The speaker was right. Gradually Father Dreed’s vision began to return. At first all he saw was a hazy blurriness, but slowly his surroundings came into focus—a cave, a dark cave with a large fire in the center. A fire? Father Dreed thought. A cave?
“I’m alive!” Father Dreed exclaimed.
“Yes, yes you are, my friend.”
Father Dreed whirled around to face the voice. There, close to the entrance of the cave, hunched a short, squat figure. The figure was covered in dark rags, which smelled absolutely horrible, and as he turned to confront his apparent saviour, Father Dreed was forced to cover his nose and mouth with his hand, stifling the rising wave of nausea elicited as the putrid stench hit him full on. The ragged man—Father Dreed assumed it was a man—had a long face that came to a point at the chin, punctuated by a coarse, thin goatee. His skin was weathered and rough, like old leather worn from age, and he had two beady eyes like pieces of coal; yet, unlike coal, they glimmered and sparkled as if lit from some unseen fire within. A shifty hat adorned the man’s pointy head, casting his face in shadow and giving him a somewhat devious look, while his dirty, unkempt hair spilled out from the dark folds of his hat like so many greasy worms. Father Dreed took an immediate disliking to him.
“And well, I might add,” the dirty man continued.
Father Dreed didn’t know what to think. “You saved me?” he asked, questioningly.
“Yes, yes I did, but don’t be afraid. I’m not going to ask for payment or anything. I’m just glad to have been able to help. That frozen wasteland out there,” he gestured toward the entrance to the cave. “It’s dangerous. Many a man has died alone in that ice and snow.”
“Well, I thank you for rescuing me,” Father Dreed replied.
The peculiar man studied him for a moment before answering. “Think nothing of it. Now get some rest. Your body still needs to mend.” And with that, the odd man closed his eyes and began to snore.
Father Dreed was dumbfounded. He didn’t know what to think. Unanswered questions tugged at the back of his mind, seeking an answer that wasn’t there. He began to study his surroundings once more, scrutinizing every minute detail. The cave was very plain. Father Dreed had never really been in a cave before, but this cave was just like how he imagined one would be. There was nothing singular or striking about it at all. He looked at the fire and watched the smoke drift upward toward the ceiling…but there was no ceiling. On closer observation, Father Dreed noticed that the smoke seemed to ascend into nothing. There was no rock above him, only a dark abyss. It’s probably just shadows playing tricks with my eyes, Father Dreed thought. I did just walk away from a train wreck after all. He then refocused his attention on the strange man who had apparently saved his life. What an odd man, he pondered. What’s his game? He was still studying his rescuer when the man spoke.
“Don’t live backwards,” the curious man declared.
“What?” Father Dreed stammered, but then noticed the man’s eyes were still closed. He must be talking in his sleep, he thought.
The man’s eyes suddenly snapped open. He immediately looked at Father Dreed and asked, “Why are you staring at me?”
“You were talking in your sleep,” Father Dreed answered.
“Oh yeah, what did I say?”
“I’m not sure,” Father Dreed replied.
The man seemed to ponder this in his head for a moment before replying, “Maybe it was a prophetic omen.”
Maybe my rescuer is insane, Father Dreed wondered. But instead of voicing his opinion to the man, he calmly said, “I doubt it. You were just talking in your sleep. Probably something you ate.”
“I guess you don’t believe in premonitions or getting messages from dreams?” the weird man remarked.
Father Dreed looked him straight in those odd, black eyes, and with as strong a voice as he could muster, replied, “Of course not. That’s all just rubbish, make believe.”
“Is it now?” the man said, raising his arms up defensively. “Did you know that Hitler believed in dowsing and would send a dowser with his troops to the front lines to find water? He also believed in the theory that there was another world inside the Earth, one inhabited by a super race of human beings.”
Father Dreed couldn’t keep from chuckling. “Hitler was also a maniacal madman who tried to take over the world,” he laughed.
The strange man rubbed his nose and started laughing as well.
