Diabolical

by Hank Schwaeble

  She flipped the sheet over its stapled corner to see the copy of the death certificate. Typical government document. Blocks of identifying information: names and dates and places. Signatures and titles. Her eyes roamed the page, skimming the details. She wished the caller, a detective from the Nineteenth, would get to the point and let her hang up. She was much more interested in the document.

  There was an attending physician listed, with a name and address. No phone, but that would be easy to find. She wondered if she should call him. Sure, it was almost certainly a waste of time, but 90 percent of everything was a waste of time, and she felt like she had to do something. A witness interview she’d just concluded in a case she was going to pawn off on someone else the first chance she got had taken hours, and she hadn’t even had a chance to call Hatcher back, something she wanted to do now but couldn’t because of this yo-yo on the phone pestering her about a training seminar.

  She hummed short answers, barely listening. Cold air wafted from the open window, cutting through the stifling artificial heat and momentarily capturing her attention. The detective squad for the Twenty-third Precinct was always too hot in the winter and too cold in the summer. People complained routinely, complaints were ignored routinely. She supposed the higher-ups figured that’s what windows were for. But open windows meant the sound of traffic, the distant din of construction, the rising and falling of faint sirens. It meant New York was always in the room with you. Even when you wanted to be far away from it.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, not having any clue what she was agreeing to. She sighed, attention drifting from the death certificate, checking her watch. She wanted to be talking to Hatcher, not this guy.

  She started to reposition the fax cover sheet on top and put the document aside, only to stop as her eyes brushed over a signature in one of the blocks far down the page. She stared at the writing and blinked.

  “I have to call you back,” she said, cutting off her colleague in mid-sentence and hanging up.

  She had to be misreading it, she told herself. It was a signature, flowing loops and curls. Seemed legible enough. But no. It couldn’t be.

  Trying not to take her eyes off the sheet—part of her worried she might not find what she was looking at again if she did—she pulled open a draw and rummaged for a magnifying glass. The lens expanded the handwriting, moving it in and out of focus as she played with the distance. Except for scratches and flecks, the signature looked the same enlarged. The more she read it, the more obvious it seemed.

  She grabbed her cell phone and tapped the screen until it started calling Hatcher’s number.

  C’mon, answer!

  Her eyes dove back to the signature, signing on behalf of Eternal Rewards Funeral Home, as funeral director. Not only did it seem as clear as the printed letters around it now, she was starting to wonder how she could have almost missed it.

  Answer the phone, goddamnit!

  Nothing. She couldn’t just sit there three thousand miles away and do nothing. It was an easy decision, really. A no-brainer. Checking her watch again, she grabbed her purse and coat and headed for the door. She’d take care of the arrangements on the phone, in the cab.

  The signature was fixed in her mind. The penmanship was impeccable. There was no mistaking it, no mistaking that name. And no mistaking what it meant.

  Vale N. Tine.

  THE SUBBASEMENT WAS DARK AND CRAMPED AND FELT LIKE a sauna.

  Hatcher threaded his way through a narrow labyrinth of gray piping, ducking frequently. Within minutes, his shirt was sticking to his back and chest. Beads of sweat rolled down his nose and hung there briefly before dropping.

  He followed the directions Jim had given him, hoping, practically praying, that the information was accurate. He wished he could have dragged Jim down there with him, but there was no practical way to do that, and the man would have understandably thought he’d never be coming back up, so he would have had no reason not to put up a huge fight, kicking and screaming. On the other hand, Hatcher realized some bad directions and a call to security could have been a smart move, a way to end up with the police making a quick arrest.

  But nobody came and it didn’t seem like anyone would, and Hatcher found the spot more easily than he’d expected. One right turn off the main corridor of piping, then a left into a valve recess, right where Jim had said it would be. A large wheel sat flat over a pipe extension in the recess, protruding from the cement floor. Behind the valve was a vented panel, low to the ground. Hatcher could see how the contractors would have missed it. He barely fit between the valve and the wall.

  The panel took some prodding, but Hatcher managed to pry it open enough with the rental car key to wedge some fingers behind it. It popped out on the third tug.

  And there it was. A tight square space in the wall, with a metal access ladder bolted to the side, descending into a shaft.

  Hatcher grabbed the wheel valve and stuck his feet through the opening, moving them until one touched a rung. He dropped a foot to the next rung, then a lower one, and pushed himself through the opening with his arms. Kept pushing and lowering, stepping down. Once he was vertical enough, he reached an arm inside and grabbed the ladder, letting go of the valve.

  The shaft descended into blackness darker than sleep. He’d climbed down around thirty feet when his foot felt nothing but air. The ladder simply stopped. Assuming he must be close to the bottom, he lowered himself a few more rungs with his arms, stretching his foot down and kicking to feel for a landing. Nothing.

  He climbed even lower, finally letting himself dangle from the last rung, pointing his toes, hoping to scrape something. Still nothing.

  Well, this sucks.

