by R. J. GREEN
Inside a large open room was lit by the evening sun seeping through broken windows, the stench of musk and grease filled the air. Tables and chairs were bundled at the center of the room where Engulf stood rushing through and old textbook.
Assassin #1 and Assassin #2 stood facing each other; they appeared to be in a discussion.
Engulf flipped through the book, faster and faster until he reached the end. He snatched the book off the table and slammed it against the floor. The cover of the book revealed the title: DARK SECRETS. He tossed a clenching fist in the air followed by a clean kick that sent the book hurling to the far side of the room.
It was early in the evening when Mullson and his team reached Father Johnson's Church, located in a small suburban New York town. As the helicopter began its descent, Mullson stared out the window and noticed the church appeared to be an exact replica of the one in the Bronx where he thought Father Andrew still resided, except this one was about half the size. The land surrounded by dense vegetations was much larger, only a small section had been cleared for the building and yard space.
Father Johnson accompanied by two priests exited the church then went and stood at the front after they heard the sound of a helicopter rattling above. Debris twirled about as the chopper landed at an opened area to the side. They lifted their hands before their faces and peeked as Mullson, Jack, Hill and McKoy jumped out of the helicopter and came towards them. Jack stopped and waited at a good distance while his comrades rushed towards the three priests. The helicopter ascended and returned in the direction it came.
Father Johnson used his staff and hurried toward Detective Mullson who was running ahead of his team. “Where is it?” he asked, extending his hand towards Mullson as if he expected something.
“Home,” said Mullson to Father Johnson. “Found it in my daughter's room.”
A strange look lashed across Father Johnson’s face, his rugged brow flinched, and his eyes widened. The staff he gripped in one hand almost crumpled from the burden of his body, but he managed to shift the weight to his stronger leg.
“Where is your daughter?” he asked Mullson, a sound of panic flushed his voice.
“She is staying with her Grandmother,” Mullson replied, after a slight hesitation.
They walked towards the church, Mullson signaled Jack to follow.
“Where?” Father Johnson demanded. His hair rose at the back of his neck as he glanced at Jack who stood at the outer perimeter.
In Montego Bay, Jamaica, a cool evening breeze sweeping across the airport had old folks grabbing their hats, young girls gripping their dresses as they got hurled about exposing their underwear, garbage got blown around, the aroma of food followed the wind. Seagulls extended their wings and drifted above the water pounding against cliffs — in some areas rushing deep inland until the waves broke free.
Air Jamaica had circled the sky several times; the pilot hoped for the burst of wind that dispersed the clouds to calm. After a few minutes everything was back to normal. The plane aligned with the runway ahead, slowly descended, until its wheels pounded against the pavement.
Inside the plane Mrs. Mullson and Anna sat next to each other; they clinched to their seat as the plane rocketed down the runway before coming to a halt. After the plane was secured at the gate people hurried to exit, almost running along the passageway as they raced to customs.
Outside, a taxi pulled up across from where Mrs. Mullson and Anna stood waiting by their luggage. Mrs. Mullson had recognized the tall and rugged fellow sitting at the steering wheel and decided it was okay to charter him. Before she could finish telling her location, the fellow popped the trunk open and shoved the three suitcases and a carryon in, before forcing it shut. He opened the rear passenger door and waited for Mrs. Mullson and Anna to sit before he closed it.
The taxi sped along a windy stretch of road. Anna’s eyes widened as she stared at emerald green and bluish water splashing against white sand beaches, clusters of colorful flowers scattered among woodlands and meadows, mountains and valleys, several mansions on top of hills overlooking the bay, and hotels and villas along the beaches. The taxi driver glanced at his rearview mirror to make sure his passengers were comfortable.
“My name is Mr. Busy,” he said in a heavy Jamaican accent. “Welcome to Jamaica beautiful ladies. This is God's paradise.”
