Mr. 8

Chapter 32: The Spreading Evil

The roof groaned under the weight of the snow and the windows rattled, gently waking Denton from a coma-like sleep.

From the moment consciousness found him, pain and nausea flooded his body. There didn't seem to be a muscle, joint, or bone that didn't feel old and battered. His head was full of broken glass, and a railway spike dug into his left temple.

Ever since getting home from the hospital, his sleeps had been long and dark, and his body had rebelled at the thought of getting up. He turned over to his other side hoping the new position would ease some of the discomfort and perhaps he would slip back into the black pool of dreams. As horrific as they had been, at least they were free from the pain.

His hand slid over to Linda's side of the bed searching for her warm body. All he encountered was cool, smooth sheets.

His face pressed into the pillow. The case had a starchy, stale smell, as though it had been cleaned long ago. The pattern was pink roses on white. The rest of the room was lost in gray murk.

This wasn't his bed. He wasn't in his house.

All traces of drowsiness rushed away and a jarring reality started to form around him.

He groped at the night table in search of his glasses, hoping habit may have left them there for him. His hand brushed against something and it fell with a carpet muffled thud. The sound was too heavy and solid to be the glasses; he leaned his body over to lengthen his reach. The thin metal of one of the arms found its way to his fingers, and he pulled them onto his face in one fluid, well-practiced motion.

The neat guestroom came into focus. On the table next to the bed was a small lamp made out of milk glass and a matching vase with fake pink roses. A doily drooped off the edge threatening to slip off. The only thing preventing it from falling was a glass with less than an ounce of water in it.

Without a moment's hesitation, Denton grabbed it and greedily sucked down the last drops. The faint moisture seemed to only highlight the dryness in his throat. He need more.

There was a bathroom just down the hall, two doors down, and another one by the stairs. The whole layout of the house started coming back to him, replacing the last vestige of the strange dreams that plagued his sleep.

He sat up and put his feet on the floor. One foot felt the soft rug, a hard corner dug into the sole of the other. He reached down and picked up the book he had knocked over. The black and red cover brought it all back to him: the whole night—the whole miserable night—everything from the moment Radnor grabbed his wrist, to the strange encounter at the shelter, and how he ended up spending the night in this room.

They kicked them out of St. Fillan's at a little after 11:00. The three card players headed off to a spot they knew behind the bakery, where the ovens threw heat out all night long. They asked Denton whether he wanted to join them, but he declined as politely as he could. When he looked around again, the coughing man had disappeared into the night, taking whatever remaining secrets he might have with him.

The wind blew eddies of snow around the street, miniature tornados of frost marking the desolation of the town. It was only him and the man who had lost his home to fire, still outside the church. A horrific scene filled Denton's mind: this dour man stands in a bedroom of a suburban home pouring gasoline from a red can onto the bodies of his loved ones. They are infected and changed, strange facsimiles of their former selves. He lights a wooden match on the door frame as he walks out and sets the house ablaze.

Denton shook the image away. There was no point adding any gruesomeness to this man's tragedy. If there had been anything suspicious about the fire, he'd be in police custody, not out on the street looking for a bed in a storm.