  The burning in his arms told him they wouldn’t let him hang like that all day. His options were limited. There were really only two. He could climb back up, try to find another access. But Jim had said there was only one left beneath the library, so in practical terms that meant giving up. Or he could simply take it on faith that the bottom wasn’t far below, maybe a few feet, maybe mere inches. The problem with that gambit was obvious. If it was more than ten feet or so, he’d almost certainly break a leg or ankle. More than twenty, he’d seriously injure himself and need immediate medical attention. Either way, he wouldn’t have any way out. And a drop in the dark of even a few feet was risky. Not knowing when you’re going to hit is a surefire way to blow our your knee or your hip. The rest of your body wouldn’t enjoy it much, either.

  He hung there a few more moments, thinking. He did a mental inventory of his pockets. The right one contained only one thing, but his left one held a small maglite, two replacement batteries, and a set of keys. The knife Edgar had given him was clipped to his jeans, nestled against the small of his back. His cell phone was stuffed in his left rear pocket, wallet in his left. Light first.

  He pulled himself up by his arms several rungs until he could hook a leg. He coaxed the small flashlight out of his jeans pocket with one hand, careful not to drop it. The wash of the beam was bright in the enclosed shaft. He held it bulb-end down and craned his neck to look.

  There was a bottom, but it was hard to tell how far away it was. More than ten feet, but he wasn’t sure how much more.

  He tucked the end of the flashlight into his mouth and fished the keys out of his pocket. He held them out and let them go.

  One Mississippi.

  Before he finished, he heard a clink. He snagged the light from his teeth and pointed it down the shaft. He could make out the glint of metal in the distance.

  That made it simple. The distance was about twelve to fifteen feet. Dangle as low as you can get before dropping, that would make it more like five to eight feet. Maybe.

  Piece of cake.

  Okay, he told himself, this is seriously stupid. There was no guarantee there was any exit down there, no guarantee he’d be dropping into anything other than a pit. There might be no way out, and there was definitely no way back up. There was a good chance what he was
contemplating amounted to suicide.

  He stared down for a few more seconds, before he tucked the light away and lowered himself back to the bottom rung. Arms extended, feet swinging gently, he reminded himself once more what a stupid stunt this was. A long moment passed. He took a breath, exhaled half of it, then let go.

  The fall lasted longer than he’d expected. When he finally slammed feetfirst into the ground, the force slammed his knees into his chest. One knee skidded up into his chin. He tasted blood on his tongue, could feel a stinging rawness inside his bottom lip.

  Hatcher pushed himself up from the earthen floor, dusted off. He pulled out the flashlight and thumbed the button.

  The tunnel was between five and six feet high, maybe four feet wide. Hatcher flashed the light down one direction, then the other. Both looked identical.

  Think, he told himself. He closed his eyes and pictured the library, the entrance, fixed the direction it faced. He retraced his steps into the building, into the basement, around the corner, following Jim, back to where Jim opened the maintenance stairwell, down the subbasement corridor and around the bend, into the shaft. Compared that to the general location of the church.

  Then he started walking.

  The low height forced him to hunch over, almost crouch, as he moved. It was hard to gauge distance. Minutes started to pile up. The muscles in his back registered complaining stabs, but he didn’t stop to rest. He walked for over an hour before he noticed a light in the distance. He shut off his flashlight and kept moving forward, eventually reaching a hub.

  The hub was smaller than the place the Carnates had taken him, but it was definitely man-made. Or made by something. It was an empty, open area, lighted by torches on the walls. And it smelled. A sweet, pungent odor, sharp and persistent, seeped into his nasal passages, refusing to go away. He sensed it had to be whatever the torches were burning. He put the back of his hand to his nose and surveyed the chamber. Three other tunnels fed into it, but only one was in the general direction he was heading. He grabbed one of the torches off the wall. The light from the flame didn’t travel as far, but it was brighter and would let him conserve battery power. He peered as far as he could into the tunnel, then entered.

  This tunnel was a bit spacier, probably eight feet high and six feet wide, allowing Hatcher to stand as he walked and to hold the torch above eye level. Any hope this segment would be shorter quickly faded. After the first thirty minutes, the torch felt heavy, causing a pain in his shoulder. He switched arms several times, but eventually put the torch down and retrieved the flashlight. He had no idea how long he was going to have to walk, and certainly didn’t want his arms to be dead by the time he got there.

  Seventy or eighty yards further on, Hatcher realized he was no longer in a tunnel. The blackness surrounded him, an ocean of it, and his flashlight was hitting nothing as he swept it in every direction. Then he saw the man.

  He seemed tall, but it was hard to tell, because he was seated behind a small desk, bent slightly over it, marking up some document. He was brightly lit, as if by a spotlight, but there was no apparent source, just an island of illumination. He had pale skin and strawberry blond hair and a roman nose that extended over a pair of puffy red lips. He was wearing a white dinner jacket.

  Hatcher stopped. The man continued whatever he was doing at the desk and did not look up. After several moments, he said, “Just because I’ve got all day, doesn’t mean I have all day.”

  The man’s voice was calm, soft, but it had an edge to it.

  “Who are you?” Hatcher said.

  The man said nothing, engrossed in his activity.

