Satanic Panic- A Homage to 1980's B-Movie Horror

by Daniel P Coughlin

  SATANIC PANIC

  A Novel By

  Daniel P. Coughlin

  A HellBound Books Publishing LLC Book

  Houston TX

  A HellBound Books LLC

  Publication

  Copyright © 2019 by HellBound Books Publishing LLC

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover and art design by Kevin Enhart for

  HellBound Books Publishing LLC

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without written permission from the author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are entirely fictitious or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  www.hellboundbookspublishing.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Part 1: The Holiday Season

  Prologue

  1

  T revor Caffey stumbled out of The Quarter. A local Wisconsin University tavern with brick wall that was hidden at the corner of Seventh Street and University Drive in the city of Oshkosh, a town north of Appleton on the way to Green Bay.

  Barely lifting his left foot, he tripped on the lip of the sidewalk, slid sideways, and landed on his ass in a pile of accumulated slush.

  The bouncer, Ricky Mack, whose massive body was stuffed beneath an aged, black leather coat, grabbed Trevor beneath the arm, yanked him from the ground, and escorted him to the alleyway that separated the bar from the University bookstore. On his way up, Trevor watched Ricky’s chest heave as he expelled a frosty breath, which resembled a plume of smoke in the frigid night air.

  Planting his feet—to the best of his drunken ability—Trevor turned to face Ricky, but again slipped on the ice. The fall was abrupt. He landed on a jagged clump of ice. A sharp pain shot along his spine and rung behind his ear. He yelped, tilted his head toward Ricky and stated: “Second time is a sobering charm.”

  “That looked like it hurt. You okay, Trev?” Ricky replied with a cynical grin.

  Trevor couldn’t differentiate whether Ricky was ribbing him or genuinely concerned. “Give a drunkard a helping hand?” He extended his hand.

  Ricky’s massive, swollen and callused hand enveloped Trevor’s and he lifted him to his feet. “Here to serve.”

  The muscles and ligaments in Trevor’s shoulder strained when Ricky ripped him from the ground. Feet planted on the slick cement, Trevor shook the chalky snow from his jacket. “You got a hell of a grip. You still on the football team?”

  “Tore my MCL and ACL least season.” Ricky responded. He seemed to lighten up and his cheeks reddened with shame.

  “That hit on Mike Addelberg from Whitewater? I remember that. You making a comeback?” Trevor asked, curious. Having been at the game, Trevor recalled Ricky’s highlight tackle on a player that was now a third string NFL running back. He also remembered Ricky being carted off the field on a stretcher. Acknowledging Ricky’s humiliation, he witnessed hurt generate in Ricky’s expression.

  “Well, to add insult to injury, I got cut from the team. Asshole coaching staff could have cared less about my health or wellbeing. The school yanked my scholarship and now I’m a bouncer. Saving up some coin until I figure out my next move.”

  “That’s pretty…” Trevor started, but slipped again. This time Ricky grabbed his shirt and steadied him, preventing another fall. “Don’t you still get free schooling?”

  “Fuck no. These assholes probably think I owe the athletic department for getting hurt. Athletes are just variables to the cash-equation that is college football.”

  “I’ll never root for the team again.” Trevor felt Ricky’s hurt and reacted.

  “You gonna be alright?” Ricky seemed genuinely concerned.

  “I’d feel better if you let me back in the bar. That brunette with the straight hair, wearing that light blue halter-top… she liked me.”

  “She absolutely did not like you. In fact, you repulsed her. Next time, don’t drink so much, and if you like a girl… try talking to her first. Chicks don’t like to be grabbed. And when they throw a drink in your face, that means they think you’re a dipshit.”

  Trevor nodded. It all made sense—what the bouncer said. Trevor liked Ricky, even though he was kicking him out of the bar. He could sympathize with the tall, muscle bound giant sporting a military haircut below a round, ruddy face. Just a few years earlier, Trevor had been a high school athlete. He’d been a defensive lineman for Watertown High School—a small Wisconsin town fifty miles south of Oshkosh.

  Trevor was still fit. He lifted weights six days a week, ran, and played intermural football in the fall. When he was in middle school he’d earned a black belt in Tai Kwon Do. Since then, he hadn’t been active in martial arts except during bar fights. The mental toughness and some of the skillset still remained. At least he liked to think so.

  Exhaling a deep breath, Trevor held his fist out to Ricky who returned the fist-bump.

  Ricky added, “You sure you’re good?”

  Wobbling foot to foot, Trevor answered, “I’ll get home.”

  “Cover your ears, frostbite’ll sneak up on you quick.” Ricky turned toward the open door of The Quarter, raised his hand, extended his index finger and shook it. “Later, dude.”

  Neither Ricky nor Trevor saw the black van with no windows glide over the snow-covered street, turn left, and follow Trevor toward the north end of town.

