Dwelling Place of Demons
Prologue
The glow awakened her.
She had never been a particularly heavy sleeper—and certainly, slumbering in her new situation had not improved matters. Something—a hinted glimmer that aught seemed amiss—had nudged her into consciousness, and now she found herself quite incapable of ignoring said nudge.
Glinda raised herself on one elbow, leaning over the edge of the mattress and reaching towards the little window next to the bed. Moving aside the ugly curtains—she was still in search of suitable replacements—Glinda huffed in quiet consternation. Too narrow a space remained between the bed and wall for her to arrange her slippers as was her long-standing custom, but the window was too far away for her to easily open the blinds. Thus, she could not observe her environs without first extracting herself from her bedding entirely.
Oh, the humanity.
She was gradually adapting to her new accommodations, although the transition hadn't been without hiccups. She'd spent so many years in her modestly appointed condominium that making such a drastic switch to more—incommodious—lodgings had been quite the jarring experience. Especially so soon after the wedding.
Less difficult had been becoming accustomed to a man occupying a space next to her. After sixty-eight years of sleeping alone, the sudden acquisition of an additional body in her sleeping arena had been a blazingly singular experience. Not an unpleasant one—certainly not! Just—different—in lovely ways. Indeed, in the entirety of her life, she'd never anticipated retiring as eagerly as she had in the few weeks since they'd said their vows.
It had been—liberating—to become a wife. To cede her cloistered existence in favor of a shared one. Glinda felt as if she'd finally freed herself from some self-imposed solitary confinement and allowed herself to traverse into the light.
As for certain other aspects of married life—well—the bodice-ripping novels she'd read in her younger years had not quite prepared her for the reality of marital communion. Never could she have supposed herself capable of such enjoyments, nor of returning them in kind. Of course, her choice in spouse had much to do with her current state of contentment. William McBean was a man of many, many laudable talents. That was all she had to say on that matter. Further embellishment would be gauche.
Beside her, the talented Mr. McBean stirred, turning onto his side just far enough that his snoring somewhat abated. With a knowing, replete sort of smile, Glinda watched as he settled back down into his pillow before returning her attention to the window and the mysterious orange glow hazing around the edges of the curtain. According to the clock on the built-in dresser opposite the bed, it was just shy of three in the morning, so the bright coloration could not be the rising sun. What on earth could be making such a display before dawn?
Sitting up, she folded the quilt neatly back, pivoting on her hip until she was perched on the edge of the bed. Her one true complaint with the Recreational Vehicle was the lack of wiggle room. But just now, it seemed more blessing than boondoggle. All she had to do was lean forward to slip her fingers between the slats of the horizontal blinds and work them apart enough to see outside.
Bright yellow tendrils of light. Ribbons of angry crimson whipping upwards into the darkness. Gray smoke—dark plumes rising into the night like ghostly fingers reaching towards the stars—
Oh, dear heaven— Fire!
Not the McBean conveyance—but the RV parked just across the lane from it. It had already been there when William and Glinda had situated themselves the morning before. Glinda had remarked upon how the vehicle had parked most rudely just cattywampus enough that no neighbor could possibly have parked at the hookups on either side. In light of current events, however, that rudeness may have been a favor in disguise.
Violent multi-hued flames licked at the front of the vehicle, glowing hellishly through the passenger windows and behind the broad windshield. The panels at the prow of the Winnebago were already melting—sloughing off at the bumper and hood—drooping towards the ground as the fire worked at it from the interior. The frame around the windshield distorted more by the moment, as the outer wall began to blacken in the heat—-
Gasping, Glinda stood, rounding the end of the bed with a singular purpose.
"William! William!" She gripped her husband's shoulder and shook it until he roused and glared, bleary-eyed, up at her. "William! Call emergency services! Our neighbor is ablaze!"
Sputtering just a moment, he immediately sat up and shoved at the covers with his feet. "What? What are you talking about?"
"Fire, William!" Glinda plucked the cellular phone from its spot on the dresser and tossed it towards the man. "Our neighbor is on fire!"
As he flipped the device open and began to dial, she whirled and exited the quarters.
Barefoot, Glinda hurried out of the bedroom, through the narrow hallway and into the living area. The linoleum felt cool and smooth beneath her bare feet, but she barely noticed. Flipping the lock, she flung the door wide, taking the steps with a nimbleness that belied her age. She stepped down onto the faux grass mat that the park provided at each hookup site and followed the body of their land barge towards the nose then around the front, aimed in the direction of the glow.
The burning vehicle was smaller than her own—and far older—less than impressive even before the flames had started upon it. The front of the cabin was already mostly engulfed, but it appeared as if the fire hadn't quite reached the rear.
"Hello!" Hurrying towards the Glinda shouted towards the pyre, peering anxiously into and around the conflagration, searching for signs of life—anything that might herald that someone inside needed help. "Hello!"
But she received no answer—growing only more horrified as the fire raged brighter—harder—hotter. She strode down towards the rear of the beast, edging as close as she dared to call out again. "Hello!"
Crackling hell. The eerie, acrid odor of melting plastic and fabric and vinyl. A jarring crash from the front of the vehicle had Glinda crossing back to see the windshield had shattered. And then, unbelievably—the side door burst outward and three figures disgorged themselves from the blaze. Thank goodness! Escaping! Fleeing the danger!
No—heavens!—they were fighting.
Fighting?
The three men slipped and skidded down the sagging aluminum steps of the RV, gray shapes against the undulating glow of the flames. Just above the roar of the inferno, Glinda could hear grunts and curses as they hit the ground, scrapes of boots against the asphalt, thuds as their large bodies impacted the pavement.
