Relic of Death

by David Bernstein

  “Just as I thought, coward,” Blair spat. “You should’ve done it, because when my lawyer’s done with you, you’re going to wish you had. I’m taking everything. Everything. You hear me?”

  “You’re the cheating whore—”

  “That’s right, you impotent prick,” she said, cutting him off. “And who do think I’ve been sleeping with? Yeah, I know you know. The name you found in my emails—Ken, he’s my attorney. A divorce specialist. He’s going to tear you apart. Take everything, including Jezebel. She’ll be calling him ‘daddy’ soon enough.”

  Gus blinked, and the hue of everything he saw had turned red. He moved in to strike his wife. This time he was going to do it, going to smash her face in, but then he had a better idea, and at the same moment he stopped himself, a voice spoke up.

  “What’s going on here?” it said.

  Gus looked to his right. A tall, very attractive man, with wavy brown hair and blue eyes and a face carved from Greek marble stood in the kitchen’s doorway. He was wearing a thin white T-shirt and boxers. The man was clearly spending the night.

  Gus returned his stare to Blair, who was rubbing a hand through her hair, visibly frustrated.

  “I’ve got this,” she said, speaking to the stranger.

  “He was about to hit you,” the man said.

  Gus’s insides went cold. “This must be Ken.”

  The man nodded. “Look—”

  “Quiet, Ken,” Blair said. She focused on Gus. “This isn’t heading anywhere good. In fact, if you don’t leave now, Ken is going to say you threatened me with one of those kitchen knives in front of Jezebel when he calls the police.”

  Ken looked at her questioningly, and Gus knew then that his wife had the man wrapped around her finger.

  Gus couldn’t believe what was happening. Everything was falling apart. His marriage was finished, his wife’s affair would never be revealed—the divorce lawyer would see to that. She was going to take the house from him, his money, and his daughter.

  He could get a lawyer, too. They’d all go to court. Battle. Blair would be vicious, involve their daughter. Blair would most likely get custody—the mothers usually did—and work on turning Jezebel against him, make his little girl despise him. Blair was wicked, evil. She’d do it. Gus couldn’t let that happen.

  He felt a jolt of electricity shoot up his arm, as if the briefcase was reminding him of what it held. He didn’t need the reminder; the weapon’s image kept popping into his mind.

  Gus slammed the briefcase on the kitchen table. In one fluid motion, he had the case open and the gun in his hand.

  “What the hell is that?” Blair asked.

  Gus didn’t answer her and pointed the weapon at Ken.

  “Hey, man,” Ken said, cowering with his arms out. “Don’t shoot. Geez.”

  Blair shook her head, eyes narrowed to slits as she focused on Gus. “You little shit. You think you can threaten me with a gun?” She took a step forward. Ken reached out and stopped her.

  “Don’t, babe,” he said.

  “Do you think I’m scared of this moron?” she said, still eyeing Gus. “He’s a coward. Always has been. Always will be. He gets a little beer in him and he’s a tough guy.”

  “Stop it, Blair,” Ken said.

  “No, screw that. Screw him. Damn gun isn’t even real, is it, Gussy?” She was struggling to move forward, Ken holding her back. “Come on, pussy. Do it. Shoot me.”

  “Blair,” Ken said.

  “He hasn’t got the balls. He’s a fu—” Blair said.

  Gus pulled the trigger, silencing his wife’s words. The back of Ken’s head exploded.

  Blair flinched and screamed, a look of pure terror on her face.

  Gus grinned, delighted to have witnessed her torment, having thought he’d never get a chance to see it.

  Blair watched her lover fall to the floor.

  “Do you think I’m a pussy now?” Gus asked.

  She looked at Gus, tears steaming down her face. He pointed the weapon at her.

  “Looks like Ken isn’t doing so well,” he said.

  She stared at the corpse, sobbing.

  “You really liked him, didn’t you?” he said, smiling.

