Temporada de tormentas – Creepypasta

"Qué lío es esto".

El detective Mike Barrow estaba en lo alto de una colina fangosa en una húmeda mañana de lunes, mirando a un pequeño equipo de policías en un barranco densamente boscoso. En medio de la acción había un cadáver que aparentemente había aparecido en la orilla del río debajo de ellos. Se dio cuenta de que todos estaban trabajando más rápido de lo habitual, tratando de salir del sofocante calor del verano del Medio Oeste. La tormenta del día anterior no había ayudado a nada. Todo el lecho del río estaba plagado de insectos, la camisa de manga larga que Mike siempre usaba estaba empapada de humedad y el terreno a su alrededor era puro barro. Inspeccionó el terreno por un momento, tratando de encontrar una manera de bajar la cresta lo más limpiamente posible. Mientras sus ojos buscaban, una mano presionó su espalda y le dio un empujón lo suficiente como para hacerla perder momentáneamente el equilibrio en la tierra húmeda.

¡No te caigas, Mike! dijo la chica detrás de él con una fingida sorpresa en su voz. Su compañera, María Rivela, se le acercó y le sonrió. "Es suficiente con terminar con eso. Es solo barro. A diferencia de la apariencia impecable de Barrow, María vestía una blusa de manga corta con un tono amarillo chillón que parecía sacado de un cesto de ropa sucia. Si bien es posible que el Departamento de Policía de Odella no haya tenido los estándares profesionales de una gran ciudad, aún así empujó los límites de lo que era aceptable.

"Lindo, Rivela", dijo Barrow. "Pero acabo de limpiar esto en seco ayer". Esperando a que los chicos de la escena del crimen lo arrastraran hasta aquí. Su compañero enarcó una ceja.

– Oh, vamos, dijo ella, inclinando la cabeza. "Bueno, supongo que tendré que arreglarlo yo mismo antes de que puedas siquiera mirar al tipo". María pasó por encima del borde de la cresta y se deslizó por la pendiente fangosa, lo que parecía fácil.

"Maldita sea." Mike se arremangó y empezó a caminar colina abajo él mismo. Para cuando llegó a las orillas del arroyo, Rivela había dado la vuelta a toda la escena. Nadie podría culparlo por su eficiencia. Antes de que pudiera hablar con nadie más, ella apareció junto a él sosteniendo una bolsa de pruebas con la billetera de la víctima.

"Bueno, eso no podría haberle pasado a un tipo más agradable", dijo, sosteniendo la identificación con foto hacia Barrow. "James Myers". El nombre sonó con fuerza.

"¿Te refieres a Jimmy Rivers?" Preguntó, deteniéndose para quitarse un insecto de la cara. " Cómo murió ? "

"Por lo que podemos juzgar, de una manera que hace que su apodo sea muy irónico", dijo Rivela. “A juzgar por las huellas en el suelo, salió del río durante la tormenta de anoche. Debe haber caído en algún lugar y haber quedado atrapado en la corriente.

"¿Eso lo mató?" "

"No, esa sería la rama que cayó del árbol allá arriba y aterrizó en su cabeza". Vieron cómo el equipo cargaba el cuerpo y comenzaba a llevarlo hacia la carretera de arriba. Mike no pudo evitar hacer una mueca cuando notó que la bolsa para cadáveres estaba visiblemente plana alrededor del área de la cabeza.

"¿Me dices que sobrevivió al ser arrastrado por el río para arrastrarse por la orilla y ser agrietado por un árbol?" "

"Maldita sea, ¿no?" Preguntó Rivela. Su tono no simpatizaba con Jimmy Rivers. Barrow sabía que el tipo era un traficante de drogas sucio. Sabía mejor que la mayoría lo malo que era este tipo. Sin embargo, dudaba que alguien mereciera morir así. Escuchó sonar el teléfono de María cuando se acercó para investigar la escena. Como ella dijo, una gran trinchera de barro cubierta con huellas de zapatos y agarraderas conducía desde el río hasta un punto rojo pardusco en el suelo donde una gran rama había sido enrollada hacia un lado.

"¡Miguel!" llamó María. “¡Tenemos algo! Empezó a volverse para escuchar lo que había encontrado, pero algo extraño llamó su atención. El extremo de la rama estaba ennegrecido y carbonizado. Había asumido que el viento se lo había llevado, pero eso significaba que debía haber sido alcanzado por un rayo. Miró hacia los árboles, preguntándose qué tan desafortunado era realmente Myers.

"¿Qué es ésto?" preguntó, volviendo a Rivela, sin prisa por la colina fangosa.

“Recibimos un reporte de un auto abandonado hace unos minutos. Revisamos las placas y pertenecía a Jimmy.

"¿O?"

"Arriba en el área de descanso en la autopista."

– Es media milla, Rivela, dijo. "Y si mal no recuerdo, el río no está exactamente cerca del estacionamiento. La única forma de llegar al río es si estaba realmente borracho o si alguien lo está persiguiendo allí.

"O si alguien lo usa", dijo María, mirando a su compañero a los ojos. “Podría ser una ejecución que no salió bien. Quizás intentó caminar a través de Hawthorne.

"¿Otra vez? ¿En serio?" Barrow preguntó con leve exasperación. "Todo lo que está pasando aquí no es culpa de Hawthorne. Regresemos a la estación y veamos qué está pasando con el cuerpo.

Mike sabía que podría haber algo de verdad en la línea de pensamiento de María. A veces parecía que todo lo que había sucedido en la zona podía atribuirse a Isaiah Hawthorne. Su pandilla, los Thorns, operaba como un cartel del Medio Oeste, esparciendo drogas e influencia por medio país. Incluso los operadores de pueblos pequeños como Myers trabajaban para él. Aquellos que intentaron permanecer independientes parecían encontrarse en zanjas y callejones. Pero no podía ser su trabajo. Fue demasiado brutal y, según todos los informes, Myers era demasiado leal.

Mike había empezado a subir la colina cuando algo llamó su atención.

– Rivela, dijo. "¿Qué opinas? Señaló el costado de un árbol caído medio enterrado en el barro. Un extraño símbolo estaba grabado en el costado del árbol. Los dos se abrieron paso por el barro para inspeccionarlo.

“Parece un siete atrás”, dijo María. "Pero, como una fantasía." Mike tenía que estar bien. Tenía curvas, florituras y una línea cruel en el centro. No había forma de que fuera natural o accidental. Alguien lo había tallado a propósito.

"¿Te suena genial?" Preguntó Barrow.

"No puedo decirlo", dijo. “Sabes que los niños salen al bosque todo el tiempo. Salen de las cámaras y van en busca de monstruos como en todas las historias. ¿Quizás esté destinado a ser algo antiguo y místico? "

"Sí, tal vez", respondió. Se volvió hacia la cima de la cresta, pero una sensación de frío había comenzado a desarrollarse en su estómago, a pesar del calor sofocante. Todavía había fragmentos en el borde de este símbolo. Parecía recién esculpido. Muy recien tallada.

Después de un breve pero frustrante ascenso, estaban de regreso en su coche hacia el pueblo de Odella. La única razón por la que le importaba a alguien fuera de la ciudad era la prisión estatal de Odella, que residía en las afueras de la ciudad. Aparte de eso, era una ciudad idílica y aburrida con calles llenas de baches con nombres de árboles al azar. Mientras atravesaban el centro de la ciudad, pasaron por edificios llenos de pequeños cafés, tiendas de antigüedades, pubs locales y casas de empeño, la mayoría con carteles que decían "Go Omegas", en referencia a los equipos deportivos de la escuela secundaria. En este momento, en el calor del verano, los carteles tenían un tema de béisbol, pero terminarían girando entre el fútbol y el baloncesto. El propio hijo de Mike, Matthew, estaba en la mayoría de estos equipos, más por la presión de Mike que por un verdadero amor por el deporte. Siempre decía que los niños necesitaban algo para salir del lío. De lo contrario, terminan mezclándose con personas como Myers.

"Pasa por Gerry's", le dijo Mike a María desde el asiento del pasajero.

"¿¿De nuevo??" ella dijo. “¡Estas son las peores panaderías de la ciudad! ¿Por qué insistes en ir?

