When Professor Laurie Dickinson heard the knock, her gaze jumped from the computer screen to the door. Frowning, she saved what she'd been working on and walked over.
"Who is it?"
"Officer David Robbins, ma'am. Campus Police. May I come in? I'd like to talk to you."
She sighed and opened the door. Robbins was tall, and in his black uniform, imposing. But he had a round, boyish face that seemed to pinch his eyes into two brown slits. He stood there running the fingers of one hand through his wispy brown hair while holding his cap with the other one. Why, he was almost blushing, she thought. An endearing trait that one didn't see much of these days.
"Come in," she said, smiling in spite of herself.
He followed her inside, leaving the door open behind him.
"Professor, you shouldn't—"
She held up her hand, cutting him off. "I know. I shouldn't be in my office at night. Alone." She shrugged. "But I have a lot of work to do."
"It's kinda dangerous, ma'am. You know what's been goin' on."
"Everyone knows what's been going on. But I can't help but think that maybe it's over. There hasn't been another murder in the last three weeks."
"You mean . . . ah . . ."
She put her hands on her hips. "Okay . . . how about rape, then murder? Or, even better, rape, then butcher?" No, she couldn't lose it. Not in front of a stranger.
Robbins looked down, face again turning red.
She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have . . ."
"That's all right. We're all kinda stressed these days."
She forgave him his condescension and asked, "Any new developments?"
"We're getting help from the city police now, but we're no closer to finding the psycho than we were after we found the first victim. No forensics, no witnesses, and no suspects. But today the coroner gave us his MO—first, a small shot of An-An-Anectine to make his victim weak but awake while he . . . ah . . . undresses her and ties her up. Then he waits 'til she gets her strength back to . . ."
"That's all right," she said, touching his arm. "Let me get my things, and you can walk me to my car."
As she was gathering up her papers, he said, "That's some mask you have on the wall there."
She didn't bother to look; she'd explained it many times before. "It's a spirit mask—from Sri Lanka."
"Kinda scary lookin'."
* * *
The next day several of Professor Dickinson's students paid her a visit in her office. On such a small campus, word had traveled fast that the professor was defying the police by continuing to work in her office at night.
"Can't you work at home?" one of the female students asked.
"Nope," she replied, shaking her head. "Too many distractions. I can only work in complete solitude."
"But he attacks his victims in their offices at night," the student pleaded.
The professor started to speak but only shrugged.
"What about a gun?" one of the male students asked. "Do you own one?"
A young woman rolled her eyes. "Oh, Howie, what good is a gun gonna do?" Others in the group murmured in agreement.
"Look, Mary, nothing like a bullet to stop that wacko in his tracks." The murmurs now turned to loud derisive protests.
Professor Dickinson put up her hand. "All right, that's enough." Then she smiled at the gun advocate. "Derek does have a point, but I don't own a gun, and I don't have plans to purchase one."
"Not even if your life depended on it?" Derek asked, incredulity dripping from his words.
"I don't need a gun when I have my arakshakadeiyo, the professor said, looking at the mask hanging on the wall. "My protector-spirit."
"Yeah, right!" Derek blurted out.
"Do you really believe in animism?" Mary asked. "That's what it's called, right? The belief in spirits?"
"Yes, that's right. I've seen some . . . strange things . . ." Professor Dickinson's voice trailed off as she looked away from the students. After a few tense seconds, she blinked rapidly and said, "But I don't know if I really believe in it." Suddenly she stood up. "What I do know is I have to prepare for my next class."
The students took the hint and began filing out of the office. The professor followed them to the door. When she was about to close it, Mary and Howie stuck their heads back in. "Please be careful," Mary said. "Yeah, watch yourself," Howie added.
Professor Dickinson smiled. "I will. Now, get out of here. I have work to do."
After closing the door, the professor, still smiling, went to her desk and sat down. She took the lecture notes out of her file and started reviewing them. But after the first page, she found herself looking at the mask. It was an old one, genuine, not at all like the garish, assembly-line masks now sold to tourists. The eyes bulged out above the long, hooked nose. The hinged jaws were lined with flat, white teeth. Long whiskers of buffalo tail hair flowed downward from the chin and framed the mouth from the upper lip. Giving the mask its identity, a hooded cobra arose from the top of the head, flanked by long ears. The red, yellow, and blue colors had faded, and it exuded a musky, primordial smell. Yet there was something reassuring about its outwardly menacing mien. At least to Professor Dickinson, whether she believed in animism or not.
