The Devil's Due: Chapter X
--EKB
Blackness. Spiraling blackness, dragging him downward into the abyss of death, dark and silent.
The odd thing of it was that Bradshaw could still hear himself screaming. In fact, it was this simple but heavy realization that dragged him back into consciousness. He floundered a long moment, caught in the warring tempest of nightmare and reality, lucidity and irrationality.
Oh God where am I what is this dark it's so dark--
--And then he broke free from the undertow and dragged himself to the surface; his eyes snapped open and there was light.
He sat up with a gasp so sharp it hurt. His disbelieving eyes took in the sight of the world around him.
The hotel room.
He was back in his hotel room. Safely in bed, his clothing intact, all of him in one piece. The blinding rays of early midmorning filtered in through the hazy window-screens--but was it all a lie? Could this be another grand manipulation forged by the hand of the Lord of Darkness? Perhaps this was all just another hallucination, brought about by blood loss and one too many shots to the head. For all Bradshaw knew, he was still in that godforsaken dank dungeon, chained to the wall. That, however, seemed illogical. He remembered the plunge of unforgiving cold steel into his chest. He had felt the life within him fade, felt it wane--for God's sake, he had died.
Hadn't he?
He felt trepidation rising in his chest, his pulse picking up an erratic tempo--
His pulse.
Bradshaw's hand flew to his throat, two fingers seeking and finding the beat there. It was rapid, arrhythmic, but it was there, thrumming with life beneath his fingertips. Alive. He was alive. Dazed, and feeling as though somebody had beaten the unholy shit out of him and dumped him back in bed before morning, but the fact still stood that he was alive! A laugh erupted from him before he could stop himself.
That sure was one hell of a nightmare.
With vivid recollection, he found himself mulling over the events of the previous night, starting with the electrical storm. The power outage. It all had seemed so real. He could still feel the painful rush of air into his lungs as he ran for his life, the soggy forest floor giving way beneath his footfalls. The sound of dirt clattering down upon the closed lid of his casket. Then, death. Dark and merciless. He imagined he still smelled of dirt, of the grave, and that that smell would stay with him always.
The thought sent a shiver right through him.
It was best, he decided, to get the hell out of this town as soon as possible, while he still could. He sat up gingerly, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. Moving, he found, was a laborious effort. His entire body felt bruised; every joint protested. He winced as he rose and shuffled off to the room's tiny cubbyhole of a bathroom. He flipped a switch, and the single yellow bulb over the vanity flickered dimly to life.
Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Bradshaw recoiled physically. The air went from his lungs as if someone had slammed their fist particularly hard into his gut. The visage that stared, just as horrified, back at him, was indeed his own. His features, though unmarked and uninjured, were markedly different somehow. His hair looked as though it had gone awry. His face was pallid and gaunt, and sported dark circles beneath the eyes, giving him the appearance of a man who'd not seen decent sleep in a week. He looked like--death warmed over--Bradshaw banished the thought, shuddering bodily. He cranked on the faucet and splashed icy water over his face until he was sure he could feel the color returning, relieved when some semblance of it actually had.
It wasn't until he was toweling his face dry that he noticed the odd mark, just beneath the line of his open shirt collar. It almost looked like--
No.
Bradshaw was fairly certain he felt his heart stop cold a couple of beats before starting up again.
Oh, Christ.
Panic seized him. His hands flew to his shirt collar and hesitated. If what lay beneath was indeed what he feared it was, then that fear--his very worst fear--would be confirmed: that his nightmare was real. That it had happened.
Morbid curiosity won out in the end and compelled him forward. With trembling fingers, he unfastened the buttons on his nightshirt and, with every inch of skin exposed, he felt his stomach sink further and further toward his toes.
The mark began dead-center on his chest, reaching down his abdomen toward his navel. Where the brand had seared into his flesh, a remarkably-healed, raised area of scar tissue now marred the surface of his skin--his symbol, a permanent fixture, a lasting reminder. Bradshaw's eyes flew wide with terror. A wave of revulsion nearly floored him there. He could feel a scream rising in his lungs, gathering in the back of his throat.
Without a flourish, the struggling bulb over the vanity flickered and went dark.
Yep. Definitely time to get the hell out of Dodge.
Bradshaw threw himself backward from the vanity and fled the small bathroom, bolting directly for his luggage. Collecting his belongings (and a few hotel effects along the way), he shoved everything unceremoniously into his overnighter. He dressed in haste, no qualms at all about his off-kilter appearance, and left the hotel room as fast as his feet could carry him.
* * * * *
At the checkout desk downstairs, Mabel was waiting for him, ever-present pleasant smile on her face as she greeted him.
"Good mornin,' Mr. Layfield. Everything all right?"
There were a thousand answers his mind could have formulated to that question, none of them sound in rational thought. He opted instead for a neutral, "Yes, ma'am, thank you."
"One of the housekeepers said she heard some peculiar noises coming from your floor last night. I hope you weren't disturbed."
Oh, you have no idea.
"I didn't hear anything." He paused before venturing, "Though, I gotta tell you, that was some storm we had here last night. I bet the power goes out every time it comes a good rain like that."
The old lady looked puzzled for a moment before smiling politely again.
"Why, dear, there was no storm last night. And the power was on all night." Bradshaw must have looked particularly stricken then, because Mabel was peering at him questioningly, concern tightening the lines on her face. "Honey, are you all right?"
"Fine," he answered unsteadily. "I must have been mistaken." With that, he yanked a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and threw it on the counter. "Keep the change."
He all but ran to the door.
Bradshaw imagined he must look quite a sight as he emerged from the hotel with the aura of some deranged lunatic--unshaven, hair a mess, clad in some rumpled outfit he'd worn days ago and not giving a damn. He half-sprinted to his rental car and tossed his bags in the back, practically vaulted into the driver's seat and started the car. The engine roared to life and he kicked it into reverse. He sped from the parking lot, slinging gravel, and hit the main highway as fast as the accelerator would carry him. He left the small town of Midway, the Wayside Inn, the whole godforsaken place in a cloud of settling red dust.
He didn't look back, not for one second. If he did, he feared, he might catch sight of a lone, black-clad figure standing by the roadside--still as death, stealthy as shadow, plotting his next move.
Keep running. Just keep running.
The speeding car carried him toward the horizon that reached far beyond the pale cobalt sky of that spring morning. Somewhere along the line, he had already decided that home wasn't where he was headed. Where he was going, he hadn't the slightest; he supposed he would figure it out when he got there. If he got there.
He reached over to turn on the stereo, flipping to the first channel that would come in clear way the hell out here in the middle of nowhere. An old song by Tears for Fears was playing. He knew the words, had heard the lyrics countless times before, but never had he been particularly struck by them until now.
I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad. The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had.
Bradshaw could have laughed until he cried.
FIN
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A/N: Well, here we are, kids! I just wanted to say thanks, as always, to everyone, everywhere, who has read and reviewed. Your support has motivated me to see this thing through to the end, and I thank you all so very much. This has really been my first attempt at a lengthy horror-suspense type thingy, and it's been a crazy ride. The end. :)