by A. L. Mengel
“Yes you can,” she said. “You must find her. She is the key to your salvation.”
Darius leaned forward and turned around to face Delia. “When I go there…I see him.”
*~*~*
Stephen’s health had been declining lately, and he wound up in the hospital. Darius visited him and told him all about his origins. After some time, Stephen looked up at Darius and smiled.
And then Darius continued. “But then I died.”
“I floated into the bright light; the vision of the red sky painted with black clouds was a distant memory. I was not destined for Hades…I was not in the Tartarus that I had been damned to. I was in a vision of lightness and love; for goodness had always been my intention, even though I had fallen into the darkness that I so often been destined to.
“I was not good, though. I was abhorrently evil. I would sit for hours, as the daylight faded and the darkness reigned. In the same pair of dirty jeans I wore when I buried Antoine, the same loose silk shirt. I would deny myself food and water, I would only sit and watch the sun govern the land for three days, and then I would watch the moon float across the sky at night.
“I held this ritual for three days and three nights, until it was Friday. And Antoine had been buried for three days, and I knew, that soon, Claret would come.”
Claret…
“Who is she?” Stephen asked, and then went into a fit of coughing. Darius paused for a moment and brought a small, Styrofoam cup of water to Stephen’s lips. He drank and sighed.
Darius walked to the side of the room, and looked out at the city through the expansive windows on the dark cityscape.
“Claret’s journey has been so long and so far, it never ends. But I always think of the beginning. The genesis of her story, when she were sleeping so late at night, huddled in the covers, as he came.”
“As who came?” Stephen sat up in the bed.
“Her captor. She stood in Gethsemane, waiting for her claim. Standing outside a small, square stone window as bread was broken and wine was shared.
“Claret looked up at her captor with wide, brown eyes. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and the soft, fiery glow of orange light warmed her cheeks. A light wind rustled the leaves on the treetops they were standing beneath. All she knew was that this mysterious man remained behind a dark shroud, his face in the shadows, but he looked down at her, continuously. ‘Do what I told you,’ he said.
“His voice was deep and methodical. ‘Go inside now.’ ”.
“She hesitated for a moment, and stared down at her feet. She wiggled her toes. And then her captor bent down on one knee, and removed his hood.”
Stephen looked down for a moment, and then over at Darius. “So she was forced?”
Darius turned around and looked back at Stephen. “I believe so.”
*~*~*
Claret never knew, on that warm night near Gethsemane, what had been so pivotal about her thievery. She never knew that her destiny had been fulfilled that evening, that she had a new direction in her life, that she had been chosen. That she was the one to evolve into her new form. But chosen, she was.
*~*~*
“I see the Dark Ones. They come to me when I sleep. When I close my eyes, I can hear them laughing. In the corner. Behind the chair. And then they come for me.”
“And what are they?” Claire asked, setting down her tea with a clank on the glass table. “Who are the ‘dark ones’?”
Darius paused and felt the patch of hair on his chin. “They are the hounds of hell.” He reached for his bottle of beer, drew it up to his lips, but the bottle was empty. He tossed it in the trash. “They follow me at night. They come from the shadows.”
“And they are coming for you, Darius?”
He looked over at Claire, his eyebrows raised. His hair was messier than usual. He shook his head and wiped a tear from his cheek. “They are my destiny.”
A destiny with death.
The last time the Dark Ones came for me I was sick. I was dying. And I was starting to cross over. I saw myself, lying bed, eyes closed, no movement. I was on my back, my arms were at my sides, and I could hear the methodic beeps of the machines monitoring my care.
But I stood.
I stood above the above the bed, looking down upon myself, looking so peacefully unaware.
And then it happened.
The room grew darker. Like the veil of a mist, a shroud of uncertainty followed. And a feeling of despair.
I heard the howling coming from the distance. For the hospital room was no longer a room; the walls were now made of earth and stone; I still lay there on the bed, but the impeding sense of dread started to consume me.
And the howling grew louder.
Each shadow transformed.
*~*~*
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Take your clothes off.
That’s it. Put your pants and your socks in a pile, leave them in the corner as I turn off the light.
And then close your eyes.
And then the cage began.
The gate slammed, metal against metal, reverberating across the dim cinderblock, as the television screamed loudly upstairs. Heavy footsteps descended creaky wooden stairs, into the dampness and dark. There was no whimper in the corner. Just a slight clank, metal on metal, and a shuffle on plastic.
And heavy, methodic thumps upstairs. He could tell the door was shaking in its frame again.
“Fucking Christ!” He turned around, each step creaked under his weight, and then, when he was in the foyer and on the other side of the door, he stopped, his chest heaving and glistening with sweat beads between silver patches of hair. He called out, gruff and annoyed. “Who is it?”
No answer.
He leaned against the wall, craned his neck to the side to peer out of the window. He could see a dark figure through the glimmer of the shears, but nothing else.
And then the door frame shook loudly again, three times, short and deep.
“I don’t want anything, now go away!”
