EVIL DEAD: THE SERIES
Episode 10
"Cellar Dweller"
October 22, 1994. Late afternoon, on an overcast day in Spiegel County, Tennessee.
The helicopter descended slowly toward the crime scene.
Below, deputies and paramedics milled about the remains of an old cabin in the woods. There was not much in the way of a clearing to be found atop the mountain... there were trees all around the cabin, and even the road leading away from it was nearly overgrown. The pilot, a lean black man with a thinly-trimmed mustache, surveyed the possibilities carefully before calling over his shoulder: "Mr. Fisk?"
From the back of the helicopter, a stocky man with thinning brown hair looked up. He was clad in an ill-fitting pinstripe suit and reflective sunglasses. "Yes?" he asked impatiently, shutting the lid of the laptop computer he had been using.
"Nowhere to land, sir. I'm afraid you'll have to use the rope ladder."
Newton Fisk grinned mischievously. "If you insist," he said.
In truth, Fisk loved the idea of making a spectacular, downright heroic, entrance. And, as he expected, all eyes looked skyward as he descended the rope ladder. He started to wave to them, then thought better of it; after all, he both wanted to seem aloof and did NOT want to fall to his death because he couldn't keep his grip on the ladder. So instead, he maintained his focus and climbed down.
By the time he reached the ground, a lanky deputy with curly red hair was waiting for him.
Fisk motioned skywards, and the helicopter lifted away from the canopy of trees. He then turned his attention to the deputy.
"Mister Fisk?" the deputy asked.
"Guilty as charged," Fisk replied, shaking the man's hand vigorously. "You must be Deputy Pyle."
The deputy nodded tersely.
Fisk glanced around, and saw paramedics loading black garbage bags onto a stretcher. "I'm guessing that's one of the kids who got lost up here?"
The deputy nodded again. "We think so. All the... uh, parts haven't been assembled yet, so we can't be sure. The other one is still alive, but isn't saying anything comprehensible."
"People who find themselves in a situation like this rarely do," Fisk said with a narrow grin. "I hope you've taken charge of the crime scene, per my boss's agreement with your boss?"
Deputy Pyle nodded. "All taken care of," he said, barely louder than a whisper, as he looked around to make sure no one was near. "But we thought the... er, problems with this area were supposed to be over now."
Fisk smirked. "We did too, but as the ancient Sumerians used to say, shit happens. Now, you said something about one of these kids having a camcorder. Did they tape anything unusual?"
"I couldn't tell you that," Pyle said under his breath as he handed a mud-stained videocassette over to Fisk and winked. "The tape got lost before we could list it in the evidence report."
Fisk nodded and pocketed the tape. "Where's the survivor headed?"
"Funny farm," Pyle said.
"And the bite-sized chunks of the non-survivor?"
"Coroner's office, followed by the crematorium."
"The coroner understands the gravity of the situation?" Fisk asked.
Pyle nodded. "He'll find nothing conclusive. Maybe evidence of a bear attack. Certainly no proof that the 'serial killer' responsible for the murders last year had anything to do with it. Don't want to attract the press attention by trying to use that excuse again."
"Wise move," Fisk said, looking over at the ruins of the cabin. "So, where did this all start?"
"Near as we can figure, they came here night before last and poked around the ruins," Pyle said. "We had a bad storm that night, and they may have sought shelter in the cellar of the cabin." He motioned to a cellar door, which was propped open as a forensic examiner took photographs.
"We got some hysterical calls from their parents the next day," Pyle continued, "and we only found them here about four hours ago."
"Were they attacked in the cellar?" Fisk asked, stroking his chin.
"Not quite sure," Pyle said. "I'm still trying to.... ah... piece it all together."
Fisk stayed at the sidelines, watching as the deputies did their jobs. Pyle and the chief medical examiner seemed to know what Fisk was there for; the other workers regard him curiously, but went on with their work.
