He glanced over and shifted. Sam was on his shoulder, leaning against him. She had been asleep for a couple of hours. Around her shoulders was a long coat, and buttoned halfway down and crooked, the long sleeved shirt he had given to her when he got her to come to. She hadn’t remembered him. She hadn’t remembered what they were doing. More than that, she didn’t remember that Jon was dead.
The deputy who was leaning against one of the cruisers took a look up at them from his smartphone, where from what Clark could tell, he was playing Angry Birds or some cheap derivative. It was only a brief glance before he turned back to his phone, ignoring the couple sitting on the edge of the ambulance.
He had expected them to take them to the hospital, or to the police station or something by that time. Had it not been for Morrison’s phone, they wouldn’t even have been out there. The words “dead cop” tended to get a fair amount of attention as well as mistrust It had certainly brought them running fast enough. Apparently, it was not enough to merit proper medical attention.
They had bandaged his and Sam’s wounds, of which there were very few, considering. He had a feeling it had something to do with that light that had come from inside the doors, the one that had taken her so powerfully for that small period of time.
He thought of Morrison, and wished that the light had come sooner. The man had been following them since the previous afternoon. A call to his precinct had indicated he left early the day previous. Following them to that hellhole. The tracking unit had led him right to the place.
Flashlights were sweeping through the woods, he could see them reaching into the distance, skipping along the trees and branches out in the dark. Dull chatter echoed through onto the radio that deputy wore. They had been skeptical for some time then. He knew all he had to do was wait.
Sam stirred on his shoulder, and he looked, seeing her eyes closed, but her face wrapped together tight, bunched up against him, in horror. She was seeing something.
Or someone.
He shook a little bit, and she stirred, but calmed and fell back into deep sleep, her eyes darting from one side to the other behind her eyelids. He wondered what she was searching for, or what it was that was searching for her.
Clark rubbed his hand against his thigh, trying to warm it against the cold of the early morning air on the New England road. Brief heat flashed across his palm when he did, and he continued to slowly, gently rub.
He kept seeing her. The image of her standing there at the opening of the doors, bound so tightly in the heavy chains, staring out at him, reaching for him was burned on his retinas. No matter where he looked for for how long, she would eventually shift into his vision. Her form was leaned and desperate. She looked so tired, and so sad, despite the smile as she pointed to the light.
Her sadness was the worst part. Even in her darkest days with the cancer, she had never looked that sad and in pain. Sorrow had been such a foreign concept to her, and no matter what, how hard and long it got, she had never once given in to depression, until she was a victim of the hell that lay behind those damned doors.
Tears stung his eyes, and he reached up to wipe them away. The fear that had sat in the back of his mind since the last goodbye burned again, whispering a burning truth to him, that she was not at rest. She would never be at peace.
There was nothing he could do about it.
He wanted so desperately to go and grab the deputy who was playing on his phone by the collar and threaten him, yell and scream for him to shine the spotlight from the car into his face and hold his eyes open. To burn the terrible image off of his eyes, to blind him forever so he would never have to see her there like that again, reaching out for him from the expanse of horror that was just waiting to get through to destroy them all.
Sam stirred, her lips parted and a single word escaped. “No.”
The radio on the deputy’s belt crackled, and even in the dazed state of mind that he was in, he could make out a simple, fear-ridden phrase: “I think…I think we found it.”
The deputy held up the radio. “Come back?”
“I think we found it. Call in for some backup, kid. We got bodies. Lots of them.” There was a noise. “God in heaven. They…oh God in heaven.” The officer began to recite the rosary over the radio.
Clark met eyes with the kid. The kid stared at him in terror, as if he had just found himself face to face with Charles Manson, and started to head for the cab of the cruiser.
Clark bowed his head, and began to weep.
EPILOGUE
Eight Months Later
Sam stood in the deep California sun, and glanced again at the massive wooden doors through her sunglasses. Her fingers flicked ash off of the end of her third cigarette, tossing them like snowflakes into the wind. They landed on the concrete, and she brought the butt instantly to her mouth for another hit. The smoke whistled past her teeth and settled into her throat. She let the nicotine wash into her and exhaled slowly.
The doors of the church had closed over half an hour ago, and she had stood there, unable to move, promising herself that she would after each cigarette, spending minutes fighting with herself in between.
Cars milled in the street around her, the familiar crawl of traffic that clouded the lanes on any given day. That was part of the area, she knew. It still made her claustrophobic.