He turned to return to the basement as the door splintered off its hinges, a giant cylindrical battering ram charged the foyer, followed by FBI agents in dark blue, in a storm of his house so forceful that the chandelier shook and swayed from the ceiling.
Screams came from the basement below as a tall man with dark hair entered the house. “Are you George Stanley?”
George backed against away from the agents, his eyes wide open as sweat matted his thinning hair. He plastered himself to the wall across from the stairs and looked over at the imposing detective. “Yes…”
Two of the FBI agents grabbed his arms and turned him around to face the wall. The shorter of the two agents grabbed a pair of handcuffs from his belt and slapped them on George’s wrists.
The tall detective stepped forward, just to the side of George’s ear. “I have been looking for you for quite some time.” The detective turned George around to face him. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be held against you in a Court of Law. You have the right to an Attorney. If you cannot afford one, the Court will provide one for you.”
George snapped his head towards the arresting agents. “What is this?! I didn’t do anything!”
The tall detective gestured towards the open basement door without loosening his grip on George’s shoulder. “Go down and see if he is there.”
Two agents descended the wooden, creaky steps as George was led out into an unmarked Black SUV parked in his driveway amongst plain, dark sedans and police cruisers.
Just a fucking lucky ducky.
You go and get yourself arrested in your knickers.
You just had to drop the jeans, had to bugger those boys. Didn’t you?
Now open the cage and let him out.
George looked back at his small, yellow house as it glistened in the hot afternoon sun. The wind caught the tops of the palm trees on the side of the yard; he remembered planting them when he and Gaye first moved in.
Beyond those trees was the white fence; when George had built it and painted it, it was gleaming for years.
But then Gaye started complaining about stomach pains.
They would come and go. Every few days. She started eating less, but overall she really was the same. At least on the outside. She still would watch George mow the lawn from the kitchen window, or lie on the lounger next to the pool in the gleaming sun, but on the inside she was dying.
For it was mostly at night that she had the issue. But George slept so soundly, as he would have his nightly ritual of three light canned beers before bed. But Gaye would sleep in short spurts, woken up by intense abdominal pain, causing her to sit up sharply.
She usually looked down at George, looking like a mound of snow in the white sheets, his chest heaving with each breath. But those nights she would sneak out of bed and head to the bathroom. And, over those months, the white fence started to fade from glory. The paint started to peel. The wood spires cracked and splintered.
But George did not tend to them, as he was tending to his wife’s rapidly failing health. The fence died a slow death, along with his wife. As he stared at the fence, just before he was placed in the SUV, he remembered the night that his wife collapsed.
She was lying on the kitchen floor, covered in sweat, clutching her stomach in a fetal position. “Gaye!” he said, padding into the kitchen, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He saw his wife on the floor, writing in pain. “Let me call the ambulance!”
She looked up. Her normally plump cheeks looked slightly sunken; and her red hair was matted against her cheeks. “No doctors! I am fine!”
George stopped, holding the phone in his hand. The receiver started to beep incessantly. “Gaye…you’re on the floor!” He slammed the phone back on the receiver and knelt beside his wife. He smoothed her hair back and wiped her forehead with his hand. “You are running a fever.”
She shook her head and propped herself up on her elbows and exhaled. “It’ll pass.” George’s face shifted. “Are you sure?”
She shook her head and struggled to her feet as George looked up at her, hoping her unsteadiness on her feet wouldn’t lead to a fall. “Yes, I am sure George.”
And the couple went back to bed. George helped her up the stairs, and helped guide her into the fluffy white sheets, and kissed her forehead as she drifted off to sleep for the last time of her life.
*~*~*
“And you see, Darius, George here was not the monster for his entire life.” Father Bauman lit another cigarette as they both sat on small, plastic folding chairs next to George’s grave. There were weeds growing now in the turf.
“What is going on with the upkeep lately?” Darius asked.
Father Bauman shrugged his shoulders. “No one’s coming to work anymore. Haven’t you seen what’s happening all over the city? It’s like it’s been shut down.”
Darius had noticed. He knew that there was hardly any traffic anymore. That the sun never shined and it always seemed to be cold, cloudy and rainy. So out of character for Miami. And he also knew that when he tried to see Claire, her office was closed up and there was a rental notice on the door. “So what happened to George?”
Father Bauman chuckled. “Who knows what happened to him. Maybe he had a pent up childhood that didn’t come out until he lived alone. Maybe he just couldn’t get over Gaye’s death. All I know is that he transformed. He was a good, church-going man and then, Gaye drops dead, and boom.”
“Boom?”
“Yes, Boom. And you have seen the news reports, right?”
Darius nodded, staring at the blades of grass at their feet. “So he just decided to kill? To keep people in cages in his cellar?”
Father Bauman shrugged his shoulders and lit another cigarette. “Look, if you want to know more about George, you could always visit him.”
Darius looked up at the priest and laughed. “How is that possible? He is lying in a coffin!”
Father Bauman smiled. “Oh, Darius, didn’t you think that there are no limits to communication? Of course we can arrange a meeting.”
And then Darius paused. “You don’t mean…”
But Darius knew.