After awhile, Fisk took out his cell phone and dialed a number on it. It rang a few times, and then someone picked up. "Hon?" he asked. "Bad news. I got called out on something unexpected... damage control, I guess you'd call it... yeah, I know.... no, I don't think I'll be back til late.... tell Cindy I'm sorry, and I promise to make it up to her.... yeah, I know... look, tell her I SWEAR I'll make it to the next two recitals." He paused. "And tell her I'll buy that new boombox she's been begging for." He paused again, listening to rather animated conversation on the other end of the phone. "Look, hon, I can't talk about this right now... No, I'm not trying to buy her affections. If I could BUY affections, I'd never have gotten married to begin with...." he winced. "It was a joke, hon.... Yeah, I know.... yes, I'm an inconsiderate lout, you knew that before we got married.... Look, the boss needs me to be able to take off on a moment's notice, and this is just bad timing. Tell her I'm sorry, and... yeah, I know.... Look, hon, my cell phone's almost out of juice, I gotta go...."
He flicked off the phone and slumped on the treestump he was sitting on, sighing wearily.
Then, he held up the phone again, dialed '666', and waited for five rings. A voice answered, cold and harsh, with a vaguely Euro-decadent accent. "What is it?"
"Just wanted to give you an update, Mr. Z," Fisk said.
"I assume since you are bothering to call, that the situation is as we suspected?" Lajos Szabo asked.
Fisk nodded, then realized his boss couldn't see his movements... presumably. "Yep," he said. "Two kids stumbled across the cabin two nights ago. They found one of 'em shredded and one of 'em crazy earlier today..."
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.
Fisk started to speak, but decided better of it, and waited for twenty long seconds of pure silence. When Szabo went into a contemplative state, there was no telling how long it would take him to come out of it. Once, when Fisk had been a junior advisor and one of his superiors had attempted to embezzle money from GlobeCo's secret funds, Fisk had seen Szabo stare the man in the eyes for a full half hour before ordering him to commit suicide.... which, Fisk recalled with a shudder, the man did in a particularly lethal and messy fashion.
Finally, Szabo cleared his throat. "One of them survived two nights in those woods?" He seemed more surprised than Fisk was used to hearing him, which is to say there was a slight tone of curiosity in his voice.
"Yeah, that's what I've been told," Fisk said. "I didn't see the kid myself, but I heard that---"
"They went insane, you mentioned that," Szabo said impatiently. "Still, anyone with the fortitude to survive the onslaught of Kandarian demons for that long a time bears careful observation... we don't want another Ashley Williams on our hands, do we?"
"No sir," Fisk replied. "So what do you want me to do from here? The sheriff's department is still poking around, but the deputy you referred me to is making sure any incriminating evidence they find doesn't find its way back to their HQ... he also gave me a videotape the kids had been filming... er, taping... and we might find something interesting on there, assuming the tape didn't get ruined."
"Intriguing," Szabo said. "Continue your investigation of the site. Bring the tape and anything else noteworthy you find up there with you, when you return." Then, he hung up.
Fisk turned off his cell phone and slid it back into his pocket, then resumed watching the deputies go about their work. If only most of them knew what probably happened up here, Fisk thought to himself, they'd run screaming. Come to think of it, if night fell before he could get out of here, Fisk would do some running and screaming as well. He had a runestone talisman for protection in his shirt pocket, but Fisk was reasonably certain that one little stone wouldn't be enough to save him from what had once been unleashed in these woods. Fisk looked up at the sky; though, with the clouds, he couldn't quite see where the sun was, he figured he had a good three hours before dusk.
He had his cell phone, and could quickly call for the helicopter to return and retrieve him. He had the runestone. He had a Walther PPK, his personal favorite firearm, and a clip filled with explosive, silver-tipped bullets. And he had three hours to spare. And still, Fisk couldn't help but shudder. It was assignments like this that made him regret not going into insurance like his father had encouraged him.
After an hour, Fisk came up beside Deputy Pyle. "Your men through in the cellar?" he asked. "I wouldn't mind poking around down there."
Pyle nodded, and Fisk headed that direction.
As he descended the rickety stairway into the cellar, stepping cautiously over some broken stairs, Fisk pulled out a pen flashlight and turned it on, shining it in the direction of an old gramophone and then beyond, as he examined the dark chamber.
With his other hand, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a cell phone, and dialed 411.
