He parked his truck and approached the front door. A gunshot sounded from within. Joel pulled out the .44 Magnum. He tried the door and found it locked. Gathering strength from the ring, he rammed the door with his shoulder and burst into the house, ready to kill.
He made his way into the kitchen. Two bodies lay on the kitchen floor. Blood trails glistened down the walls, chunks of gray matter leading the way. Then he saw the little girl, hands on the briefcase, locks open.
“No,” he shouted, and dove, knocking the girl to the floor. He landed hard on his left shoulder, pain shooting into his neck and head.
He pushed himself up, grunting through the agony, and knew he’d dislocated his shoulder. He closed and locked the briefcase, then rammed his shoulder against the tabletop. The pain was white hot, but only for a moment, his shoulder back in place.
The girl was crying. Not because she was hurt, Joel knew, but because she had been denied. He’d seen it before—people so close to seeing what they desired. The girl reached for the case like a ravaged zombie.
Joel strained to hold her back.
“Let me see it,” she said. “Let me see it.”
“No, little one,” he said, and wrapped her up in his arms. He’d have held her until she tired, but with the gunshots, it was only a matter of time before the police arrived. He returned the .44 to his jacket and tossed the girl over his shoulder, hurrying from the house, briefcase in hand.
3
With the girl strapped in, he drove.
As soon as he was outside the city, he pulled the car over on a darkened, houseless street, and checked on her. She hadn’t stopped talking about the briefcase, and didn’t seem to care her parents were dead.
“It’s mine,” she cried. “It was Daddy’s and now it’s mine. I want it. Please.” She repeated this tirelessly, and Joel knew the briefcase had a hold on her. He wasn’t sure what type of long-term effect it would have on a child. He’d only dealt with adults who had been around the case, and almost all of them wound up insane or dead.
When he reached his house, he parked the pickup and carried the briefcase inside. It fought to be opened, to be free, piercing his mind with images of riches, glory, and hope. Joel wanted none of those things, which helped his resolve, but even after forty years of guarding it, a part of him still wanted to see what it would show him. Like a recovering drug addict, he knew the temptation would always be there. Anyone who came into contact with the Relic would be scarred. But thanks to his training, he’d learn how to deal with it.
After locking it away in the safe, he returned to the vehicle and carried the girl inside. He laid her down in the spare bedroom, tucking her in.
She awoke two days later.
4
“Where am I?” she said, rubbing her tired eyes. “Where’s my Mommy and Daddy?”
“Here,” he said, handing her a glass of water. “You must be thirsty.”
She looked at him, hesitated, then took the glass. She drank quickly, and a few dribbles of liquid ran down her chin. When she finished, she handed him back the glass.
“You sure were thirsty,” he said.
“I want Mommy and Daddy,” she said.
“Do you remember what happened?”
She shook her head.
“What’s your name?”
“Jezebel.”
“I’m so sorry, Jezebel, but your parents are in heaven.”
She said he was a liar, and cried.
5
Time moved on as time does. For Joel, it moved quickly, for Jezebel, it moved slowly. She was young and not fully able to comprehend the loss of her parents, her emotional core not fully developed, yet. She didn’t remember what had happened at the house, which Joel imagined was a good thing. With no mention of the briefcase, he knew he’d found someone special, maybe a new Keeper.
For weeks after her rescue, he listened to the radio. The authorities were looking for her. Jezebel became national news, but there were no pleas from grieving family members begging for her safe return. Joel performed an exhaustive search to see if the girl had any family, but found none. It would’ve been hard to believe if he hadn’t experienced a similar situation when he was about her age.
His parents had also been victims of the briefcase. He had been about to open it when a man arrived and saved him. That man took him home to Spencer and raised him as his own, training him how to be a Keeper of the Relic of Death.
Now, looking at Jezebel as she slept, he knew the tradition was going to continue. As time went on, she grew to love Joel like a father, and he loved her like a daughter. He taught her about the Relic, exposed her to it, strengthening her resolve to its evil.
He didn’t know if it was because she was a child, or that she was special, but the Relic did not hold power over her like it had others. Yes, Jezebel wanted to open it, but after it was out of her sight, the feeling passed.
Joel stopped beating himself up over the deaths in Brooklyn when he saw what Jezebel was. He wished they could’ve been avoided, but the universe worked in mysterious ways. If the briefcase hadn’t been stolen, he never would have found her.
Something good from something bad, he thought.
Now he only hoped she’d be happy with the lifestyle ahead.
Only time would tell.
About the Author
David Bernstein is originally from the small town of Salisbury Mills, New York. He now lives in New York City.
He graduated from the University of Oneonta with a B.S. in English. His next DarkFuse title, Surrogate, will be released later this year. His other novels include Amongst the Dead, Damaged Souls, The Tree Man, Tears of No Return, the Machines of the Dead trilogy, and the soon-to-be-released Witch Island. Please drop him an email at [email protected]. Visit him at davidbernsteinauthor.blogspot.com and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/david.bernstein.3.
About the Publisher
DarkFuse is a leading independent publisher of modern fiction in the horror, suspense and thriller genres. As an independent company, it is focused on bringing to the masses the highest quality dark fiction, published as collectible limited hardcover, paperback and eBook editions.
To discover more titles published by DarkFuse, please visit its official site at www.darkfuse.com.
Relic of Death Page 8