Two of them tumbled head first onto the street, ending up sprawled on the street in inglorious heaps, while the third managed to regain his balance with more aplomb. He wobbled a little, sliding off the final step before skidding on some loose gravel, his countenance an indecipherable shadow with the fire behind him. He was tall and lanky—and held himself with an elegance at odds with the situation.
The other two bounced back upright, squaring off with the lone man—fists clenched—their large, bulky bodies tense and ready. Unheeding of the fire blooming ever larger just before them, they rushed towards their target, roaring nearly as loudly as the inferno.
Glinda gasped, watching incredulously as the three men grappled again—two against one—fists and kicks and dodges in a brutal dance until the two ox-like fighters lay some yards away from their target, only a few dozen feet from her own position. Instinctively, she shuffled backwards towards her own conveyance, but not before she'd seen the blood welling up at the corners of their mouths and noses. With a growing sense of foreboding, she watched as one of the men wobbled drunkenly to his feet, an obviously broken right arm dangling uselessly at his side. The other man's nose looked rather mashed, and his left eye had already started to swell. He had a large tattoo on his neck—obscure in the chaotic bleakness—and another on his bicep.
"You dare to attack me?" The lone man raised his arm against his aggressors, spreading his fingers out as if he were a spiritualist warding off evil. "Do you not know who I am?"
"You owe him money, fancy boy!" Tattoo Man stepped backwards towards his groaning friend, swiping at the blood pouring from his own nose with the back of his hand. "The Boss wants what you promised!"
"You pathetic mewling cowards!" The man growled into the night, his voice rising even above the noise of the flames. "You won't get it now. You've just set it afire!"
"Let's go, Burk!" Cradling his fractured arm close, the second brute backed away, blood from a split on his cheek dribbling off his jaw onto the pavement. "Let's get out of here! I aint no good like this."
"We can't go back without the cash, Voyle." Burk spat on the ground. "What's he going to do to us if we come back empty-handed?"
Voyle jerked his chin in the direction of the taller man. "What's he going to do to us if we hang around here?"
Burk weighed his options—clearly wishing to attempt another attack and complete his mission. His friend tugged at his shirt with his good hand—obviously intent on aiming for the front of the park and possible escape. With a frustrated grunt—and an impressive string of obscenities, Burk finally gave in, turning and following his friend between a long row of diagonally-parked fifth wheels and disappearing into the early-morning gray.
"Bleeding cowards." Half-heartedly, the taller man gave chase, but stopped short in the middle of the lane, watching in barely-controlled fury as the blaggards turned and fled. He was breathing heavily, his face cast in a quarter-shadow by the fire burgeoning across the lane. With a truly abominable curse, he wheeled around, unable to do anything but watch helplessly as his vehicle burned.
Sirens blared in the distance—growing closer by the moment. The vehicle was now completely enveloped in fire—the frame distorted, the roof caving in. The windshield glass had long-since shattered and melted inwards, allowing bright scarlet flames to shoot upwards into the night. Dark, brackish smoke billowed upwards into the air, coating everything around it in an ugly gray haze. Fluids poured out from underneath the monstrosity, carrying tiny curls of burning wisps themselves as they ran in toxic rivulets along the pavement.
"Sir!" Glinda took a single step into the lane, lifting a hand to shield her eyes from the brilliant conflagration across the street. "Sir! Come away! It's not safe!"
Behind them, a fire engine had entered the park, shutting off the siren with a bright chirp. The engine revved as it made its way through the maze of lanes and parked vehicles. The red and blue emergency lights of the truck—combined with the angry, hellish glow of the burning RV—created an atmosphere of hostile surreality, as if Glinda had stepped out of her motor coach onto a primordial, alien landscape—hot and nasty and dangerous.
Beneath her, the pavement felt warm. Tiny pebbles and bits of loose gravel bit into the soles of her feet—but she nevertheless crept nearer the gentleman. "Sir!"
"What?" He barked, rather than spoke, his tone harsh and uncivil. He didn't turn, lifting his arms to rake his fingers through his hair, rocking back on his booted feet as he watched his home burn. Growling a little in his throat, he let loose a rather pained exhale and tried again. "What?"
"The fire department is here—you need to step away. Clear the way for the emergency vehicles." Out of the corner of her eye, Glinda could see the tall, familiar figure of her husband. He'd gone to the end of the lane and was waving the firetruck forward. "Truly. You need to get out of the street. There is nothing more you can do."
Pivoting on his heel, the man laughed—actually laughed—the sound bitter, and grating—humorless in the acrid air. As he shuffled across the asphalt towards Glinda, he ran his hand through his dark hair again—finally deigning to look over at his erstwhile companion. His dark eyes found her, meeting her directly, and suddenly, his expression froze—betraying just the barest hint of astonished recognition.
Oh dear.
Oh! Oh dear! Glinda gasped outright, taking an involuntary step backwards. "You!"
Cocking his forehead in her direction, he smiled—smiled!—his handsome face easing into a semblance of suavity even as the world burned behind him. With a wry shake of his head, the gentleman offered a stunted little bow—as if he were greeting a debutante or a dignitary—someone other than a barefoot sixty-eight year old woman dressed in a demure—and somewhat rumpled—cotton nightie.
And his voice—velvety, rich, and smooth. Like the finest, darkest chocolate ganache, it soothed towards her through the hot, fetid dawn.
"Miss Baldrich. We meet again."