“También son los más baratos de la ciudad. Y el nuevo cajero es muy lindo.

"¿Qué diría tu esposa si te escuchara hablar así?" Rivela dijo con una sonrisa mientras estacionaba el auto. "Al menos consigue un pastel de café o algo en lugar de las donas". Mike trató de quitar la mayor cantidad posible de barro endurecido de su camisa y saltó fuera del auto. “¡Estás perpetuando un estereotipo de policías, sabes! "

Más tarde, cuando llegaron a la estación, Barrow tomó su caja de donas frescas y salió del auto. Se volvió para ver a su compañero agarrar el volante por un momento y tomar una respiración profunda. Él había pensado que ella estaba teniendo resaca de nuevo, pero ella lo ocultó lo suficientemente bien como para que él necesitara un buen ojo para verla luchar. El clima cálido no pudo ayudar. Mientras ella luchaba y salía del coche, sonriendo de nuevo, él la estudió un poco más de cerca.

Los dos eran una pareja extraña, eso es seguro. La chica era una belleza clásica, incluso con su cabello negro azabache cortado en un estilo punk medio afeitado que él apenas podía soportar. Su piel crujiente color moka estaba medio cubierta de tatuajes. La variedad fue asombrosa para Barrow. Había un corazón de alambre de púas, un querubín con un rifle de asalto y una caricatura de la Parca en su brazo que podía hacer bailar girando la mano.

Mientras tanto, tardó una hora por la mañana en verse presentable, incluso con el mejor disfraz (y postizo) que podía pagar. Todavía estaba asombrado de que su esposa, Sarah, se hubiera quedado con él durante tanto tiempo. Todavía no estaba emocionada de que estuviera caminando por la ciudad con la joven.

Al entrar en la estación, Mike pasó junto al mostrador de recepción, colocó la caja de donas en la mesa de la sala de descanso y los dos se dirigieron a su escritorio. Al pasar por una serie de imágenes de ex oficiales, todavía tenía que echar un vistazo a una determinada imagen. Estaba leyendo "Isabella Rivela" y era la viva imagen de la chica caminando a su lado, menos los tatuajes y los ojos ligeramente vidriosos. La abuela de María todavía era una leyenda en el Departamento de Policía de Odella, muerta en un brutal motín en la prisión 48 años antes. Esta fue la razón principal por la que a menudo se hacía la vista gorda ante su carácter poco profesional y su ominosa obsesión con Hawthorne.

Más tarde, al final de sus turnos, no estaban mejor que antes. Myers no tenía drogas ni alcohol en su sistema, sus huellas eran las únicas que conducían al río desde el área de descanso, y no tenían testigos, pistas, pruebas o sospechosos prometedores.

“No me digas que estamos renunciando a esto. "

"Cualquier cosa podría haber pasado allí, Rivela", dijo Mike, dirigiéndose hacia la puerta. “Si obtenemos alguna información, podemos volver a ella, pero por ahora la muerte de Myers es un accidente. Por lo que sabemos, estaba orinando junto al río y fue golpeado por una ráfaga de viento.

"¿Karma va a volver a morderle el culo?"

"Todo lo que quieras", dice. “Todavía tengo que ir a la escuela secundaria. Están tratando de jugar el juego antes de que llegue otra tormenta esta noche y mi esposa me matará si me pierdo otra.

"¿Matthew todavía está calentando el banco?" María preguntó con una sonrisa.

"Sí, pero es bueno en eso", dijo Barrow. Nos vemos mañana, Rivela. ¡Evite problemas! "

– Lo haría, dijo María, muy consciente de que ambos sabían que ella estaría en el Fifth Street Pub en diez minutos.

Fue una noche tan normal como Mike podía esperar después de eso. Los Omegas perdieron su tercer juego consecutivo y todos se dispersaron fuera del diamante cuando empezó a llover. Entre la tormenta y el negocio, no durmió mucho esa noche. La muerte de Myers en realidad podría ser un accidente, pero Mike lo dudaba. Conocía demasiado bien la reputación del hombre. Tenía las manos manchadas de sangre y mucha gente lo quería muerto. Si alguien se ha vengado de él, bien por él. Cuando Hawthorne se enteró, Dios se apiade de sus almas.

Casi de inmediato, a la mañana siguiente, llegó otra llamada con respecto a una muerte misteriosa. Fue casi un alivio para Mike poder olvidarse del narcotraficante. Fue mucho menos un alivio cuando vio que la dirección era un antiguo complejo de apartamentos en las afueras de la ciudad. No era el lugar más amigable de la ciudad, y no era particularmente bienvenido allí después de que sucedieron algunos eventos varios años antes. De hecho, la dueña del edificio, Carla Stanton, podría ser la única persona que la ama en toda la cuadra.

Veinte minutos después, Mike estaba de pie junto a la piscina del complejo de apartamentos y miraba el cuerpo de Carla flotando en el agua, el olor a cloro casi abrumador en el calor. Mientras Rivela hablaba con el investigador principal de la escena del crimen, escaneó el bloque de apartamentos de tres pisos que rodeaba el patio central con la piscina. Había muchas cortinas moviéndose y ojos atentos. Lo último que querían estas personas era que vinieran los policías y les hicieran preguntas. Si alguien sabía quién estaba a cargo, esta gente no lo iba a encubrir.

No era ningún secreto que la majestuosa mujer de unos cuarenta años no era la casera más popular del mundo. Entre aumentos de alquiler, mal estado de mantenimiento del edificio y más de unos pocos desahucios cuestionables, la lista de sospechosos sería larga. Mike se volvió para encontrar a María caminando hacia él.

"Bueno, este va a ser extraño", dijo con una expresión de consternación.

"¿Tienen ya una causa de muerte?" "

“Uno bastante sólido también. Ella se tiró desde su balcón allá arriba y murió golpeando el agua.

"Estás bromeando", dijo Mike. Miró hacia el tercer piso. Los apartamentos de los extremos sí tenían balcones salientes. El problema era que el balcón fuera del apartamento de la esquina de Carla estaba a unos 20 pies de la piscina. "¿Estás diciendo que alguien la tiró por el balcón, mientras estaba viva y probablemente luchando, y golpeó el centro de la piscina a esa distancia?"

"Dije que iba a ser extraño. Y se está volviendo más y más extraño ”, dijo.

“Genial, ¿ahora qué? "

"La señora que vive en la casa de enfrente dice que lo ha visto todo", dijo María. "Escuché gritos afuera durante la tormenta, fui a la ventana y vi a Carla en su balcón gritándole a alguien a todo pulmón".

"¿OMS?"

"Esa es la cosa", dijo. “Ella aparentemente estaba gritando en el aire. Entonces entró una gran ráfaga de viento, casi rompió la mitad de las ventanas del edificio, y lo siguiente que supo es que Carla está en la piscina.

Mike la miró por un momento, esperando que agregara algo que ayudara a hacer esto más significativo. Volvió a mirar al balcón y luego bajó hacia Carla en la piscina. Tuvo un flashback de Jimmy Rivers tirado en un barranco hace dos días, sin otra explicación que "la tormenta lo hizo". Algo más grande estaba sucediendo aquí, pero maldita sea si él sabía qué.

Justo cuando estaba a punto de alejarse de la piscina, la vio: una marca grabada en el cemento; una marca como un siete que le recordaba a un árbol caído en un barranco. Le dio un codazo a Rivela y señaló el suelo. Su mandíbula cayó ligeramente cuando vio la marca.

– Debes estar bromeando, dijo en voz baja. Se arrodilló y pasó una mano por encima. "Debe ser algún tipo de firma, ¿verdad?" Si alguien hubiera perseguido a Myers en el río, podrían haberlo seguido y haberlo quemado en el árbol.

"Creo que tal vez deberíamos empezar a tratar su muerte como un homicidio", respondió Barrow tímidamente. "¿Pero quién diablos querría que él y Carla murieran?" ¿Y cómo diablos pudieron hacerle eso a Carla?

"Oficialmente se está volviendo demasiado extraño para mi gusto", dijo María. "Y generalmente estoy de acuerdo con lo extraño".