  Blair turned and looked at him. Her face went slack, eyes puffy and red. “You fucked up big-time, mister. I won’t need a lawyer to crucify you. You’re as good as gone. You’ll be locked up. You’ll never see Jez again. Never.” She began to shake, her body wracked by deep sobs. “You’re finished.”

  Gus stepped up to her and placed the gun against her forehead.

  “Fuck you,” she said, shaking, her fear revealed.

  “See you in hell, bitch,” he said, and pulled the trigger, sending her brains splattering against the wall. Her corpse crumbled to the floor. Gus fired two more bullets into her chest, making sure her evil heart was destroyed.

  Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. He spun and saw Jezebel. She was staring, wide-eyed, little mouth agape, at her dead mother’s body.

  “Shit,” he said, and lowered the gun to his side.

  She looked up at him, trembling, a look of confusion on her face.

  Damn it. She was supposed to be in her room. She always went to her room when he and Blair were fighting. Witnessing the cold-blooded murder of a stranger was bad enough, but watching your father shoot your mother was downright evil. An act a child would never forget. The kind of act that might cause his little girl to start down a dark path. Nothing good was going to come of this.

  Gus felt a tear slide down his face. Everything was fucked.

  But he could fix everything. Protect Jezebel and himself from all the pain to come.

  “Daddy?”

  Her voice cut him deeply, and he almost crumbled right there. He needed to do this quickly. Do the right thing for her.

  “It’ll be okay, sweetie,” he said, and pointed the gun at her.

  The Little Girl

  1

  Jezebel hated it when her parents argued. Mommy said it was always Daddy’s fault, which was why Mommy always did the yelling. She loved them both very much and wished they could love each other as much as she loved them.

  Tonight, Daddy had really scared her. She’d never seen him so upset, and he smelled awful. He was yelling and cursing, which was something he didn’t do.

  At first, she was happy to see him, but then she was scared. She tried to pretend she wasn’t, but she was. She wanted him to leave, but not forever like Mommy wanted. Just for the night. And when he came back, she hoped the bad smell would be gone too. Whatever the odor was, it made Daddy not himself.

  Jezebel lay on her bed. She could hear her parents, even with the door closed. She hugged Patrick, her toy plushy, asking him to protect her, and heard a tearing sound. Pulling the bear away, she saw that she’d squeezed too hard. The stitching that held his right arm to his torso was ripped, the black threads showing and stretched out.

  Normally, this would have made her cry. But not tonight. She was too afraid of what Mommy, even Daddy, might do if she did.

  She thought about going to Ken, Mommy’s new friend. He was still in Mommy’s bedroom, hiding. Mommy told her that Daddy didn’t need to know he was there. Jezebel liked Ken. He was always nice to her and funny.

  The yelling from downstairs grew louder, scaring Jezebel even more.

  She wasn’t supposed to be around when Mommy and Daddy were arguing. She wasn’t supposed to listen either. Mommies and daddies used adult words that children weren’t supposed to hear.

  Despite all this, Jezebel thought about going downstairs. Daddy loved her so much. Whenever he saw her, he was happy. Maybe if she was near him, he would be more like himself, quiet and joyful. She was a little scared, but she could do it. Daddy would stop yelling and Mommy could finish her yelling, and then they could all go back to being a family.

  Jezebel didn’t like it when Mommy berated—an adult word she learned from Daddy. She did it all the time, but Mommy
had said it was because Daddy was being bad, like a little kid. She heard her say he “screwed up,” and asked what her Mommy meant and she said it was how adults said someone made a “mistake.”

  Mommy yelled at her sometimes too, and she would probably yell at her for not staying in her room. She might get a spanking, but it would be worth it if Daddy calmed down and everything went back to normal.

  Jezebel slid off her bed, positioned Patrick so that he was resting comfortably, and left her room.

  When she reached the bottom of the staircase, she heard what sounded like a balloon popping, only much louder. Then her mother screamed. Her heartbeat sped up and she needed to pee. She went to turn around and head back upstairs, but held her ground. She had to make Daddy happy.

  Taking a small breath, she quietly crept up to the kitchen doorway.

