Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  Yes, Soloman was skilled and savage – a superior fighter from a superior realm lost to the world for so long that even he could not remember the true greatness of it.

  Growling, he remembered facing only one other—the son of Jesse— who fought with such will. One who never retreated, knowing only attack with such purity of purpose. He closed his eyes as he remembered the sweeping black blade weaving a wheel of steel before him.

  He’d sought to escape the wrath of the warrior-king, but he had failed and finally turned on the rampart, each challenging the other as the Temple of Dagon burned down around them. Sword in hand, ignoring the flaming timbers that crashed like trees, the Hebrew had advanced like a sea-king of old, unyielding and unconquerable to the last to claim a victory that was not of this world.

  Their swords met, fire flying from the clash.

  Iron against iron . . .

  David roaring before him.

  Blow after blow . . .

  David spinning, whirling the great black blade.

  Such strength!

  Attacking, attacking.

  Fire and sword . . .

  A blow struck true, drawn.

  Agony!

  A blazing bearded image of righteous rage.

  Retreat ...

  The black sword rose high, a kingly roar descending as it fell to—

  Darkness.

  He shook his head, snarling.

  No!

  Enough!

  I will not be defeated again!

  It cursed him that he remembered so well how it came to pass. For the body of the gigantic Gadite, resurrected from death by Egyptian sorcery in the sacred ritual of Saturn and Mars, had been the single physical form he’d managed to possess during the long ages. And he had wreaked havoc on the Hebrews with that almost unmatched strength, defeating great Benaiah, Abishai, and even the legendary Jashobeam who once slew eight hundred men in a day’s fighting, in single combat.

  Yes, he had scattered Israel’s strongest warriors like chaff until David, their anointed king, had come to understand what cosmic force was ravaging his mighty army.

  And then the Hebrew had risen from his throne, taken up the sword of Goliath and hunted him down, angrily challenging him in the Temple of Dagon where the last, savage battle ensued – a merciless mortal conflict that left the temple shattered and aflame. But it was not enough for the King of Israel to claim mere victory; he had felt it necessary to rid the Earth of his presence forever. So with kingly vengeance, he ordered the Gadite body buried in a chamber beneath the disintegrating walls, hesitating so long that he dared the wrath of a sandstorm approaching from the east.

  David himself had sealed the tomb with a sword, driving it through the stone sheath before shattering the blade. Then at his own peril and as flames rose on all sides, took precious seconds to chisel those hated words above the grave, casting a curse on all who would dare to approach the gateway.

  So many years ...

  Yes, for so many years his near-physical essence had been imprisoned within those stone walls, for he was not beyond the limitations of space and time and light. No, he was a prisoner, too, of nature, as much as lightning or even man. His essence was different from flesh, but he was not as the Old One. He could not transcend the physical. He was a created being and could not be omnipresent, nor could he cross the void, or even the Earth without a portal.

  He had lain within the tomb for so many dark years, dreaming dreams of revenge. And then the priest—he could not remember the face or name—had come to set him free, the priest who defied the curse and opened the portal that loosened him once more upon the world.

  At last!

  Yes, free at last to deliver his vengeance upon the world because the Hebrew King had long ago returned to dust, lost to ages. And now he inhabited another superhuman form, a form far, far more marvelous than the first; a form he had never beheld even among the Nephilim who ruled the land before David’s hated sword drove them into ravines and valleys where they were slaughtered by that scornful strength.

  But now was the hour of his revenge, and he laughed.

  He moved inch by slow inch, crawling through the dark to find the first faint tendril of light, a spectral white that cut through the grate above. Then he raised his scarred head, gazing up to see a blue sliver of moon. And with the sight he moved more quickly, finding what he had to find in the dark, rising with final fierceness until he was climbing. Then as he reached the surface he shattered the steel cover with a fast fading strength, and after insuring that the street was empty, emerged.

  Yes, he needed time to heal.