Se estaban girando para entrar al estacionamiento cuando un oficial de uniforme corrió hacia ellos. Mike lo reconoció como un recluta llamado Paul algo u otro y parecía que acababa de llegar aquí con prisa.

¡Detective Rivela! dijo mientras se acercaba a ella primero. "¡Acabo de enterarme de la señorita Stanton!" Debería habérselo dicho a alguien anoche, ¡pero pensé que me llamarían loco! "

"¿Nos dijiste qué? Preguntó Barrow, enfurecido alrededor de María hacia el niño.

“Llamó a la estación ayer por la mañana temprano. Dijo que había un intruso fuera de su apartamento, así que salí a echar un vistazo.

"¿Y por qué diablos no había nadie mirándola anoche, entonces?" Preguntó Mike.

– Señor, dijo el oficial. "Dijo que alguien le estaba gritando desde su balcón. Son tres pisos sin acceso. ¡Pensé que debía estar drogada o algo así! Barrow respiró hondo y se acercó a su coche mientras Rivela brindaba por el niño. Al llegar, encontró a alguien esperándolo. Era una mujer mayor con un vestido de verano de flores. Se puso de pie con un comportamiento majestuoso que contrastaba con los mechones grises del cabello una vez oscuro y suelto y la rigidez artrítica de sus nudillos. Calculó al detective, con una expresión de desdén evidente en su rostro. Barrow maldijo entre dientes.

"Hola, Sra. Harris", dijo. "¿En qué te puedo ayudar?"

“La muerte de esta mujer no fue un accidente”, dijo Rose Harris. Su voz estaba tensa. La última vez que los dos se habían conocido no había sido en buenos términos, pero todo lo que quería era lo suficientemente terrible como para dejarlo de lado momentáneamente.

"¿Es verdad?"

"Fue el Clamatormentas", dijo susurrando la palabra.

"¿Es esto una especie de leyenda de Malcaw?" Preguntó Mike. Se quedó mirando las dagas en sus ojos azul pálido; del tipo que llamaban Ojos de Malcaw en el condado de Aldona. Era una tribu con una historia sangrienta que alguna vez fue temida por los nativos y colonos. Fue hace mucho tiempo, pero la palabra todavía tenía una connotación siniestra en las partes más antiguas de la zona. Las viejas historias murieron muy lentamente en los pueblos pequeños. Rose no respondió de inmediato, aparentemente calibrando sus palabras.

"El Malcaw tenía muchas leyendas, inspector", dijo finalmente. "Muchas leyendas, muchos espíritus y muchos dioses antiguos. No todos fueron amables con la humanidad.

"Bueno, si me encuentro con dioses, iré a pedirte consejo", dijo, volviéndose para entrar en su coche.

"Escuché que James Myers está muerto", dijo ella, lo que hizo que se detuviera a mitad de camino. Y que murió de forma extraña, como la señorita Stanton. La noticia se extendió rápidamente a los pueblos pequeños.

"Pensé que estarías más feliz", dijo Barrow. "Un bastardo y su arrendador de precios elevados se han ido". "

"Me echó el mes pasado", dijo Harris. “Vivo … en otro lugar ahora. "

"Siento oír eso." Una larga pausa flotaba en el aire.

"Mi hijo se fue por James Myers y por usted, inspector Barrow", dijo. "Pero si el Clamatormentas regresa, muchas otras personas van a morir. Y tienes que salvarlas.

"¿Yo, precisamente?" ¿Por qué?"

– Porque viene por los malos, inspector. ¿Crees que esto vendrá por ti?

"¡Tengo mejores cosas que hacer que apoyarme en tus locas leyendas!" Dijo Barrow, con una pizca de ira en su voz.

La mirada de Rose Harris se entrecerró. Ella retiró una mano y le dio una bofetada en la cara. Se volvió y se alejó enojada cuando Mike se tambaleó por el golpe sorprendentemente doloroso. Escuchó una burla desde el otro lado del auto y se volvió para ver a Rivela mirándolo con una sonrisa divertida.

"Tienes sentido con las mujeres, ¿no es así, Mike? "

"Entrar en el coche."

El viaje de regreso a la estación fue en gran parte silencioso. Rivela debió sentir que Mike necesitaba tiempo para aclararse la cabeza y solo vio a la gente caminar por las calles de Odella. Saludó a un grupo de niños que jugaban en la acera. Le respondieron con entusiasmo.

Mike y Carla no habían sido cercanos en un tiempo, pero hubo un tiempo, no hace mucho, cuando fueron un elemento. Incluso había considerado proponerle matrimonio. Sin embargo, no había funcionado y terminaron yendo por caminos separados. Hablaban de vez en cuando y él la había ayudado a salir de algunas violaciones del código de salud, pero ese era el alcance de su relación actual. Aún así, cuando la víctima era alguien a quien conocía, hace mucho tiempo o no, se le ocurrió. Trató de aclarar su mente concentrándose en la otra cosa que había aprendido ese día.

"¿Te gustan las leyendas indias, Rivela?" "

María se volvió hacia él con una mirada interrogante y dijo: “¿Cuál? Toda esta región está cargada de eso. Tienes las leyendas caníbales en Campsong, los fantasmas en el bosque en Arbormill, etcétera, etcétera.

"Harris estaba hablando de algo llamado Stormcaller", dijo. “Dijo que mató a gente mala. Mike podía ver los engranajes en su cabeza funcionando mientras pensaba en ello. Finalmente, ella solo lo miró y negó con la cabeza.

“No uno que yo sepa. "

"¿Conoces a alguien que podría serlo?" "

"Diablos si lo sé." Quizás el museo de Arbormill. No me digas que estás empezando a creer en historias de fantasmas.

"No, pero si Harris comienza a difundir este rumor, no sería una mala idea saberlo. ¿Recuerdas los 'asesinatos por hambre' hace veinte años?"

"Yo estaba fuera de la ciudad y también, como, cinco cuando esto cayó".

"Está bien", dijo Mike, suspirando de manera exagerada. "Comenzaron a encontrar en el bosque cuerpos mutilados y a medio comer que coincidían con los detalles de una vieja leyenda sobre un monstruo llamado 'El Hambre'. Entonces, siendo el condado de Aldona, los rumores comienzan a circular y en lugar de, digamos, mirar sospechosos gente, todo el mundo quema incienso y canta en la encrucijada. Cualquier investigación normal que pudiéramos haber hecho fue por la ventana ".

"¿Entonces que hiciste?"

“Hicimos casi todo lo que pudimos, pero no pudimos encontrar una pista para salvar nuestras vidas. Finalmente, la gente ve humo que se eleva desde los bosques hacia el este. Vamos a comprobar y encontramos este claro en el bosque que está humeando y lleno de cadáveres. ¿Honestamente? Fue lo peor que he visto en mi vida. La mayoría de los alumnos por aquí ni siquiera hablan de eso.

"¿Qué pasó después?"

"Las matanzas acaban de cesar. Si el asesino murió quemado allí o simplemente se fue de la ciudad, no lo sabemos. Solo sé que el caso aún está abierto y no quiero que suceda lo mismo esta vez.

"Entonces, ¿crees que estas muertes podrían ser de alguien imitando a ese otro monstruo?"

"No lo sabré hasta que sepa más al respecto", dijo. "No pensé que fuera un aficionado a la historia, ¿verdad, Rivela?" "

"No desde que tuve que recordarte que no ganamos Vietnam".

"Tu dices."

De regreso a la estación, Mike buscó el número del museo y fue a una sala de interrogatorios, dejando que María completara los papeles. Quería algo de privacidad si iba a llamar a un museo sobre casos oficiales de la policía que involucraban monstruos. Anterior o no, eso no era algo que quisiera tomar para después. Hundiéndose en una de las habitaciones de hormigón gris, sacó su teléfono y llamó al número. Se necesitaron cinco o seis timbres, pero finalmente respondió un hombre con una voz baja y murmurada.

"Sociedad Histórica Arbormill", dijo el hombre. "Thomas Lyndon, curador, hablando".

"Sí, soy el detective Mike Barrow de la policía de Odella". Tengo un caso extraño que podría estar relacionado con una leyenda indígena y me preguntaba si podrían ayudarme.