She leaned back in the chair and gazed out the window, letting the memories flow in like a Spring breeze. The old kaparala had given her the mask on her last fieldwork visit to Sri Lanka. She knew it represented a nagaraja, a king cobra-spirit, one of the most powerful ones, but the shaman had assured her that he had tamed it. She remembered his words as if he'd spoken them yesterday. "Madam, he will not hurt you. He will protect you. Keep him with you, and you will never be harmed. To summon him, all you have to do is call out his name--Nagaraja." The old man had then paused, and a stern expression had formed on his leathery face. "But do not summon him unless you truly need his help. For he will not appear again if you summon him frivolously."
"Maybe you'll have your chance soon," she spoke to the mask. As usual, it remained just a mask. It was all a mystery to her. Smiling, she shook her head and went back to her lecture notes.
* * *
Another week passed with no further attacks. The university community relaxed some, but the investigation continued. Then the killer claimed his third victim. A physics professor, Chitra Patel, had gone to her office at night without police protection, and her bloody body was found the next morning. Fear tightened its steel grip on the campus once again. The student newspaper dubbed the killer the "campus butcher," and the name caught on.
Although the entire campus grieved for the well-liked Professor Patel, no one mourned more intensely than did Professor Dickinson, for she and the latest victim had been best friends.
Dickinson stayed home for two days, then returned to her teaching duties. She'd decided work was the best treatment for grief. Her first day back she was seated at her desk, staring blankly at the lecture notes before her, when she suddenly put her hands over her face. Her body was racked with sobs as she rocked back and forth in the chair. Then she leaned forward, beat her fists on the desk, and moaned, "Chitra. Why? Why?" Her mouth agape with sheer anguish, she put her head on the desk. The tears stained her lecture notes, but she didn't care.
Then grief morphed into fear. With a jolt, she realized that she wasn't safe. For the first time in her life she was truly afraid. She looked at the mask, but remembered the shaman's warning and decided not to summon the spirit. Then she felt foolish for even considering it—it wasn't the time to depend on the mystery of animism.
* * *
Over the next week, Professor Dickinson hurried to and from class, always glancing over her shoulder. Several times she had stopped in the middle of a lecture, covering her haggard face with her hands as the students whispered among themselves and looked on with concern. But she had always recovered before any of them could go to her.
Then one night she decided to leave the campus library without a police escort. It had been fifteen minutes since she made the call, and she'd grown impatient. After a short distance, she thought she heard footsteps behind her. She turned around, but all she saw were students walking in the distance. Then she noticed the shadows immediately behind her; they seemed to pulsate with a foreboding menace. Shuddering, she hurried away, only to hear the footsteps again. She spun around, catching only a glimpse of her pursuer just before he ducked behind a hedge. Could it be? It almost looked like Howie Burns, her student. The thought sent ripples down her spine, and she started to run. The footsteps pounded behind her, faster than her pace, gaining on her. Her heart thudded in her chest as she noticed a lighted passage way ahead of her. She turned the corner of a building and ran headlong into a large man.
"Help me," she panted. She looked up and saw the uniform of Officer Robbins. "He's following me."
"Who?" he asked, holding her shoulders as she turned around to look behind her.
"A student."
"Wait here, and I'll go see." Hand resting on his holstered pistol, he disappeared around the corner.
Professor Dickinson held her hands over her face as she felt the tension forcing tears down her cheeks.
In a few seconds, Robbins returned. "I didn't see anyone, ma'am. Are you all right?" He peered at her with concern.
She wiped her eyes with her hands as a sigh racked her body. "I'm sure he was there," she screamed. "I saw him. He was after me."
Robbins fidgeted with his belt and looked down.
"Why are you just standing there? Don't you believe me?"
He looked up, a nervous smile playing across his face. "Yes, of course I believe you. But he's gone now. Please, you don't have to be afraid anymore. I'm with you."
She nodded and her breathing began to slow. "I'm sorry for yelling."
"Not a problem. Did you recognize him?"
She started to speak, then hesitated.
"Do you want him to do it again?"
She shook her head and sighed heavily. "No. No, I don't. It was Howard Burns. He's in one of my classes."