The phone only had a chance to get out half a ring before a voice answered: "Mr. Fisk, I assume that is you?" The speaker was female, her tone dignified and emotionless.
"Right the first time, Oracle," Fisk said. "Look, I'm in..."
"The basement of the professor's cabin," Oracle interrupted. "I'm fully aware."
"Looks like we left something behind after the cleanup operation last year, sweetcheeks," Fisk said. "Any clues what?"
There was silence for a moment, and then: "Look to the door at the far end of the room. Toward the base of it."
Fisk shined his flashlight that direction, toward a partially splintered door that barely hung on its hinges. He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "Just a closet door," he said into the cell phone. He knelt down and examined the base of the door. "But... there are some scratch marks on the inside of the door, like someone was trying to claw out."
"On ground level," Oracle said, not asking but stating.
"Yep," Fisk replied.
"Look to the dirt," Oracle said.
Fisk turned his flashlight's beam to the ground. "Footprints... and... hmmm...."
"Hmmm as in 'unidentifiable tracks'?" Oracle asked.
"You know, Oracle, it's a miracle Mr. Z doesn't send you out on these field assignments instead of me."
"He doesn't consider me expendable, Mr. Fisk," Oracle replied evenly.
"Mind telling me what these tracks belong to?" Fisk asked, ignoring her comment. "If I didn't know better, I'd guess it was a really big spider."
Oracle was silent again. Then, "Under the table in the leftmost corner."
Fisk knelt and aimed his flashlight that direction. Something scurried in the shadows.
"Come out, come out, whatever you are," he said.
The tiny shadow moved again.
Then, it moved closer, coming into the light.
It was a disembodied right hand, walking - as it were - on its fingertips. It moved closer tentatively, like a wary stray cat, examining Fisk despite a total lack of visual organs. It then scurried back under the table.
Fisk let out his breath. "Well, that's something you don't see every day."
Hours later, Newton Fisk walked briskly down the sub-basement hallways of GlobeCo Industries in New York, a box-shaped object covered with a cloth under one of his arms. He walked up to a set of double doors, which swung open before he reached them.
He went through and into a darkened chamber.
"Where is the videotape?" a shadowy figure seated at a large desk in the room asked, his voice cold and austere.
"Got the boys in lab 3 working on cleaning it up," Fisk said. "It got waterlogged during the big storm that hit the area during the whole incident. They think they can salvage it, but it's too early to tell if it'll be intact."
The silhouette of Lajos Szabo nodded. "And you said you had found something else of interest?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Z," Fisk said, placing the package down on the table and pulling back the cloth.
Although he could barely see in the darkness, Fisk did detect movement in the cage that had been under his arm.
Szabo reached over and flicked on a desk lamp, which illuminated the cage. Szabo himself, as was his tendency, seemed to stay enveloped in shadows, only his carefully manicured hand visible in the light.
Within the confines of a hamster cage, complete with exercise wheel and water bottle, the disembodied hand from the cabin cellar shuffled around curiously, as if examining its surroundings.
The cold, steely eyes of Lajos Szabo bore down on it, and the disembodied hand backed itself into a corner of the cage fearfully.
"This little fellow caused all that trouble?" Szabo asked.
"I don't think so, sir," Fisk said. "From the evidence I saw, I think it attacked these two dumb kids, who then ran out of the cellar and straight into the woods themselves."
"Where the things that dwell in the shadows did the rest," Szabo said. "This hand, it matches the missing body part from our friend Mr. Williams, doesn't it?"
"Not enough decomposition for it to have been cut off from him a year ago," Fisk said. "But taking the supernatural into account, yeah, I'd guess it belongs to him."
The door slid open behind Fisk, and Oracle... an elegant, beautiful woman with high cheekbones, and waist-length blonde hair, dressed in a dark business suit and dark sunglasses... strode in, as if on cue. "The hand belongs to Ash Williams," she said evenly. "I've been meditating on this. During his battle with the Kandarian demons at the cabin last year, one of them possessed his hand and he was forced to cut it off with his chainsaw before it killed him."
"Hunh," Fisk said. "I just kinda assumed he'd lost that hand because a she-hag bit it off or something."
