Chapter 7: He is Your Father

Clay stopped in his tracks. Something strange, but awfully familiar seemed to display itself at the moment. Clay looked around. Everything seemed to be in its place. Clay listened. As on cue, the rustle of the leaves came as a whisper. And then, almost unexpectantly, a leave floats down in front of him and lands between his feet. This is it. This is the scene that Clay dreamt many nights before. This is where the voice of his father that should come through any moment. And as expected, it came.

“Hell-o Clay,” came the voice, as expected, “it’s been a long time, but I have come back as I promised.”
Clay looked at Mark. He stood there, leaning against the car, arms folded, a smirky smile on his face. Clay shook his head a bit, hoping he would awake again from this hellish dream. But nothing. Everything seemed to come into play this time.

Clay faced Mark down, and then with an agitated voice, asked, “did you say something?” Clay hoped that Mark would come back with nonsense gab. But he only smiled and repeated what Clay heard before: “it’s been a long time, but I have come back as I promised.”

Clay was about to jump on Mark for speaking such jibberish junk at a time like this. But something kept him spellbound. What did he mean by saying that it’s been a long time, and that he had come back as he promised. Mark wasn’t making any sense. Either he is delirious or gone mad. Clay couldn’t count on him. Clay turned to return to Cole when Mark again spoke,

“It happened right here,” came the voice, “it happened right here, many years ago.”

Clay abruptly turned back to face Mark. Taking one step forward, then freezing his position, he demanded further explanation on what Mark was saying.

“What in the hell do you mean, ‘it happened right here’,” Mark demanded. He still held the gun that he kept hidden in him pocket. If there was a moment to use it, Clay was tempted to use it right now. He was not in the mood playing speech games with a person who apparently wasn’t with it.

“It happened right here, twenty years ago, when your Mother made a pact with me,” Mark continued, extending his arms outward to signify the glory of the world, “give me riches, she said, and I will bear you a child.” The stranger smiled as though Clay was his sacrificial offering.

Clay backed off a little, keeping a small distance between him and the stranger. Mark, or someone pretending to be Mark, Clay couldn’t tell, continued,” I see that you look confused. I’m not Mark. I only took on his appearance so that you would’nt run away. He’s fine. He is with the rest of your friends,” the monster chuckled. It had to be a monster or something like that, Clay concluded. How else could this hellish night come about. Clay remained silent.
“All of you friends are inside me now. Phil, Van Kirk, Brock, Melennaie, even Susan,” the monster smirked as though something triumphant could be said of kidnapping and murder. “Would you like to talk to them? They will convince you of who I am.”

Clay remained still. What sense was there to argue. Either Mark has gone mad or Clay was hulcinating. Hulicinations can happen, Clay remembers from his pychologogy classes. They act as a form of escape. He brushed aside Mark’s ridculous comments, or whomever the person is, and decides to return to Cole. He begins to walk away when Mark, or some form of Mark, quickly siezes on his intention.

“He’s not there. Cole is inside me too,” the person quipped.

Clay paid no attention and crossed the lot to begin his accent to the grounds where Cole was left sobering. Each step, however, seemed to prove what the person was saying. Clay couldn’t see Cole anywhere. Not in front of the monument, not around the back. He was no where in sight. The only evidence that Cole must have been here moments ago was a faint whiff of a cigerette still burning in the grass, as though Cole dropped it abruptly because he had somewhere to go fast. Clay spanned the cementary grounds, hoping to catch any sign. More than anything, he needed someone to lean on, to talk to, someone other than himself to ward off Mark’s riduculous illusinations. But no one was in sight. No one ... except himself and Mark, who remained leaned against the car back at the lot.
Clay remained motionless for what seemed a long time. He dropped his head toward the ground, then cocked it back to view the sky. Back and forth many times over, thinking hard, very hard, on what he should do now. He didn’t like being alone.

A breeze whipped past his face from the far side of the cementary and jostled the few remaining leaves above Clay’s head. He looked up and watched with some pleasure as a handful of leaves briefly drifted, half drunkenly down to the ground. A couple of leaves lighted on the large monument, which Clay couldn’t help noticed the once-before inscription of Cole’s tomb. He read it again:

Hear lies Cole Maxwell Davis
Birth Date: March 24, 1980
Died: October 31, 2000

Clay stared at the inscription. It was like the end of a story, telling him that his good friend was gone for good. Like the others, he too had been taken.

Clay knelt down along the side of the tomb and stared at the inscription. The words came out of focus and he recalled the many good times he had with Cole, Brock, Van Kirk, and all the others. It was just recently they all drove up this hill to have some Halloween fun ... all of them, together, laughing and making fun as they climbed out the car to begin a journey that ended ...

Clay snapped himself out of his reverberations, stood, and then in anger, stomped back to the car that held questions that needed to be answered.

“You son-of-a-bitch!,” Clay barked loud and clear, hoping the tone of his voice awakens whoever was inside Mark. “You son-of-a bitch! Who in the hell do you think you are? Where are my friends, damn-it!”