Officer Robbins took out his radio and called in the information.
"He may not be the killer," the professor said when he'd finished.
"We'll find out when we take him in. Now, if you don't mind, I'll walk you to your car."
"Mind?" She looked at him and smiled, then took his arm.
* * *
A few days later, Professor Dickinson found out the police had released Howie for lack of evidence. The next thing she knew he seemed to be everywhere she went, looking at her from the end of a row of stacks in the library, standing behind a bush as she walked to her car, watching from down the hall as she entered and left her office.
She called the campus police. The dispatcher connected her to Officer Robbins.
"He's following me again."
"Has he threatened you?"
She didn't answer.
"Professor?"
"Not really."
"Then we can't—"
"Where can I buy a gun?"
"I don't think that's a very good idea."
* * *
Later that afternoon when she was about to open her car door, she saw Howie's reflection in the window. He was approaching her from behind. Trembling, she spun around.
"Professor Dickinson, I—"
"Stop following me," she screamed. "Stop! Just stop it, you hear me!" She felt the tears come, this time hot and angry.
Howie took a step toward her with his hand out.
"Get away from me!"
"I-I only want to—"
She stamped her foot. "Go away, Howard!"
As sadness clouded his eyes, he hung his head, turned around, and walked off.
* * *
Professor Dickinson didn't see Howie again for the next few days. Then she discovered he had dropped out of school. The guilt was a small voice in her continuing storm of fear, for terror still infected the campus like an incurable virus.
As the days passed, the professor all but forgot about Howie. She was besieged with another problem. She hadn't been able to work on her book. At Officer Robbins' behest, she'd tried to write at home, but just as she'd feared, between the cat and the noisy neighbors, it had proved impossible. Finally one night in sheer desperation, she got in her car and sped toward the campus. Her new gun was in her purse.
As soon as she'd parked, a campus patrol car pulled up next to her. The officer got out and asked where she was going. It was Robbins. She found his smile comforting.
"To my office. To do some work."
"I'll escort you, if you'll wait 'till I call it in. It'll be just a minute."
He returned to his car and used the radio. After a few seconds he lowered his passenger window and said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I've been called to another part of campus. Wait here with your doors locked, and I'll send another officer. He'll be here in a few minutes. Be sure to wait for him before you go to your office."
"Fine," she said as her body prickled with impatience. She rolled up the window and locked the doors. As she waited, she stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and with the other stroking the hardness of the gun through the fabric of the purse.
After a few minutes, she abruptly got out and hurried toward her office. The campus seemed deserted, typical of a Saturday night. Normally, she would relish the quiet darkness, but now it pressed against her like an ominous vice.
When she turned the last corner and saw her building she started running. Heart pounding and chest heaving, she reached the door, fumbled with her keys, and let herself in. As the heavy glass door locked behind her she turned around to see if anyone had followed her. It seemed a major victory that no one had.
She took the elevator up to the third floor and walked to her office, but her hand was still shaking so badly that she dropped her keys. She looked up and down the hallway, picked them up, and opened the door. She quickly closed it and stood with her back to it, trying to catch her runaway breath. Then she went straight to the computer and turned it on.
Professor Dickinson had been working for about an hour, smiling with relief at finally being able to do what she liked best, when she heard a knock on the door.
Skin crawling, she slowly approached it. "Who-who is it?"
"Officer Robbins, ma'am."
"I-I'm all right."
"How much longer will you be here?"
"Oh," she sighed, "several more hours."
"I'll try to wait for you out here."
Impatience again, this time a finger tickling her guts. "Do whatever you like. But please don't disturb me again. I'll come out when I'm ready."
"Yes, ma'am."
It took her at least a half an hour to convince herself that there was nothing to worry about with Officer Robbins stationed outside the office. She stretched out her arms, flexing her fingers, and went back to typing.
After two more hours of work, Professor Dickinson was about ready to call it a night. She typed one more page, then saved, exited, and turned off the computer. She was removing her work from the printer when a loud ruckus erupted out in the hallway. Papers flew as she bolted upright. Groans and thuds penetrated the wall and assaulted her mind. And then there was silence, broken only by the professor's ragged breathing. She strained to listen and gasped when she heard a loud knocking.
"Professor Dickinson, open the door. I need you to identify someone." It sounded like Officer Robbins, but his voice seemed higher-pitched.