"Assumptions are for the uninformed," Szabo said coldly. "So, after he cut the hand off, it continued to attack?"
Oracle stood straight, meditating for a second. A slight glow eminated from under her sunglasses. "Yes," she said finally. "The images are sketchy, but I believe it was wielding the Kandarian dagger when it stabbed one of Williams' companions, just before Williams used the Necronomicon to open a vortex to the Middle Ages."
"I knew it!" Fisk said, triumphantly pumping his fist in the air. "I just had this feeling the hand had something to do with that dagger we've been looking for!"
"It has apparently lurked in the woods for the past year, frightening away any intruders," Oracle said.
"Intriguing... though it seems like more of a nuisance than anything else," Szabo said.
The hand defiantly rolled over and extended its middle finger in his direction, and Szabo chuckled. "It has spunk, at least. And since it represents the only part of him to be successfully and lastingly possessed, it bears closer examination... perhaps in time we'll figure out how the rest of him might be 'converted'..."
Fisk nodded. "That could come in handy."
"One thing I would like to know," Szabo said, his tone menacing, "was how the clean-up crew missed running across this thing last year."
Fisk scratched the back of his head. "Well, I've been thinking about that sir, and... he's awfully small, even if he is demonically-charged. I had about a dozen men and women on the site then, and I figure he just hid from us. He's probably been lurking in that cellar all year, waiting for an opportunity to wreak havoc when there were only a... er, handful of people around."
Szabo nodded. "A surprisingly astute observation."
"Thank you, sir."
"While you were there, did you take another look around for the Kandarian dagger?" Szabo asked.
"Oh, yes, sir, but still no luck," Fisk said. "I was hoping this little rascal had the dagger hidden somewhere, so I didn't catch him right away, let him struggle a bit and hoped he'd go for it, so I could catch two birds with one stone. But if he does know where the dagger is, he's... er... not talking."
Szabo nodded. "It is possible the dagger went with Williams when he was pulled into the temporal vortex, or that it's still lying up there buried under some leaves... I'll make sure our contractor knows what to look for while he's clearing off the land, but not what it can do."
The hand paced around inside the cage. Fisk looked down at it.
"Think we should postpone the attack we're planning on Williams next week, sir?" Fisk asked. "See if we should use this thing against him instead?"
Inside the cage, the disembodied hand gave a thumbs-up gesture.
"See, he wants to do it," Oracle said, the slightest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
Szabo strummed his narrow, bony fingertips against the desktop, and inside the cage, the disembodied hand did likewise.
"I think not," Szabo said. "Fisk, you've been so eager to unleash that Reaper you found in Alaska on Williams, and there's no telling how long we can keep a creature like that in thrall. Let's see what it can do to him. Save your little friend here for some later date."
The disembodied hand slumped in its cage, obviously disappointed.
"Don't worry, little one," Szabo said soothingly. "I have no doubt that Fisk's plan will fail miserably, as so many of his plans have before."
"What a vote of confidence," Fisk muttered.
Szabo ignored the comment.
"If you'll excuse me, sir, I need to research where the survivor is being taken, see if we can recruit any mental hospital staffmembers to act as informants," Oracle said.
Szabo nodded, and she left the room.
"As for you, take it down to the eighth circle for safekeeping," Szabo said to Fisk.
Fisk nodded. "By the way, the sheriff and the deputy both wanted to know what we were planning to do about the renewed, um, activity near the cabin."
Szabo strummed his fingertips against the table again, more impatiently this time.
"Once Gateway Construction has reassembled my Austrian home there, the entire mountaintop will be private property and nothing for them to concern themselves with," he said.
"Gotcha."
Fisk picked up the cage and headed out the door.
"Oh, one more thing," Szabo said. "Try to find something more secure than a gerbil cage to keep that thing in. From what we know of its attacks on Williams, it can be quite the pest if it gets out."
As Fisk turned again to leave, the disembodied hand balled itself into a fist and shook itself defiantly at the shadowy form of Lajos Szabo.
Szabo chuckled to himself, seemingly impressed with the spirited defiance of the hand, and turned his attention to a copy of the Wall Street Journal.
