Odd Apocalypse

Twelve

The vaulted ceiling of the cathedral of oaks was reminiscent of church windows, although there was more leading than stained glass, more darkness than light, in the sun-gold and leaf-green patterns that might have been an abstract depiction of Eden.

Trotting among the huge trees, the black horse almost vanished, revealed only by the sheen of its coat as drizzles of light quivered across it. As I chased after her, the woman remained easy to see, the white silk gown blooming brightly when touched by sun, still softly radiant even where gloom prevailed.

I don’t know why shadow and light should play across spirits, alternately obscuring and revealing them, in the same way that they affect living people and all things of this world. Ghosts have no substance either to reflect light or to provide a surface onto which shadows could fall.

A psychiatrist might say that this quality of the apparitions proves that they are not otherworldly. He might suggest instead that they must be psychotic delusions and that I merely lack the wit to imagine them unaffected by light and shadows, which real spirits — supposing they existed — would surely be.

I wonder sometimes why those who theorize about the human mind can so easily believe in the existence of things they cannot see or measure, or in any meaningful way confirm as real — such as the id, the ego, the unconscious I — but nevertheless dismiss as superstitious those who believe the body has a soul.

The woman brought the horse to a halt beside a tree. When I caught up with her, she pointed straight up into the great oak’s laddered limbs, clearly suggesting that I climb.

The fear in her face — fear for me — was no less visible in this sun-and-shadow-dappled realm.

Although in the past I had encountered malevolent spirits that sometimes went poltergeist on me, hurling everything from furniture to frozen turkeys, I could not recall one of the lingering dead attempting to deceive me. Deception seems to be a capacity they shed with their bodies.

Convinced that this woman knew of something horrendous that was bearing down on me, I scrambled to the tree and climbed. Trunk to limb, that limb to another, bark rough beneath my hands, I ascended to the first crotch, about fourteen feet above the ground.

When I peered down through the screening branches, I could see part of the spot at which the horse and rider had been. They were not there now.

Of course, as spirits, they were free to be or not to be, and as neither the horse nor the woman could speak, they didn’t have to ponder that choice in a soliloquy.

Wedged in the first crotch of the tree, I soon began to feel foolish. As a card-carrying member of the human species, I have within me a bottomless well of foolishness and a kind of perverse thirst for it. Just because I’d never met a spirit with the capacity to deceive didn’t mean that all of them would, for the rest of my life, prove to be incapable of steering me wrong.

The lingering dead are generally a bummed-out bunch, more often than not tethered to the place where they died. They aren’t able to zip off to the multiplex to catch the latest Hollywood comedy of ill manners and to enjoy a thirty-dollar bag of free-range popcorn cooked in government-approved fish oil. After years of constant worrying about what waits for them on the Other Side, after clinging for so long to this world in the hope of seeing their murderers brought to justice, they really need some fun.

I could picture those two spirits, the woman and the horse, racing across Roseland, laughing heartily — if silently — at how easily they conned gullible Odd Thomas into scampering up a tree, sheltering there, and shivering in anticipation of a nonexistent boogeyman, when in fact the worst thing I really had to fear was being pooped upon by a bird on a higher branch.

Then the boogeyman arrived.

Boogeymen.

The first indication that I had not been duped by a ghost came when the faint bleachy smell sliced through the foliage, adding its sharp edge to the soft fragrances of the oak bark and the green leaves and the weather-split acorns that still hung like damaged ornaments in the tree.

Although the ozone odor was far less pungent here than in the stable, it was no less out of place. In the open air, it wasn’t as likely to intensify to the degree that it did in a closed room. But I had little doubt that, just as before, this smell was a herald of something weirder and more dangerous than spirits of the dead.

A swift change in the quality of light solidified my expectation of another encounter with the stinky pack that could see in the dark. The golden morning sunshine twinkling in the gaps between the leaves became yellow-orange as its angle of origin shifted east to west.