Clay had enough of this game. If Mark, or whomever was responsible for what was going on, Clay was determined to end it now. If it means murder, then so be it. Clay withdrew his gun from his pocket as he approached the stranger. He cocked the trigger. One word, Clay thought, just one word from this cowardly bastard and he will shoot, so help him God. He will shoot, and will most likely take full pleasure in it.

“Where are my friends, you son-of-a-bitch! So help me, I’ll shoot if you don’t answer,” Clay demanded, this time at the top of his voice. He was determined to express his outrage, both audibly by his angered demands, and visually with a gun pointed at Mark’s head, hoping the display would arouse anyone, just anyone, if just anyone was anywhere to be found.

Clay approaches the stranger, gun extended, finger on the trigger, but just stops one foot from the point of the gun to the head of he stops just feet in front of the stranger. He looked different this time. Not as sheepish looking face as Mark, but rather more ruggud looking features . . . features, surprisingly, that resemble much of his own friend Cole.
“Cole! Is that you?”, Clay now lowered his gun, not wanting to appear the fool if this whole gig turns out to be some cocked-up plan to scare him. Clay was hoping at least, inside, that some big joke was being played. “Cole, talk to me damn-it! You are scary the hell of me. Where’s Mark?”

“Inside,” Cole said, or was it someone who looked like Cole. “Do you want to talk to him?”

“Shut-up!”, Clay interjected, “this isn’t funny. The game is over. I want everyone to come out and let’s go home.” Clay shouted loud into the night, shattering the silence that bound the crisp cool air. “You have all won,” Clay turns to face the cementary, “ I AM SCARED. SEE! SCARED. Now let’s get out of here,” Clay points to his chest signally that the game is over. He was the fool. They the triumphant victors. But as he look beyond the tombs, and in every perimeter view around him, there wasn’t a sign of anyone coming out of secluded places. He turned to face Cole — at least he thought it was Cole.

“This is not a game,” the stranger said, now taking on the appearance of Brock . . . than Phil . . . than Susan . . . then Van Kirk . . . then everyone else that was with Clay earlier this evening. Meleannie, Karen, Stuart, all of them. Right before Clay’s eyes as he watched unbelivably, frozen in his tracks, unable to move. Finally, the stranger took on the appearance of a man unlike anything Clay has seen. His features — deep eyes, pointed chin, rounded cheeks — all resembled the looks that Clay analzed each morning while he combed, washed, and peppered his own face for the onslaugt of the coming day. Could it, as he dreams so vividly hinted each night, could it be that this man was his father. Clay shook his head to refocus his eyes. It has been a long night. Perhaps he was seeing things. But a closer look revealed the resemblance that prompted Clay to seek answers.

“Who are you?” he finally remarked, no longer hiding behind some hope that this game will come to an end, “Why are you doing this to me?”

“I am your father,” the stranger quickly answered, “and I have come to take you home, as I promised.”

Clay only stared. What could he say. He did have a resemblance of himself, that was sure. And his dreams foretold a meeting like this, a meeting where he would meet his father. But what did he mean by, ‘I have come to take you home’. Clay shook his head slightly, indicating that a further explanation would be welcomed. So the stranger continued, this time in a pleasant voice that was soothing to the nerves that has gribbed Clay these past hours.

“You need to understand something, my son,” the stranger continued, “twenty years ago your mother made a promise with me. She would conceive me a son if I gave her in exchange worldly wealth and riches. She wanted it all, everything, even to the point of selling her soul. So she contacted me, right here at this cementary.”

The stranger leaned up from the car and walked a few yards toward the cementary grounds. Pointing, with his palm and fingers extended, he turned to Clay, shaking his hand up and down to emphasize his arguments, he continued to tell a story that was answering many of the questions that Clay held in his heart about his mother, his never-before-seen father, the friends that Mother accompanied, the dreams, everything about who is was and why he existed in a life that he has known for the past 20 years.

“She came here every night, at the stroke of midnight, kneeling in prayer, begging me to accept her offer,” the stranger gestured the Clay join him by his side. But Clay didn’t move. So the stranger walked back to Clay to finish his story eye-to-eye to assure Clay that the story he was telling was the truth.

“Finally, after many nights, I came to her. Right over there,” the stranger pointed to a far-off tomb that was long and flat, long enough to encase the coffin of someone 6 feet in height or more. “I said to her, ‘I will make a pact with you, but it is not your soul that I desire — I have too many of those already — what I need more than anything else is a son just like me. Tall, strong, handsome. Someone who can rule with me in the world down under.”

The stranger and with both arms fully extended, he opens them like the wings of a butterfly, signifying the glory of his kingdom that extended as far as the eyes could see. He pauses a bit, lets out a smirky chuckle, then turns his head to face Clay, “So she agreed. But,” as the stranger turns his body to face Clay, “ I insisted that she raise my boy for 20 years. I didn’t have a need for a young lad. I needed a man, a young man who can be trained to be like me. And now, it has been twenty years and I have come for you.”