  2

  Tingling numbness spread from Trevor’s lips to his tongue. The warmth of his jacket dwindled as the bitter wind stalked, snuck into, and penetrated his sleeves and chilled his body temperature to a startling degree. In twenty-five minutes he’d certainly fall prey to hypothermia. His jacket wasn’t doing the trick and when his armpits began to freeze, a twinge of panic struck. The wetness of his eyes froze and his vision went hazy. His tears had frozen and draped from his eyelashes. He knew he was in trouble when blinking became a problem. Even the corners of his eyes froze and the stiff flesh chapped badly. Sure, walking too long in the cold had happened before, but the symptoms hadn’t been this bad. The falling snow dampened and soaked his jeans. The cold had bitten the skin beneath the denim.

  When he rounded the corner of Main Street and shuffled onto Ninth Street he tilted his shaky head upward and saw the decrepit, three story house that he and four other boys were renting, which inspired hope.

  The snowfall had thickened. Flurries had become a substance, heavy, with low visibility. The darkness didn’t help and the streetlights were caked and barely shed light. Then he realized that he couldn’t walk. His legs wouldn’t move. Desperation encompassed Trevor. If he couldn’t move he’d freeze to death in front of his own house, not thirty yards from the front door.

  How humiliating would it be to die drunk and stupid in front of your own house?

  It was one thing to die tragically, but if this happened his family would be slapped with insult.

  His pulse slowed. He tried to speak, but his vocal cords were frozen-taut and he couldn’t translate his thoughts into words.

  Then a beam of brightness appeared and grew stronger as did the sound of a revving engine.

  A glimmer of hope struck. His shaky arms flailed for help.

  Maybe the headlights belonged to someone he knew? Who would let someone freeze to death?

  It just wasn’t right.

  If they saw him, they’d have to stop. He assumed.

  Long shadows stretched as the headlights elongated from the trees that lined the street.
The vehicle approached. The intensity of the headlight warmed his frozen eyelids.

  Turning in the direction of the vehicle, he attempted a smile, but his mouth and lips cracked. The closeness of the van—it had to be a van—startled him. Pulling beside him he saw that it was a black van.

  The window rolled down and a face appeared from within. Then the sliding door creaked, twisted and eventually opened. The passenger door opened. His alertness heightened. He’d hardly noticed that his fist was frozen in place. But he could still move his fingers, barely, which was good.

  “Trevor!” A voice called out.

  “Eeeehaaa!” Trevor attempted to say “yes,” but his mouth, tongue, and vocal cords still didn’t permit. Truth told, he didn’t know if he was drunk anymore or if his brain had frozen.

  He was complacent. Even though his house was close, he needed warmth. And he needed it right now. He hoped these people in the van would actualize his emergency state, drag him into the warm van, maybe drive him to the hospital, and rid him of the accumulating panic. His entire body rattled as if convulsing while he shook at the possibility of warmth. He didn’t even care who was calling his name, even though it would be nice to know who these people were.

  Finally, the question rose from the acid pit of his stomach. But, again, his voice locked as he called out. He swallowed, straining his throat muscles. He gagged, tried again, and this time wetness coated his throat. It was difficult, but he spoke. Each word felt like sandpaper ripping apart his esophagus. “Ide? I’s eeed a wide.”

  Close enough.

  “…ssssmeeee.” The returning voice was muffled by the howling wind and sounded like a snake’s hiss. Then it spoke louder. “It’s me!”

  Trevor didn’t care who it was. His frozen legs felt like a thousand pounds. But he moved them forward, one at a time. The wind blustered hard and nearly knocked him down. Frostbite had certainly set in at this point. His right ear was frozen through. Another gust of this bitter wind could blow it right off. Not knowing where the strength to move had come from, he stepped to the sidewalk. Fear struck when he saw the people in the van.

  Huddled together in thick black winter coats with their hoods camouflaging their heads he saw rubber masks.

  Maybe ski masks?

  Two of them hung out of the sliding door. One was a boy that leaned outward and extended his hand.

  “Get in here!” He called above the wind. His voce was barely audible through the strange mask—such an odd mask. Maybe he’d drifted into hypothermia and he was hallucinating?

  He was in trouble.

  Now he saw things that were questionable in terms of reality. The boy hanging out of the van was wearing a yellow smiley-face mask. His shoulder rose and then swung forward.

  The fist-sized rock that struck the side of Trevor’s face didn’t hurt. The stream of blood that pulsated from the jagged tear near his right temple felt good because it was warm and ran the length of his face.

  Before consciousness left him, he felt hands and arms yank him into the van. A cold stream of fluid soaked his face. Tingling, burning sensations fluttered across his skin.

  Although he couldn’t breathe, it felt good to lie on the carpeted floor of this heated van. Dread seized him when the cruelty of laughter belted into his ears.

  The sinister laughs of these masked figures sent doom into the marrow of his bones. Raw fear. Falling into blackness, he felt the boys remove his clothes with knives. Fists crashed into his face allowing blackness to take him.

  The van rumbled and skidded forward.

  Trevor rode with Death on this icy night.

  3

  At first his breathing was quick and shallow. Then, sudden panic took command. Trevor’s breath continued in bursts, hard to catch. Cold liquid spread along the contour between his nose and high cheekbones. He couldn’t decipher what substance this was—blood or water. Either was bad. Complete sobriety sharpened his consciousness and he understood that it was water running into his mouth and nose.