Darius knew exactly what Father Bauman meant. For centuries, Darius knew of the astral plane, he knew of the dimensions that followed, he knew of the Green Mist and the White Worms.
For Darius always remembered when they came.
He remembered when he ran, and ran and ran. When his feet were like clouds and the ground was like a pillow. Because Darius knew all too well. That where George was, he could not venture to in the state that he was in.
“Oh yes, I do. He has been searching for George for quite some time. George may be in a different dimension right now, but all it takes is contacting him and he will be found.”
Darius didn’t understand. “So you want George to be found? Why would you be vindictive like that?”
“It’s not revenge, Darius. It’s justice. George was a good man for most of his life. And then he turned to evil. He sought his revenge on the innocent. Why wouldn’t I let him know where George is?”
Darius understood now. It was the same back in his bedroom as a young man. He remembered the same drapes, the same sun shining into the room each morning, the same sheets covering his trembling, shivering naked body. “Tramos.”
“Yes, Darius, yes, you are right.”
Darius stood up and looked down at George’s grave. “So what would save him?”
Father Bauman sighed and looked up at Darius. “Honestly, I don’t really know. We talked about the Blood, the Savior, all of that. I have been talking about it for years. I have believed since I was a child. But, I just don’t know.”
Darius looked over at the sad priest. He was hanging his head down.
“So…what do you believe then?”
Father Bauman looked back up at Darius and fished another cigarette out of his breast pocket. “I don’t know, Darius. I have been believing this since I was a child. I always felt I was called to be a Priest. But the evil in this world…”
Darius nodded.
And then two men sat in silence for some time, as thunder sounded in the distance. Darius sat back down in the chair next to the Priest. “So you think George was influenced by Tramos?”
“I know he was.”
“How do you know?”
But Father Bauman was not ready to answer. He was still standing outside of 127 Fifth Street. Staring up at the white awning covering the yellow stucco. He knew exactly where he was. Looking down at the purple petunias that surrounded the front porch, as he waited for the door to be answered.
Father Bauman would always wear his Cassock when in the worshipping area, Vestments when performing service, but out and about, he wore normal civilian clothes. And for those who did not know he was a priest, he would be addressed simply as Chet. George Foley knew that Chet was the Pastor of his church, and despite this knowledge, he addressed the man by his given name.
“Chet!” George boomed as he opened the door, a wide grin on his face. He extended a beefy arm around Chet’s shoulder, ushering him in. In his other arm, he held a can of beer. “You are here just in time!”
*~*~*
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Darius grabbed his keys and his jacket. He dashed out of his condo into a thunderstorm, sheets of rain fell through bright flashes of lightning. By the time he had made it to his Aston Martin, he was soaked. He pushed the button for the ignition and the engine roared to life; the wipers wish-whooshed across the windshield, which did very little for the hard, driving rain. As he threw the car into gear, he tore out of the driveway as his tires squealed against the pavement, and he grabbed his phone. The light from the phone shined brightly against his eyes. It took some effort to keep the car heading straight as he attempted to send a text message. As he hit SEND he slammed on the brakes. The rain continued, just as a loud crash of thunder shook the car. Several miles away, Delia reached for her phone as her s
creen lit against the darkness of her living room.
It had one message:
THEY ARE HERE.
Delia pounded on the door to the Cathedral of the Gardens in the pouring rain.
There was no answer She knocked again, so hard that the wooden door shook in its frame. After a few moments, Father Bauman appeared. His eyes were puffy and red as if he had been crying As soon as the door was open, Delia pushed her way in, shoving the priest aside. “He has gone insane!” she said. He is at the house now, kicking boxes across the room and screaming at the top of his lungs!” Father Bauman retreated into the church. “Come with me,” he said. “I will get my bag. He is under the influence by Tramos. We must free him from his grip.” Delia nodded as she followed the priest into the rectory. There were newspaper articles spread over the coffee table, all hailing the capture of George Stanley
Delia picked up one of the newspapers. “That…hasn’t happed yet…”
“I will explain in the car. Let’s go.”
Father Bauman struggled with his umbrella as Delia waited in the parking lot. The heavy rains continued as the center of the storm came closer to Miami. There was another heavy squall line approaching as the sky lit up with flashes of lightning and the winds increased.
Once they were in the car, the priest pulled away, and finally spoke. “We need to convince Darius to come to the church. He won’t want to. Most certainly not.”
Delia nodded.
“And we don’t have much time. The storm is getting closer and stronger. I would say in the next hour or so the conditions will be too dangerous. I have the exorcist waiting for me in the church. He is in the adoration room.”
“And why can’t we do this at the estate?”
Father Bauman lit a cigarette. “Because this is not your usual, run of the mill exorcism. This is Tramos. This changes everything. We need to be on sacred ground. And you know about the vestment room, right?”
Delia nodded.
“That vestment room is the key. If we can get him down there, it will be much easier to break the grip that Tramos has on him. But…the challenge…will be getting him down there. He hasn’t even wanted to step foot in the church lately.”