I might not be able to understand the inscrutable stuff that half the people I meet say to me, but I am reliably dead-on when I anticipate mayhem. If I could find a national competition of confused and paranoid psychics, I would win the trophy and retire.

Carpeted with the small, oval, dry leaves of the live oaks, the woods didn’t allow any living thing to pass through quietly. Anyway, the pack that had hoped to extract me from the feed bin was not in the least concerned with stealth. They arrived in a blundering rush, so boisterously tramping across the sheddings of the trees that the crunching-crackling masked any snarling and snorting in which they might have been engaged.

I squinted this way and that, through the layered foliage, but what limited views I had of the ground revealed nothing useful about the recent arrivals. The oaks threw down more darkness than before, and the jack-o’-lantern light did not thrust through the limbs in crisp blades as had the morning sun, but fluttered through, fitful and sullen, as if a breeze that I could not feel fanned flames that I could not see, blowing reflections of fire through the woods.

Of the pack, nothing was visible except shadowy shapes, some of them swift but others lurching, all of them agitated and seeming to be urgently seeking something. Most likely they were not searching for maidens of good reputation to marry and to have children who would spend long evenings with them, hearthside, playing flutes and violins in family musicales.

Both the lithe and the clumsy among them followed the same erratic path through the oaks, as though they were crazed, weaving away to the east, to the north, then south. Their frantic progress was easy to track by the trampling of a million dry oak leaves.

Each time they drew near, I could again hear their grunting and growling as in the stable. But to me on my high perch, those guttural noises had a somewhat different character from what I thought that I had heard through the screened ventilation holes of the feed bin.

They were still like the sounds that animals made, but they were not only animal in nature. I thought that I heard a human quality in some of these exclamations: a wordless expression of desperation, a pathetic whine of anxiety that I might have unconsciously issued myself in a moment of great stress and danger, and a tortured snarl of anger that wasn’t mere animal rage but expressed a bitter, brooding resentment suggestive of emotions that come only with intelligence.

The air was not cold. My light sweater and jeans were adequate to the day. A chill crept through me nonetheless.

This was as much a mob as it was a pack.

An animal pack is a group of individuals, all sharing much the same personality of their species, operating according to their best instincts and the habits of their kind.

On the other hand, a mob of people is disorderly and lawless. They are stirred to a peak of excitement not by the hunt, as is an animal, not by a worthy need for sustenance, but by an idea that might be true or a lie — and that is most often the latter. When it is an evil idea, which a lie always must be, those swept up by it are immeasurably more dangerous than any animal that ever lived upon the Earth in all its history. People in a lie-driven mob are savage, cruel, and capable of such violence that a mere lion would flee from them in terror, and a fierce crocodile would seek the safety of swamp waters.

Judging by the sound of them, there were many more here than had been in the stable, perhaps a score of them or even twice that.

A greater urgency informed their actions, too. By the moment, the sounds they made suggested that they were driving themselves into a frenzy of such intensity that nothing could appease them but blood and plenty of it.

Three times they had rushed past the tree in which I hid, and their sense of smell — or whatever other perception served them best — had thus far failed them. As they poured past a fourth time, I still could see nothing of the beasts except shadows that seemed to promise fantastic deformities as they jostled one another in their eagerness to find me.

Already the yellow-orange sunlight was beginning to turn deep orange. I wasn’t likely to get a better look at these creatures unless they took their search vertical and came face-to-face with me in my oaken redoubt.

What we fear too much we often bring to pass.

They were almost gone away to the north of the woods when abruptly they turned back. These things of shadow, half-perceived sinister shapes, flowed around the tree, like a sea tide washing around a pinnacle of offshore rock.

The last of them lapped into place, and the crackle of leaves splitting underfoot ceased. They went mute, as well, as hushed as those monsters that hide under a child’s bed and, by their perfect silence, tempt him to feel safe enough to lean out, lift the covers, and look under.

I was not tempted to feel safe. They had found me.