Ash Williams's Arc

Chapter 4 of 5

Ash pulled into the church parking lot as the sun dropped behind the trees. St. Michael's looked abandoned—peeling white paint, boarded windows, a wooden cross tilted sideways on the roof. He killed the engine and sat there, studying the building. The journal said consecrated fire required blessed oil or holy water, something touched by genuine faith. Problem was, genuine faith seemed in short supply around here. He grabbed his pack and walked to the front doors. Locked. He circled around back and found a basement window with broken glass. Inside, the basement smelled like mildew and old hymnals. Ash clicked on his flashlight and swept the beam across stacked chairs and boxes of Christmas decorations. A metal cabinet stood against the far wall. He crossed over and yanked it open. Three dusty bottles sat on the bottom shelf—holy water, labels faded but readable. He grabbed all three and stuffed them in his pack. One piece of the puzzle solved. The fishhook in his brain pulsed once, faint but present. The book was still out there, still calling. But now he had what he needed to burn it proper when the time came. He climbed back through the window and headed for his truck. The fishhook pulled harder now, dragging his attention toward the forest. Ash checked his watch—still two hours before full dark. Enough time to scout the cabin again, see if anything had changed. The drive took forty minutes on dirt roads that barely qualified as paths. When Knowby Cabin came into view through the trees, his chest tightened. Mist crawled around the foundation like something alive. Shadows pooled in places sunlight should've reached. The whole structure looked wrong—angles too sharp, windows too dark, wood too old for how recently he'd been here. He parked fifty yards out and grabbed the Remington. The clearing around the cabin showed fresh disturbances. Footprints in the mud, too many to count. Something had dragged a deer carcass halfway to the tree line and left it there. Ash moved closer, shotgun raised. Through the cabin's front window he spotted movement—quick, low to the ground. His severed hand skittered across the floor inside, middle finger raised like always. The damn thing must've crawled back here after he'd knocked it away during the escape. It moved with purpose now, reaching for something on the floor. Professor Knowby's tape recorder. The hand's fingers worked the buttons until static crackled from the speaker. Ash kicked the door open and fired. The shotgun blast sent the hand tumbling across the room. It recovered fast, scrambling behind the overturned couch. The recorder kept playing—words in a dead language, same ones that had started everything. He couldn't let it finish the incantation again. Ash crossed the room in three strides and stomped the recorder into plastic shards. The tape spooled out across the floorboards. His hand emerged from behind the couch and gave him the finger one more time before scuttling toward the cellar door. He let it go. Bigger problems were coming—the mist outside was getting thicker, and something was moving through the trees. But he had the holy water now, and the journal's instructions. When the Necronomicon finally surfaced, he'd be ready to end this.