This morning his head had barely touched the cool wood when God’s voice thundered in his brain.
Today, my child! it said. The Voice of God was almost too loud to bear and Eddie’s head rang with it.
“Yes, my Lord. I am thy instrument. Command me to the holy purpose.”
You are my faithful servant, God said, and you are my holy instrument on earth. Do you know this?
“Yes, my Lord.”
You are the enemy of the Beast. Do you know this?
“Yes, my Lord.”
You are the Hand of Righteousness. Do you know this?
“Yes, my Lord.”
You are the Sword of God. Do you know this?
“Oh, yes, my Lord!”
When the Hand of Righteousness beholds the Beast, what is thy holy purpose?
“To destroy him, my Lord! I am the servant of God!”
And if the Beast should take another form?
“Satan is the Father of Lies. The Beast is the Father of Lies. With God as my Lord I shall see through his disguise and know the Beast—and knowing him I will destroy him, for such is the will of God.”
And if the Beast were to appear as an ordinary man?
“I would destroy him, for the Beast is the Father of Lies. Such is the will of God.”
And if the Beast were to appear as a woman?
“I would destroy him, for the Beast is the Father of Lies. Such is the will of God.”
And if the Beast were to appear as a child?
“I would destroy him, for the Beast is the Father of Lies. Such is the will of God.” This was an old litany between them, and only once, in the very beginning, had Tow-Truck Eddie hesitated—just for a moment—at this point, but not today. Now his voice was strong, filled with clarity and purpose.
And to this holy purpose do you dedicate yourself?
“I am the instrument of the Lord and his will is as my own. With my body, my heart, and my immortal soul shall I serve the will of the Lord.”
In my servant I am well pleased.
Gratitude flooded through Eddie and he wept, his head still pressed to the floor.
See this face. This is the face of the Beast that was.
A man’s face appeared in Eddie’s mind—a thin black man with blood on his clothes. Eddie knew him at once. This was the face that the Beast had worn thirty years ago—the face he’d worn when he had cut a bloody swatch through the town. Eddie knew that face, had confronted him and had given him a chance to confess his evils, but the man had lied again—the Beast is the Father of Lies—and Eddie had struck him down. Other men had been there to help, but Eddie had struck the most telling blow. The killing blow.
The Beast has returned and wears a new face.
Eddie jumped. Always before the litany had ended at this point, but this was new and his flush of gratitude changed, becoming an immediate charge of thrilling electricity. God’s voice was filled with rage and Eddie trembled.
This then is the new face of the Beast. Look upon the face of the Beast and behold his deceptions.
Tow-Truck Eddie raised his face an inch, two inches, then a foot, and stared into the empty air. Instantly there was an image there—not floating in the air or described in the grain of the boards—but burning in his mind. A figure, slight and shabby, in jeans and a baggy windbreaker. It was a young person, a boy of no more than thirteen or fourteen, with curly red hair and pale skin and dark blue eyes. He was riding a bicycle along the black wavering length of a road that Eddie knew only too well. A-32.
Behold the Beast! roared the voice of God with such thunder that Eddie’s nose began to bleed.
Eddie pawed the blood away, wiping it on his thigh as he stared at the image in his mind.
“I am the Sword of God,” he croaked through the agony in his skull. “I am the instrument of the Lord and his will is as my own. With my body, my heart, and my immortal soul shall I serve the will of the Lord.”
This is your holy task…this is the mission for which you were born unto the earth.”
Blood flowed freely now from both nostrils but Eddie didn’t care. Through a throat choked with blood and while tears streamed down his face, he said, “I am the Sword of God…thy will be done!”
(6)
“How was last night’s take?” Crow asked as he gassed up one of the hayride’s utility ATVs. Coop was sitting on the top step of the porch out in front of the souvenir shop. “Terry told me they were supposed to bus in some kids from Doylestown.”
“Yeah, they brought the whole senior class from the high school,” Coop said. He was Terry’s brother-in-law and though he was hardly the sharpest nail in the tool kit, Crow liked him. “We were up about eight percent of the daily average, which is what Terry’ll like to hear. Though I guess you’d be happy to know that three of the girls came close to getting hysterical from screaming.”
Crow grinned as he screwed on the cap. “We aim to please.”
“You think Terry’s ever gonna come out here and see what you’ve done to the place?”
The Pine Deep Haunted Hayride was the largest and most profitable such attraction in the country. Terry had a staff of over a hundred teenagers and adults, he charged a frightening fee for tickets, had an amazing concession stand that sold everything from pumpkin-flavored milkshakes to Ghoul Burgers, and he carted the cash to the bank more or less in a wheelbarrow. Every year the place made newspapers all up and down the East Coast, and every year the major TV stations from Philly, Harrisburg, and New York did special segments on it. Yet, he never went to his own hayride, not even to inspect it in daylight hours.
“Not a chance. You know Terry.”
Five years ago he’d paid Crow a fat piece of change to design it and had kept him on the payroll as a consultant. Except for counting the receipts and signing the paychecks of the staff, Terry otherwise ignored the hayride. Weird, Crow mused, then thought with wry amusement that Pine Deep was probably the only town in America where a healthy dis-interest in the macabre was considered strange. Very, very weird.
“I was over there for dinner the other night,” Coop mused, “and I asked him about it. Want to take a guess at what he said?”
“Shit, I can tell you his exact words. He dropped into an approximation of Terry’s voice and said, “That hayride’s just a cash cow for me.”
“Yep.”
“He says that about fifty times a season.”
“Yep.”
“I’m heading out to the Zombie graveyard,” Crow said, straddling the ATV. “I wanted to boost the smoke machine a bit and maybe repaint the blood on the crypt walls.”
“Well, don’t make it too real,” Coop said. “You’ll be giving these kids heart attacks.”
Crow shook his head. “My idea of the absolutely perfect version of this hayride is one where the tourists have to take out insurance beforehand and get CPR afterward. Then I’ll be happy.” He started the ATV and gunned the engine.
“Hell, you’re more’n halfway there now.”
“Not good enough!” Crow yelled, and headed out into the vast tract of corn and pumpkin fields that was home to his hayride. As he rode, even though it was drowned out by the roar of the engine, he started humming “Black Ghost Blues” again, totally unaware that he was doing it.