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EXODUS INTO EVIL

iUniverse, Inc.

Chapter One

I love driving along Highway 22 east of Salem. I was headed for a small town called Detroit, Oregon, on a bright, sunny day with all the uncertainty I had ever felt in my life. My name is Mark, and I'm a writer of short stories. I was hoping that the proper inspiration for my first book could be found in the town of Detroit. My home had been Portland, Oregon, for most of my life. I'd been able to generate a good living with my short stories, but I was ready for the next step, a novel good enough so that I could be recognized as an accomplished writer. My parents had a cottage in the town of Detroit and had given it to me before they died last year. I hadn't been to the cottage for years, so I didn't know what to expect. As I pulled into the town, I noticed I needed gas, so I drove into a gas station and was surprised to find a familiar face pumping gas. It was Ed Munson, a childhood fishing friend from when my mom and dad had brought me up here.

"Good grief. Hi, Eddie, how are you, man?"

"Mark, is that you? Jeez, you look good. Are you still writing those stories?"

"Yeah, making a living at it, sort of."

We both laughed hard.

"What brings you up here, Mark?"

"Well, I'm going to try and write my first book, but right now I could use some gas."

"Sure thing, Mark. Let me know if you want to get together, okay?"

"Sure thing, Eddie."

After filling up, I drove my `66 Mustang Fastback to the cottage to settle in. Upon arrival I realized the cottage was in need of a good cleaning, but other than that it felt like a warm place and drew me in with its charm. I emptied my little trailer of all it's belongings and did some looking through the remaining items for items I had forgotten. By early evening I was all settled in. The hairs on my neck stiffened and rose at a strange odor in the air. It was familiar and dangerous! The moist ground concealed my footsteps as I traveled along the path I knew so well. I stayed out of the moonlight for safety.

Mark woke up and rolled over. His head pounded dully as he opened his bloodshot eyes. God, I hate mornings! he thought to himself. Looking at his clock, he realized there wasn't much morning left, about two hours.

Mark thought that he should get up just so he could say he got up this morning, instead of this afternoon, which would have been more to his liking. If he did get those extra few hours of sleep, he might have gotten rid of those weird dreams he'd been having. He moved through the cottage, as if on autopilot, made a bathroom stop (but did not shower—it was his grunge, casual day), and headed for the kitchen. He gave the legal pads a passing glance and the computer a disgusted revolting stare. Mark had always written his stories in longhand on legal pads. For some reason he had a block against writing on a computer; it seemed less personal.

Mark had come up here a few times whenever he was having a tough time writing one of his short stories; it seemed easier to be creative here. Glancing in the fridge, he tried to decide on something to eat. It wasn't so much what to eat as how energetic he was about making breakfast; a big breakfast of eggs, hash browns, and bacon sounded good, or perhaps just a bowl of cereal?

Cereal seemed to fit his casual mood. He sat on his sofa and watched a Perry Mason episode that he never got tired of. At the commercial break, he glanced at his bookcase to the right of his TV. It was a modest five-shelf model about six feet long, and it held mostly two authors: Dean Koontz and his favorite, Stephen King. Mark had read all of King's works and had over half in first-edition hardbacks. Mark secretly hoped to be as good as King one day. Time went by, and the TV droned on. When Mark chose to write, it was like a living force within him needing to come out, with the massaging firmness of a guiding caressing hand.

Mark worked—if it could be called that—for about six hours, shaping words to bring out his ideas. Writing was more of a passion than work. Mark always felt so satisfied when he completed a project. Living by himself, Mark hadn't done much dating since the death of his first wife. He wouldn't have survived had it not been for his writing.

I look through these eyes, and my instincts cause me to shudder with rage. All I am doing is looking toward a forest shrouded in night, the night sounds reaching my ears. The air smells so good, full of the smells of damp earth and fir trees. Slowly I walk along the forest edge. Something is watching me. I feel it. It is cold tonight. My breath can be seen in long white plumes as I exhale. Suddenly I hear a faint noise. My ears prick up, trying to locate a direction of the sound. I head off down the path that leads to a pond I know. As I near the pond, I peer out from the trees. In the moonlight I see a deer standing at the pond edge, drinking quietly. I become aware that I'm drooling. I leap from the cover of the trees, moving the ten feet between me and the deer in two leaps, and landing on the deer's neck. As she goes down, her head underwater, I'm not sure if she drowns or if I broke her neck, but she lies still as I drag her behind the trees and feast. Afterward I wash my face in the pond and vocally let all the other animals know that I am hunting this night.

Mark decided to take a break and go for a walk to the pond. It always helped relax him and clear his mind. As he came around the cottage he noticed one of the screens over the window was popped out. After putting it back in he moved down to the pond and noticed two sets of very large footprints in the muddy trail, the biggest he had ever seen. He was beginning to wonder if being outside was such a good idea. The forest was as still as could be until a voice behind him said, "Hi," scaring Mark and making him jump.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. My name is Mike."

"Boy, did you make me jump. My name is Mark. I came to the pond to relax but got worried when I saw those huge footprints near my home."

"Well, I'm prepared if anything jumps out at us here," said Mike as he lifted his rifle. "Mark, there is a fresh kill, or what's left of it, behind the trees. I live just down this other path, if you ever need anything. By the way, Mark, are you the writer that I've heard about?"

"Yeah, I'm the one. How did you know?"

"Eddie at the gas station likes to talk a lot."

Both Mike and Mark laughed out loud at that and then headed home. But Mark's curiosity got the better of him and he had to take a look at the animal kill. After all, how bad could it be? As Mark looked behind the trees he almost vomited. The sight of the kill and the smell were vile. The animal had been torn apart, with only shreds of the pelt left to identify it as a large doe. What could do this type of savagery?

The next afternoon Mark had a visitor. Mike stopped by.

"Hi, Mike."

"Hi, Mark. Could I come in for a moment to talk with you?"

"Sure, Mike. Want a beer?"

"Sure."

As Mark got their beers, Mike started telling him some hunting stories his father and grandfather had passed down over the campfires.

"Mark, I think I saw one of the animals my dad used to tell me about last night at dusk. It was huge—at least two hundred pounds—and black as coal and...