainly the cathartic effect therein may have some value, but I'm inclined to think it's more a question of systematic desensitization; that is to say, getting used to death, bit by bit, under the guise of entertainment. Romero-style Zombies come back to shock us, make us think and try to shake us out of our arrogant sense of immortality.

  I say we're in need of desensitization because most horror fans I've met are actually gentle, animal-loving folks who weep copiously at the death of a friend or acquaintance and wouldn't hurt a soul unless forced. (Okay, so some folks tattoo themselves up and stick foreign objects in their lips, eyebrows, nostrils and other orifices and dress in black, but anybody who has to work that hard at seeming evil probably still has a stuffed Elmo in their bedroom closet).

  Oops, I digress.

  I was talking about death. And to be honest, "Night of the Daemon" is very much about death; how we deal, or fail to deal, with that aforementioned Reaper. What, if anything, is on the other side of this reality?

  One caveat: Like the other two novels in this trilogy, "Night of the Demon" is first and foremost an entertainment. It is also intended to be a joyful homage to that wonderful horror pulp tradition. But since it's the last in the trilogy, I thought it only fitting that I should run your ass head-on into a brick wall at 200 miles per hour—just to see what happens. So it is also about de
ath.

  First some acknowledgements need to be made. LAPD Officer Jon Kasper, my Vegas friend and former Chicago cop Gina Gallo and Weston Ochse, US Army (retired) were enormously helpful in the preparation of this manuscript, particularly on military and police procedures and weaponry. Should you spot any errors or inaccuracies, rest assured they are my own.

  Horror World.org's delightful Nanci Kalanta read an early draft; author/editor Kealan Patrick Burke proofed the book, which is no small feat. I very much appreciate the contribution of an afterward by the tremendously gifted Mr. Gary Braunbeck, one of the finest authors in the genre.

  The Tao will bless Mr. Shane Ryan Staley for publishing this, the last of the 'Night' books, and such a beautiful limited edition of all three. I thank John and Shawn Turi, who originally published the first two novels in this loose trilogy. I praise my wife Wendy and my adorable daughter Paige Emerson Shannon for their eternal patience, love and forbearance. Lynwood Spinks, Kathleen Johnson, Yossi Sasson, Einat Sadot, Harry Manfredini, thanks for your friendship and support.

  Also, appreciation goes out to my buddies and fans who visit my message board at http://guestbooks.pathfinder.gr/read/HarryShannon and the forum at the Shocklines.com online bookstore. Better friends and fellow bibliophiles hath no website. Suzanne Klee should have been thanked in "Night of the Beast" for having typed versions of it twenty-odd years ago, back when we were married. So hey, I may as well do that now, too.

  Finally, heartfelt thanks to you, dear reader, for buying and reading this book. Writing three novels requires a tremendous investment of time and effort. The fact that someone finally will sit down, make a bowl of popcorn, turn the lights low and get a little bit tweaked by my stuff is the precious reward.

  Here is "Night of the Daemon." It was written exclusively for your entertainment, and designed to ruffle your short hairs a little.(tinku)

  I sincerely hope you are pleased.

  All the best,

  HARRY SHANNON

  Los Angeles, California

  12/16/04

  PREFACE

  When the wind came streaming in off the polluted water, a man could half believe that someone buried underground was moaning. This was especially true in the late autumn, when the shifting of dried leaves made a plaintive noise, like desperate fingernails scratching at the roof of a coffin. Of course that was the kind of thing you'd expect from a graveyard anyway, and the groundskeeper, who had a vivid imagination and a way with words, milked those eerie images for a number of free drinks at Paddy Murphy's Shamrock Tavern every chance he got.

  Christopher Bloom was an aging hippie; a big fellow, barrel-shaped and gifted with a long and unruly mane he tied into a ponytail. His red drinker's nose was spider-webbed with veins. The truly gullible believed him when he declared that his hair had gone white quite suddenly after one particularly macabre night at the cemetery. As Bloom told it, near midnight he'd heard footsteps coming from the back of the grounds, crunching unsteadily through the dead leaves. He had gone out to investigate, and seen something so horrible it had struck him dumb with terror, something with long fangs and a snout. When he woke in the morning and looked in the mirror…

  Bloom changed the details of that story quite frequently, but none of his friends seemed to mind. The sad truth was that his job was a crushing bore. Night after night, drinking stale coffee and listening to talk radio, impatiently waiting for dawn. Then back to his stifling hot quarters; thick curtains on the windows to block out the sun. A few hours sleep would be followed by a visit to the bar at 4th Street near Charleston for some boilermakers—and then back to the night shift again.

  It really wasn't much of a life. So who could blame a man for embellishing it a bit, especially for a purpose as noble as the entertainment of friends? Pals like Doug and Ray sure did love a good story. In fact, they were all fun-loving ruffians, just boys who'd never grown up, even Bloom himself. And just the kind of people who'd play an elaborate practical joke on a man, if only to have something new to jaw about down at the Shamrock.

  That's why Bloom knew for certain that those odd digging sounds coming from the windy graveyard that night were nothing to worry about.

  When the digging stopped, Bloom decided to act as if he still hadn't heard anything. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, then hunched forward in the chair. The sound came again, it was unmistakable: A shovel slicing into damp turf, the thud of wet sod and the slither of gravel on stone.