End.
Episode 10
"Cellar Dweller"
October 22, 1994. Late afternoon, on an overcast day in Spiegel County, Tennessee.
The helicopter descended slowly toward the crime scene.
Below, deputies and paramedics milled about the remains of an old cabin in the woods. There was not much in the way of a clearing to be found atop the mountain... there were trees all around the cabin, and even the road leading away from it was nearly overgrown. The pilot, a lean black man with a thinly-trimmed mustache, surveyed the possibilities carefully before calling over his shoulder: "Mr. Fisk?"
From the back of the helicopter, a stocky man with thinning brown hair looked up. He was clad in an ill-fitting pinstripe suit and reflective sunglasses. "Yes?" he asked impatiently, shutting the lid of the laptop computer he had been using.
"Nowhere to land, sir. I'm afraid you'll have to use the rope ladder."
Newton Fisk grinned mischievously. "If you insist," he said.
In truth, Fisk loved the idea of making a spectacular, downright heroic, entrance. And, as he expected, all eyes looked skyward as he descended the rope ladder. He started to wave to them, then thought better of it; after all, he both wanted to seem aloof and did NOT want to fall to his death because he couldn't keep his grip on the ladder. So instead, he maintained his focus and climbed down.
By the time he reached the ground, a lanky deputy with curly red hair was waiting for him.
Fisk motioned skywards, and the helicopter lifted away from the canopy of trees. He then turned his attention to the deputy.
"Mister Fisk?" the deputy asked.
"Guilty as charged," Fisk replied, shaking the man's hand vigorously. "You must be Deputy Pyle."
The deputy nodded tersely.
Fisk glanced around, and saw paramedics loading black garbage bags onto a stretcher. "I'm guessing that's one of the kids who got lost up here?"
The deputy nodded again. "We think so. All the... uh, parts haven't been assembled yet, so we can't be sure. The other one is still alive, but isn't saying anything comprehensible."
"People who find themselves in a situation like this rarely do," Fisk said with a narrow grin. "I hope you've taken charge of the crime scene, per my boss's agreement with your boss?"
Deputy Pyle nodded. "All taken care of," he said, barely louder than a whisper, as he looked around to make sure no one was near. "But we thought the... er, problems with this area were supposed to be over now."
Fisk smirked. "We did too, but as the ancient Sumerians used to say, shit happens. Now, you said something about one of these kids having a camcorder. Did they tape anything unusual?"
"I couldn't tell you that," Pyle said under his breath as he handed a mud-stained videocassette over to Fisk and winked. "The tape got lost before we could list it in the evidence report."
Fisk nodded and pocketed the tape. "Where's the survivor headed?"
"Funny farm," Pyle said.
"And the bite-sized chunks of the non-survivor?"
"Coroner's office, followed by the crematorium."
"The coroner understands the gravity of the situation?" Fisk asked.
Pyle nodded. "He'll find nothing conclusive. Maybe evidence of a bear attack. Certainly no proof that the 'serial killer' responsible for the murders last year had anything to do with it. Don't want to attract the press attention by trying to use that excuse again."
"Wise move," Fisk said, looking over at the ruins of the cabin. "So, where did this all start?"
"Near as we can figure, they came here night before last and poked around the ruins," Pyle said. "We had a bad storm that night, and they may have sought shelter in the cellar of the cabin." He motioned to a cellar door, which was propped open as a forensic examiner took photographs.
"We got some hysterical calls from their parents the next day," Pyle continued, "and we only found them here about four hours ago."
"Were they attacked in the cellar?" Fisk asked, stroking his chin.
"Not quite sure," Pyle said. "I'm still trying to.... ah... piece it all together."
Fisk stayed at the sidelines, watching as the deputies did their jobs. Pyle and the chief medical examiner seemed to know what Fisk was there for; the other workers regard him curiously, but went on with their work.