"¡Estaría más que feliz de ayudarlo, inspector!" Dijo Lydon, su voz adquiriendo un tono más animado. “¡La mitología local es nuestra especialidad! "

"Impresionante", dijo Barrow, fingiendo entusiasmo. “Tengo dos casos en los que alguien está vinculado a un monstruo llamado Stormcaller. ¿Este nombre significa algo para ti? Hubo un pesado silencio al otro lado del teléfono. Finalmente, respondió el historiador.

"Supongo que eso significa que alguien está muerto", dijo. A pesar de su falta de fe, un escalofrío recorrió la columna vertebral de Barrow. “Conozco los vagos detalles, pero déjame buscar un libro sobre el tema. Vuelvo enseguida."

"Tómate tu tiempo", dijo Mike, mirando su reloj. Afortunadamente, el curador solo tardó unos minutos en encontrar su información.

"Está bien", comenzó. “El Stormcaller es una vieja historia. Una historia muy antigua. La primera versión de la criatura se describe en Mesopotamia alrededor del 4000 a. C.

"Espera, pensé que esto era una leyenda de Malcaw, no algo del Medio Oriente".

“Malcaw es la única versión actual que usa el nombre original de Stormcaller. Los vástagos más famosos de la leyenda son las Furias en la mitología griega y las Banshee en el folclore irlandés. Muchas otras culturas tenían criaturas similares, pero la leyenda principal se conoce comúnmente como Storm Banshee en los círculos académicos. "

"Entonces, ¿qué hace una Storm Banshee?" "

"Según la leyenda original, así como la versión nativa, la criatura solo se despierta durante las tormentas, principalmente durante las estaciones en las que son casi continuas".

– Como ahora, dijo el detective.

"Exactamente. Necesita esas estaciones porque durante la primera noche aparece frente a su víctima y le grita, su grito oculto por la tormenta a todos menos a su presa. En la noche de la próxima tormenta regresa, ellos. Mata". , luego vuela para encontrar una nueva víctima.

"¿Dijiste que estaba volando?" "

"Sí, todavía se le representa como una criatura alada". Mike no pudo evitar imaginarse algo parado en el balcón de Carla. Algo con alas. Algo gritando.

"¿Algo más?"

"Eh bien," marmonna l'historien, hésitant un instant. « Certaines personnes considèrent cette créature comme positive. On dit qu'il ne s'en prend qu'aux méchants qui sont restés impunis pour leurs crimes. Un document trouvé à l'époque de l'empire perse déclare qu'« il lave les méchants comme la tempête lave la saleté de la terre ». Et ces gens ne meurent pas vite, inspecteur. Ils sont censés mourir de manière très douloureuse et angoissante. Puis-je demander comment ces gens sont morts ?

"Je ne peux pas divulguer cette information, M. Lydon", a déclaré Mike. "Mais… merci pour votre aide."

« N'importe quand, inspecteur. Barrow était sur le point de raccrocher lorsqu'une pensée lui vint à l'esprit.

« Encore une chose. »

"Oui?"

« Vous ne sauriez rien d'un symbole qui ressemble à un sept en arrière, n'est-ce pas ? » Il y eut un moment de silence sur la ligne, encore plus lourd que la pause précédente. Il pensait qu'il avait peut-être été déconnecté, mais le conservateur a finalement répondu.

« Est-ce que ça aurait pu être une faux ? » En y repensant, Mike n'arrivait pas à croire qu'il n'avait pas déjà vu ça.

"C'était peut-être le cas."

— La Marque du Moissonneur, dit Lydon à voix basse.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?"

« Sautoras le Moissonneur est le dieu protecteur des Malcaw. Il n'apparaît que dans le plus ancien des textes.

« Combien de personnes connaîtraient cette marque ? »

« Pas beaucoup, dit Lydon. « J'ai appris ce que je sais du département d'histoire de l'Université John Barons de Chicago. Arbormill College a également des connaissances en la matière. Ce ne sont pas des sujets bien connus.

"Très bien", a déclaré Barrow. "Merci encore."

"Pas un problème", a déclaré Lydon. « Et détective ? Fais attention." Il y eut un clic à la fin de l'appel.

En retournant à son bureau, une pensée avait commencé à rouler dans sa tête. On ne savait pas grand-chose d'Isaiah Hawthorne, mais ils savaient qu'il avait commencé à Chicago. Barrow ne pouvait s'empêcher de se demander s'il avait quelque chose à voir avec l'Université John Barons ; plus précisément, le département d'histoire. Alors qu'il atteignait son bureau, Maria se tourna vers lui avec un regard hanté dans les yeux.

— Mike, dit-elle en posant un dossier sur le bureau. « Je viens de recevoir le rapport sur Carla. Il n'y avait aucune marque sur elle autre que ce qui aurait été là de l'impact avec l'eau. Pas de blessures défensives ni de signes de lutte. Et… elle n'est apparemment pas morte de la chute. Elle s'est noyée. Barrow ramassa lentement le dossier et le lut sans dire un mot. Il s'arrêta plus d'un instant devant la photo de Carla allongée sur la table d'autopsie. Il n'arrivait pas à croire qu'il ne reverrait plus jamais ce visage radieux vivant.

« Est-ce que ça va aller ? » demanda Marie.

Mike n'a pas répondu. Il a seulement regardé par la fenêtre à travers son bureau. Il y avait un orage à l'horizon.

Cela n'a semblé être une surprise pour personne lorsque le rapport d'un décès est arrivé vers midi le lendemain. Un homme du nom d'Elliot Marning ne s'était pas présenté à son travail à la banque. Craignant le pire avec les rumeurs qui se répandaient déjà dans la ville, un collègue s'était rendu chez lui à la campagne à l'extérieur d'Odella. Ils ont trouvé la fenêtre avant brisée et Marning mort dans son salon. Après un bref examen de la salle de l'équipe, Mike se dirigea vers l'extérieur pour trouver Maria assise sur le trottoir près du parking. Il la trouvait souvent là-bas quand quelque chose la tracassait. Elle aimait regarder les nuages ​​ou les voitures passer ou quelque chose comme ça.

Alors qu'ils traversaient Odella, Mike savait que quelque chose n'allait vraiment pas avec Maria. Son attitude normalement déchiquetée était introuvable. Au lieu de parler, elle regardait simplement par la fenêtre de la voiture, regardant tranquillement les rues. Ils étaient beaucoup plus vides qu'ils n'auraient dû l'être à cette heure de la journée. Les choses allaient mal en ville, mais cela ne lui ressemblait pas de ruminer longtemps. Elle était implacablement positive, même dans les heures les plus sombres.

— D'accord, Rivela, dit-il. "Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas? Et ne me dites pas que c'est dans cette affaire que nous sommes. Je t'ai vu traverser pire. Elle le regarda avec des yeux désespérés pendant un moment avant de répondre.

— C'est Jimmy Rivers, Mike, dit-elle. « Ils ont fini par tout vérifier ; sa voiture, sa maison, son trou de merde de planque. Rien ne le relie à Hawthorne. Vous savez ce que ça veut dire."

— Ouais, dit-il d'un ton doux. « Cela signifie qu’il ne reste plus rien à faire. Il ne reste plus rien pour lier Hawthorne à notre juridiction.

"Bon sang, Mike!" cria-t-elle en frappant du poing sur la console. « En fait, je pensais que nous pourrions être ceux qui l'auraient ! Puis les témoins disparaissent. Les preuves sont entachées. Et Myers le mord dans une rivière. Elle resta silencieuse un instant. « Je pensais vraiment que ce serait nous. Imaginez-le, Mike : les détectives d'une petite ville abattent le seigneur du crime ! »

« Oui, ça aurait été génial. Les gros titres nationaux. Médailles. Gloire et la fortune. Et tout ça."

— Ouais, dit Rivela en lui lançant un regard et un sourire narquois. "Tout ça." Son comportement normal commençait à revenir.

"Nous aurons un autre coup, Rivela", a déclaré Mike. "Mais pour l'instant, nous avons un corps à atteindre."