  Daddy was pointing a gun at Mommy. Guns weren’t allowed in the house, not even toy ones. Jezebel had wanted to be a soldier for Halloween, and besides her mother telling her that girls weren’t soldiers, she told her guns were dangerous and were only made to kill people.

  Then she saw Ken lying on the floor and forgot all about the weapon. He was hurt, bleeding a lot. His head was all chewed up in the back. For some reason she thought Ken was dead. But dead people’s eyes were always closed. So it must be that he was just hurt, maybe really, really hurt and he didn’t want to move. Her parents were too busy arguing to see he needed help.

  Looking at Daddy, she saw the gun again. A chill ran through her. She tried to figure out why he had it. Maybe he’d bought her the soldier Halloween costume for next year, and they were arguing over whether she could have the gun.

  “Da—” she said, and jumped as the gun went off. The back of her mother’s head exploded, the insides now caking the wall. Jezebel sucked in a breath. She wanted to scream, but the sound wouldn’t come out.

  Daddy turned toward her quickly. He looked surprised. “Shit,” he said, which was a very bad word.

  He was crying.

  “It’ll be okay, sweetie,” he said, and then pointed the gun at her, the gun she knew wasn’t a toy.

  She wanted to run away, but her feet wouldn’t move. Daddy was going to kill her like he did Mommy. Jezebel looked at Daddy. She couldn’t stop shaking. Then he smiled, tears streaming down his face. He closed his eyes, put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The gunshot caused Jezebel to jump again, and this time her bladder released.

  Confused, heart racing, Jezebel stood still, trembling. There was a strange odor in the air. She didn’t like it. She also didn’t like peeing in her pants, but she couldn’t help it. If Mommy was alive at that moment, she’d be in trouble. She looked from Daddy to Mommy and knew they were both dead. It hadn’t sunk in, not completely. She didn’t know what to do.

  Then something very weird happened. Daddy’s gun disappeared from the floor where it had fallen, like magic. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind at that moment. There’s no such thing as magic.

  Jezebel’s eyes went to the briefcase on the table. The lid closed, slamming shut. She blinked. Broken from her spell, she walked forward, her focus on the case. She stepped around Daddy’s dead body, climbed onto the chair and pulled the briefcase over to her.

  She liked it. It had been Daddy’s, but now it was all hers. She couldn’t wait to see what was inside. She tried opening it, but couldn’t, and wound up playing with the latch locks until the one on the right popped open. Her eyes lit up. She was excited and began working to open the left latch.

  The Keeper

  1

  Joel Oliver drove his battered 1970 Chevy pickup down the long dirt driveway. It was good to be home and away from the city of Binghamton. He hated the noise, traffic, crowded sidewalks, sirens and car horns. Binghamton was a small city, and it amazed him how people managed to live productive, sane lives in larger cities like New York or Chicago.

  Suffice it to say, he rarely left his property, preferring to remain by himself and in close proximity of the briefcase.

  A few nights ago, he’d had a scare—chest pains, unlike anything he’d felt before. Rather than driving himself to a closer facility, Joel traveled to the hospital in Binghamton, of the opinion the better doctors were, unfortunately, in metropolitan areas. When all was said and done, it turned out he’d had a bad case of indigestion. He received a checkup and everything came up roses, the doctor informing him he was in good health for a sixty-year-old man.

  Joel hadn’t been to a doctor in over ten years and hadn’t left Spencer in over twenty years. The town had everything he needed, from groceries, a garage where he ordered parts for his pickup’s repairs, and a hardware store. He never had guests over, keeping up his hermit image, but was always affable with the people he did business with. To make the kind of friends people had over for dinner was too risky.

  Joel pulled his truck up to the house and went inside, locking the door behind him. He froze upon entering the living room. The basement door was ajar. He never left it open.

  He hurried to the kitchen to retrieve one of the numerous firearms he had hidden around the house and saw the smashed-in back door. Reaching behind the refrigerator, he grabbed his .44 Magnum Smith & Wesson, which hung on a nail. He checked it to make sure it was loaded and headed to the basement door. He flipped on the basement light switch, hoping to spook the intruder. “Come up now and you’ll live. This is your one and only chance.” With no reply, he descended the stairs.