After awhile, Fisk took out his cell phone and dialed a number on it. It rang a few times, and then someone picked up. "Hon?" he asked. "Bad news. I got called out on something unexpected... damage control, I guess you'd call it... yeah, I know.... no, I don't think I'll be back til late.... tell Cindy I'm sorry, and I promise to make it up to her.... yeah, I know... look, tell her I SWEAR I'll make it to the next two recitals." He paused. "And tell her I'll buy that new boombox she's been begging for." He paused again, listening to rather animated conversation on the other end of the phone. "Look, hon, I can't talk about this right now... No, I'm not trying to buy her affections. If I could BUY affections, I'd never have gotten married to begin with...." he winced. "It was a joke, hon.... Yeah, I know.... yes, I'm an inconsiderate lout, you knew that before we got married.... Look, the boss needs me to be able to take off on a moment's notice, and this is just bad timing. Tell her I'm sorry, and... yeah, I know.... Look, hon, my cell phone's almost out of juice, I gotta go...."
He flicked off the phone and slumped on the treestump he was sitting on, sighing wearily.
Then, he held up the phone again, dialed '666', and waited for five rings. A voice answered, cold and harsh, with a vaguely Euro-decadent accent. "What is it?"
"Just wanted to give you an update, Mr. Z," Fisk said.
"I assume since you are bothering to call, that the situation is as we suspected?" Lajos Szabo asked.
Fisk nodded, then realized his boss couldn't see his movements... presumably. "Yep," he said. "Two kids stumbled across the cabin two nights ago. They found one of 'em shredded and one of 'em crazy earlier today..."
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.
Fisk started to speak, but decided better of it, and waited for twenty long seconds of pure silence. When Szabo went into a contemplative state, there was no telling how long it would take him to come out of it. Once, when Fisk had been a junior advisor and one of his superiors had attempted to embezzle money from GlobeCo's secret funds, Fisk had seen Szabo stare the man in the eyes for a full half hour before ordering him to commit suicide.... which, Fisk recalled with a shudder, the man did in a particularly lethal and messy fashion.
Finally, Szabo cleared his throat. "One of them survived two nights in those woods?" He seemed more surprised than Fisk was used to hearing him, which is to say there was a slight tone of curiosity in his voice.
"Yeah, that's what I've been told," Fisk said. "I didn't see the kid myself, but I heard that---"
"They went insane, you mentioned that," Szabo said impatiently. "Still, anyone with the fortitude to survive the onslaught of Kandarian demons for that long a time bears careful observation... we don't want another Ashley Williams on our hands, do we?"
"No sir," Fisk replied. "So what do you want me to do from here? The sheriff's department is still poking around, but the deputy you referred me to is making sure any incriminating evidence they find doesn't find its way back to their HQ... he also gave me a videotape the kids had been filming... er, taping... and we might find something interesting on there, assuming the tape didn't get ruined."
"Intriguing," Szabo said. "Continue your investigation of the site. Bring the tape and anything else noteworthy you find up there with you, when you return." Then, he hung up.
Fisk turned off his cell phone and slid it back into his pocket, then resumed watching the deputies go about their work. If only most of them knew what probably happened up here, Fisk thought to himself, they'd run screaming. Come to think of it, if night fell before he could get out of here, Fisk would do some running and screaming as well. He had a runestone talisman for protection in his shirt pocket, but Fisk was reasonably certain that one little stone wouldn't be enough to save him from what had once been unleashed in these woods. Fisk looked up at the sky; though, with the clouds, he couldn't quite see where the sun was, he figured he had a good three hours before dusk.
He had his cell phone, and could quickly call for the helicopter to return and retrieve him. He had the runestone. He had a Walther PPK, his personal favorite firearm, and a clip filled with explosive, silver-tipped bullets. And he had three hours to spare. And still, Fisk couldn't help but shudder. It was assignments like this that made him regret not going into insurance like his father had encouraged him.
After an hour, Fisk came up beside Deputy Pyle. "Your men through in the cellar?" he asked. "I wouldn't mind poking around down there."
Pyle nodded, and Fisk headed that direction.
As he descended the rickety stairway into the cellar, stepping cautiously over some broken stairs, Fisk pulled out a pen flashlight and turned it on, shining it in the direction of an old gramophone and then beyond, as he examined the dark chamber.
With his other hand, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a cell phone, and dialed 411.