Father Dreed stopped at this. The man’s laugh was not a laugh that bespoke light-hearted humor or jest, but instead had a disturbing gravitas about it.
“You don’t believe in ESP or telekinesis or the astral plane?” the man asked.
“No, I do not,” Father Dreed replied. He was a bit shaken now. There was something about the way the man laughed and behaved that was unnatural, something off.
The eccentric man picked his nose, thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed as if studying Father Dreed, sizing him up like a predator. He flicked the refuse from his nose into the fire, cleared his throat and continued, “What about all the evidence to the contrary? What about the megaliths that dot Europe’s landscape or the strange happenings that occur along ley lines? How can you explain these things?”
“I don’t have to explain them,” Father Dreed answered. “I know them to be false.”
The unusual man sat back on his haunches, his eyes fixed on Father Dreed. His stare made Father Dreed very uncomfortable, made him feel as if he was in grade school again, being tested by an overly severe and critical teacher. He did not like the feeling.
The man seemed to sense Father Dreed’s unease, which brought a crooked smile to his face. He cocked his head to one side, still staring in that unsettling way, and continued, “You don’t believe in ghosts, monsters, spirits, poltergeists, psychic powers, or other unexplainable things, yet you proclaim yourself to be a godly man. God is unexplainable; some might even call Him supernatural. He cannot be proven, and He is not of the natural world. I do believe that this would place God into the category that you so strongly deny exists.”
Father Dreed stared at the bizarre man, shocked. “You know nothing,” he stammered. “God is different from ghosts and goblins.”
“But,” the man interrupted, “there is more physical evidence supporting the existence of UFOs than there is supporting the existence of your God.”
Father Dreed wrested his gaze from the disturbing man. It was all he could do not to reach out and strike him. Never had anyone so blatantly assaulted his faith like this before. He stammered and stuttered but could find nothing meaningful to say. The two of them sat in silence for what seemed like hours, the only noises the crackling fire in the middle of the cave and the ferocious wind blowing violently past the entrance to their cramped sanctuary. Eventually, Father Dreed mustered up enough courage to speak again, breaking the stillness. “How did you know I was religious?” he asked.
“I could tell,” the creepy man replied.
Father Dreed now turned his back on his supposed rescuer. He refused to look at him a moment longer. This aberrant man seemed to be taunting him on purpose. The calm that had presided over Father Dreed’s thoughts and actions become tumult. He felt doubt and anger towards the man for causing him to feel doubt. I will confront him, Father Dreed thought. He turned around with the full intention of putting the man in his place, but before he could utter one word, the horrible man spoke again.
“There’s a blizzard raging right now, but it should break by noon tomorrow. There’s a town about twenty miles north of here. We’ll start out after the storm blows over. There we can part ways, and I won’t defile you or your religion with my pagan remarks any longer,” the man said, sarcastically. “Now get some rest.” The man then lay down on his side, turning his back to Father Dreed, and went to sleep.
Father Dreed sat speechless but relieved. He could go. Get back to civilization, away from this crazy man and his crazy ideas.
As he sat on the cold, unforgiving floor staring
at the sleeping form across from him, a form he had come to despise, Father Dreed noticed a bulky brown satchel that the man was using as a pillow. He had not noticed this bag before. It looked very old and very well used. There was a hole in the top of it, and through this hole, Father Dreed glimpsed a faint glimmer of green, which sparkled in a strange and unnatural manner. Curious, Father Dreed moved toward the disturbed man, who snored obnoxious and oblivious to the approach, in order to steal a better look at the contents of the mysterious bag. He carefully inched the makeshift pillow out from under the sleeping head of the foul-smelling man, amazed at his own brazenness, and upon success, retreated back to his corner of the cave.
What could a man like that be carrying with him? he thought.