  Rolling in infinite agony, he gazed about and saw the glistening wet streets. Then he rolled again and saw the October moon low in the sky like a grinning skull, brooding over a building that hunched black and wide on a shrouded hill, surrounding trees swayed by night wind. Massive and ponderous, the building commanded the small knoll, a thick iron gate surrounding it with pikes articulated against a storm-clouded sky. He squinted through gathering wind and abandoned air to read the sign: Halcrouth Sanatorium.

  He laughed.

  Yes, of course; it would be the perfect place to hide while his wounds healed, the perfect place to recover before he once again waged war with this soldier who had so foolishly defied him.

  Rising with effort, he stumbled forward, hesitating only at the last moment to prevent himself from shattering the chain on the isolated rear entrance. No, no, he remembered, he must leave no careless clues that might lead these mortals to him. He must be cunning.

  Grimacing in agony, he climbed the pikes, quickly finding himself in the bright moonlit sheen of grass. Then he walked through the dark mossy silence, a ravaged humanlike thing emerging silently from shadow. And in the far night he saw the front gate, a guard reading.

  He found a door and effortlessly shattered the lock, for there was no manner of penetrating the building without causing some measure of damage. But by the time it was discovered in the morning, he knew he would be so well hidden inside the walls that they would never find him.

  He moved in an aura of rumbling death down the now-haunted corridors to find where he could feed. Then he forced another door without hesitation and opened it to enter the room of ... a woman.

  She lay upon the bed, her face bandaged to cover the incisions of the surgeon. Yes, she had been healed—healed by the healing that came from a realm that was not this, as all their healing came. And she was so happy with it, he knew. Yes, so happy that her disfigurement was corrected, making her as beautiful as the rest.

  Staggering, he approached the bed to stand, gazing down with black eyes that cast no reflection. He smiled softly as his charred hand reached out, caressing the face, touching the incisions. And then he laughed, a cut of hideous intent in darkened air. He ripped the gauze from her face, and she opened her eyes instantly, awakening and turning to him in shock.

  He smothered her scream.

  CHAPTER 13

  Amy was amazingly bright and alert as she sat in a plush white recliner, light blond hair spilling like sunlight over pale blue eyes. Her gaze was intently focused on Marcelle as he sat before her, an encouraging smile. But her body revealed the slightest measure of tension as if she knew the priest was about to approach something dreadful, something that should be feared.

  Then, with a slight bend of his head, Marcelle casually intensified his benevolence, seemingly summoning a faint measure of confidence from within her. When he spoke it was with the full measure of that masterful confidence that Soloman had come to know so well: the tone of a man who had suffered much, and was eminently qualified to speak with those who had endured the same.

  “Hello, Amy,” he began slowly. “I am Father Jacob Marcelle. I am happy to see that you are well.”

  There was silence as she seemed to measure him. “I’m fine,” she replied
carefully.

  “Yes, my dear, of course you are.” Marcelle’s familiarity was respectfully distant; no, he would not presume. “I spoke with your mother, and she told me that you slept well last night, resting better than anyone anticipated amidst these annoying circumstances.” He smiled. “Your mother was happy to see you get some rest, as all of us were, I assure you. And, in fact, that is why we are here. We want to ensure that you remain safe.” Marcelle leaned closer with the words, hovering majestically on an invisible line. “You see, we want to help you, Amy. Do you think, if it is no trouble, that you might also help us?”

  A moment.

  Faintly, she nodded.

  “Yes.” Marcelle laughed easily. “Yes, I was certain that you would be willing to help us, as well as yourself. And it will be no trouble for you, I assure you.”

  Amy shifted. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Oh, only a simple thing,” he continued with consummate composure, his face comforting. “I need only to ask a few small questions, and the answers will be simple enough, I promise. But you don’t have to answer at all if you don’t want to. Whatever you wish is fine.”

  He smiled expectantly.

  “All right,” she said, but the words came slowly, as if she remained uncertain.