She found herself at the door, her shaking hand reaching for the knob.
"Open the door!"
She jumped at the words and turned it.
Howie stood in the doorway. He had grown a beard and was wearing a knit cap, but it was him. She inhaled sharply, holding her hand over her mouth, and backed away. His wild eyes seemed to brim with depravity. Suddenly he rushed toward her. She fell back, trapped, against her desk. He pressed against her. She screamed and pushed him away. He collapsed to the floor. A knife handle protruded from his back, surrounded by a spreading redness.
Then Officer Robbins stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
Professor Dickinson, eyes wide with fear, stood looking at him. Her mouth moved, but no words came out. The boyish face had aged and hardened. The smile that spread like a stain on it meant only one thing. She remembered her gun and lunged for her purse sitting on the desk. He was on her before she could reach it. He clamped one hand over her mouth and the other around her waist, gripping one arm and pinning the other against her side.
"You can call me Dave," he purred. "Ma'am."
His hot breath was horrible. The professor struggled, kicking, writhing, trying to bite his hand. But he was too big and strong.
"Bitch!" was the last thing she heard before he jabbed the needle in her neck. Her eyes blurred, and she melted down to the floor.
She wished he had given her something that would've knocked her out completely. Because she was perfectly awake but couldn't feel or move her arms or legs. Nor could she move her mouth or see very well. But well enough to know that he was undressing her. Slowly and carefully, exploring with his hands and murmuring to himself as he went along. It occurred to her that it was just as well that she couldn't feel what was happening. Still, she wanted to scream and kick and punch, but she couldn't. Now he was tying her wrists underneath her. When he finished he spread her legs apart and tied her ankles to the legs of a heavy chair.
Then feeling began to crawl back into her body, and her eyesight began to clear. She blinked several times.
"Good. Your feeling's coming back."
His big hand again choked off her scream. Then he covered her mouth with silver duct tape. She began to squirm.
"You're not going anywhere. Got you tied up real good. Now that you're gonna be able to feel it, we can begin. You're gonna like it." He giggled, ogling her crouch. Then his face drooped with mock pity. "At first."
She gave up struggling. A coldness crept over her skin, and her stomach began to churn. She tasted the bile rising in her throat.
Officer Robbins unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. She whimpered when she saw his huge erection. She strained to look up to the wall where the mask was hanging. She looked back at Officer Robbins and began pleading, with her mouth and eyes.
"You wanna say something, darlin'?" he snickered. "Maybe talk dirty?"
She nodded.
"I'm going to take off the tape, but if you scream, I'll cut you." The long blade of the knife gleamed in the light.
He ripped the tape off. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain and tried to speak.
Robbins leaned close to her face and listened. "What the hell are you trying to say? If this is some kind of a trick."
This time she managed to mumble a word.
"Speak English, cunt!" he hissed through clenched teeth.
She smiled hopefully and said clearly, "Nagaraja."
"Whatever." He laughed and slapped another piece of tape over her mouth. Then he stroked her hair. "A blonde, but no bimbo, huh? That's why I like you professors so much. Y'all think y'all are so damn smart." He snorted and moved back between her legs, leering toward the business before him. He grabbed his penis and, with a groan, pushed toward her.
A loud hissing stopped him. The professor's nostrils flared and her eyebrows shot upward. Robbins twisted around, and she saw a blur of two red eyes, a forked tongue, and two gleaming fangs rushing toward his engorged erection. She closed her eyes, but she couldn't block out the guttural scream.
Then she found herself looking at the mask. It was back on the wall, impassive in its wooden vigilance. Officer Robbins crawled over her leg toward the door and reached up for the knob. He tried to pull himself up, but his hand slipped off, and with a rattling sigh he collapsed to floor, rolled over on his back, and lay still.
As her body relaxed, the professor's mind escaped to the pleasant green warmth of Sri Lanka. Where animism was not a mystery. And neither would it remain a mystery to her.
THE END
The mask appearing at the top of the story hangs on George's office wall and inspired him to write this story. He teaches cultural anthropology at California State University, Long Beach and writes stories of mystery, suspense, and the supernatural. He is grateful to Cary Semar, Short Story Editor at Aphelion, and Jude Kohler, his main writing pal, for helping him polish this story into its present form.
E-mail: LAfictionwriter@aol.com
URL: http://www.georgemscott.com
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