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

by Daniel P Coughlin

  “I said I would.”

  “Cool. “ Lance finished his beer. “And... ah... what’s going to happen with... ” Lance pointed to the dead bodies strewn across the warehouse.

  “I’m going to call someone that is in my little group, have them come over with a giant drum of acid, a good amount of bleach, some gasoline, and some sort of flame. They’re going to dissolve all the human flesh except for Brock’s heart, which I will eat, and then they’ll set the warehouse on fire. No one is ever going to know what happened here.”

  “Do I need to do anything?” Lance asked.

  “Do you think that the Dark Lord wants you to join his Army? If you do then there is an abundance of exceptional hatred that will consume your life in the most successful ways. The Tribulation breathes down our neck, Lance.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That means that you’ll do what you want when you want and no one will ever tell you not to. This world will be ours,” Grady explained. “Is that something you would be interested in?”

  Lance fell to his knees. He was enlightened with soul and spirit.

  “There are two things in this world that I want. One: Brianna. Two: to worship with you and destroy flesh in the name of the Dark Lord.” He couldn’t believe these words were spewing from his lips. But he’d also lied. He only desired to kill Brianna. Thoughts of keeping her corpse for personal pleasure held appeal, but owning her was more important.

  Grady extended his hand to Lance, and Lance took the hand. They stood together.

  “For now, go and be with Brianna.”

  “There are no hard feelings?”

  Lance looked to Brock’s convulsing body and severed head and smiled. For the first time, Lance felt masculine. Standing over the corpse of the friend he’d conquered, Lance allowed the final edge of this masculinity to settle. Now, he could journey through life with the knowledge of real power. No obstacle would stop him. If he wanted, he would take. Simple.

  The jangling of keys snapped Lance’s attention.

  “When will I see you next?”

  “I found you once. I’ll find you again, and very soon. When I find you... you must be ready. We do things like meet in the Arizona desert and sacrifice weak humans.”

  Lance smiled, grabbed the keys and asked, “What car?”

  “Take mine. It’s the blue Ford out front. It’s registered and in good condition. Just leave it in the parking lot of my apartment. Brianna is at my house, the one across the street from Jeff Torrance’s house. She’s tied to a chair in the back bedroom.” Grady opened his arms. “Don’t be upset with me.”

  “I’m not.” Lance exited the warehouse. He stopped and raised a finger. “By the way, was Jeff in on this?”

  Grady looked across the warehouse and across the strewn bodies in Devil masks. He walked to the left, knelt and then pulled the mask upward and off of Jeff Torrance’s dead face.

  Lance smiled.

  Grady pulled out his cell phone, smiled mischievously, and tapped a number into the phone.

  “Enjoy.”

  Part 6:

  Season of Sacrifice

  Chapter 16

  Beginning Again at the End

  1

  L ance drove slowly down the slush-ridden highway, accelerating only his anxiety. Tempted, his desire was to hammer his foot on the gas pedal and leave his problems behind. Driving slow left him feeling vulnerable. The plump snow fell in diagonal droves that accumulated thickly on the windshield. The sheets of slush caked onto the windshield faster than the cheap wiper could dismiss. Visibility quickly diminished. Whenever a layer of ice was wiped clear from the windshield a fresh sheet would replace it. Straining to see, he watched the yellow divider lines disappear beneath the car. Focused, his eyes never left these reference points. Probably, they were the only reason he’d maintained his place on the road. Every few minutes he would clear his head with the thought that he’d soon be with Brianna. All troubles would be dismissed. Then he would kill her and do whatever he desired with her physical body. Maybe he would take her back to the warehouse and torture her, rape her and then kill her while Grady watched. Maybe then he would kill Grady and stage the warehouse to make it look like Grady had done everything, which he kind of did.

  Enticement grew into excitement. Excitement died when the sensory explosion of red and blue police lights spun into the blustery night, driving Lance to the soft edge of madness.

  “Oh no, God, no, no, no.”

