by Brom
Trish saw them as they passed the graveyard, the children, gathered around something in the grass. It’s not her, she told herself. Whatever is over there, it’s not my baby.
Chet stopped at the bridge, seemed unsure, but they crossed with no problems. A couple of miles farther, she spotted a porch light glowing in the early morning mist. It belonged to a small unpainted house, not much more than a shack. A thin trail of smoke drifted from the chimney.
Chet parked, helped her out, and walked her up on the porch. He knocked lightly upon the door.
She could hear talking inside and a moment later the door opened a crack and an old man with dark, deeply wrinkled skin and a head of burly white hair peeked out. “What ’cha want?”
“Just need a little help, sir,” Chet said. “Hoping you could call someone for us.”
The man looked them over, his eyes lingering on the blood staining Trish’s nightgown. “Yeah, might be a good idea if I called someone. Y’all can wait on the porch.” He closed the door.
Chet started to take Trish to an old bench when the door opened again. An old woman stood there. “You two get yourselves in here. Shouldn’t be out in the chill like this.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Chet said.
She led them to a couch while the old man dialed the phone, staring at Chet the whole time. Like he’s a ghost, Trish thought, and she looked at Chet too, here in the light, at his pale skin, colorless lips. He looked hard and grim, like a cadaver.
The old man asked for an ambulance and the police. Trish wondered how long it would be before her father got word of her whereabouts.
“Stop your staring,” the old woman said to the old man and he shot her a look, pulled her into the kitchen. Trish could still hear them. “Can’t you see?” the old man said. “That man, he ain’t right.”
“I can see,” the old woman said. “He’s just lost, that’s all.”
“Trish,” Chet said, “I have to go now. I have a promise to keep.” And when she didn’t reply he added, “I have to go back for her. For our daughter.”
Trish searched his face. “What?”
“She’s back there . . . with the other children. I need to go find her . . . see to it she’s not alone.”
Trish let out a small cry, covered her mouth with her hand. The thought of her little girl, like one of those ghosts, those poor tormented little children. “Yes, Chet. Go get her. Please.” She clutched his hand. “And bring her here. Bring her to me. Please.”
He was silent a minute, his face pained. He slowly shook his head. “I can’t do that, Trish. Just . . . well, there’s just no way.”
“Yes, you can. You have to.”
The pain on his face deepened, a man who’d lost the world. “Trish, I love you. I’m sorry . . . so sorry.” He stood, but she wouldn’t let go of his hand.
“Chet . . .” She tried to find something else to say, but there was nothing. He was dead; so was her daughter.
“Listen to me,” he said, speaking softly into her ear. “Lamia is gone. We stopped her. No more children are gonna have to suffer from her wickedness. Our sacrifices, our daughter’s sacrifices, they mean something. Do you understand that?”
Trish thought she did and slowly nodded her head.
“Always, always remember that,” he said. “Now, there’s something you have to do for me, for your daughter. You have to move on, have to make the best of your life, because . . . because, life is precious . . . a precious fragile gift and you’ll never understand just how precious until it’s gone. So you have to live to your fullest, for me, for Amy. Have to put this nightmare behind you. Promise me.”
Trish couldn’t promise, couldn’t see how she’d even ever be able to smile again.
“Promise me . . . please.”
Trish sucked in a deep, shaky breath and nodded.
Chet kissed her atop her head and stepped away. Trish still clutched his hand.
“Goodbye, Trish. I’ll love you always.” He pulled loose and walked to the door, opened it.
“Chet!” she called.
He stopped, looked back at her.
“I love you too,” she said.
He smiled then, a real smile, and for one second, through the blur of her tears, he looked alive, like the boy she’d fallen in love with.
“Take good care of her,” she said, the tears flowing freely now. “Okay? Take good care of our baby.”
He nodded. “I will.”
He left then, gently closing the door.
CHAPTER 98
Chet stood on a ledge above the River Styx. He held a broom he’d taken from the barn, a head hung upon one end. It was that of his daughter, only it wasn’t—it was Lamia. He’d wrapped it in rags so he wouldn’t have to see her, see the long black tongue and glaring eyes. The key had opened the way back down, allowing Chet’s physical form to descend, allowing him to bring Lamia’s head along. The children had followed him, or her rather, all of them. It had been a long journey, several days at least, maybe weeks, hard for him to say as time felt meaningless in the ghostly Erebus, but the children had stayed with Lamia the whole way. Chet felt they would go anywhere she went, even to Hell. But he wasn’t headed for Hell.
Chet carried one of the children—an infant girl—in the crook of his arm. She didn’t really have substance, but clung to him just the same. Her eyes were like her mother’s. He smiled at her, and when he did, she smiled back—every time.
A sack also hung from the broomstick. He propped the broom against a boulder, set his daughter down, and untied the sack. Three heads fell out—Davy, Billy, and Senoy. They were flesh, like him. He’d had to use the key to bring them down this far. Billy and Davy glared at him while Senoy stared sadly out at the dark misty river.