He gingerly opened the dirty, brown bag, struggling to suppress the gag reflex that was tickling the back of his throat like a caged butterfly. The stench of the man seemed to have permeated the very fabric of the satchel, and the potency of the resulting odor was almost too much for Father Dreed to bear. Turning his face away, repulsed, he shot his hand into the rank depths, snatching up whatever lay inside, and then hurriedly hurled the empty satchel toward the far cave wall. It slumped empty against the rock like a limp, dead body. Fearing he had been too loud, Father Dreed glanced nervously at the sleeping man in the opposite end of the cave, but the form did not stir. His thievery had been successful. He held up his prize: a beautiful jade statue and multiple, thick stacks of hundred dollar bills.
Father Dreed was dumbstruck. The money itself must have totalled in the tens of thousands, but who knew how much the jade statue was worth? It definitely looked old and of high quality. His heart racing, he placed the stacks of cash behind him against the cave wall, out of sight, so that he could examine the statue in more detail. He took the strange, green figure in both of his hands and held it up to the glow of the firelight, positioning it carefully to keep it out of view of his sleeping companion.
It was fairly large, a little bit bigger than a man’s fist, and quite heavy. As Father Dreed studied it, he noticed it was not just made out of jade. Rubies, sapphires, and emeralds adorned the intricate piece. He couldn’t tell what it was supposed to represent. It was obviously humanoid, but other than that, was completely alien to his comprehension. It had a disturbing, twisted face, with two large diamonds for eyes and a large ruby embedded in the forehead. The craftsmanship was exquisite, with fine attention paid to every detail, and though Father Dreed could appreciate the artistry of the piece, it held a strange dread that enveloped the very core of his being. He dropped the figure and hurriedly moved away. It rolled along the cave floor before coming to a stop next to the fire, facing him, that twisted grin glowing against the flames.
Despite its unsettling nature, Father Dreed couldn’t take his eyes off the figure. He stared at it for what seemed like an eternity, thoughtless and quiet, until a distant idea began to form in the back of his mind. The statue was evil, of that there was no doubt. More than likely demonic or satanic, and that meant the horrid man who kept it in his keep must have been just as sinister. The cash that Father Dreed found stashed with the statue must have been obtained through ill-gotten means and would only be used to further the forces of evil against good. Though he had no true evidence to support any of this, he knew in his heart of hearts that it must be true, and thusly he knew what he must do.
Father Dreed gently picked up the jade statue and tossed it into the fire to burn. He grabbed the stacks of cash and stuffed them into his pockets. He then shot one last bitter glance at the sleeping man in the far corner of the cave before rushing out of the entrance and into the swirling blizzard beyond.
* * *
Father Dreed pushed his way through the storm, pushed his way through the limits of his tired and beaten body. He didn’t know how long he had been walking, but to his dismay, the blizzard showed no sign of stopping.
I’ve got to make it, he thought. I’ve got to.
He soldiered on. The snow swallowed up his legs to the knees, so cold and wet that he could no longer feel his feet; while the cutting wind sliced into his pale, exposed flesh, leaving it raw and ragged. And it wasn’t only the storm that was taking its toll: Father Dreed found himself physically weighed down as if by some invisible burden. It felt like he had stones in his pockets, stones that got heavier with each step he took away from the cave, the statue, and the sinister man.
He tripped and fell, tumbling into the cold wet abyss, tired and exhausted. As he lay there in that swirling vortex, staring into an infinite canvas of white, a glimmer of hope appeared. He spied a collection of lights in the distance. He squinted his eyes and looked closer, relieved to discover they belonged to a town about a mile away. Overjoyed, Father Dreed attempted to rise, only to find that he could not. That invisible weight that seemed to grow heavier with each step was now insurmountable, those stones in his pockets, boulders. “No!” he cried out. “This can’t be! I’m so close.”
He struggled to rise from the snow, to pull himself up, to crawl toward the distant town, struggled until all of his strength had left him, left him with only his thoughts and the blurry promise of salvation twinkling in the snowy distance. He gazed at those lights longingly, the embodiment of hope, so close and yet so far away. Then, to his terror and astonishment, one by one they flickered out, disappeared until none remained and only white darkness filled the vacant void. And now a figure emerged from the void—a thin form approaching Father Dreed through the chaos of wind and snow, suddenly upon him, leaning over him. It had no face and no features, but spoke directly to Father Dreed’s mind.