  2

  Lance opened the creaky door and stepped into the frozen night.

  When the police officer saw the body he immediately slipped on the ice creating vulnerability. Lance almost smiled. This was the end game for Grady the entire time. Grady was setting him up. He expected the officer to arrest him, and then somehow the police would be drawn to the warehouse where Grady would somehow blame the entire massacre on him.

  Well done. Touché.

  The officer continued to grab at his shoulder. For a cop with a stern expression he suddenly looked frail. His arm twitched when he went for his gun. Briefly, the officer’s gaze traversed to his left shoulder. He steadied his shaking arm.

  Lance’s only thought was escape, but he also knew that something was wrong with the cop.

  There was no way he was having a heart attack.

  Maybe there was weight to this higher power bullshit?

  In over his head was an understatement, but he never in his life thought that he would enjoy this level of depravity. Given the crimes he’d recently committed, his life would be over if discovered. Prison was off the table. He’d eat a bullet before he’d finish his life in a cage, fighting day in and day out for survival. A very delicate situation was at hand.

  Giving up wasn’t an option. He’d just killed. He knew that he could do it again. Maybe this officer had a family, maybe he didn’t. Lance didn’t care.

  Survival of the fittest.

  The officer would have to kill him. That or he would die on this desolate road from a heart attack. This guy did not look good. He was straining to stand up and he was clenching his chest.

  Someone is going to die.

  Placing his hands outward as if to surrender, Lance turned to the police officer. The officer was falling now, grinding his teeth. The man was pained. The icy wind and snow pummeling his face didn’t help. He quaked. Something other than the cold caused his quiver. This was deeper than merely a shiver. Fear painted the officer’s face.

  Lance watched on, amazed by the unraveling of this situation.

  What were the chances?

  Bad nerves?

  Let’s play this out.

  Lance stepped forward.

  The officer gasped. His knees buckled and he cried out.

  Lance stepped forward again.

  “Freeze, right there. Get on your... knees!” He was grabbing at his chest and his shoulder again. Nearly collapsing, he grunted and then straightened out. His expression was that of terror. His pistol nearly fell from his hands.

  An anomaly of confidence riveted through Lance. He marched toward the officer. Now or never. He didn’t care. And that was a first.

  Kill or be killed.

  Fear morphed into adrenaline, morphed into courage, morphed into perverted confidence.

  “I said stop!” Sad desperation stole the officer’s authoritative tone. He was no longer demanding. His head sunk on his neck creating a thick fold of skin—a triple chin. His eyes widened. Clearly, he was suffocating. With a clawed hand he ripped at his chest. The police issue pistol fell into a pile of slush.

  “You don’t look so good.” Lance stared into the dying man’s face.

  “Atttaaa...” His lips contorted into a silly, drooping manner. “Heart... howt—atttaaack.”

  Lance watched the officer’s body convulse as his life died out like a dancing flame. This had to be the work of the Dark Lord. “What the fuck?” Lance blurted out. Devils and the like were such silly notions. But maybe it was time to
believe. He couldn’t deny that a presence was with him. There was no way this was a coincidence. A higher power had its hand on this entire situation. Normally he would believe that these notions were simple brain chemistry at work, connecting dots, but this was something more. He could sense spiritual warfare on another plain as though it was visible.

  The officer was dead and Lance couldn’t believe that Grady had planned this night. He’d observed potential victims. Selected he, Brianna and Brock. Devised a plan and literally executed. For the second or third time—in his life—

  Lance acknowledged that something bigger than him was at work. And Grady was the captain steering this ship. And he was good. He was organized. He was sick. He was demonic.

  Grady was at the warehouse disposing of the deceased. Probably setting fires, burning evidence. Setting his stage. And Lance assumed that Grady was aware that the local police didn’t check on these empty warehouses often. And if they were to investigate they wouldn’t possess investigation kits comparable to those on television. There would be no black lights or high-end electronic data collecting equipment. Crime Scene investigative shows were nonsense. Entertaining, but utter nonsense. Grady would not be prosecuted for these heinous crimes. Shit, Lance was quite certain that he wouldn’t be implemented. The man was experienced. He knew, all too well, what he was doing. He’d clearly done this before.