  “Good,” Marcelle replied and for a split-second carefully paused, his aspect telegraphing that he was about to approach a subject that might be painful. But with another alteration he seemed to acknowledge her courage.

  Amy blinked, her mouth tightening.

  “Yes, well,” he continued, settling hands on his knees, “I only want to ask you one or two questions, and I’m sure that whatever you say will be fine. Then we will not need to speak again.”

  She bit her lip, nodded.

  “Good,” Marcelle smiled encouragingly, his eyes kind and gentle as he leaned comfortably forward. “So, let us begin. Now, this man, this criminal who chased you, he said something about the stars and the moon and planets, things like that. And I want to repeat to you something that may have sounded like what he said. Only a few words, mind you, and you can tell me whether I am correct or not. Can you listen to me while I do that?”

  Another nod, stronger this time.

  Soloman glanced to the side to see Maggie Milton nervously chewing a fingernail. Her stance was tense, faintly trembling. He looked back at Marcelle as he continued. “It, perhaps, sounded like this. This man was probably not speaking to you. He was ... uh, perhaps speaking to himself. But he might have said something to the effect of the moon, or the power of the moon, or, uh, the blood of the moon. Was it something like that?”

  “Yes.”

  Soloman frowned. He had already told Marcelle that much; the priest wasn’t covering any new ground. But Amy seemed to lighten in aspect as Marcelle nodded his square head, openly pleased. “Ah, yes,” he said, a good smile, “yes, I knew that would be it. I was certain that it would be the power of the moon.”

  Silence.

  “No,” Amy replied, pausing. “That’s not what he said. He said, ‘the water of the moon.’”

  A hidden shudder went through Soloman at the repetition of what Cain said in that horrible moment, extracted so easily by Marcelle s subtle skills of interrogation. Or, rather, skills that seemed subtle but which had been gained by a lifetime of delving into the darkest heart of man.

  Soloman knew from years of counterintelligence work that interrogation was an exceedingly difficult skill that required extensive experience and training. For not only did the questioner have to remain far, far ahead of those being questioned, he had to reveal nothing—no excitement, no interest—when he finally approached the true target of his quest. If he did, then those being interrogated could be spooked into a dozen lines of manipulation or retreat, or even reconsideration. It was an exacting science, and Soloman was respectfully amazed as Marcelle proceeded.

  “Ah, yes,” he repeated. “Yes, well, that is such an old saying, Amy, the water of the moon.” He laughed. “But, of course, we both know there is no water on the moon.”

  Her head tilted. “What about the other part?”

  “Oh, yes, the part about planets,” Marcelle said as he cupped his chin for a moment, apparently confused. “I’m sorry, but for some reason I can’t remember the other part.” Then he nodded, convinced. “Ah, yes, now I remember. It was about Venus and Saturn.” A laugh. “Such, an old wives’ tale. But they are all old wives’ tales, you know.”

  “But you don’t have it right.” Amy leaned slightly forward. “It was about Mars.”

  “Mars?” Marcelle looked crestfallen, feigning disappointment in his inability to remember something so simple. “Mars is it? Are you certain? I, ah ... perhaps I’m getting too old for these games.” He stared away, studious. “I was certain that it was Venus and Saturn.”

  “No.” She shook her head solidly. “It was Saturn and Mars.” She leaned even farther forward. “It was like ... like something about Saturn and Mars and the water of the moon!” At the words she seemed pleased, as if she’d defeated the priest in a word game.

  “Hmm.” Marcelle frowned. “You know, now that you say it, my dear, I think you may be right.” He made a circular gesture in the air, amazed at his sudden recall. “Yes, yes, something about all of them being together, all in a line, or something like that.”

  She stared at him, nodded more easily.

  A pause, and Marcelle suddenly released a deep breath, slapping both hands on his knees. “Well, Amy, I guess we should forget all those questions I was going to ask. I seem to be forgetting everything today.” He smiled. “Why don’t you just enjoy your day? I shan’t trouble you anymore.”

  He rose with a kindly nod and turned, taking a single step.

