"In private?"
"If necessary."
We headed outside. Most of the congregation remained in the dining hall. However, Mr. and Mrs. Bettridge strolled around the complex, their kids chasing after chattering squirrels. Martin and Cynthia, the laughing couple, sat on a wooden bench as they gazed--thoughtful and composed--into the foliage above. All appeared calm and, I must admit, it shook my convictions over what I'd come to say.
"Pastor Stromm, I'm worried about tonight's service."
"Whatever for?"
"I have my doubts about all this, for lack of a better term, strangeness. It has the feel of menace, not the peace you'd expect from something good. Beyond that ..." I glanced around to ensure we weren't being overheard and, seeing we were not, continued in a conspiratorial tone. "The way people lost control and the chaos that ensued the last few nights? If it happens again, someone might get hurt."
He folded his arms. "Yes, I admit things got a bit hectic. Tonight will be different, though. You'll see."
"I don't know, Pastor Stromm." There was so much more I couldn't say, feelings and intuitions that had stirred my concern, but resisted all attempts at elucidation. "Maybe we'd be better off canceling the whole thing."
"I can't do that. After all our hard work, how can I tell them it was for nothing?"
"Do what you believe is right. However, I'm not sure I can take part in it anymore."
His eyes narrowed and his cheeks drew up, tight. "Wesley, you can't leave. Look, you have my word I'll keep the service in order. But let's say you're right and things do get out of hand. I could use a level head in the congregation to help keep things straight."
There was just enough logic in his suggestion to make me hesitate.
"Please. Everything will make sense after tonight," he said.
Against my better judgment, I stayed.
#
Just as the sun set, we assembled for the final service. The crowd sat, anxious, even if the mood was dampened by having to cram into only a handful of pews. Though the outside air held a moderate chill, the conference sanctuary sweltered from our close proximity and accumulated breaths. Many of the service pamphlets were converted into fans, their swoosh, swoosh, swoosh accentuating the drone of Mrs. Stromm's pre-service announcements.
After a few other speakers took their turn on stage--with news about upcoming summer programs, and a few testimonials--Pastor Stromm sidled up to the pulpit.
"Welcome, my friends, to the Day of Paramount!"
We clapped. A few whistles rose above the clamor.
"It's been a hard journey. We started out dedicated to a single goal: to make ourselves heard, to demand the presence of the Almighty Himself. The Church of Vinewood accomplished this task with only ten voices. How much more can we accomplish with fifty?"
More applause, more whistles.
"I put aside something special for tonight," he said, holding up an old, cracked and warped leather-bound book. "This is the journal of Pastor Francis Seymour, given to me by his great granddaughter."
He flipped to the end among an excited murmur from the crowd.
"I think you'll find this interesting. In Seymour's own words, 'Again, an angel of the Lord came into our midst in the form of a man. He told us not to fear him, but that he came because we had gained the admiration of the Heavenly Host through our prayers and perseverance. As a result, he brought a gift, words that would invite the presence of the Divine whenever recited. Words spoken in the angelic tongue'!"
He looked up. "Are you ready for this? 'Kamsa is'cryp sakr'pe dug'luman,'" he said, throwing an arm out in violent swipes, like he was launching miracles into the congregation. "You recognize them, don't you? The same words revealed to us over the course of Revival Week!"
A wave of applause and a few more scattered whistles. Pastor Stromm snapped the book shut and placed it aside, fixing us with a heavy gaze.
"Tonight, I want us to try something different. Instead of prayer, instead of song, I want us to say these words. Speak in His own language. And brace yourselves, folks, because this is going to get intense."
The hairs on my body stood on end and my insides tingled from a soft vibration, the source of which was indiscernible. I slid from my chair onto my feet.
"Kamsa is-cryp sak-repe dug-luman," they chanted.
The presence returned, filling the empty spaces all around us so that the air felt thick as water. I took a few steps toward the exit.
"Kamssa iss-cryp ssak-reepe dug-luumaan."