  Lance glanced at the pathetic officer lying dead on the cold road collecting snow. His face was frozen into a sick expression that displayed humiliation in his demise. Snow filled his motionless eye sockets.

  The manner with which this man had expired was pathetic, strange as hell. Oddly, Lance believed that Hell played a part in this man’s death. That or he wasn’t cut out for this line of work. He looked cut out for it. And that was good. The local newspaper would read, “Hard-edged veteran police officer dies of heart attack while issuing a traffic ticket.”

  “Stop! Fuck! Stop! I was normal three months ago,” Lance thought out loud.

  How had these bizarre ideas infested his logic?

  By way of sexual deviance and the exploration of darkness. He, Brock, Brianna and Grady had permitted evil into their hearts. That was the reasonable explanation. Still, this idea drained his sanity.

  “Stop crying, you pussy!” he shouted at himself while the winter wind howled.

  Fast, wet, icy snow pelted Lance’s face. The sting reset his thoughts on what would need to happen. The time to end this scenario was at hand. The need to explore what would happen next chewed at his curiosity. Lance stepped over the dead officer. He would need to dispose of the body. This man’s constituents would soon search for him.

  “Enjoy the afterlife!” Lance attempted to grasp the idea that God was currently judging this man. The intensity of this idea was altering his entire outlook. Because of this night he believed. The gravity of what this meant was impossible to absorb. He’d been seduced and manipulated by evil. God and the Devil were real.

  But was this bad? Wouldn’t he enjoy the fruits of his spiritual labor for the Dark Lord? The idea brought a sense of catharsis. His grin widened.

  Leaning downward into the snow, Lance relieved the officer of his weapon. With his free hand, Lance curiously pried the officer’s lips open. Stringy blood stretched into the wind from between his purple lips.

  A drifting thought struck.

  He turned to the rear of the car.

  Squinting, fighting the wet snow from distorting his vision he looked to the taillight.

  Lance shook his head.

  Grady was something else.

  Anger and rage filled Lance. He was fucked. His life was fucked if he didn’t act now.

  But guess what? Grady wouldn’t see him coming.

  Grady had expected Lance to be arrested out here on the highway. He’d probably called the police himself.

  3

  Lance tugged Brock’s survival knife from his lover’s torn throat. That stupid fucking knife that Brock carried around with him. Sticking it into all the furniture. Leaving it stuck in any countertop or desktop or tabletop he could find. Always with the knife, Brock was, and what a brilliant detail for Grady to acknowledge. Blood was everywhere. Crimson gore covered every square inch of the trunk to include Brianna’s lifeless corpse. With his index finger and thumb he pulled the blood caked hair away from her face. Lust still strummed his heart. When this was over he’d conclude with physical release. Being dead, she’d never control the depth of his animalistic desire. He would desecrate her flesh.

  “No!” he screamed long and hard into the howling wind. And he felt humiliated. Spinning around in circles, nearly slipping on the ice, he tilted his head to the moon dangling in the starless night. Grady’s fallen angel was delighting in his misery. Intensity and gravity had shaped and formed his new perspective. His new life would begin right now.

  Crying, he leaned forward and kissed Brianna’s forehead. Remembering the precious moments in which he’d made love to her. Alone in the hotel room was the only intimacy his recollection could stumble on. Memories of childhood flooded in. Chasing each other through backyards while playing kick-the-can. Watching scary movies in her parent’s basement. Dances they attended together while in high school that were so important at the time. All these images and thoughts and feelings crashed into a culmination of unstructured sensations.

  Then grief was purged. He stopped crying. With the back of his hand he wiped away the tears. Face icy, he glanced upward to the sky—the Gods—and laughed. He no longer felt. Sensations and emotions were like dead nerves. Numbness. Twisted excitement took over.