Chet picked up Billy and Davy, held them out over the bank. They gnashed and snarled at him, but when the current began to churn, when hundreds of tormented faces and mangled hands clawed at the surface below, they fell quiet.
Chet tossed them into the current. They hit the water, sizzling like hot coals, steam bubbling around them as they sank. The hands grabbed them then, tearing at them. Chet could see their eyes, those gleaming dots of fire as they were pulled deeper and deeper into the depths, could actually hear their screams of rage from far below.
Chet picked up Senoy.
“Chet, please. I understand I am culpable, that I cannot deny my crimes against you, my sins against God. But I, like you, was under her spell. You must see that. At least extend me the mercy of Lethe. Chet, I am begging.”
Chet raised Senoy’s head until they were eye to eye. “There’s something I’d like you to take with you, to carry always. It’s a name—Gavin Moran.”
Senoy flinched.
Chet threw the angel’s head out into the river. Watched the current tumble it along until the hands caught it, gouging its eye sockets and tearing out its tongue, tugging it deep down beneath the black water.
Chet lifted his daughter, Amy, stood there cradling her ghostly form for a long time, the two of them just watching that slow-moving river roll by. There was no longer any sense of urgency. Death’s forever, Chet thought, and allowed himself to look at the land, to really soak it in. Purgatory is a majestic and solemn place, he thought. Terrible and wonderful. A good place for a soul to find himself. “And,” he said softly, looking at Amy, “maybe . . . one day, to find some kind of peace.”
He picked up the broom and the children began to gather back around. He tried to count them, to even guess at their number, two hundred at least. But more now as Chet had picked up every child they’d found along the way, handing over those who couldn’t walk to the older children, telling them to carry them along.
He continued down the path. When the other souls saw him—a dead man leading a host of children along with a head upon a broom—they stepped aside, watching in wonderment and awe. When the inevitable questions came, Chet simply told them to follow.
Chet came to the docks and waited. He didn
’t have to wait long. The barge rolled up out of the mist. The ferryman spotted Chet, the children, and a small smile snuck across his face.
CHAPTER 99
They crossed, the children becoming flesh as they passed through the river fog, and for a moment all that mattered to Chet was that he could hold, truly hold his daughter, crushing her to his chest.
The embankment appeared out of the mist ahead and the ferryman rang the bell three times. The landing was empty, no sign of any souls, the baskets and crates, all gone.
The barge bumped up against the dock and Chet led the children off, both him and the ferryman helping those too small, or unable to walk, onto the landing. Once they were finished, Chet picked Amy back up, cradling her as he surveyed the children, wondering what his next step would be.
Three figures came down the stones steps toward them—hard to make out in the fog. Chet’s hand dropped to his gun.
“You won’t be needing that,” the ferryman said.
Chet saw they were women, that they were dressed in black robes. The lead woman had a jewel set in her forehead. She saw the children and smiled at Chet.
“We’ve driven them away,” Mary said. “The Green Coats. At least from the docks. The sisters are gathering here in Styga, coming from all over. The Red Lady will be here soon as well.”
Chet heard more footsteps approaching, saw two more robed women striding quickly toward the landing. “Chet?” one of them called.
Chet squinted. “Ana?”
She pushed back her hood and he saw it was her. She embraced him. Chet’s daughter made a cooing sound and Ana stepped back, looking at the infant, at all the children in amazement.
“Chet, what’s going on?”
“It’s a long story. Ana, I thought you were—”
“In the river.”
He nodded.
“Oblivion can wait,” she said. “There are things I need to do.”
“The children?” he asked.
“Yes, the children. Life’s more than flesh and blood. It’s how you live. In a way, purgatory is a blessing, a second chance. I don’t intend to throw that away.” She watched the children. “I’ve found a purpose.” Her smile made her look alive. “Chet, what about you? You could join us.”
“Maybe . . . one day,” he said, combing his fingers through his daughter’s unruly dark hair. “But there’s somewhere Amy and I need to go first.” He looked to Mary. “Mary, which road leads to the Elysium Fields?”
EPILOGUE
Joshua watched the sun slowly rise above the marsh. For more years than he could count, he’d wanted to take a walk down that way. He looked again at the headless bodies of Billy and Davy lying in the leaves, their shriveling remains smoldering in the daylight. Are they gone? he wondered. Truly gone?
He stepped cautiously from the graveyard, keeping a watchful eye on the bodies, stopping when he came to that of the angel. “Senoy?” he called, sure there’d be no answer because Chet had taken the angel’s head with him, using the key to create an opening into the below. The fact that Chet was able to take Senoy from the island left Joshua wondering if the key had possibly opened the shroud. The boy searched the clouds for any sign of an angel.