Barrow s'attendait au pire lorsque Rivela et lui sont entrés dans la résidence du banquier, mais c'était pire qu'il n'aurait pu l'imaginer. Le soleil, brillant à travers l'air humide, jetait une lumière vacillante sur la scène. Le corps était sous un drap au centre de la pièce et le sol autour de lui était taché d'une énorme quantité de sang.

"Les autres étaient bizarres", a déclaré Stevens, l'enquêteur principal du département. « Celui-ci est pire. Avez-vous déjà entendu parler de « la mort par mille coupures » ? » Il ouvrit le drap sur le corps et les détectives vétérans reculèrent tous les deux sous le choc. Le visage, la poitrine et l'abdomen de l'homme avaient été empalés par des dizaines d'éclats de verre tranchants comme des rasoirs.

"Est-ce que ceux de-"

« Ouais, la fenêtre », a déclaré Stevens. “Only explanation whatsoever is that a massive gust of wind hit the window when he was standing in front of it and blew it all right at him.” The man checked to make sure no one was listening, leaned closer to the detectives, and whispered, “My guys are all freaked out after the last few days. If someone, somehow, is doing this, we need to stop it. Information is getting out and the town is starting to get afraid. Really afraid.”

“We’re trying, okay?” said Barrow. “So what’s going on over there?” He pointed to the floor opposite Marning’s body, where investigators were photographing a multitude of pages blown over the floor.

“That part’s almost as weird, if you can imagine that.”

“Try me,” said Mike, following him over to the strewn paper.

“This guy was the president down at the bank, right? These are all documents that, as far as we can tell, prove this guy was robbing the bank blind.” He directed their attention to a relatively clean page. “We need an accountant to verify it, but we think he was giving out bad loans to himself. A lot of them. If you had money in that bank, I suggest you get it out while you still can.”

Barrow was about to turn his attention back to Stevens when he noticed a long list of names sticking out from under the couch. He saw the name “R. Harris” at the bottom of the list.

“What the hell was he doing with all of this evidence sitting out in his living room?” asked Rivela.

“If you ask me,” said Stevens. “I think he was about to turn himself in. The co-worker that called this in was ranting about him acting crazy all day yesterday. She says it was like he was looking over his shoulder.”

“You think someone had him figured out?” said Mike. “And he wanted to turn himself in before they could?”

“Only thing that makes sense to me.”

Barrow turned back to take another look at the scene when his phone rang. He froze in place and, for a moment, considered just letting it ring. Instead, he took a deep breath and answered. It was the dispatcher from back at the station. He braced himself for bad news.

“Detective, we’ve got another weird call. It might be connected to the case you’re on.”

“Great,” he replied. “Where?”

“Some guy named Arthur McCann just called in with a report of an…intruder. I’ll get you the address and you can talk to him yourself.”

“Great.”

After writing down the street number, Barrow headed back over to where Rivela was speaking with the crime scene investigator.

“Maria,” he said. “I’ve got a report that might be something across town.”

“I’ve still got a few more things to do here though.”

“That’s fine. I’ll head over myself.”

“Okay, I’ll hitch a ride back to the station after I’m done here.”

“Yeah, that’ll work. And Rivela?” he said. “Be careful. I have no idea what’s going on.”

“You got it, Mike,” said Maria.

Barrow headed out towards McCann’s house on the edge of town. He didn’t know the guy, but most people in town knew the house. It was a huge, old Victorian that hadn’t changed for decades. Its owner was only seen periodically and for short periods of time. Kids told each other the old guy had bodies buried in the basement. The detective, normally an overly cautious driver, sped through the streets of Odella.

The first thing he noticed when he arrived at the old man’s house was the immaculate state of the place. Even after the vicious weather of the past week, the lawn was exactly level and free of debris. The hedges along the exterior of the building were trimmed to perfection. It looked like the front of a home and garden magazine. The second thing he noticed was that the shutters of every one of the house’s many windows were tightly shut and latched despite the currently mild weather. For some reason, Barrow’s mind went back to Carla’s body back in the morgue; to that face that was so pretty with those closed eyes that were never going to open again.

McCann met him at the door. Mike was immediately caught off guard by the presence of the man. He was wearing a suit and tie and spoke in a formal, old-fashioned tone.

“Welcome, Detective Barrow,” said the old man. “Please come in.” There was an authority in his voice that demanded respect. “Allow me to show you the scene of the crime.”

“Uh…yeah,” said Mike.

As McCann led him through the house, the detective looked around the house in awe. The perfectly cultivated exterior was nothing compared to the inside. Paintings and statues were everywhere, making the place look almost like an art museum. The central piece of the collection was a large sculpture with radiating arms that he assumed was supposed to be the sun. As he followed the man up a spiral staircase, a strange smell caught his attention. Part of it reminded him of the smell that came right after it rained. And beneath that, very subtly, was the scent of blood.

“Here it is, Detective,” said McCann as they reached the top of the staircase.

Barrow stopped in his tracks as he saw the hallway ahead of him. It was a disaster zone. Light streamed in through a hole in the ceiling onto a mass of broken drywall and shingles. Water was still dripping from the opening onto the floor, where a massive puddle had formed, already ruining the expensive rug and hardwood floors beneath it.

“What in God’s name happened here?” whispered Barrow.

“Well, I had just decided to get ready for bed and was passing through the hallway when I heard a strange sound behind me,” said McCann, his voice unnervingly steady given the situation. “I turned around and saw a creature.”

“A creature? Not a person?”

“Most definitely a creature, Detective. It appeared vaguely like a woman, but she was a very dark blue and surrounded by mist. Before I could act, the creature screamed at me.”

“Like a banshee?” asked Barrow, almost whispering.

“Yes, exactly,” said McCann. “It was…deafening.” For the first time since he had arrived, the detective heard the old man’s voice waver. That was almost as bad as the story. He doubted this man had ever shown weakness in his life. “And then, as soon as the noise stopped, great wings came out of her back and she flew up through the ceiling. I was almost struck by the debris.”

“Wait,” said Mike. “It smashed its way out, but not in?”

“No detective. She did not.” The man paused before continuing. “I know you must think I’m insane. I would myself if not for this pile of wreckage on the floor here.”

“I would any other week, Mr. McCann,” said Barrow. “But not today. Not this week.”

“I hesitate to ask,” said the old man. “But is there anything you can do to help me?”

Mike looked over the ruined hallway for a moment, a cold certainty forming in the pit of his stomach, and then turned back towards the staircase. Looking over the gallery below, he saw the sculpture of the sun. A large orb with rays reaching out to smaller orbs. All the pieces connecting to the whole. Barrow reflected for a moment on a thought that had been growing in his head for the past two days. Finally, he decided it was the only thing that made sense, no matter how out there it may seem.

“I have an idea, Mr. McCann,” he said. “I have to go talk to someone. In the meantime, I’ll have a patrol car come by tonight to keep watch. Do you have any interior rooms that you could hole up in if something happens? Preferably with a phone you can call 911 on?”

“I have a reasonably furnished basement.”

“I’d stay in there tonight if I was you, sir. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” The detective began to go down the staircase when the man touched him lightly on the shoulder. It was an unnerving touch, although he couldn’t have said why. He turned to see McCann staring into the space over his left shoulder. The look in his eyes gave Mike chills.

“Did you know I used to be an artist, Detective Barrow?” he asked in a tone barely more than a whisper.

“No,” said Mike. “I had no idea, Mr. McCann.” The old man seemed to come to his senses and he gave one last polite smile and nod of his head.

“In any case, thank you for your attention in the matter.”

Leaving the house, Mike looked into the distance and saw the sky growing dark. He had to hope that this worked. He put in a call to the department and had them check on an address for him. He wrote it down and hit the gas, giving one last glance to the spotless house behind him. Spotless except for one very large hole in the roof.

The day seemed to be slipping by at an insane pace. The sun was already lowering in the sky when the detective arrived at his destination. It was an apartment building on the edge of town that had seen better days. Most of the cops were familiar with the neighborhood. Half of their calls seemed to come from there. Before he could get out of the car, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out and saw that he had received a text message from Rivela. Pulling it up, a photo of the crime scene back at the banker’s house came up. They had finally removed the body and were able to see the blood stain on the floor beneath it. Somehow, in the middle of the bloodstain, a darker mark had appeared; a mark that looked like a scythe. Barrow had had enough. If his hunch was right, the end of the case was just around the corner. He steeled himself and got out of the car.

