The Demon Signet (10 page)

“What’s that?” Marcus asked. There was the slightest hesitation in his voice, making him wonder whether or not he really wanted to know.

“Jukebox’s been playin’ all night. And then the second, and I mean the very
instant
, that you fellas open the front door,” he pointed to the set of glass doors and snapped his fingers, “just like that.”

The four of them exchanged uneasy glances, though glances now free of the red-rimmed evidence of recent tears.

“I was singing along to ‘Little Town of Bethlehem,’ looked up when those two kids came in, saw you out there trying to guess where the parking spots were. I showed them to their seat,” he swung his finger to the other end of the diner, to the two kids sitting at a booth and drinking hot chocolate and eating French fries, “and was walking back to the kitchen, the words of the song still on my lips when…” He shook his head. “The door swung open and the song…disappeared.” He lifted the tray. “Strange, eh? Working fine now, though, ain’t it?” He started whistling along.

Despising that they would now be forced to reinterpret their own experience with a similar phenomenon—Nat King Cole’s willingness to perform upon verbal request—Heather tucked her hair behind her ear and instead asked, “How long have you been here?”

He stopped whistling. “The diner?”

“Watertown.”

“Oh…pretty much my whole life. Parents moved here when I was three.”

“You like it?” She hoped that normal conversation might distract her from the spookiness that was permeating the air they were breathing.

“Yeah, sure. Hey, did you know that John and Allen Dulles lived here?” He groaned. “Those guys…let me tell you. And Fort Drum is mighty close, too. Richard Grieco…”

“Richard Grieco?” Heather managed to smile. “The actor?”

“One and the same.”

They all laughed, remembering days that suddenly seemed so long ago.

“Vigo Mortensen…”

“Really?” Ian took Heather’s hand, relieved by the light banter.

“Yup. The Bette Midler movie,
Stella
, was set in Watertown, even though the movie was filmed in Ontario, but that’s beside the point. Frank Sinatra’s album,
Watertown
, is the story about a Watertown man. Frank Woolworth, the founder of Five and Dime stores and Woolworths; Charles Yost, US ambassador to the UN; Charles Sawyer, former governor of New Hampshire… And the safety pin was from Watertown! So was the first portable steam engine and those Little Trees air fresheners. In the early nineteen hundreds, we had the most millionaires per capita in the whole country. Even had the guy who designed Central Park draw up our little park, too…” He stopped. “Oh, I’m sorry. You fine people just ordered food and it’s getting cold right in front of you as I ramble on and on about some city you’re just passin’ through.”

“No, it’s fine,” Ashley reassured him, also enjoying the small talk. “It’s a big city?”

“About thirty thousand people. Nine square miles.”

“Why is it called Watertown?”

“Named after all the falls on the Black River.” He leaned his hands on the edge of the table and bent over, crossing one foot over the other. “After the Revolutionary War, a huge migration of people came into New York from New England. Watertown was settled by pioneers from New Hampshire in 1800.”

“Seems like a lovely place,” Ashley said, cutting into her French toast.

“I like it.” And at that, George stepped back and gave a light bow. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I should go check on the kids. Let me know if you need anything.”

Ashley pushed the sleeves of the Bills sweatshirt up to her elbows before pouring syrup over her French toast. “So—”

The jukebox began playing four songs all at the same time.

“What the hell?” Ian turned and stared at the machine.

Phones began to ring: a hip-hop beat, an instrumental version of “Bullet the Blue Sky,” the old Adam West
Batman
theme song, and Michael Jackson’s “Beat It.”

Ian, Marcus, Heather, and Ashley all reached into their pockets.

Once they had their phones out, each one going off simultaneously and adding to the chaos coming from the jukebox, they paused and looked directly at one another.

Heather was the first to let her eyes drift back to the display screen, to the name and picture of the person calling.

Marcus and Ian answered their phones at the same time.

“Hello?”

Ian’s voice echoed from the speaker in Marcus’ iPhone.

With the phone held to his face, Marcus muttered, “What the…” His question echoed through Heather’s and Ashley’s phones, too.