She looked at the stained glass windows of the church, and glanced down at her cigarette, smoked all the way to the end. She swore and thumbed it out, pulled out her Altoids tin and set it in with the other butts.
“Come on.” She told herself. “Just do it.” Fear wrapped tightly around her legs, binding them to the spot. She tried to move. She wanted to, but it was impossible as she stood there, locked in place.
“Just…just the foyer.” A sharp inhale brought air into her lungs. She closed her eyes for a moment, and whispered. “God, please.”
A man in shorts and a tank top jogged by, staring her up and down as he did, continuing around the block, pausing at the curb and turning his attention to another jogger running his way who was dressed in yoga pants and a crop top.
Sam reached into her modest purse and pulled out a bottle. Popped the cap and let the Valium set on her tongue for a moment before swallowing it hard. “Do it.” She said.
Fear let go of her legs, and she was able to move forward. Her boots clacked on the concrete steps that led to the doors, and her hand paused on the handle, before she pushed it open. The hinges creaked as she did, and the sound made her wince. The wood rumbled open, sending shots of cold terror through her, roiling her stomach. She swallowed hard and pushed it the rest of the way, swinging it back into the foyer.
Beyond the foyer was a small hall, that stared directly into the sanctuary of the church, toward the altar. She saw the priest standing there, fully vested, by the pulpit. He was speaking into the congregation, and they were all seated. It was the time for the sermon, after which came the creed and communion. She had been through the service a hundred times. She hadn’t been in a long time, and that gave the familiar place an alien feel.
She thought of Father Capaldi, and the words he had spoken as she approached the hall. The words of the priest echoed through. She caught the syllables echoing through, and found her heart warmed by them.
“As long as there is life in Christ, there is hope for the world. Light always overcomes the darkness, and keeps it at bay. As St. John wrote, ‘the darkness has not overcome it.’ And we here are to take those words and remember them. At all times, and in all situations. No matter what. The darkness that seeks to destroy, maim and kill us all. To destroy the work of redemption, will always be overcome. Light destroys darkness, no matter how deep, how powerful or how old. Where there is light, there is life. Where there is life, there is hope.”
Her hand fell into the open air. As she stood there, small fingers wrapped around her hand, gentle and familiar, and squeezed, only for a moment. Then they were gone.
[Transcript of Session from the
Case File of Dr. Clark Bell]
(Tape clicks. There is a rustling sound.)
Little: When was the last time you saw Samantha?
Bell: After the case was closed out. We met for lunch.
Little: How did that go?
Bell: We didn’t eat much.
Little: Okay. What else?
Bell: We didn’t say much either. I think it’s just too hard for us to really say anything now. Too…too hard to put together what we need to say.
Little: Why is that?
Bell: We never had the chance to get close or anything. We connected over her brother’s death, and when we had that resolved, I think that our friendship had ended.
Little: And that’s to do with finding the suicide cult?
Bell: Yes. What we witnessed there…I think that is part of it too.
Little: Having to witness such a massive murder-suicide would have that effect on people, surely. And the fact that you two were the only ones who made it out alive…
Bell: Yeah.
[Silence]
Little: Well, I think we need to go back to the dream, and what happened there. The doors, and the priest? I’ve been doing some thinking about that since we last talked. I wanted to talk to you in particular about the doors.
Bell: What about them?
Little: What do you think those mean for you personally?
Bell: Doors tend to mean the same thing to me, Doctor. You use them to go in and out.
Little: On a subconscious level, though. What do you think that they might mean for you?
(A pause)
Bell: I don’t know. What do you think?
Little: Well, what I think is quite complicated. I think that the doors and the fact that you keep seeing your late wife there, behind those doors, has a pretty straightforward meaning. There’s something you haven’t resolved about her death. Something is still bothering you.
Bell: Of course it still bothers me. She was my wife.
Little: But how have you tried to come to terms with that, Clark? Do you think you perhaps have kept her behind this door you’ve erected to close out the darker parts of you? Your demons? That maybe leaving that door closed is only building and eventually, one way or another, the doors are going to open, and if you don’t have it dealt with then what is behind them will destroy you?
(Another pause)
Bell: That’s pretty good, doc. Very good.
Little: What?
Bell: I almost believed your interpretation for a minute there.
Little: Then what is your interpretation, Clark?
(There’s a rustling sound, and a zipper being opened)
Bell: I thought I would bring something to show you today, doctor. Something that I’ve been keeping nearby me for the past eight months.