Knocking on the door of a ground floor apartment, a familiar voice came from inside.

“I don’t have any money! Go away!”

“I don’t want money, Ms. Harris!” he replied, his voice stern. There was a tense minute of silence before the door opened slightly, the chain still secured. Rose Harris looked Barrow up and down, trying to decide why he was there. “It’s about your son. Can I come in?” She looked him dead in the eye for a moment and then opened the door.

“Have you come just to apologize, Detective Barrow?” she asked as they moved into the apartment. It was mostly bare. There was little beside a couch, a television, and a small kitchenette. “Or is there something else you need from me?”

“Yeah,” said Mike. His voice was as cold as ice. “I want you to call it off.”

“Call what off?”

“The Stormcaller!” he replied, almost yelling. “I believe, okay? I don’t want to believe, but after what I just saw today, there’s no way I can think anything else! It can blow people’s windows apart! It can fly through ceilings! The goddamn thing is real!”

“I know it is, Detective, but why on earth would you think I am controlling it??” Harris asked while moving slowly towards the door to the bedroom.

“Hell, Rose, how can I not?” asked Barrow, advancing on her as she backed away. “Jimmy Rivers was the one that got your son locked up. Carla evicted you from your apartment. The president of the bank was robbing people blind. I have no idea what McCann did, but he must have done something!”

“Detective Barrow,” said Harris, the fear apparent in her voice. “I may have hated James Myers and Miss Stanton, but I would not have wished death on them. I had no idea the bank was taking my money and I have no idea who this Mr. McCann is. No one summons the Stormcaller. No one controls it. It is a force of nature.”

With a quickness Barrow would not have suspected, Harris grabbed a canister of flour off of the kitchen counter and hurled it at him. He put an arm up to block it, but found himself enveloped in a cloud of flour as he heard the bedroom door slam shut and lock. Brushing off as much white powder as he could, Mike advanced on the door. Regulations meant nothing to him at this point. He had one chance to find a way to save lives and he was taking it. He braced himself and kicked the door. The cheap plywood gave and swung open. Entering the room, he saw Harris cowering against the far wall. He was about to begin questioning her again when his eyes fell on the wall behind her. A landscape had been painted across the entire wall.

The mural depicted a vast field with a huge, red sun on the horizon. The red light cast shadows on the ground from unseen entities. At the center of it all, exactly at the edge of the sun, a pitch black signpost rose from the ground. No words were written on the arrows pointing in every direction. No visible paths extended from it. The light in the room seemed to dim as it neared the image.

“What the hell is that?” said Barrow, the anger in his voice replaced by stunned awe. Harris remained tense, but hearing the change in his voice gave her a slim measure of security.

“It is the Western Crossroads, Detective,” she said. “It is where we will all go when we die. We will all choose a path one day.”

“Why is it on your wall?”

“Creatures like the Stormcaller fear the Crossroads. The old legends say that even an image of it will drive it away.”

“Does it work?” asked Mike.

“I can only hope,” said Rose. She measured the man up for a moment as he stood mesmerized by the mural. “You think it’s going to come for you. Don’t you, Detective?”

“I don’t know, Rose,” he replied. “I don’t know.” He looked at the painting for a moment more before fixing his gaze on Harris. “Is there any way to stop the thing? McCann can’t have that much longer.”

“There is only one way,” she said. “The Stormcaller punishes those that have not faced the consequences of their sins. Once you have been marked, you have until the creature appears again to confess your crimes. If this man does not confess…”

“How long does he have?”

“It’s already beginning to rain, Detective Barrow. The Crossroads are calling.”

After a second of thought, he spun around and made for the door, pausing as he placed a hand on the cracked frame.

“I’ll, uh, pay for the door,” he said without looking back. “And Rose? I really am sorry about your son.” He hurried out to his car as he heard Harris begin to weep behind him. He got on the radio with the station as soon as he hit the driver’s seat.

“Did you send a car out to McCann’s like I asked??”

“Yeah, Mike, we sent the new kid out there.”

“Tell him to keep the old guy there until I get back! No matter what!” He heard the fear in the man’s voice before he left. People did stupid things when they were afraid. As he was about to step on the gas, his phone rang again from his pocket. He knew it had to be Rivela again. He wanted to answer it and tell her everything, but he knew she wouldn’t believe a word of it. He didn’t even bother sending it to voicemail. He just let it ring as he sped off into the town.

Cursing every slow driver and stoplight, Barrow saw the sun sinking towards the horizon as he closed in on McCann’s house. Then, as he heard a report come through the radio, everything immediately went south.

“He just busted out of his garage and he’s driving like a maniac!” he heard Paul shout into the radio. Barrow felt his stomach drop. Moments later, he careened into the driveway of the formerly pristine home. He leapt out of the car to see the rookie officer running over to him from the house. Mike was horrified to see a massive hole in the door of the garage and skid marks on the driveway indicating the man left at a breakneck pace.

“He went that way!” the young officer screamed, pointing into the distance. “In a black Cadillac!” Mike looked to the west and saw a sliver of sunlight in the middle of the cloudy skies. The madman was trying to outrun the storm.

The wind and rain caught up to Barrow as he barreled down the highway out of Odella. The storms the past week had been bad. This one was worse. Mike could feel the wind buffeting his vehicle, forcing him to crank the wheel to the left, almost forcing him into the opposite lane. He put the windshield wipers on the highest speed, but they were fighting a losing battle. The sun had finally disappeared and darkness washed over the road.

Suddenly, Barrow felt something soar over the roof of his car. He didn’t know how. He could barely hear or see anything through the storm, but, all the same, he felt it blow by him. Dread washed over him and he rode the gas harder, embracing the insanity that had held the last week in its grasp.

Then, through the trail of his embattled windshield wipers, he barely caught sight of taillights off the road in the distance. Mike braked as hard as he dared in the brutal elements. Swerving onto the shoulder, he could see a dark car sitting half in the ditch on the edge of a field. Either it had slipped off the road or it had been forced. He had no doubt it was McCann’s car.

Barrow burst out of his car and spun around the front of his car. He could barely make out the old man running along the edge of the flooded ditch away from his stranded Cadillac. He had to be concussed or panicked or something. Mike was about to yell at the idiot to get back in the car when a massive flash of light blinded him. The night exploded around him.

He was thrown to the ground by the blast as a bolt of lightning arced out of the clouds above and struck McCann. Barrow sunk his hands into the wet earth and dragged himself to his knees, needing to see if the man had survived the strike, no matter how slim the odds. Right as his eyes locked onto the body on the ground, the heavens opened up again and another bolt of lightning erupted downward, directly at the soaked figure across the raging floodwater. Mike fell prone onto the ground and covered his head as he heard another bolt, followed by another, and another, and another, strike the edge of the ditch.

He lay in the pouring rain for a minute, waiting to make sure the madness was over. Finally, he raised his head and saw a blackened shape in a patch of charred earth next to what remained of a car. To say that he had failed would be an understatement.

Barrow struggled to his feet and stumbled back to his car. As he leaned on the hood, wondering what to do next, he sensed something behind him. He wanted to run, hide, or do anything but turn around. But, slowly, inevitably, he turned around.

Even in the downpour, the shape of the creature was unmistakable. Its form was that of a beautiful woman, but somehow wrong and feral. The Stormcaller’s skin shimmered an ocean blue that seemed to meld into the mist surrounding it. Wild, cerulean hair circled a tight-lipped face where gray eyes sparkled.

“Well,” muttered Barrow. “It’s about god damned time.”

Without warning, the creature in front of him screamed. Her mouth seemed to grow to a cavernous void as a deafening shriek emanated from it. Mike was forced to throw his hands over his ears, although it did little good. As he stood there, braced against the force of the noise, he broke eye contact for just a moment and saw a shape glowing from the thing’s skin. His jaw fell slack.