Everyone set their phones on the table and stared at them, pretty certain it wasn’t possible for four phones to randomly call each other simultaneously. No one spoke.

Finally, Ian grabbed his Windows phone and took the battery out of it. He put the two pieces in opposite pockets and forced his attention back to his burger, as if making up his mind to just ignore what had happened.

“What the hell is happening?” Heather whispered. She told Ian and Marcus about Snowy, careful to leave out Ashley’s Scrabble game and her sister’s more sensitive secret.

Marcus muttered, “‘For we wrestle not against flesh and blood…’”

“What did you say?” Ian asked.

But just as he was about to respond, something on the table caught his attention. He sat back, staring at it. “That wasn’t there before. No way was that there before.”

Ashley leaned over to see.

There, carved into the table in deep, streaking lines, were the words “Iroquois,” “Nigger,” and “Death.”

Ashley frowned, but when Marcus read the three words aloud, Ian stopped chewing.

Heather started to get up from her seat, anxious to see the engraving for herself, when her foot slipped in something wet. She looked under the table and saw a slow-trickling stream moving beneath the booth. “What—” She looked behind her and down the aisle toward the bathrooms. The small stream was coming from the door to the women’s room.

“What did you girls do in there?” Marcus asked, noticing the water flowing toward him and picking up his feet.

Then the stream exploded into a river, its current moving fast and sloshing up against the booths lining both walls.

Ian swore and pulled his feet up, too, watching wide-eyed as the water roared past them on its way to the front doors.

George came running out of the kitchen, his feet splashing through the moving torrent. “What the devil?” Lifting his feet high, he moved against the surge, forcing his way to the bathrooms, mumbling a string of incoherent complaints.

Heather gripped Ian’s arm and whispered, “I think I want to leave.”

“We can’t,” he answered. “Look at it out—” But when he turned to emphasize his point, he was faced with only a snow-covered parking lot resting peacefully beneath a clear sky.

They all inched closer to the window and peered out, as if getting a better look might insert the whirling snow back into the scene.

Heather had her phone out and her weather app open in a flash. “Look,” she said, holding it out for everyone to see.

No clouds on the radar. Anywhere. The entire state was clear.

Marcus craned his neck and looked up to the sky. Stars twinkled. “I don’t like this.”

George came back, splashing down the aisle. “The toilets are shooting water straight up to the ceiling! The sinks are overflowing!” He looked scared out of his wits. “Never seen anything like it!” And he was past them, reaching for the phone at the register. “Gotta get a plumber here…or something.” His eyes were transfixed by the water crashing into the front doors. “Hello?” George said into the phone. “Hello?” He hung up. “Line’s dead.”

The ceiling lights began blinking out one at a time, starting from the back of the diner and quickly progressing to the front, plunging the restaurant into murky darkness. Only the glow of the parking lot lamps was left to highlight random sections of the diner.

“Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” started
creeping out of the jukebox, slithering its way throughout the shadow-infested building and bringing to attention the hair on everyone’s necks.

Nobody spoke. Nobody moved.

Then George’s voice interrupted what Tchaikovsky had intended to sound like drops of water shooting from a fountain in his 1892 number. “Why’s the jukebox still on?”

There it glowed, all lit up, yellow light shining as each of the “drops of water” eerily plucked at the nerves of the diner’s seven occupants.

“If the power’s out…” George sloshed through the water, on the move again.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, please.” Ashley grabbed her coat, then stood on the bench seat, climbing over its back and stepping into the next booth.

“Yeah…” Marcus took his jacket and followed her.

Ian looked out into the parking lot and took note of how much snow had accumulated across the asphalt. He knew they wouldn’t be able to travel roads buried under that much snow, but when he heard the teenagers running for the door, their feet pounding through the flowing water, he snatched up his and Heather’s coats in one hand while leading his fiancée over the table with the other.

Ashley was the first to follow the kids outside, Marcus and Heather right behind her. Ian, however, stopped to find George’s silhouette positioned before the jukebox, staring into it as if it was the music machine that was somehow responsible for the darkness and the water circling his ankles.