A rumble arose like from a gathering storm. I rushed for the open door.
"Kamsssa isss-cryp sssak-reepee dug-luuuumaaaan."
The sanctuary splintered before my eyes, hairline cracks in the fabric of existence, strengthening the presence's power. It attempted to take me over just like before. Sweat poured from every crevice of my body and I began to speak those words despite the absence of intent. Had I not broken past the threshold in that fraction of a second in which it tried, it would have succeeded.
I ran from there, hurtling through the dark, until I found a dirt path and veered into the heart of the forest. All around me, the trees stood silent, a taunting contradiction to the permeating screams that replaced the congregation's chant. Despite the speed with which I traveled, somehow I managed to stay upon that path--and not tumble down the hillside into the canyon below, or ram into a trunk.
But several miles on, the bitter realization sunk in. Everyone I'd known and cared about for the last nine years now stood in harm's way. Because of fear, I'd left them all behind without a second thought. And only He knew what that thing, that demonic presence, had done to them once they'd set it free. If there was any chance, any chance at all, of saving them, I had to try.
I took a deep breath, rolled my eyes up. My heart pounded like a fist against the back of my ribs. I turned and went back the way I came.
#
Closer to the complex, before the trees thinned out completely, I ducked into a thicket and searched for movement. The power had been cut, and the only light came from emergency back-up lamps--one or two tucked into the corners of every building. Far from easing my fear, it made it worse. Only enough light persisted to accentuate the black pools of shadow, expanding and contracting like living, breathing things.
I cast a glance into the deep of the forest. In the direction of the river, I could hear manic laughter, similar in kind to the sixth-day service, only coarser and utterly mirthless. Interspersed among it was the sound of coughing, sputtering, terrified shrieks. And then more laughter.
After a few more moments, I braved the open space, creeping forward in long, quiet strides. When I stepped into the passage between the dining hall and the (unused) nursery, the darkness ahead of me clarified into a figure. It was Anthony, the Leftke boy, standing alone in the middle of the walkway.
"Anthony," I whispered. "Are you alone? Where are your parents?"
He didn't respond, didn't move. If anything, he held himself more still.
I crept closer. The second I could see the details of his face--his empty eyes and the thin line of his mouth--he lifted a finger and plunged it in a nostril. It didn't stop. The wet sound of sliding gave way to a hollow crack and the nostril split from the fat of his knuckle. When finally he pulled it out, something big, red, and meaty clung to its tip.
"Oh dear God," I said, and he sneered at my words, lipping the chunk and pulling the finger away clean.
I ran past, giving him a wide berth. Within moments, I tripped over something soft lying across the walkway. It was Martin and Cynthia, and they were dead. Their eyes bulged from their sockets, mouths stretched out in cheek-splitting grins, baring every tooth. Their skin was tinted a shade that could have been gray or blue, as if they'd choked on their own laughter.
There was no time to react. A series of growls alerted me that things prowled close by. Perhaps humans emulating animal noises, but nothing like the embarrassing display of the sixth-day sermon when Kathy scampered dow
n the aisle on hands and knees, barking like a dog. These were unrestrained, violent, and debased articulations--the sounds of madness. And they were converging on my position.
I backtracked toward the forest, but more growls came from that direction. So I turned again, retreating down the walkway that skirted past the sanctuary. There, beside the entrance, Mr. Todd stood behind the makeshift altar. The sight of him flooded me with relief--until I noticed what he was doing. It snatched the breath from my throat and I skidded to a halt, incapable of moving.
In place of the candles lay three severed heads, hair slicked up in even spires. Mr. Todd studied the closest one, flicked his Zippo and put the flame against its tip. Each time, the spire sizzled and smoked, but never stayed lit. That didn't stop him from trying again and again.
"What is this?" I said.
He looked up in surprise, as if he'd only just noticed me.