After a moment that seemed like an eternity, the sound stopped. The mist around the creature expanded outward and shaped itself into a pair of bat-like wings. In an instant, it shot into the air, the force of its wings forcing Mike to brace himself. With that, the cry of the Stormcaller still echoing into the storm, the detective collapsed back onto the hood of his car. For a long while, he just lay there, letting the rain wash over him. When he finally stood up and got into the car, the storm had almost passed and dawn was not far off. He radioed the station and told them to call his wife for him, then put the car in gear and headed back for Odella.

Mike had been sitting at his desk back at the office for a long while when Rivela burst through the front doors. As soon as she saw him, she sprinted over and threw her arms around him.

“Dammit, Mike!” she said, suddenly irate. “What the hell were you thinking last night?! I called you like eight times and you ignored me! Your wife was scared to death when you didn’t come home! How could you…I mean…” She hugged him again briefly and then waited for a response.

“Sorry, Rivela,” he said. “I should have picked up, but…I thought things might get ugly and I didn’t want you there for that. I called Sarah a while ago and got read the riot act, but I’m fine for now.”

“Wait,” said Maria. “Called? You haven’t gone home yet??”

“I’ve got more important things on my mind,” he said. “Come on, I really need to talk to you alone. I found out some crazy shit and I don’t need anyone else here listening in.”

Rivela looked like she was about to object, but finally her arms slumped and she said, “Fine, Mike. Exactly how weird is it?”

“Pretty damn.”

As they headed for the back of the station, Barrow saw the young officer that seemed to have been following them around.

“Paul, uh,” he began, trying to finally remember his last name.

“Christensen, Detective Barrow.”

“Yeah, I knew that,” he said. “We need some privacy for a bit. Could you keep the gawkers away from the interrogation rooms for a bit.”

“You got it,” replied Christensen.

The two detectives made their way out of the squad room and towards the hopefully vacant space in the back. Mike checked briefly to make sure there was no one in the adjacent viewing area that could look through the glass and then ducked into the small, gray brick room.

Barrow wandered towards the far wall, his face grim and his arms crossed. Maria leaned onto the table in the center of the room, watching him carefully. She was the first to speak.

“What’s up, Mike?” she asked. He turned and glared daggers into her eyes.

“It’s you,” he said in a voice as cold as ice. A silence hung in the air. Maria rose up slowly and gave him a questioning look.

“What?”

“I know it’s you.”

“What the hell are you-“

“Don’t lie to me!!” he yelled, his voice echoing through the room. It seemed like an eternity passed as the two partners locked eyes, each daring the other to blink. The moment before she finally spoke, Barrow saw the youthful light go out of her eyes. He saw something cold and dead that he never had before.

“How did you know?”

“I saw the scythe on the thing’s arm,” he said, pointing at the ink on her arm. “The same one as that shitty grim reaper tattoo you have. Are all of those tattoos just to cover up one?”

“The first one was. I just kind of thought the rest were neat.”

“What the hell are you?”

“You know what I am.”

He didn’t say the answer aloud. The word was too monstrous, too ancient, and too insane to say. But, behind the silence, in the dim light of a cold, gray room, he thought it: Stormcaller. It had taken the entire night to force himself to believe that the pretty, young girl he’d been working cases with for over a year was something else; something alien and bizarre. He had thought he might be afraid, but that wasn’t the case. The anger was too much.

“Why Carla??” he asked, the rage in his voice barely suppressed. “Why the old man? Why the banker? Why not Hawthorne??” He paused, coming to the real question. “Why me?”

“They were bad people,” said Rivela. “They did horrible things and they were never going to be held accountable for them. You got Carla off for so many things. And McCann? You have no idea what he’s done. You don’t want to know.” Her voice cracked and she fell silent for a moment. “And you? I tried, Mike. I tried so hard to keep it away from you. I don’t control it. But I knew it would come for you eventually. I know you’ve done things. Bad things.” Mike’s began to speak; to deny it, but he couldn’t. His shoulders slumped in defeat.

“How’d you know?”

“I’ve seen it before,” she said. “So many times. I’m older than I look. A lot older. I’ve seen good men go down dark paths. And then I’ve seen…it…come for them.”

“That’s not your grandmother on the wall out there, is it?” asked Barrow.

“My grandmother died a long, long time ago, Mike. That’s me out there.”

“Are you going to kill me?” he asked.

“Probably,” she replied. Mike thought back over the last week. He remembered Myers lying in a muddy ravine. He could see the puddle of blood under Marning. Most of all, he remembered Carla on a table in the morgue. His anger began to wane, the fear in him finally beginning to win out. Barrow pulled out the chair in front of the table and collapsed onto it, his age seemingly hitting him all at once. His voice came out as a whisper.

“Is there any way I can stop it?”

“You could try to kill me,” she said matter-of-factly. Mike’s eyes perked up and his hand began to wander down towards his sidearm. “But you won’t.” He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

“Nah,” he said. “I won’t.” His hand fell slack at his side.

“I know,” she said, nodding. “Then your only option is to confess. Turn yourself in. Face judgment.” She paused a moment, hoping he would respond. “What did you do, Mike?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” he began. “It was Jimmy Rivers, and that stupid Harris kid, and…Hawthorne.”

“I figured you were working for him,” said Rivela. “Too many coincidences; too many times you’ve stopped me from going after him. What happened?” She sat down in the chair across from him, gazing into his eyes with a look that had suddenly softened.

“I caught my kid with some weed a couple of years back. It shouldn’t have been that big a deal; just a little pot, but then he tells me he bought it from Jimmy. And I could not let him get involved with that scumbag. So I go down there that night, thinking I can threaten him into not selling to Matt anymore.”

“Didn’t go well?”

“I busted in the door and he was in the middle of a deal with two kids. One of them was Rose Harris’ son…Caleb.” He hadn’t said the boy’s name for a long time, as if not saying it would make the entire thing go away. “Myers recognized me and went crazy. He thought it must be a sting and the kids set him up. He pulled out a pistol and shot them both right in front of me. Caleb got winged and hit the ground. The other one died instantly. I was pulling my sidearm when I got hit on the back of the head. He must have had some kind of goon guarding the place. I must have been out a while.”

“And then?” asked Maria.

“He was there. Hawthorne,” said Mike, spitting the name like a curse. “As soon as I came to he starts talking. He knows my wife’s name. He knows my son’s name. He knows where they work and where they go to school. He says if I want them to stay alive, I’m going to cooperate.”

“Jesus, Mike,” said Rivela. “Why didn’t you put them in protective custody?”

“I doubt I’m the only dirty cop around here. He would have gotten to them.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you involved. I didn’t want anyone but me involved. He tells me I’m going to set up Harris for the other kid’s death. Say they got into a fight over some drugs and bullets started flying.”

“Didn’t the kid know what happened?”

Barrow scoffed and said “He was high off his ass. He didn’t know left from right when he woke up. It was easy as hell to get them to believe it. The kid had been picked up plenty of times for minor stuff. Rose suspected me and Myers, but she couldn’t prove anything.”

“And that’s why she hates your guts. You sold your soul.”

“And after that, Hawthorne owned me. Anything he wanted, I had to do. He knew where my family was. He knew he had enough dirt on me to lock me up for years. He made me swipe evidence, get his people off, and every once in a while, he’d even have me run cash and drugs for him through his center of operations down here.”

“Let me guess,” said Maria. “Gerry’s.”

“Yeah.”

“I should have known. It’s the worst bakery in town and you always have to get donuts there.”

“It really is,” said Barrow. There was a long pause. “So? Is that it? I confess and I get off with…it?” Maria looked him in the eye with sorrow in her eyes.

“No,” she said. “It’s not me you have to confess to. You have to go out there and turn yourself in. Face the consequences. Do the time.” Mike’s eyes fell to the table between them. His mouth opened as if he was going to say something. Nothing came out.

“You won’t do it,” Maria continued. “And don’t give me any bullshit about your family’s safety. It’s about you.” She pointed back out towards the office. “You’re all about appearances, Mike. You have to be perfect. You have to be that guy. You’ll die before you go to jail because you can’t handle the disgrace. You couldn’t handle the look on everyone’s faces. Tell me I’m lying.”