The Mullsons did not say much as their minds raced all over. Trevor Mullson was left behind to fend for himself in America. Anna did not like what was happening to her father and mother. She prayed for things to be better between the two. Both hardheaded parents of hers drove her nuts over their pettiness. High on the hillside Anna spotted a Georgian mansion with a stone base and a plastered upper story, with a panoramic view over the coast.
“That's a beautiful house,” she said, pointing.
“Woman bite yu ten finga,” said Mr. Busy, sounding panicky. “Yu point on duppy house! Yu never hear ’bout the White Witch of Rose Hall?”
Anna, Mrs. Mullson, and Mr. Busy walk towards the entrance of Rose Hall; two caretakers greeted and invited them in. Built in the 1770s, Rose Hall was restored in the 1960s to its former splendor, with mahogany floors, interior windows and doorways, paneling and wooden ceilings. Downstairs had a bar and a restaurant. The place had been converted to a museum for tourists who were curious about where Annie Palmer ate, slept and haunted. Inside, the trio followed the two caretakers as they headed towards the master bedroom located on the other side of the house.
Goosebumps rose at the back of Magarette Mullson’s neck as the childhood thought of Annie Palmer rushed through her mind, after she managed to stop thinking about Trevor for a brief moment. She’d begun to wonder if the trip was necessary, since she felt the same raging motion eating away at her conscience.
“Please don't touch anything,” one of the caretakers warned, with a strong Jamaican accent.
“Whatever you do don't say her name,” the other caretaker advised, widening her eyes as the words echoed.
They finally entered the master bedroom where the lights shone dim. The caretakers wasted no time as they pointed out spots of blood on the walls and floors they believed to have survived hundreds of years — a never ending reminder of the victims of Annie Palmer whose souls continued to roam the room. All attempts to disintegrate the blood failed.
A rush of cold air swept across Anna’s face as she focused on a portrait of the late Annie Palmer. She somehow sensed the presence of someone watching them, but with all the stories tossing around she let it slide. “Goodbye Annie Palmer,” she whispered.
The lights flickered for seconds at a time, leaving the room dark as an eclipse at midnight. Creepy-crawlers scattered throughout, a foul smell cluttered the air, insects echoed in the backdrop. Whatever was happening had to be unusual, but the ghost hunters failed to detect any sort of paranormal activities when invited awhile back. The eerie sounds of ghostly noises penetrated the darkness, as if it had turned to midnight. Anna screamed when she spotted the portrait of the beautiful Annie Palmer who was transformed into a picture of an evil looking old lady with what appeared to be live centipedes dangling out of her mouth. By the time the light settled, everything appeared normal — no centipedes or old lady to disturb the portrait, no creepy-crawlers. Everything, except for a large green lizard with half of a centipede stuck in its mouth, the other half fought to set free as it griped into the side of the lizard that became paralyzed. Everybody rushed to get out of the room. Mrs. Mullson and Anna swore not to return, both caretakers planned to quit, Mr. Busy got even more scared of the place.
The evening sun had begun to fade over Long Island, New York. A taxi screeched to a halt before the Mullson's residency, blocking off Anna’s Expedition parked in the driveway. At the back of the car both doors swung open, three men who appear to be in their early twenties exited and headed towards Mullson's front door, each carrying a suitcase.
Johnny P, black, tallest of the three, platinum crown covering his teeth, pr
essed the doorbell. “Guess we have to use the top door,” he turned and told his two friends.
Pain Killer, a short Latino fellow, had a grin rushing across his face. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he said, his eyes widened with excitement. “Taking the initiative dude… yow Murf!”
The white dude seemed uneasy about the whole ordeal. “Yes Pain Killer,” he stuttered, “T-t-talking to me?”
“Yes you mother-sucker,” said Pain Killer, to Murf.
“I just don't like the top door,” said Murf, looking up at a second floor window.
“I just don't like the top door…” Pain Killer jeered.
“Let’s go,” Johnny P demanded.
“They’re in Jamaica,” said Pain Killer. “We could chill for awhile.”