  Then his glance fell to the gutless officer.

  What weakness?

  The reaction of a take-no-bullshit-testosterone-driven-cop in the face of real danger was to have a heart attack and die. This was divine intervention. No other explanation. Then, a cackle escaped the officer’s mouth. Lance believed this to be his death throe. Gas escaped his collapsing lungs. His eyelids remained open. Fresh snow melted and buried his face. His soul had left his body.

  The passing time hindered Lance’s reaction. Closing his eyes, he allowed his wandering thoughts to pass.

  There was no denying his primitive instincts anymore.

  He enjoyed death.

  And, this particular situation had become interesting.

  Certainty as to whether he was responsible for killing the officer was foggy. No, he hadn’t shot the man. No, he hadn’t even threatened him. Still, he felt responsible. Clearly, there was a connection. Sensations of weakness followed.

  Accept the situation.

  Go with it.

  Worship the Dark Lord.

  It would be much more fun than worshipping the latter.

  Sure, he’d miss Brianna. But he’d experienced everything with her. Their journey was clearly over. Now that she was dead, Lance realized that he hated her. The guilt had passed. A tingling sensation now filled his stomach and he hoped that she’d suffered. Grady had organized her demise. Therefore, Lance was certain that it was gruesome. Grady spared nothing. Look at what he’d done to Brock. Grated him like cheese.

  Absorbing the scene before him, Lance realized that he enjoyed evil. Taking the officer’s gun, he thought about the consequences of his actions. Prison for sure.

  No way.

  Holding the gun tight, he placed it between his lips and then wrapped his finger around the cold metal trigger. If it came between getting arrested and eating a bullet then he knew his option.

  Ending his life would be easy. He knew he could do it.

  How enjoyable to feel this free? This light.

  Time was up. He lugged the heavy officer over his shoulder, carried him back to the police cruiser, set him inside, placed his foot on the gas pedal, cranked the steering wheel and then pulled the shifter into drive. He closed the door, quick as possible.

  The cruiser maneuvered well in the snow. Swerving then straightening and gaining speed the cruiser plunged into the ditch, spun
out, and then slammed into a frozen maple tree. The officer was thrown from the windshield. Lance lost sight of him. The trajectory of his body was impressive.

  That would explain the missing gun.

  After the cruiser bounced from the maple tree it rolled upside down and slid down the slick embankment. Lance suspected that the scenario he’d created would appear accidental.

  No villain except for the weather conditions was to blame. Or so the authorities would concede.

  Now, what would he do about Grady?

  Lance shed the skin of his former life and smiled, reborn, as he walked back to Grady’s car. His anger over the death of his fallen lover was replaced by his insatiable hunger for murder. The ordinary drone of his existence—moving through life an imp—was over. Killing Grady would be a rewarding challenge. The greatest challenge he’d ever commit.

  4

  Nearing the warehouse, Lance killed the headlights. Guided only by instinct, he shifted into neutral and allowed the car to glide across the gravel parking lot. The front tires halted when they struck a snow-covered stack of wooden pallets. The vehicle stopped, smooth. A couple hundred yards from the warehouse—even in the howling blizzard—he heard the Smiley Devil, Grady, stirring inside the damning structure. Exiting the car, he crept along the aluminum wall, stopping often to place his ear to the freezing metal with hope of an update on the position of his prey. The howling wind was brash, but permitted estimation of Grady’s location.

  He thought of his best friend, the warrior who died a pathetic death.

  Brock had been tough in life. Physically, he could dominate and defeat Grady one-on-one. But he’d fallen. He hadn’t accurately predicted Grady’s chess-like maneuverability or his manipulative skillset. Grady had defeated Brock on a deeper level of play, below the dermis of physicality. Grady was smart, logical yet spiritual. The Satanic elements were truly frightening, and thoroughly alluring. They’d resonated. Stuck to Lance’s psyche. Never would he be the same.