"Ah, Wesley. There you are," he said, his voice soft, even gentle. "Pastor Stromm is looking for you. He said to say, if I should come upon you, that he'd failed to live up to his promise. But if it was any consolation, you were right and had every reason to be worried."
"Pastor ... Stromm?" I muttered, barely able to think.
"Yes. If you want to speak to him, you'll have to step inside," he said, motioning to the sanctuary door.
More murderous growls, this time from every direction.
"Better hurry. The 'hounds' are drawing near," he said, using his fingers to indicate quotations. "And just between you and me, I think a few of them are angry you missed the doling out of holy gifts."
I nodded, though I don't know why, and ducked through the door. The wall-mounted emergency lamps inside were drenched with blood, bathing the sanctuary in the crimson light of a darkroom. A dozen bodies slumped against the pews, a few poised as if sleeping, others ripped apart and scattered along the aisles. Pastor Stromm stood upon the stage, his arms held out and wavering from an invisible weight--just like during the fourth-day sermon. Only now, they were stumps, severed just above the elbow joint.
"What happened? What did this to you?" I asked, my hands clenched and held out to steady myself against slicks of blood.
He turned his head, nothing else, in my direction. "Oh, Wesley. You're still here? I'd hoped you had escaped all this."
"Where is everyone?"
"Most of them are by the river. Drowning the children and then themselves. I'm sure you heard the rest skulking about outside."
"The Ten Faithful. They never served on any worldwide mission, did they? They got the attention of the other side alright, but it wasn't Heaven. It was Hell."
"Hmmm, yes, I may have been a bit hasty in my conclusions. The evidence was circumstantial at best, but I thought I had it right. In any case, nothing good came of the Ten Faithful of Vinewood, of that we can be certain," he said, stretching his stumps to indicate the state of the sanctuary. "But you're wrong about the latter part."
"What do you mean?"
"It wasn't Hell unleashed tonight. In fact, I suspect things are a lot more complicated than we had ever imagined."
He nudged his head, indicating something behind me.
I turned and saw a man, a stranger, standing by the doorway. Naked, his skin lay spoiled by deep gouges dripping red across his entire body. His eyes stared, piercing me with an inscrutable, ageless gaze.
"Come," he said, his voice strong, but nondescript. Everyone's voice, but no one's. "You've earned your rest."
He took a silent step toward me, stretching his arms out as if to embrace me, revealing gaping holes that spanned from shoulders to wrists.
I spun around to face Pastor Stromm, shaking my head to deny the evidence of my senses, attempting to rewrite the memory of what I'd just seen. Confusion muted my voice, but I pressed the question with my body, my mind, and everything inside me--screaming it at Pastor Stromm with all my might.
He nodded. "We called and He came."
Fingers curled around my shoulder, bearing the same weight and pressure as that familiar presence. Though the hand remained solid, something entered me. My insides shuddered; that indefinable energy began to drain away. Then my mind unfolded, and the universe revealed itself--the false dichotomy of things I took for granted. Darkness and light, heat and cold, being and nothingness, sanity and madness, good and evil? Mere forms of the same existence. Different modes of the same underlying power, all bearing the same substance.
And all of it derived from him.
I fell to the ground, staring up at the presence now made manifest. Looming over me, face etched with both eternal indifference and endless compassion.
"So praise Him," said Pastor Stromm, before the void of laughter consumed us both.
#
A day or so passed in a forgetful blur, a sort of drunken madness. When something like reason returned to me again, I found Mrs. Stromm alive. She told me she'd stepped out to the bathroom shortly after she delivered the seventh-day announcements. When she heard the tumult, she locked the doors and hid inside a stall.
Together, we searched for other survivors, but found no one else, not even bodies. All signs of violence had been wiped clean away, as had the personal effects and property of the missing members of our church. As far as it appeared, they never came.
After that, we parted company and headed back to Arkham. For months, we were questioned about the disappearances by authorities, journalists, and the families of the congregation. Without collusion, Mrs. Stromm and I answered them in the same way, the only way we could--with truth.
