Everville by Clive Barker

Author:Clive Barker
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Unknown, Horror, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, fiction
ISBN: 9780007378203
Publisher: Harper Perennial
Published: 1999-11-02T23:00:00+00:00

The heat did nothing for his equilibrium. Lingering in Wishek, hoping to discover where Kissoon had

headed next, his fears grew gross in the swelter, and bred hallucinations. Twice in two days he thought he saw Kissoon out walking, and pursued him around corners only to find the streets empty. And at dusk, watching the solid world succumb to doubt, he seemed to see the shadows shift, as though darkness was the weakest place in the Cosm’s wall, and there the cracks were beginning to show. He looked for some comfort in the people around him, the tough, uncomplicated men and women who had chosen this joyless corner of the planet to call home. Surely there was some reserve of hard-won truth in them that would help him keep the delirium at arm’s distance. He couldn’t ask for evidence of it outright, of course (they already viewed his presence with suspicion enough), but he made a point of listening to their exchanges, hoping to find some plain wisdom there that could be used against the insanities he felt creeping upon him. But there was no solace in his study. They were as sad and cruel and lost as any people he’d encountered. By day they made their dull rounds with sullen faces, their feelings locked out of sight. By night, the men got drunk (and sometimes violent) while the women stayed home, watching the same chat shows and cop shows that softened wits from coast to coast. He was glad to go, finally, into Minnesota, where he’d read of an incident of cult murder outside Duluth, and hoped to discover Kissoon’s hand at work. He was disappointed. The day after his arrival, the cultists—two brothers and their shared mistress, all three in severely psychotic states—were arrested and admitted to the slaughter.

With the trail growing colder by the hour, he contemplated traveling down into Nebraska and hooking up with Grillo in Omaha. It was not his preference—the man’s contempt still rankled—but he increasingly suspected he had no choice. He put off calling Grillo for a day. Then, finally, dulling his irritation with half a bottle of scotch, he made the call, only to discover that Grillo wasn’t home. He declined to leave a message, fearful as ever that the wrong ears would be attending to it. Instead, he finished off the other half bottle, and went to bed drunker than he’d been in many a year. And he dreamed; dreamed he was back in Wyckoff Street, up in that foul room with the demon that had slaughtered Father Hess, its flesh like embers in a gusty wind, dimming and brightening in the murky air. It had called itself by many names during the long hours of their confrontation: the Hammermite, Peter the Nomad, Lazy Susan. But towards the end, either out of fatigue or boredom, it gave up all its personas but one.

“I am D’Amour,” it had said, over and over. “I am you and you are love and that’s what makes the world go round.

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