Clay remained silent as he listened. Whomever this guy was, his speech seemed to put together the many puzzles that clouded Clay’s life. His homelife, his mother’s wealth, her many strange friends, the absense of any mentioning of his father. All of these nascenous seemed to be answerd while standing in front of this stranger. Clay quickly scanned the many years of his life, the many questions he raised about his life, and now, the many friends he now has missing. A sudden sadness fell over his face. His friends — especially Brock and Cole — were like family to him.

The stranger could read Clay’s face. He correctly interuppted his thoughts with this comment that first, relieved Clay, since now he could put closure on the mystery of his missing friends. But as the stranger continued, rage quickly took over. Clay was insensed by his comment which went like this,

“It’s too bad you came up here with your friends. They didn’t need to be involved. But they were. They would have joined us later in life, perhaps some of them a bit earlier than others. So I took them now. They are all in here ... here I mean ...,” the stranger walks and few feet and faces the cementary beyond, with outstretched arms, “...here, my boy. Where you and me will rule.”

Clay’ dreams, the many unanswered, recurring dreams that he had these many forenights were coming back. It was like reliving his dream, exactly as it unfolded. Clay turns his head to look around. Everything is now familiar. The parking lot, the hill running up the mountain behind him, the cementary that spanned in front of him a complete half circle. And now this stranger, this man, who in his dreams resembled his father, stands before him. What hell has Clay entered, he wondered. In his dream, he simply would awake to escape. Now, he simply must face the reality that plays before him.

“You and I,” the stranger says softly, as he turns and faces Clay eye to eye, “you and I, together. It’s been twenty years. My wait is now over.”

Twenty years. Clay thought. Twenty years for what. Clay seemed bewildered. “I’m only 19,” he says in defiance, his first words after what seemed a long night, “I’m only 19. I won’t be 20 years old until next summer. You’ve got the wrong boy, old man.”

Clay tried desperately to turn this event around, anything to stop this hellish talk about selling one’s soul, ruling the dead, taking his friends, coming back for him.

“I’M ONLY 19 . . .19 . . .19, “ Clay repeated over and over again. Raising his voice with each repetition. He was getting angry. This encounter has gone on long enough. He was getting very agitated about this whole affair, disturbed enough that a violent rage was spreading into his whole being. He pulled his gun.

“I’m only 19!. I am not your person. And if you want to live, you better get the hell out of here before ... I swear, before I blow your head off. Get out of here!” Clay demanded, raising his gun face level with the stranger, finger on trigger.

The stranger remained motionless, peering down the barrel of loaded, cocked handgun. He seemed pleased, as though Clay had the correct instincts. Clay sensed his demeanor.

“Get out of here!,” Clay continued. “Right now!,” he barked at the top of his voice. “I swear, I will kill you.”
The two men stared each other down, one with a raised, loaded gun, the other with a smirking smile. Silence ruled at the moment. Clay motions his gun forward, repeating his demands that the stranger should leave. Silence ruled again.
Finally, with the jostle of the trees, and another rush sound of the wind coming down the hill side, the stranger backed away a few steps and motioned that he was going to obey Clay’s command. He turns sidewise, looks back at Clay, and smiles, ‘That’s good, my boy!”, he moves his chin up and down to signal approval. “Twenty years. I’ll be back.”

The stranger smiles one last time, turns and walks towards the cementary. He proceeds on the ground and continues further on, deep inside until Clay couldn’t see him anymore. He finally disappeared out of sight.

Clay remained where he was, standing tall, arm stretched out, gun held firmly in his hand. He was not taking any chances. If he comes back, for any reason, he will shoot. Yes he will, as he watches with some satisfaction when the stranger grew fainter and fainter against the horizon.

Clay stood motionless for a long while. He turned his wrist to catch the time. It was half past two in the morning. Day light should come 2-3 hours, so he hoped. October 31 were be over and perhaps this whole hellish night. It must be a dream, as he stood erect like some sentry on a battlefield. Perhaps daylight will wake me from whatever is holding him in this dream. Clay looks at his watch again. Twenty minutes past the hour. This whole evening started around 9:00. Unbeliveable! Almost five hours of pull hell.

Clay backs up a few steps and leans against the car. He was not going to let his gun down for anything. He wasn’t tired. surprisely. If needed, he could keep this position until the first light. He scanned the cementary. Nothing. No sign of his friends nor this stranger. Preposterous, Clay thought. Rule the dead with this man . . . this man who claims to be his father. Clay drew a smile, his first since that time that Susan was missing. And then a sad frown returned to his face as he recalled his friends. Something has happened. What?!, he just couldn’t answer. He will stand here and wait. Eventually they will show up, he hopes. For now, he didn’t want to think about it. He will think about it in the morning. He looked at his watch again. 2:40. Just three more hours.