“He got you, huh? With his stupid test?”
Father Dreed answered without moving his frozen lips, “Please, help me.”
The form crouched down, its hands on its knees, its empty face looking down upon the frozen man.
“Yeah, he doesn’t play fair, does he? With all his tests and his trials, forcing you to constantly prove yourself through temptation and hardship. I could never stomach that. You know what I mean?”
The form let out a long sigh before continuing.
“No matter, I can help you now, now that you made your choice. Are you ready?”
Father Dreed thought he finally understood.
“And you are… God, right? You’re here to take me to heaven?”
“Hell no, you already met him. I’m the Devil.”
THE END
HOLY SHIT!
By Gerri R. Gray
Some men collect comic books and baseball cards; others collect postage stamps and coins. A man of means might collect classic European automobiles, big game trophies, fine art, or other items possessing great value. Louis IX, commonly known as Saint Louis, collected saints’ relics and built temples for them. Napoleon Bonaparte collected countries.
Malcolm Thorndike, a man of vast wealth and questionable taste, also possessed a passion for collecting, although his was a peculiar one, to say the least. By the time he had reached the age of thirty, he had invested (some would say squandered) a large chunk of his sizable inheritance amassing an impressive and one-of-a-kind collection of rare stools from around the world. Not the kind of stools one would sit on, but rather the kind discharged from one’s bowels after food has been digested.
Within his spacious Fifth Avenue mansion overlooking the wilds of Central Park, locked bookcases and lighted curio cabinets lined the walls of every room, their spotless shelves overflowing with the turds of celebrities, saints and sinners, as well as the dung of exotic animals and royalty—all proudly on display under clear glass domes that were polished three times a week by Malcolm’s faithful Japanese houseboy, Motoshi. Smaller, albeit equally prized, specimens were housed in shadow boxes that dominated the stairwell and halls like exhibits in a SoHo art gallery. And in the center of the mansion’s opulent and capacious paneled parlor, directly beneath a monstrous chandelier with hundreds of red crystals like drops of frozen blood, a fossilized pterodactyl dropping that set Malcolm�
��s bank account back nearly five thousand dollars graced the top of an antique Chippendale desk. It pulled double duty as a paperweight and conversation-starter.
An icy drizzle blurred the windowpanes as, one by one, the guests arrived at the feces-filled mansion and gathered in the parlor like six of the seven deadly sins. There were R.J. Solomon—Chairman and Chief Executive of a multinational luxury goods conglomerate; Cromwell Mortimer—a British petrol-industrialist and founder of a major oil company; Giselle Delacroix—French socialite and heiress to one of the world’s largest cosmetic companies; Gunther Vogel—German billionaire businessman and owner of an international pharmaceutical empire; billionaire shipping magnate, Jules Christos; and filthy rich (and filthy-minded) televangelist, Skyler Raines.
They were, without question, half a dozen of the world’s wealthiest individuals. They had the best that money could afford—luxurious homes, luxurious cars, luxurious yachts, and the finest of everything. Yet, despite their extravagances and exorbitant toys, they still felt dissatisfied with their lives. However, their wealth and dissatisfaction were not the only things this group had in common: they each shared a burning desire for immortality… and were willing to pay any price to obtain it.
A low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance as the guests waited in jittery silence for their host to make his entrance. A cloud of shallow-breathed anticipation hung thick and heavy in the air. Giselle Delacroix lit one of her stubby French cigarettes, crossed her legs and eyed the German and the televangelist as the two men strolled about the room like art connoisseurs examining the unusual exhibits. Cromwell Mortimer, growing restless, cleared his throat and began tapping his fingertips on the arms of his chair. The others sat motionless, staring out into nothingness.
Lightning streaked past the rain-obscured window, dispatching a sharp finger stabbing toward the earth. Another rumble of thunder, louder than the previous one, growled overhead as if to herald the arrival of slow and rhythmic footsteps that echoed out in the hallway. They grew louder as they drew closer to the parlor.
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