Little: Why is that?
Bell: You’ll guess.
(A wooden thump, something being set on a table.)
Little: The orb? What have you been doing with it?
Bell: Listening. I’ve been listening to this thing for months now, every single second I can. It’s with me in my car, in my office, in my house—it’s even in my freaking bed on the pillow next to me. This thing never leaves my sight, and I know you’re going to say how unhealthy that is, and how I should stop doing it. You might even lock me up in the loony bin, but I don’t care. I’ve got to keep listening to this thing, and waiting. I can’t take a break from it. Truth is, doc, I don’t give a damn about your interpretation of my dreams. I know what’s causing my dreams. This thing. And I know why Carol is there, and I know why I keep having those dreams. Because as long as this thing is with me, I will always be reminded of the hell I saw in that cavern. And no matter what you, the police, or anyone else says, I know what I saw, and I know what’s waiting on the other side of those doors.
(Silence)
Little: What is that?
Bell: What?
Little: What’s waiting? Why?
(A pause)
Bell: I think you know. And I think you know why.
(A long silence is held on the tape.)
Bell: They’re going to come. One day, somehow. I stopped it. This time. But the pieces are already moving again, as if it all just reset itself. Somewhere out there, it’s starting again. There’s nothing we can do to stop it. Just wait. And listen.
(Another silence is held.)
(Barely audible at the end of the recording there is a faint, metallic click.)
September 2015—April 2016
AFTERWORD
What you have just read is a novel that most fans of Lovecraftian horror hope they get to write. A novel filled with action, cults, ritualistic sacrifice, gore, plenty of tentacles and old gods. It really is a horror fan’s dream (or nightmare?) and a horror writer’s delight to bring you the kind of story I just did.
I can’t say that it’s a completely original piece of work. Nor can I say that it is a work inspired by any particular piece by another author. It’s more a collection of ideas and concepts that have rattled around in my brain for some time, waiting to come out. There are elements of Lovecraft, Poe, King, Keene, Cronin and etc in here. I can point out a few examples for you, however. Sound like fun?
The idea began to take shape in my mind after reading King’s book Revival. Finishing that was a somewhat shocking experience, merely because I did not expect a novel to have such a nihilistic ending. It jarred me to the point I set down the book, then picked it up and re-read the last twenty pages. It bummed me out.
But I loved it.
Another inspiration was the film Cabin In The Woods, which I actually mentioned in the novel. It’s one of my all-time favorite horror movies for a good reason. If you watch it, I think you’ll see why.
Lastly, some parts were somewhat influenced by Bentley Little’s Dominion, which is my favorite of his novels to date. The man has had an influence on my work like few others, save King, Keene and Cronin. If you haven’t read Dominion yet, go find a copy. You’ll thank me later.
Of course no afterword could go without some major thanks. First, to my wife Hillary. She has supported me with encouragement like no other. Not only that, she has given me the space to sit down at my computer on weekends and after work to sit and write. Never complained, or fussed at me for being so distracted. She’s listened to my ideas, and encouraged me to think about them. (Even though what I write is not really her cup of tea.)
Thanks as always to my friend and confidant Joel Garner, who pre-read the novel and suggested I add something in the epilogue to make the novel less of a downer. I took his advice. Because he was totally right. Thanks, buddy.
In case anyone was wondering, I thought I’d go ahead and list the soundtrack for this novel. I listen to a lot of music, so not all of the artists can be listed here, but here’s some stuff I jammed too while pounding this one out.
Boston - Greatest Hits
AC/DC - Back in Black
My Chemical Romance - The Black Parade, Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge
Panic! At The Disco - Too Weird To Live, To Rare To Die. Death Of A Bachelor
Breaking Benjamin - Dear Agony, Phobia
Avenged Sevenfold - Hail To The King
Fall Out Boy - American Beauty/American Psycho
Jesse Cook - Frontiers
Xander Harris - Urban Gothic, Contagion
- May 7th 2016
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Michael Wright is a young author living in the deep south. Raised on horror movies and thick books, he enjoys reading, writing, coffee, and pipes. He resides in Alabama with his wife.
He can be normally found in front of a book or a computer, with hard rock or alternative music and a stiff cup of joe. He also cites his influences as Dean Koontz, Stephen King, Jack Ketchum, Bentley Little, and Justin Cronin.
His
first novel, The Hunt, is now available in print and ebook.
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