  There was no doubt what the trespasser was after, and when Joel reached the basement floor, his worst fears were realized. Someone had cracked the safe and stolen the briefcase.

  For a moment, relief fell over him. He was glad to be rid of the evil thing, having guarded it his entire life.

  Joel had no wife. No kids. No family. The briefcase was too dangerous, too tempting for anyone except the Keeper. Guarding it had been a vow, and until he died or someone else was made Keeper, it was his to watch over.

  Reality struck like a slap to his face. His dream of freedom was gone. And truth be told, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be free. He was too old and set in his ways to do anything else. He enjoyed the solitary life. It was all he knew.

  Joel slammed the safe closed. He’d screwed up, royally.

  He’d been meaning to purchase a new safe. But years of living without incident had made him complacent, somewhat lazy when it came to the briefcase. The last time people came looking for the briefcase had been fifteen years ago. They’d never made it to the safe, all four men now rotting in the ground up on the hill behind his house.

  Leaving for the hospital hadn’t been an easy decision. Taking the case with him had been out of the question. Though not likely, there was the chance he would be tempted to open it. But more than that, he knew it would attract too much attention. He wouldn’t get far without someone pestering him about it. And when he told them to fuck off, their agitation would rise until violence broke out.

  Whoever had stolen the briefcase must have been watching the house, waiting for him to leave. He’d had no choice, thinking he might’ve been in serious trouble. He couldn’t risk an ambulance coming to his home, or worse, his dying. Eventually, the safe would’ve been opened and the briefcase would’ve been free.

  Besides his laxness with purchasing a new safe, Joel should’ve been searching for a replacement. The Keeper who had taken him in and trained him was long dead. Cancer of all things. Joel had promised the man he’d get a replacement, someone to train and partner up with. It was something all Keepers had to do. Death was inevitable, and it was always better to have two people looking after the briefcase, which really wasn’t a briefcase but an evil so old it had no name, so the Keepers called it the Relic of Death.

  No one knew how long the Relic had been on Earth, or where it came from, but some believed it had been around before the time of man, changing its form throughout the centuries, disguising itself among the populace. Not much was known about the Relic, except that it was pure evil,
designed to drive people crazy and kill them. It could not be destroyed, lost or forgotten. It had been buried deep within the earth, tossed overboard at sea, and burned, only to reappear in society.

  Being a Keeper was a burden. Some went mad with loneliness or wound up opening whatever form the Relic took—a satchel, purse, briefcase, etc.—which led to their deaths—many times the replacement Keeper killing them before the Relic could.

  Joel had no choice but to find the briefcase and lock it away again. Loose in the world, it would continue to kill, spreading like a plague. Though there were no written records that he knew of, it was said the Relic of Death had been responsible for wiping out entire villages.

  Joel stared at his left hand and the silver ring with the azure-colored stone set in the center. He’d never had to use the ring for real before, only during his training.

  With a razor blade, Joel sliced open the tip of his right pinky finger and squeezed a drop of blood onto the stone. The gem brightened as the blood was absorbed. A fiery pain engulfed his ring finger—the greater the pain, the greater the distance he was from the case.

  Staring across his living room, he let the ring’s power take effect, and was able to see the briefcase’s path; a translucent purple trail of floating particles led the way out the back door.

  Joel hopped into his pickup and took off down the driveway, following the supernatural remnants, knowing he would not need to eat, drink or perform any bodily functions while under the ring’s influence.

  2

  Half a day later, he arrived in Brooklyn. The briefcase had left a wake of death in its path. Though his heart ached for its victims, there was nothing he could do for them. The dead were gone. The loss of life was his fault and he would have to live with it.

  He moved on from each scene, knowing to linger would only lead to more death. He ended up at a house, the purple trail leading up to the front door. And unless it continued out the back of the dwelling, his search had come to an end.