By the will of God, they left this world behind.
* * *
Wesley Strang (1905-1971) was born in Monterey, California. His mother died in childbirth, leaving him to the care of his father, a career military man. They moved all across the United States before settling in Arkham, Massachusetts, in 1921. From 1922 to 1924, Wesley attended Miskatonic University, until financial difficulties resulting from his father's unexpected death forced him to quit. He eventually landed a position as groundskeeper for the University where he worked until his own death. He was never married.
* * *
Samuel Marzioli lives in Oregon with his family. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous publications, including Apex, Penumbra, Ares Magazine, and the anthology, A Darke Phantastique. For more information about his upcoming projects and publications, visit his website at: marzioli.blogspot.com.
* * *
Ride into the Echo of Another Life
An account by Cassandra (Cassie) Woodroofe, as provided by Kelda Crich
* * *
Like the sound of thunder born in the motionless night, I heard the familiar bike pulling up alongside my trailer, rattling its dying throttles into the walls. In another life, I would have liked to have been a biker. The life is freedom. But biking's a man's life. I've never known a gang worth joining that would have a woman as a full patch member.
The trailer door opened. There's never been any formality between me and Sam.
"Cassie," he said, with a nod. As if I was still his woman. As if it hadn't been a good five years since I'd seen him last.
"I expect you're hungry."
"I am at that."
I walked to the kitchenette, glad to have the distraction. Five years on the road, five years of partying, had taken a savage toll on Sam. And there was something in his manner that didn't seem like the old Sam. He looked frail, half-starved. His beard was stained a dirty yellow gray. His head was as bald as the eggs I was cooking for him. And worst of all, although he was wearing his old denim vest, he wasn't wearing any colors. That worried me.
I concentrated on the eggs sizzling in the pan, frying brown in a ragged skirt at their edges. It was a pity I'd got no bacon to go with them. But I'd plenty of beer. I eased a can out of its plastic yoke, opened it, and handed it to Sam. I laid the rest of the six-pack on the table for him. Sam swallowed down the beer in one long pull. I laid the eggs and a bit o' bread on the table for h
im.
I sat 'cross the table watching Sam Drought eat. I could see the threads where he'd ripped off his patches, his colors, from his vest. The patches on a man's vest are his affiliation. It looked strange to see Sam wearing a vest without any colors. Like he was naked. No. Worse than that. Like he'd been skinned. "Trouble?" I asked, pointing to his vest.
"Yeh, trouble," he said. "I'm running again, Cassie. How old do you think a man must get before he stops running?" I noticed he was clenching his teeth. Sam always did that when he was in trouble. We hadn't been man and wife for twenty years, but I could still read him. From time to time, Sam would step in on me, take the couch in the trailer, running sometimes from a woman, or from the law, or just coming to see me.
"I expect you'll be staying here for a time?" I said after he'd eaten the eggs, mopping up the last of their gold with a heel of bread.
"No," he said. "Not this time, Cassie. I'm thinking I might just get on the bike and ride as far as I can."
"What brings you here then?"
He looked down at his empty plate. "It's about Kyle."
Then all the air went out of the room. I sat down on the chair hard, as if the legs had been kicked from under me. Kyle. I haven't heard from Kyle for nigh on ten years. Kyle: our son. "You seen him?"
"Yes," said Sam. He cracked open another can. "I seen him. I thought you'd like to hear about him."
"You thought right."
"He's in trouble, Cassie."
"Yeh? What's new?"
"Trouble," he said again.
"Just for once in your life, speak plain and tell me what's going on, Sam."
"He's part of a gang running out of Mireslow. And you know, Kyle. He's charmed his way up the ladder. Gotten to be the road leader."
"Yeh?" That didn't surprise me. When it suited him, Kyle could charm the birds out the trees.
That Ain't Right: Historical Accounts of the Miskatonic Valley (Mad Scientist Journal Presents Book 1) Page 15