The phone only had a chance to get out half a ring before a voice answered: "Mr. Fisk, I assume that is you?" The speaker was female, her tone dignified and emotionless.
"Right the first time, Oracle," Fisk said. "Look, I'm in..."
"The basement of the professor's cabin," Oracle interrupted. "I'm fully aware."
"Looks like we left something behind after the cleanup operation last year, sweetcheeks," Fisk said. "Any clues what?"
There was silence for a moment, and then: "Look to the door at the far end of the room. Toward the base of it."
Fisk shined his flashlight that direction, toward a partially splintered door that barely hung on its hinges. He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "Just a closet door," he said into the cell phone. He knelt down and examined the base of the door. "But... there are some scratch marks on the inside of the door, like someone was trying to claw out."
"On ground level," Oracle said, not asking but stating.
"Yep," Fisk replied.
"Look to the dirt," Oracle said.
Fisk turned his flashlight's beam to the ground. "Footprints... and... hmmm...."
"Hmmm as in 'unidentifiable tracks'?" Oracle asked.
"You know, Oracle, it's a miracle Mr. Z doesn't send you out on these field assignments instead of me."
"He doesn't consider me expendable, Mr. Fisk," Oracle replied evenly.
"Mind telling me what these tracks belong to?" Fisk asked, ignoring her comment. "If I didn't know better, I'd guess it was a really big spider."
Oracle was silent again. Then, "Under the table in the leftmost corner."
Fisk knelt and aimed his flashlight that direction. Something scurried in the shadows.
"Come out, come out, whatever you are," he said.
The tiny shadow moved again.
Then, it moved closer, coming into the light.
It was a disembodied right hand, walking - as it were - on its fingertips. It moved closer tentatively, like a wary stray cat, examining Fisk despite a total lack of visual organs. It then scurried back under the table.
Fisk let out his breath. "Well, that's something you don't see every day."
Hours later, Newton Fisk walked briskly down the sub-basement hallways of GlobeCo Industries in New York, a box-shaped object covered with a cloth under one of his arms. He walked up to a set of double doors, which swung open before he reached them.
He went through and into a darkened chamber.
"Where is the videotape?" a shadowy figure seated at a large desk in the room asked, his voice cold and austere.
"Got the boys in lab 3 working on cleaning it up," Fisk said. "It got waterlogged during the big storm that hit the area during the whole incident. They think they can salvage it, but it's too early to tell if it'll be intact."
The silhouette of Lajos Szabo nodded. "And you said you had found something else of interest?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Z," Fisk said, placing the package down on the table and pulling back the cloth.
Although he could barely see in the darkness, Fisk did detect movement in the cage that had been under his arm.
Szabo reached over and flicked on a desk lamp, which illuminated the cage. Szabo himself, as was his tendency, seemed to stay enveloped in shadows, only his carefully manicured hand visible in the light.
Within the confines of a hamster cage, complete with exercise wheel and water bottle, the disembodied hand from the cabin cellar shuffled around curiously, as if examining its surroundings.
The cold, steely eyes of Lajos Szabo bore down on it, and the disembodied hand backed itself into a corner of the cage fearfully.
"This little fellow caused all that trouble?" Szabo asked.
"I don't think so, sir," Fisk said. "From the evidence I saw, I think it attacked these two dumb kids, who then ran out of the cellar and straight into the woods themselves."
"Where the things that dwell in the shadows did the rest," Szabo said. "This hand, it matches the missing body part from our friend Mr. Williams, doesn't it?"
"Not enough decomposition for it to have been cut off from him a year ago," Fisk said. "But taking the supernatural into account, yeah, I'd guess it belongs to him."
The door slid open behind Fisk, and Oracle... an elegant, beautiful woman with high cheekbones, and waist-length blonde hair, dressed in a dark business suit and dark sunglasses... strode in, as if on cue. "The hand belongs to Ash Williams," she said evenly. "I've been meditating on this. During his battle with the Kandarian demons at the cabin last year, one of them possessed his hand and he was forced to cut it off with his chainsaw before it killed him."
"Hunh," Fisk said. "I just kinda assumed he'd lost that hand because a she-hag bit it off or something."