“Mama, can you hear me?” He stood listening for a long spell, but when there came no reply he headed off along the drive. Joshua came to the marsh and took a seat on an old stump, watching the fiddler crabs scuttling about in the pluff mud. He studied the sky, waiting for the angels, sitting there until the sun began to slide toward the horizon. No angels came.
A rabbit hopped up to the stump and began to feed on a sprig of grass.
“How you do, Mr. Rabbit?”
The rabbit didn’t answer.
“Starting to worry, y’know, that maybe them angels can’t see me after all. That maybe that old shroud is still up. What’d you think?”
The rabbit hopped away and Joshua let out a long sigh. He watched the clouds awhile longer, then something struck him odd. Senoy . . . why . . . he wasn’t able to enter the graveyard. Joshua hadn’t known that. He realized now that he’d never seen the angel even try before. But there, at the end, Senoy had tried and the shroud had lit up, keeping the angel out. Then how come it didn’t keep me out? Joshua was pondering this when another thought struck him. Or in? He jumped up, looking toward the woods in the direction of the bridge. He bit at his lip and began walking rapidly down the sandy road, excitement and apprehension mounting with each step. He passed through the woods. They were full of shadows, but he saw no fireflies. When he came to the bridge, he stopped.
“Mama? Are you there?” He searched the sky. Nothing. Senoy had told him they were trapped on the island, but he’d never said what would happen if he tried to leave. And if that shroud is still there? Joshua wondered. What then? Would a wall of fire spring up . . . a bottomless blackness? What?
He stepped up to the bridge, slid one foot onto it. Nothing happened.
He kept going, one cautious step after another, his hands groping the air before him. When he reached the far side he stopped again, staring at the straw dolls tied to the posts. “Mama, if you can hear me, please ask Jesus to let me cross on out of here.”
He stepped off the bridge. No fire, no shimmering walls blocked his path.
“Am I free?” he whispered. “Mama, am I free?” He took off at a run, not looking back, not once, not daring to. Sure if he did, something would come after him.
He continued down the road, not slowing, until he came to a trail. The path was overgrown with bushes and vines, but he knew the way, following it until he came out upon a shack.
The roof had falling in and weeds grown up through the floorboards, but his mother’s old rocking chair still sat on the porch. He stared at that chair, thinking of his mother sitting their shelling peas, smiling at him and his brother while they played in the yard.
“Joshua,” a voice called, sounding like the wind.
He turned, saw a light coming toward him from out of the trees. A woman walked out of the glow.
“Mama?” Joshua called.
She smiled, extending her arms to him.
Joshua began to tremble. “Mama!” He ran to her, ran into her arms.
She picked him up and hugged him tight. She smelled of honey and sunshine.
“Are you ready to come home?” she asked.
He nodded, wiping at his eyes.
She set him down, took his hand, and together they walked into the light.
PHOTOS SECTION
Davy and Billy
Lamia in her youth
Yevabog
The Red Lady
Veles
Hel
Lord Kashaol
Lord Beelbeth
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I started writing this novel I never stopped to consider the logistical challenges of my idea. I, like so many creatives, don’t have time for such silliness. I needed to plunge in, chase my muse before she slipped away. I did not realize until later that in order to make my particular vision of purgatory believable, I would need not only to invent an entire history, a system of government, a political/social structure for both souls and gods, tie it into all religions, add some kind of monetary system, define magics and spells and powers, but also to invent a physiology for the dead, figure out if souls eat, drink, and if so, what. Can the dead die? If so, how? And, as with most mysteries, answering one question often leads to ten more. But the real question was what details needed spelling out, and which ones could simply be left in the background to keep from bogging down the story, and here is where Rebecca Lucash, my editor, stepped in.
However you end up feeling about this tale, you can be assured it is far better because of her stewardship, her attention to detail and logic, her intuitions of story and character. And for that, I would like to thank her. And if you happen to run into her, you should thank her too. Thank you, Rebecca.
Two other people were instrumental in this process: Robert Brom and Erika Hoel. An
d, if I were in charge of giving out medals, I’d see to it that they both received a very large, very shiny one for giving up several days of their lives reading an early draft of this novel, and for taking the time to give me much-needed input on where I was going wrong and ideas on how to make things better. Thank you, Robert and Erika.
And, as always, a much-deserved thank-you to Julie Kane-Ritsch for her friendship, enthusiasm, diligence, and for being such a smart dresser. Thank you, Julie.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For decades, BROM has lent his distinctive vision to all facets of the creative industries, from novels and games to comics and film. His books include Krampus, The Child Thief, and the award-winning illustrated horror novels The Plucker and The Devil’s Rose. Brom is currently kept in a dank cellar somewhere just outside of Seattle, Washington.
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ALSO BY BROM
Krampus
The Child Thief
The Devil’s Rose
The Plucker
CREDITS
Cover design and illustrations by Brom
All artwork copyright © 2016 by Brom
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
LOST GODS. Copyright © 2016 by Gerald Brom. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