The three men scampered to the side of the house and stood below Anna’s room window. From out of his suitcase Pain Killer pulled out a crossbow and a ninja grappling hook attached to a rope; he fired it at an eighty degree angle and watched it arch over the roof. The hooks unfolded and penetrated the target. Pain Killer yanked on the rope several times, then climbed to the top and slid Anna’s window open, to him this appeared natural. With a dull pain digging into their arms, Murf and Johnny P hauled their body to the top, one after the other, and were more than exhausted as they hurled their carcasses to the floor, while Pain Killer did a few push-ups.
Little did they know the next-door neighbor had being nosing around. Nothing escaped Mrs. Newton who stretched her neck to peep from her window and spotted the three culprits breaking into the Mullson’s home. She’d been playing detective for quite sometime now, but today she finally had some luck to put her skills to the test; no more practicing with her nine cats and the countless plants she spoke to daily. With the warm blood rushing through her veins, Mrs. Newton pumped her arms and widened her stride as she dashed for the telephone at the other side of the room. She snatched the phone from the base, stuck a finger in the nine-slot and rotated the dial clockwise, followed by one, twice.
Father Johnson came towards the pulpit and stared at the high ceiling.
“The time has come for the church to repay,” he warned.
Jack and Agent Hill seemed somewhat disturbed as they listened. “What exactly are we talking about Father André?” a suspicious Jack asked.
“That's not Father Andrew,” Mullson corrected him. Father Johnson glanced at Jack and somehow thought this man cannot be trusted, but grabbed a hold of himself for being too judgmental.
“Excuse my manners,” he said. “My name is Father Johnson.”
Agent McKoy had being thinking where she came across the name before.
“Heard about you in one of my religion classes,” she said to Father Johnson, after figuring it out. “Demonic twins.” A broad smile ripped across Father Johnson’s face.
“I can assure you things were blown out of proportion,” he said to McKoy. He turned and headed to the far end of the room. “My fate awaits me,” Father Johnson continued. “The falling of the sun will mark my reunion with Father Andrew.”
“Where is Father Andrew?” said Detective Mullson.
“Follow me please,” Father Johnson blurted.
He took them to a secret passageway leading to an underground tunnel. Upon entering the tunnel Father Johnson struck a match and lit an old lantern dangling from the ceiling; he used the lantern to fight his way through the dark and musky tunnel.
Detective Mullson scanned every inches of the tunnel and wondered what laid ahead; thoughts of Father Andrew, Anna and Magarette Mullson raced through his mind, these images got stronger as he focused ahead.
For some strange reason Jack had already figured where they were going, and what will happen, almost like a déjà vu, but stronger. What he’d been experiencing wasn’t only a compelling sense of familiarity or eeriness. After trying to dampen his fear for the church his spirit had found new meaning — good must coincide with evil in order for prosperity to reign. In his eyes evilness always added the right spark to life, making us nervous, sad, happy, greedy.
Father Johnson braced against a section of the tunnel wall that opened like a door, revealing a small room filled with mice and roaches scattering into holes as the light beamed inside, cobwebs packed with spiders dangled from all corners of the room. Upon entering the room Father Johnson secured the lantern on a hook extending from the middle of the ceiling. Detective Mullson, Jack, Agent Hill, Agent McKoy, and the two priests crammed into the room.
On the wall Father Johnson tapped one of several protruding bricks and the door slammed shut.
“I am superstitious about men with superior hearing,” he blurted.
“That should explain why we're down here,” said Agent McKoy, glancing at Father Johnson from the corner of an eye. The room reeking of rodents and insects turned her stomach.
“You’re all liable for the conversation in this room,” said Father Johnson, as he swung around and faced Agent McKoy.
“I'm confused about the sun falling from the sky,” said Detective Mullson, to Father Johnson. “You don't mind rephrasing?”
Father Johnson took a deep breath and exhaled. “God must have been angry at the church,” he said.
“Got to be a reason,” said Agent McKoy, to Father Johnson, trying to prolong the conversation.
The whole time had passed without a word from Hill or Jack, both men had learned to respect the church, but neither cared much about Father Johnson blabbing his mouth. They were seeking answers to help solve the murder mystery at hand. Mullson was quite confident he brought them to the right place.