  A callused hand cupped his forehead and applied pressure. Unable to connect his brain to his limbs, he lay paralyzed to his attackers. His face slid beneath the surface of the water. Finally, his right eye shot open—his left eye was swollen shut. Sharp needling pain flared like flashes of thunder and sunk deep into his facial bones.

  Forcing his eyelid open was hellish, like tearing a surgical scab. Even beneath the surface of the water, he could feel blood seep into and baste his eye. The sting was intense. He screamed, but only bubbles emerged. Lungs burning, his body begged for air. Finally, he was able to focus. Concentration found the strange faces that stared down at him—at least three of them. They stood around the aluminum basin he was being drowned in. All held smiles. Their faces contorted, wickedly. There was something animated about them.

  Trevor grew up catholic. He’d gone to church and spent first grade through sixth in catholic school. He hated his teachers—nuns who were mean as snakes. Their joy was to punish. Cruelty was there divine pleasure. Trevor was certain of this immaterial fact.

  In the sixth grade, Trevor had pleaded with his mother to allow him entrance into public school. The transfer was like a breath of fresh air after being drowned in a basin of cold water, like what was happening now.

  He liked public school, made lifelong friends, and was able to focus on his studies. Not worrying about the nuns even allowed him to retain his schoolwork without bias.

  Now, staring upward at the snarling faces that humiliated him, he thought of the nuns.

  The final image was that horrid gown. The gown of black robes that bled upward to the white hoods. The nuns would forever bid his hell. Imprisoned, he didn’t want to see the nuns. But here they were, in this other place.

  The final, cruel vision he saw was a second hand. It dipped beneath the surface of the water and covered his mouth and nose.

  There was a shower curtain. And for a brief moment he saw the source of this night in the form of a blood-red pentagram that was neatly scrawled in blood on the aged, peeling, off-white wall of this bathroom. He’d been made a sacrifice and now he only wondered if it was real—heaven and hell. Then he thought about the past few moments of raw fear and terror and was renewed. Baptized a believer.

  Before death stole his inner being he pondered whose bathtub this was and if a child had ever been bathed here.

  The laughter and cruelty ended only to begin on the other side.

  Chapter 1

  February 3, 2019

  1

  O bnoxious red and blue lights swirled and reflected off the fast falling snowflakes and illuminated the gray Buick Century parked along the roadside on this icy Wisconsin night. Inside the car, plump bulbs of sweat erupted and then ran down Lance Barryman’s young face. While it was bitter cold outside, inside the car was sweltering. The heater had broken last winter. It blasted on high at all times and felt like a hair dryer blowing in his face.

  In all of Lance’s twenty-one years he’d never been pulled over by law enforcement. He was well behaved and respected the law. He was the voice of reason among his circle of life-long family friends. Other than immediate family, this group consisted of Brock Hills and Brianna Zastrow. Mediator and logician were the roles Lance assumed until recent weeks. Now, he was in great trouble. Being pulled over wasn’t good, given his situation.

  Why was he being pulled over?

  How was he going to get out of this mess?

  Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he thought?

  These questions spun his train of thought into a sensation of vertigo. Still, he had to focus. Right now. Fleeing law enforcement wasn’t going to do him any good. Well, what he’d done a few hours prior warranted this brand of escape. Maybe fleeing was the only answer. He’d have to focus on this interaction like his life and/or freedom depended on it. His narrative needed solid lineage that did not stray from the story he’d concocted.

  He placed the car in park, but didn’t kill the engine. He tried to turn the heat down,
temporarily forgetting that it was broken. The dry air disrupted his already frayed nerves.

  Maybe he could slam the car into reverse, plow into the cop cruiser, send it into the ditch and then peel out while the officer scrambled to get control of the situation. But this was only an entertaining thought. The possibility that he wasn’t in trouble was likely, he hoped. But he couldn’t deny that he’d caused a great deal of criminal activity, involved himself in illegal acts that would haunt him for life. The actions he’d participated in would damn him into the afterlife. Maybe he should drive away, run out of town, and keep going until no one could find him and there was nothing. Maybe he could stumble into some small town someplace, and start a new life. God knew his life here was over. If he were discovered, which was likely.

  God.

  He felt guilty saying God. God was disappointed—had to be—after what had taken place since November.

  The officer’s LED flashlight brightened in the reflection of the side mirror, which refocused Lance’s thoughts on his current situation. Lance’s freedom and his quality of life depended on the next few minutes.

  Technology. It was amazing how much brightness was shed from these new LED lights. The intensity was blinding. Then came the tap, tap of metal on glass. He turned left and saw the cold officer tapping his Maglite against the window. The window would break if he hit it any harder.

  Taking a deep breath, he placed his index finger on the small button that would lower the side window. Then he looked to the stick shift. His fingers twitched, wanting to yank the shifter into first gear.

  Nerves.

  He wondered if the officer had seen his finger twitch.

  This was it—his last chance to escape. He either needed to peel out or prepare to reap hell. A mental block had prevented him from stepping on the gas.