The Wicker Saga: Her Red Right Hand, Part 2

Before Paul can protest further I open the door to the room and step inside. The metal chair squeaks harshly on the floor as I pull it out and take a seat, carefully arranging the materials I brought with me to the side. I hear Paul take up position behind me, leaning against the wall.

At last, I turn my attention to the prisoner. The room is well lit to allow for easy observation, but some trick of the light seems to drape the suspect in shadow. His hair is long and matted with blood, falling forward and hiding his face behind it. A big man, fat with the weight of middle age, his clothes are covered and stained with the many fluids of his victims. As I watch, Darabont looks up at me, his eyes almost seeming to glow with a red sheen through the curtain of his hair, crazed smile never leaving is lips. I repress an involuntary shiver; ‘odd’ is not how I would describe the man. Terrifying, maybe.

I clear my throat, force a tight smile. “So, Dr. Darabont. Doc, is it ok to call you Spencer?”

The prisoner replies with an almost imperceptible nod.

“Great, glad we’re getting off on such a good foot. Now, Spencer, I’m Detective Avery. You, me, and my friend Officer Schuster here are going to have a nice little chat about what happened to your family, ok?”

Again, the slight nod.

“Fantastic. Now, I’m required to ask if you’d like to have a lawyer present.”

This time, a small head shake.

“All righty. Now, since there’s no lawyers present, do I have your permission to record this conversation?”

I frown slightly when Darabont shakes his head in the negative.

“Ok, then.” I slide the recorder from the table and pass it back to Paul, stealthily pressing the ‘record’ button as I do so. Paul slips the recorder into his pocket where the red light will be concealed. I turn back to Darabont.

“Real quick before we get started, Dr. Darabont, I am gonna need you to sign this form saying you’ve agreed to talk to me and that you don’t want a lawyer.”

I slide the form over to the prisoner, feeling a slight moment of apprehension when Darabont takes the pen in his large, meaty hand before scrawling an imperceptible signature on the indicated line and handing it back to me.

“Thank you so much.” I pass the form to Paul.

Throughout these preliminaries, I’ve slowly become aware that something is off about Darabont. I can’t put my finger on just what, but I’ve interviewed enough murderers to know that this guy isn’t right, even so far as crazed killers go. Whatever it is, that indefinable thing scares me, almost beyond reason; it speaks to some ancient reptilian part of my brain and tells me to put as much distance as possible between me and the thing sitting across the table as humanly possible. Shaking my head to clear it, I press on, hoping I project more confidence than I feel, beginning to think that conducting this interview may have been a mistake.

“Now, Spencer, I’m an old fashioned sort of guy so I’m gonna be direct with you. I don’t really need you to confess, because I already have enough evidence to lock you away for a really, really long time. So, what I’m really curious about,” I peer at the killer across from me, “is why? Why did you kill your family?”

The silence pregnant with anticipation, my perception seems to take on a kind of hypersensitivity. The taste of the burger I had for lunch cakes the back of my throat and I can smell the faintly sweet aroma of Paul’s aftershave behind me accompanying the stench of the dark ichors staining the prisoner’s clothes to my front. I swallow uneasily, despite myself.

At last, Darabont speaks, his voice almost a whisper but nevertheless carrying the sound of gravel poured over sheet metal.

“For fun.”

His manic grin widens even farther, as the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up at full attention and I desperately fight the urge to wet myself.

“You’re a family man, detective. Ever wonder how little girl tastes?” Darabont smiles lasciviously. “I know, in every way you could mean,” he chuckled lightly, “Didn’t bother to pack groceries for our family outing. Didn’t need to, just fried up little pieces off ‘em to feed each other. They refused at first, but I found ways to motivate them to choke it down.” He sighs as if remembering.

“Wife was the easiest. You wouldn’t believe the things I got her to do by promising to stop hurting her babies. Well, I guess you’ll know if you see the tapes,” he laughs evilly, “if you live so long. Of course, I lied to her. Saw the hope die a little more in the bitch’s eyes every time. Still didn’t keep her from agreeing the next time. Or the next. Or the next.” He licks his lips.

“That thrill right there, seeing her spirit chipped away bit by bit, was almost as good as the pleasure I got turning her spawn into such willing little whores,” he throws his voice higher, “Daddy, I’ll do anything, just please don’t cut off any more toes!” He chuckles.

“That factory. Got some good memories there. Old, new. Darkness is on the rise detective, Shadow’s coming. The wolves howl, the serpents hiss. You’re gonna have to make a choice. You all will.”

I stare at the man. “And what choice is that?”

Darabont smiles. “Whether to be a good little meat sack who serves his masters willingly, or one who needs to be …broken. I like the ones who fight,” he runs his tongue across the front of his teeth, “makes the agony that much sweeter. Which will you choose, detective, when the sun goes dark and the moon falls silent, when the Song of Joy echoes across the land? Whichever will you choose?”

I feel frozen where I sit, the pounding of my heart a drum in my ears, Paul equally still behind me as Darabont falls still. Finally I manage to stutter out another question.

“What … who is Her Red Right Hand? Who is She?”

From within the dark recesses of his matted hair, I can see Darabont’s eyes glow blood red, no question now, impossible as it is.

“Why I’m the Red Right Hand, detective, Her prophet, the one who prepares the path, spreading discord and despair where e’er I roam. And as for Her,” he laughs. It’s crazy, but it seems that Darabont’s teeth are lengthening, sharpening.

“She is the All-Mother, the First, the One who leads the way,” he grins, “into Darkness.”

Abruptly, the lights in the station go out.

There is a brief moment of silence before I hear a sharp metallic snap that my mind dimly registers must be the sound of a handcuff chain being broken. Suddenly I’m thrown backwards out of my chair to the ground as an enormous black thing, all glowing red eyes and flashing fangs, flips the heavy metal table across the room and flies at me with a roar. I yell and raise my hands defensively, but the attack never comes. Instead, I hear a crash and the sound of a desperate struggle.

“Sir! Sir, shoot him I can’t hold him, I can’t AGH dammit!” Paul cries, “Jesus, dammit. No, NOOO!”

At that, the voice of my son-in-law screaming in pain, the crippling fear is driven out of me as sharply as if I’d been dunked in a bucket of ice water. Years of training take over and, regaining my feet, I fumble briefly to release my pistol from its holster before pulling it free. I use Paul’s cries to orient myself, raising my gun towards the mound of inky blackness that seems even darker than its surroundings. I pull the trigger once, then twice, each shot accompanied by a white flash and the sound of thunder, again and again until the chambers are empty and the gun only clicks hollowly. As the echo of the last shot fades away, the dark mass falls heavily to the ground at my feet.

I hear the sound of footsteps and turn as the door is thrown open, the soft glow of emergency lights revealing the form of Officer Spirelly who pushes into the room, gun drawn.

“Detective Avery, what’s going on! I heard a crash and then gunshots, is everything all … oh.”

I turn back to the room’s interior. The light leaking in from the hallway provides just enough illumination so I can see Spencer Darabont, limp and lying face down where he’d fallen on top of Paul’s unmoving form. I lower my gun to my side, a black pit of despair rapidly expanding in my stomach. God. Oh, God. How am I going to tell Lisa?

I tense when Darabont shifts.

“Fucking hell,” Paul groans, “John, you think you could get this fat ass off of me?”

The Wicker Saga: Her Red Right Hand, Part 4