“He’s angry at mankind for uniting goodness with evil,” said Father Johnson. “Engulf, the Angel of Confusion…” he turned and spotted their doubtful faces. “This is not making any sense,” he continued.
“Who is this Engulf person?” said Agent McKoy, glancing at Mullson.
“The last son of Satan,” said Mullson. “According to legend he’s more powerful and conniving than his father.”
Jack heard something that had the hot blood rushing through his body double pace. “Says who?” he asked Mullson, sounding somewhat defensive.
“Very good my son,” Father Johnson nodding at Mullson, “couldn't have said it better.”
“Those were Father Andrew’s words,” Mullson acknowledged.
“You NYPD are not so bad after all,” Agent McKoy told Mullson.
“You're not buying that nonsense,” said Agent Hill, to McKoy. “ARE YOU?”
“I am not buying the part where the son beat up the father,” said Jack to Hill, anger raging in his voice. “Where I'm from that son would eat his balls. BY FORCE!” his voiced pierced the room and had the two priests standing beside Father Johnson shivering out of control. Agent McKoy tapped Jack on the shoulder; her gentle touch seemed to calm his nerves.
“Father Andrew mentioned something about this transcendental stuff,” Mullson highlighted Father Johnson.
“What transit stuff?” said Agent Hill, after noticing the two priests beside Father Johnson succumbed by fear.
Father Johnson sighed. “Transcendentalism,” he said.
“Do you believe in transcendentalism?” Detective Mullson asked Father Johnson.
“Well,” said Father Johnson. “It's a philosophy holding that ultimate reality is unknowable. One should assert the primacy of the spirit over the body.”
“Can the spirit really dominate the body?” said Mullson, to Father Johnson. This had been bugging his mind ever since he ran into Engulf, without knowing it.
Agent Hill’s face became reddened with frustration, his crooked brows frowned, and his eyes squinted almost out of control. “I refuse to listen to this nonsense!” he said.
“Anyone who speaks a word against the son of man, it will be forgiven, but to him who blasphemes against the Holy Spirit, it will not be forgiven!” Father Johnson cited from the bible, to Agent Hill. Father Johnson retrieved the lantern, shoved the door opened, and headed back in t
he direction they came. They all followed.
“Perhaps we’re all a little frustrated,” said Detective Mullson, to Father Johnson. “All day we had been searching for-”
“Ghost,” Jack interrupted.
“A lot of questions and no answers,” Agent McKoy pointed out to Father Johnson.
“You’re not searching hard enough,” Father Johnson told her. “Let’s all forget about the physical objects.”
“That will only complicate matters,” Detective Mullson challenged Father Johnson.
“When you figure out the inner-man,” whispered Father Johnson, “Then perhaps you might find the answer.”
The helicopter had returned, Detective Mullson, Jack, Agent Hill, and McKoy tucked their heads into their chests and sprinted towards the chopper; they hurried inside, strapped themselves to their seats. Father Johnson and his two comrades stood by the church entrance waving goodbye as the helicopter rose and drifted away, until it disappeared.
CHAPTER 11
The moon shimmered red over house number nine hundred and ninety-nine, where inside the Mullson’s living room the television volume drowned the sounds of a van, visible from the front windows, that had come and parked next to the mailbox. Johnny P, Murf, and Pain Killer were stretched out on the sofa focusing on the dazzling image of girls shaking their tail-feathers in one of the latest hip-hop videos making a buzz. They got so caught up they never noticed the assassin brothers who’d crept up to the front yard and scurried to the side of the house.
From next door Mrs. Newton continued to spy from her side window hoping the police would get to the Mullson’s house in time to apprehend those burglars. Her dwindling mind had recalled seeing the tall black fellow coming to visit Anna on many occasions, but who cares. What worried her is the police hadn’t shown up, after she’d called them so many times. This time she suspected something was terribly wrong, but because she’d abused her 911 privileges in the past…
