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Authors: Anne Frasier
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She ducked and produced a dog biscuit from under the cash register. “I keep them there for working dogs, but give your guy a treat from me when you get home.” The automatic door banged. Both women turned, but no one was there.
“The wind is crazy tonight,” the clerk said. “And every time I turn on the vacuum, I think I hear a buncha people talking.”
Rachel remembered the radio—or what she’d thought had been the radio.
On the way back to the morgue, she could smell the rich scent of blood. She drove too fast, but the streets were deserted.
Lights continued to control intersections, even though there was no traffic. Impatient, she gunned the van and ran a red light. She listened for a siren, and watched the rearview mirror for police.
Nothing.
At home she got out a frying pan and put it over a flame on the gas stove. Then she pulled the lid from one of the plastic containers. With a fork, she lifted out a piece of liver that unfolded until it was twelve inches long and six inches wide.
It sizzled when it hit the pan.
She picked up the container and carried it to the sink. She started to dump the contents, paused, then lifted the plastic tub to her mouth—and drank the blood.
She used to get out-of-control chocolate cravings before her period. One candy bar or brownie was never enough. This was like that, multiplied by a thousand. Once she tasted the salty richness of the blood, she had to have more.
She shut off the flame under the pan and slipped the still-raw liver onto a plate. She cut a piece and took a bite. It was rubbery, but the chill of refrigeration had been seared away. She chewed and swallowed. Unsated, she picked up the liver with her bare hands.
Evan’s shovel hit something hard. Probably a rock. He brought the lantern closer and scraped loose dirt away.
A skull, crushed by the impact of the shovel blade. He continued more carefully, uncovering the rest of the body. That was followed by another skeleton, this one smaller.
He’d found a mass grave.
Rachel slept, her mind full of strange dreams that were mixed with combined images of the Pale Immortal. She awoke confused, her body humming from a touch that seemed as real as the room and the bed.
It had to be the pregnancy.
Her nightgown was soaked with sweat. Tendrils of damp hair clung to her neck. The bedsheets were twisted and soaked.
She turned on a night-light and removed the damp gown, dropping it to the floor near her bare feet. From a drawer she grabbed a large T-shirt and tugged it over her head, then reached under her arms for the hem, looked down, and let out a gasp.
On her stomach were two red areas of discoloration that looked like handprints. As she watched, the imprints faded until they were gone.
Chapter Ten
Alastair was drunk.
Not proud of himself for that. He’d had a drinking problem that had started shortly after Evan’s illness had manifested itself, but he’d finally pulled himself together and gotten the problem under control. Now he was afraid he’d opened the floodgate. But his drinking was the least of his worries. There was something going on, something that seemed to have started about the time the body of the Pale Immortal had been moved from a secret location to the museum. It could be argued that it had really started months ago, with a gang of kids and one crazy guy who thought he was the reincarnation of the Pale Immortal. Or some might even argue that it had started a hundred years ago.
Alastair’s phone rang.
Let it go.
He wasn’t going to answer it, but then he remembered he was chief of police, and if he didn’t answer it somebody would probably start pounding on his door. He sure as hell didn’t want that to happen.
Reports coming in of sightings, he was told. Not UFO sightings, but people claiming to have seen the Pale Immortal, or someone who looked like the Pale Immortal, roaming through town. There were other reports, even more disturbing, of someone wandering
“The wind is crazy tonight,” the clerk said. “And every time I turn on the vacuum, I think I hear a buncha people talking.”
Rachel remembered the radio—or what she’d thought had been the radio.
On the way back to the morgue, she could smell the rich scent of blood. She drove too fast, but the streets were deserted.
Lights continued to control intersections, even though there was no traffic. Impatient, she gunned the van and ran a red light. She listened for a siren, and watched the rearview mirror for police.
Nothing.
At home she got out a frying pan and put it over a flame on the gas stove. Then she pulled the lid from one of the plastic containers. With a fork, she lifted out a piece of liver that unfolded until it was twelve inches long and six inches wide.
It sizzled when it hit the pan.
She picked up the container and carried it to the sink. She started to dump the contents, paused, then lifted the plastic tub to her mouth—and drank the blood.
She used to get out-of-control chocolate cravings before her period. One candy bar or brownie was never enough. This was like that, multiplied by a thousand. Once she tasted the salty richness of the blood, she had to have more.
She shut off the flame under the pan and slipped the still-raw liver onto a plate. She cut a piece and took a bite. It was rubbery, but the chill of refrigeration had been seared away. She chewed and swallowed. Unsated, she picked up the liver with her bare hands.
Evan’s shovel hit something hard. Probably a rock. He brought the lantern closer and scraped loose dirt away.
A skull, crushed by the impact of the shovel blade. He continued more carefully, uncovering the rest of the body. That was followed by another skeleton, this one smaller.
He’d found a mass grave.
Rachel slept, her mind full of strange dreams that were mixed with combined images of the Pale Immortal. She awoke confused, her body humming from a touch that seemed as real as the room and the bed.
It had to be the pregnancy.
Her nightgown was soaked with sweat. Tendrils of damp hair clung to her neck. The bedsheets were twisted and soaked.
She turned on a night-light and removed the damp gown, dropping it to the floor near her bare feet. From a drawer she grabbed a large T-shirt and tugged it over her head, then reached under her arms for the hem, looked down, and let out a gasp.
On her stomach were two red areas of discoloration that looked like handprints. As she watched, the imprints faded until they were gone.
Chapter Ten
Alastair was drunk.
Not proud of himself for that. He’d had a drinking problem that had started shortly after Evan’s illness had manifested itself, but he’d finally pulled himself together and gotten the problem under control. Now he was afraid he’d opened the floodgate. But his drinking was the least of his worries. There was something going on, something that seemed to have started about the time the body of the Pale Immortal had been moved from a secret location to the museum. It could be argued that it had really started months ago, with a gang of kids and one crazy guy who thought he was the reincarnation of the Pale Immortal. Or some might even argue that it had started a hundred years ago.
Alastair’s phone rang.
Let it go.
He wasn’t going to answer it, but then he remembered he was chief of police, and if he didn’t answer it somebody would probably start pounding on his door. He sure as hell didn’t want that to happen.
Reports coming in of sightings, he was told. Not UFO sightings, but people claiming to have seen the Pale Immortal, or someone who looked like the Pale Immortal, roaming through town. There were other reports, even more disturbing, of someone wandering
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