  “But what about the man?” Amy asked after him and Marcelle hesitated, gazing back patiently. She was suddenly and openly frightened. “Will he try to hurt me again?”

  Marcelle did not move but his aspect changed, solidifying and strengthening. “We will never let him hurt you, Amy,” he said.

  “Well ... did I help you?”

  Marcelle smiled benevolently.

  “Yes, child,” he said. “More than enough.”

  ***

  The priest leaned on a rail, smoking his habitual cigarette, when Soloman emerged a few minutes later. He waited in silence as Marcelle expelled a slow breath, and clearly read the severe hardness of his face.

  Knew the priest had discovered something unsettling.

  There was another long breath and Marcelle sniffed, frowning as his cigarette spiraled purest white in the early morning light. A lengthy space grew between them.

  “So,” Soloman said finally, “what was all that about, Marcelle?”

  “About a dark and disbelieved god who lives,” the priest replied, glancing at the sun. “About one whose name means ‘Who is like God upon the Earth.’ And before whom the world once trembled.” He grimaced. “It was about one who, for a while in these last years of my life, I ceased to believe was an actual force in this old, cursed world of ours.”

  Still for a moment, Soloman cast a slight glance to ensure they were alone and unheard. “Look, Marcelle, just tell me what the hell we’re dealing with. I’m tired of games, tired of riddles, tired of spells and things that go bump in the night. I want to know exactly what we’re up against.”

  “You already have your suspicions.”

  Soloman stepped closer. “I want to know what you’re thinking.”

  With a bitter gaze the priest continued, “Cain was correct, Soloman. We do not know him. I know more than almost anybody and I don’t know anything at all, really. It’s a mystery, in the end.”

  “Try and explain.”

  Marcelle seemed to settle. Not physically, but with an invisible, internal gravity that made him somehow more substantial. A solemn certainty creased the
lines of his face.

  “It is the oldest theme of man,” he said slowly, “and the most mysterious. Shakespeare approached it again and again and never managed to reveal more than a dim reflection. Milton strongly challenged it and failed to lift it above the level of a romantic ideal. Yet it is a fear that inhabits the deepest instinct of man – a concept that has dominated literature and art for six centuries.” He gestured. “Theramo wrote of it in ‘Belial.’ Sprenger and Institoris approached it in the epic ‘Malleu Malefi-carum.’” He blew out a slow stream. “’Doomsday’ by Alexanderus, ‘La battaglia celeste tra Michele e Ludjero’ by Alfano, ‘El Adversae’ by Rolf of Alexandria. It has always been an obsession of man to understand what place ... he ... once held in this universe.”

  Soloman knew, but he asked the question anyway. “What are you talking about?”

  The priest was steady. “I speak of Satan, Colonel.”

  As it was said, Soloman heard himself deny it. “That’s impossible.” He shook his head. “Satan is just a mythological concept. I mean, there might be such a thing as supernatural evil—I tend to believe that there is—but you’re talking about the Devil.”

  “Oh, I’m speaking about far more than ‘the Devil,’” Marcelle replied evenly. “I’m speaking of a cosmic being so powerful, and so deceived by his own great fierceness, that he threatened to tread underfoot the Throne of God. I’m speaking of a celestial entity that was once the greatest heavenly force, and even dared to wage war with the Creator of the Universe. Yes, Colonel, a being that makes the blackest of all human sin seem as nothing when measured against the purity of his evil.”

  Soloman wasn’t sure how to receive it. He tried to contain his shock and amazement. “Look, Marcelle,” he began, “I believe that a man is more than a bunch of electrical neurons, but I’m not sure if I can believe in what theologians call ‘Satan.’”

  “But is there anything else that would more appropriately define this adversary?” Marcelle waited patiently, almost challenging; Soloman didn’t reply. “Do you not remember what Cain spoke of in the museum, Colonel?” he continued. “Did he not reveal himself? And the elements of this spell hold the purest satanic characteristics.”