Mike’s eyes rose from the table, but he couldn’t meet her gaze. Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet and headed towards the door. Behind him, Rivela put a hand to her face and sighed heavily. Mike reached for the door, but his hand wavered. He turned back to the girl at the table and couldn’t help but ask one more question.

“I told you my story, Rivela,” he said. “What’s yours?” For a while, no one in the room moved. The eerie sense of the calm before a storm filled the tiny room. Barrow had just about given up and was about to reach for the door handle when the words came.

“What are you willing to believe?” said Maria.

“A hell of a lot right now,” he said.

“There really were gods, Mike. Real gods. And then the gods died. And so did I,” she said, turning towards him. “I was murdered. Left alone and bound to a tree by the men of ancient cities. Left for the storm. Years and years ago.”

“Hundreds?”

“Thousands,” she said. He wanted to tell her she was lying; that it couldn’t be true; none of it. But he’d seen too much to doubt much of anything. “I saw the Western Crossroads, Mike, but I couldn’t choose a path. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I wanted revenge. And then…it came.”

“What?”

“A dead god,” she said. “One that wanted vengeance on the world just as much as me.”

“Sautoras,” whispered Barrow. The word had meant nothing to him a week ago. Now, it turned his blood to ice.

“Yes. The Harvester offered and I agreed. I became the Stormcaller; the aspect of vengeance.” She got up from the table and walked over towards Barrow. He could barely see his partner anymore in the bearing of the creature in front of him. She moved like someone with the weight of millennia on their shoulders. The eyes looking at him seemed a much darker shade of gray than usual. They reminded him too much of the eyes in the storm the night before.

“I came back,” she said. “And I got my revenge. And do you know what? It wasn’t worth it. Because when the storms came back, so did the Stormcaller. At first, it went after horrible people. Murderers. Rapists. No one complained. Some people loved it. But, eventually, the really bad people ran out. And then it started going after people that didn’t deserve death. Thieves. Liars. Cheaters. It didn’t discriminate.”

“And that’s when you started moving around?”

“Yeah,” she said with a smirk. “Too many people dying. Too many people realizing I didn’t age. And I just kept moving.” She turned around and walked to the other side of the room. “Eventually, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I wasn’t in control, but I still saw through its eyes. I saw the blood and the torture.”

“That when you took up drinking?” asked Barrow.

“Yeah,” she said. “It helps. I don’t have to remember it. I don’t have to see it.” She sighed. “I didn’t think I’d be a coward in the end, Mike.”

“That makes two of us,” said Barrow with a smirk. Rivela turned back towards him and, for a moment, it was just like the week before. She started laughing nervously, a light coming back into her eyes. Mike couldn’t help himself and, before they knew it, they were both laughing like idiots.

“That’s us, alright,” she said. “Two cowards against the world.” Finally the laughter died. Mike steeled himself for a moment before speaking.

“Maria,” he said, using her first name for perhaps the first time ever. “After…whatever happens tonight, go check the toolbox in my shed. I collected a ton of dirt on Hawthorne. I’ve got dates, places, names, recordings; everything you could ever want to bring him down. I was keeping it for an emergency; for if he ever went too far. Take it. Do the right thing; like I never could.”

“Mike,” she said, confused. “If I use that, they’ll know. They’ll know what you did.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll be dead.” He paused a moment. “He died in prison, you know? The Harris kid.” He turned the door, opened it, and was half into the hallway when she called out one last time to him.

“Please,” she said. “Prove me wrong, Mike. Go out there, turn yourself in, and then you can help me take him down. Then, whenever you get out of jail, I’ll pick you up and take you wherever you want to go.”

“That’ll be a long time coming, Rivela.”

“I’ll be around.” The silence hung in the air one last time. Barrow stood trying to believe he could do the right thing. Rivela prayed silently to some power beyond a dead god. At long last, an answer came.

“I’ll see you tonight, Maria. I’ve got things to get in order.”

He closed the door behind him and walked back to the squad room. She fell back against the cold, gray wall and slid softly down onto the floor. It was a long time before she finally got to her feet. She felt as though she should have cried, but she had almost lost the ability after so many years. She believed that there were only so many tears someone could shed.

That night, around sundown, Mike Barrow sat at the work bench in his shed, writing a letter to his wife and son. He told them how much he loved them and how sorry he was, to make sure and get the tapes and documents in his toolbox to his partner, and to get out of town as soon as possible. As he put the note into an envelope, he looked out the small window at the storm approaching.

Not that far away, in the alleyway behind the Fifth Street Pub, Maria Rivela (a name she might have to change soon) sat drinking from a bottle of whiskey. She regretted decisions made twelve thousand years ago, cursed the men of the long dead cities of Carn, Sted, and Zatan-nataz, and raised a spiteful toast to The Harvester. She sensed, rather than heard, the rain coming in. As the sun sank beneath the horizon, the first drops of rain hit her skin. Her half-glazed eyes moved down to her arm. Where the rain had struck, the skin had begun to turn an ocean blue.

As the wind began to rattle the sides of his shed, Mike opened the drawer of an old desk and pulled out a revolver. He thought how strange it was that after years of wondering whether the afterlife would be the Pearly Gates or just pure darkness, he knew exactly what he was going to see. Rose had been right. The Western Crossroads were calling. As he put the gun to his temple, the single light bulb in the shed burst into glass above him. Darkness fell. There was the sound of breaking glass, the scream of something inhuman, and the blast of a gunshot. Then there was silence.

The next week went by like a dream and the storms went with it. Two more deaths took place and two more incidents were explained away as “accidental” or “suicide”. Reports included the phrase “act of God”. The bodies were buried along with their cases. The people of Odella knew there was a wrongness about it, but with the season of storms at an end, most were willing to forget. One was not.

Her shift having just ended, Maria sat on the curb outside the front door of the station. She sat slumped forward, her eyes towards a large puddle on the pavement beneath her. In the red glow of the setting sun, the pool of water reminded her too much of how she had found Mike, in a pool of blood and rainwater. She had worked hard to get to the scene first and try to give people answers. She had explained how the storm had wrecked the scene, how the suicide note had been too waterlogged to read, and why his family had moved out of town so suddenly. She had a lot of answers that might not hold up if people looked too closely. It might be time to move on again.

The door behind her opened and Paul Christensen exited the building. He didn’t seem surprised to see her sitting outside.

“Still trying to wrap your head around everything?” he asked. She pried her eyes away from the shimmering water and met his gaze.

“No,” she said. “I think I know what happened pretty well. I’m just thinking about what to do next.”

“You’re going after Hawthorne,” said the young officer with a tone of surety. Rivela, not one to be surprised, raised an eyebrow. “I followed you two the day before Detective Barrow died. I was behind the glass. I saw everything. Heard everything.” Maria met the young man’s gaze and marveled at how he looked back without even blinking. He might be good at his job yet.

“Then why don’t you seem to be afraid?” she asked.

“Hell,” he said. “I was scared as hell for a few days, but I got over it. I figure I’m not one of the bad guys, the storms are gone, and we’ve got to get after Hawthorne sooner rather than later.”

“You weren’t exactly paying attention, were you?” said Maria, her eyes turning to the setting sun. “The road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Good men can do horrible things and there’s always another storm.”

“I’ll do anything I can to help! Just tell me what to do!”

“Forget,” she said with ice in her tone. “Forget everything you saw. And when I die again- soon probably- forget all about me. Forget about the Stormcaller.” As the sun finally sank beneath the horizon, Paul searched for some way to respond. Finally, with a nod, he headed back into the station leaving the detective alone in the parking lot.

She thought about the papers and tapes she had stashed deep in a drawer in her desk. She had grabbed them from the toolbox in Barrow’s shed after soaking the suicide note and staging the scene a bit. She still wasn’t able to explain away the exact way he had died. It seemed that, a moment before he shot himself, something, possibly the storm breaking the window, had jarred his arm and caused him to shoot himself in the neck instead of the head. It had taken him quite some time to bleed out.

Hanging her head, the tears that Maria had thought were gone forever finally came, fell, and vanished into the muddy waters of a puddle.

Credit : Alex Taylor

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