“George!” he yelled over the song, “I don’t know what the hell’s goin’ on, but we’re takin’ off! I left money on the table! Thanks for everything!”

He saw George’s head turn to the side in acknowledgement. “You take care out there. I don’t have the faintest clue what’s happening in here, but out there—”

But then, for the first time, he too noticed the storm’s sudden absence. “Well, I’ll be…”

Ian hesitated, feeling bad for leaving the guy, but then he wasn’t even sure if leaving was any safer than staying. When he rejoined the others outside, the diner’s lights blinked back on behind them.

Now, as they ran to the car, it was the parking lot lights that went out, one by one, to reverse their situation. The darkness was chasing after them.

Ian shut the door and turned the key, half-expecting to hear the sound of a dead battery or a bad starter. But it came to life, and he drove the Taurus back toward the road.

The last thing any of them saw before turning away from the diner was George and the two kids standing outside on the curb, watching them.

Ten

He has no trouble navigating his black chariot through the storm. Though the headlights reveal but a short distance ahead of the speeding vehicle, he is not hampered by lack of vision.

He is very close now. He can feel its presence near, can taste its power in his mouth. He slides his tongue back and forth over his teeth, savoring it. It has an acidic quality that makes him smile.

Minutes later, he pulls into a parking lot, the storm howling about him. He parks beneath a lighted lamppost and opens the door, steps out into the snow. He thinks he can sense the angels watching him from afar, and he dares them to intervene. They’ve never done so before, and he doesn’t suspect that they will now.

He stands to his full height, a gloved hand holding his hat to his scarred head, and begins to walk toward the diner. The wind whips violently at his long coat, snowflakes melting against his mirrored glasses. For a moment, he envies the power Christ exhibited out on the Sea of Galilee, that he could stop the storm with mere words. But then he realizes with a sadistic, pleasurable chill that he rather enjoys the calamity of the storm, of walking through it. He compares it to Christ’s walking on the water, appearing like a ghost to his scared disciples. And behold, the man standing in the diner sees him much the same way, does he not?

He pulls the heavy glass door open and steps out of the treacherous weather. He walks into the diner, his heavy boots splashing through half an inch of water. Why the floor is wet is not of interest to him. He is only here for the ring. Standing there, unimpressed by the owner’s frantic stare, he looks up and down the length of the building. He sees the jukebox and takes a moment to contemplate the song it’s playing, “Oh Holy Night.”
The machine blinks off and goes silent under his gaze.

Slowly turning back to George, Jonathan steps toward him.

George steps behind the counter, instinctively wanting something between them. An iron door would be great, but the counter is all there is. “Can I help you?” he stammers. The tall man before him is straight out of a nightmare.

“I’m looking for a red car.” His voice is deep, otherworldly. “Have you seen one?”

Beads of sweat pop across George’s forehead. “Uh…”

The dark man turns away and walks purposefully down the aisle, stopping at the table certain customers had been seated at just half an hour before. He traces the table’s edge with a gloved finger. “How long ago did they leave?” he asks, tilting his head so that George can get a good look at the scars hiding beneath the wide brim of his hat.

George hesitates.

The man grows impatient. He starts toward the register.

“What do you want with them?”

“That doesn’t concern you.”

“I…” George turns and flees into the kitchen, seeking a weapon.

****

Jonathan brings the loud engine to life and drives out of the parking lot, not bothering to turn the headlights or the windshield wipers on. He leans over in his seat and opens the glove compartment, retrieving a handkerchief. After wiping the blood off his gloves, he rolls down the window and lets the wind snatch the red cloth from his fingers.

“I am the Crest of Dragons,” he whispers. An internal audience shouts its approval, seconding the claim.
You are the Crest of Dragons!
He wonders what the Lookers, those angels of Light, think about that. He keeps his glasses on, not caring to find out.

He presses down on the gas pedal and hurls his vehicle deeper into the night. The ring is close, just half an hour out. He’ll have it tonight, and hell will rejoice along with him.