  Bloom sighed softly, set down his coffee and pushed the chair away from the desk. The sounds abruptly stopped, as if someone were watching him through the window through a pair of binoculars, which was probably exactly what they were doing. So Doug and Ray want a show, Bloom thought. Maybe I'll give them one for the ages.

  He got to his feet, stretched and made a big show of turning down the radio and listening intently. The office was small and sparsely furnished; it had a sagging green couch, a metal desk with an office chair and a calendar featuring girls with humungous hooters. The wall paint was green and peeling. Bloom opened the window and stuck his head out.

  "Hello? Anybody there?"

  His nose filled with the languid perfume of night blooming jasmine. Clouds drifted across the pocked surface of the full moon and the sky darkened. He slipped the long flashlight free of his belt and splashed the yellow beam into the cemetery; saw chipped grey tombstones and crouching shadows.

  "Hello?" Bloom even managed to put a slight tremor in his voice. He was so delighted with the results he nearly grinned and gave himself away. He closed the window, turned his back and allowed himself to smile.

  Bloom's sorry-assed little office was nearest the Potter's Field, or portion of the graveyard assigned to the indigent and the unidentifiable. The pricier plots lay to the west, on the rolling hills just above the freeway. They were reasonably well-lit. So naturally Ray and Doug had chosen the Potter's area for their little game. It was devoid of sculpture, bereft of plant life; a truly sad place of parched grass and stony soil. The trees were nearly bare of leaves this time of year, and the branches curled like talons.

  The digging sounds resumed.

  Chuckling, Bloom grabbed his nightstick and shrugged into his jacket. He glanced at the time, amused to find it was nearly midnight. Just makes the tale a bit more atmospheric, eh? Or so he thought.

  Bloom gathered himself. He opened the door and stepped out into the cool cloak of night. The autumn air slapped his cheeks, rustled his clothing. He closed and locked the door behind him, his key ring jangling loudly.

  The noise stopped, although a slight echo of the shovel-in-gravel sound remained to taunt his ears. Bloom pretended to be confused by the effect, and stumbled the wrong way, back toward the lit area; the more expensive crypts and graves. He kept his flashlight beam low to the ground, so Ray and Doug would be able to follow his progress. They would soon realize he was headed the wrong way. Sure enough, the noise started up again, and this time even louder than before, and involved ripping and chewing.

  Bloom made a dramatic show of stopping dead in his tracks. He raised the flashlight and spun around, aiming the beam back towards Potter's Field. He thought he saw someone ducking down near the fence, probably behind the last row of tombstones; back near the garden shed. He put the shaky quality in his voice again.

  "Hello? Who's there?"

  Bright moonlight, white as bleached bone, lit the cluttered area. Nothing moved. Bloom waited a long time, just listening to his own breathing and the persistent hissing of blood in his ears. A vagrant breeze tickled the short hairs at the base of his neck and a voice he'd kept buried since childhood mocked him: What if it's not a joke? What if there's really something out there in the darkness, waiting for you? The very idea sent tiny insects racing up his spinal cord. Oh, come on. Don't be an asshole.

  Bloom told his legs to move. They took their own sweet time.

  The digging resumed, and whoever was doing it seemed to be in a hurry, now; as if trying to finish up before the clock
struck midnight. But that was ridiculous. It was just Ray and Doug and they were fucking with him, pure and simple.

  Bloom took a step forward, then another. He played the light among the tombstones, but clouds covered the moon again and he couldn't see for shit. He swallowed and fingered his nightstick. Christ, if I chicken out over this I'll be the laughing stock of the Shamrock. I'll never hear the end of it. He moved closer to the noise, praying for the clouds to part.

  The digging stopped. Bloom heard more odd tugging noises. Jesus, Ray and Doug must have brought props with them; a shovel, wood, some pebbles in a metal pail, maybe. Oh, man. Surely they wouldn't actually go so far as to dig some poor bastard up. Would they?

  "Okay, enough of this shit. Who's back there?"

  Nothing.

  "Is that you, Ray? Doug?"

  A bit more wind, the sizzle and crackle of dead leaves. Despite himself, Bloom felt a cold knot gathering in his middle. The clouds cloaked the full moon in dirty gauze, and he was unable to see what was waiting for him at the back of the cemetery. Maybe it's just some kids, out screwing around.

  That macabre little voice in the back of his head said: What if it isn't?

  God damn it! If it was kids, Bloom decided, he'd beat the living shit out of them before calling the cops. He moved forward, one firm step at a time, his eyes pinned on the spot at the back of the property, where he thought he'd seen someone moving. The cloud cover parted just a bit, but the moonlight streamed down on the wrong part of the lot. It made a tightly-knit copse of trees to his right look tall and sinister. Bloom let the nightstick drop down into his right hand. He brought up the flashlight just as the moon emerged again.

  Someone, something ran away; a misshapen shadow scuttled away across the grey concrete slabs like a large spider stalking food.

  "Hey!"

  Bloom broke into a jog, keys jangling on his belt. Part of him wanted to chase this fucker and pound his face into pizza, but that voice in his head wouldn't go away: You really sure you want to catch up with it, man? Trap it in a corner somewhere so it turns on you? Huh?