"Assumptions are for the uninformed," Szabo said coldly. "So, after he cut the hand off, it continued to attack?"
Oracle stood straight, meditating for a second. A slight glow eminated from under her sunglasses. "Yes," she said finally. "The images are sketchy, but I believe it was wielding the Kandarian dagger when it stabbed one of Williams' companions, just before Williams used the Necronomicon to open a vortex to the Middle Ages."
"I knew it!" Fisk said, triumphantly pumping his fist in the air. "I just had this feeling the hand had something to do with that dagger we've been looking for!"
"It has apparently lurked in the woods for the past year, frightening away any intruders," Oracle said.
"Intriguing... though it seems like more of a nuisance than anything else," Szabo said.
The hand defiantly rolled over and extended its middle finger in his direction, and Szabo chuckled. "It has spunk, at least. And since it represents the only part of him to be successfully and lastingly possessed, it bears closer examination... perhaps in time we'll figure out how the rest of him might be 'converted'..."
Fisk nodded. "That could come in handy."
"One thing I would like to know," Szabo said, his tone menacing, "was how the clean-up crew missed running across this thing last year."
Fisk scratched the back of his head. "Well, I've been thinking about that sir, and... he's awfully small, even if he is demonically-charged. I had about a dozen men and women on the site then, and I figure he just hid from us. He's probably been lurking in that cellar all year, waiting for an opportunity to wreak havoc when there were only a... er, handful of people around."
Szabo nodded. "A surprisingly astute observation."
"Thank you, sir."
"While you were there, did you take another look around for the Kandarian dagger?" Szabo asked.
"Oh, yes, sir, but still no luck," Fisk said. "I was hoping this little rascal had the dagger hidden somewhere, so I didn't catch him right away, let him struggle a bit and hoped he'd go for it, so I could catch two birds with one stone. But if he does know where the dagger is, he's... er... not talking."
Szabo nodded. "It is possible the dagger went with Williams when he was pulled into the temporal vortex, or that it's still lying up there buried under some leaves... I'll make sure our contractor knows what to look for while he's clearing off the land, but not what it can do."
The hand paced around inside the cage. Fisk looked down at it.
"Think we should postpone the attack we're planning on Williams next week, sir?" Fisk asked. "See if we should use this thing against him instead?"
Inside the cage, the disembodied hand gave a thumbs-up gesture.
"See, he wants to do it," Oracle said, the slightest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
Szabo strummed his narrow, bony fingertips against the desktop, and inside the cage, the disembodied hand did likewise.
"I think not," Szabo said. "Fisk, you've been so eager to unleash that Reaper you found in Alaska on Williams, and there's no telling how long we can keep a creature like that in thrall. Let's see what it can do to him. Save your little friend here for some later date."
The disembodied hand slumped in its cage, obviously disappointed.
"Don't worry, little one," Szabo said soothingly. "I have no doubt that Fisk's plan will fail miserably, as so many of his plans have before."
"What a vote of confidence," Fisk muttered.
Szabo ignored the comment.
"If you'll excuse me, sir, I need to research where the survivor is being taken, see if we can recruit any mental hospital staffmembers to act as informants," Oracle said.
Szabo nodded, and she left the room.
"As for you, take it down to the eighth circle for safekeeping," Szabo said to Fisk.
Fisk nodded. "By the way, the sheriff and the deputy both wanted to know what we were planning to do about the renewed, um, activity near the cabin."
Szabo strummed his fingertips against the table again, more impatiently this time.
"Once Gateway Construction has reassembled my Austrian home there, the entire mountaintop will be private property and nothing for them to concern themselves with," he said.
"Gotcha."
Fisk picked up the cage and headed out the door.
"Oh, one more thing," Szabo said. "Try to find something more secure than a gerbil cage to keep that thing in. From what we know of its attacks on Williams, it can be quite the pest if it gets out."
As Fisk turned again to leave, the disembodied hand balled itself into a fist and shook itself defiantly at the shadowy form of Lajos Szabo.
Szabo chuckled to himself, seemingly impressed with the spirited defiance of the hand, and turned his attention to a copy of the Wall Street Journal.
End.