  The entire area was like a void. Even the floor seemed to lack any distinct quality, as if were nothing more than the surrounding blackness somehow solidified. Hatcher glanced over his shoulder, tossed looks left and right. It was the same in every direction. Except one thing was suddenly very different. He couldn’t have had his eyes off the man for much more than a second, but when he looked back, Dinner Jacket wasn’t sitting at the desk anymore, he was in front of it, leaning back. Screwing the lid onto a red fountain pen. He slipped the pen behind his lapel, then withdrew his empty hand. Both hands found his trouser pockets as he leveled his gaze at Hatcher.

  “You know who I am,” the man said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “Oh, trust me. You do. Which is why you won’t. Trust me, that is.”

  Hatcher realized that two red protuberances curved up from beneath the guy’s hairline. Blood red, almost glossy. How could he have not noticed that before?

  The man sighed. Then he wasn’t there. He was leaning over Hatcher’s shoulder. A huge head of green scales, accented by plump cheekbones and a long chin. Eyes like two malevolent jewels beneath twin red horns.

  “Does this help?”

  Before Hatcher could do more than flinch, the face was gone. The man was back in front of the desk, half-seated against it as if he’d never left. His face was human again.

  Hatcher reached for the knife clipped at the small of his back.

  “That won’t be necessary,” the man said, a patient smile stretching his face. “I won’t harm you.”

  “Just who the hell are you?”

  “I’m what scares you.”

  Hatcher blinked. He started to respond, but stopped.

  “Come now,” the man continued, “deep down, you know what I’m talking about. My name is Raum. I’m your dedicated demon.”

  “My what?”

  “Demon. Your devil. Did you really think Lucifer himself personally dispenses torment to the damned? Please. He’s got enough on his plate, running the place.”

  Hatcher stared at the man, ran his eyes over the horns a few times. “My own devil, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you mean me no harm.”

  “Of course not. Not now, at least. Why would I? We have all eternity to get acquainted, after all.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe this?”

  “Well, on the one hand, yes,” the man said, shrugging. “On the other, it doesn’t really matter.”

  “Let’s say I play along for now. If you’re a demon, and demons live in Hell, then what are you doing here?”

  “My dear fellow, I’m always here.” Raum tapped his index finger against his temple. “The Carnates simply saw fit to let you have a glimpse. Just the right mix of herbs and an ancient incantation. I was more than happy to oblige.”

  “And why would they do that?”

  “To fuck with your head. Why else?”

  Hatcher lowered his gaze to the knife in his hand. “So, you’re not real.”

  “Oh, I’m very real. You might say I’m as real as it gets. What is reality, after all? Is the color red real? Does it even exist as you know it? What is anything outside of what your brain tells you it is? How do you know someone else sees the same thing you do? If everyone were color blind, would colors still be there?”

  Hatcher rubbed his eyes. “I’m hallucinating.”

  “No. Deluding, perhaps. But not hallucinating.”

  “This is not real.”

  “Here we go with the ‘real’ again. How’s this for real.” The man tipped forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I know everything that terrifies you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “That’s so.”

  “And I’m just supposed to take your word for all this?”

  “No,” Raum said. “That would require faith. Not something we deal in.” The man’s lips tensed into a humorless grin. He raised a hand from his pocket, bending his arm at the elbow, and snapped his fingers.

  Hatcher tightened up, surprised and disappointed in himself for doing so. But nothing happened.

  “Is that all you got?”

  The man didn’t move. In fact, he didn’t even blink. Or twitch. Or breathe. He was completely still. Unnaturally motionless. Like a statue.

  Hatcher leaned closer. Something was
wrong. He took a step, then another. Not only was the man not moving, Hatcher realized he wasn’t even a man anymore. A two-dimensional, life-sized cardboard cut-out stood in his place, a photograph, perfectly duplicating his last pose. Hatcher took a few more steps, reached out and touched the image.

  A pair of arms burst through the picture, long and gray, clawed fingers, raking and snatching. Thick hairs protruded from the leathery skin, the hide pulled tight around narrow ropes of corded muscles and knobby bones. The hands cuffed Hatcher’s wrists and jerked him forward into the photo. The picture shattered, cardboard exploding into a thousand fragments of glass, and Hatcher found himself tumbling, flailing, falling. He was passing through himself, through his future, through settings and events he could barely conceive. All of it alien, all of it unreal, all of it chillingly familiar.

  Faceless creatures fed on human flesh, close enough to touch, yellow eyes and black gaping maws, heads draped in layers of long, stringy hair, teeth like piranha. He knew these things, had seen them before. Seen them, fled them, feared them. In nightmares, as a child. Same for the things that looked like snakes with daggered limbs and human faces, sporting blue skin and cat’s eyes, tearing at a carcass, flinging viscera haphazardly over their heads, an orgy of insanity. All of them things his mind had conjured in his youth, what he pictured the first time he’d heard the word “ghoul,” his imagination giving form to the kind of thing suited to such a name. Or the product of a movie he could hear playing on the TV while he was huddled in his bed down the hall and his father snored in the recliner, something about a crazy doctor turning people into snakes.

  Even now, these scenes seemed to reach an icy hand inside him and squeeze. He tried to tell himself they weren’t real, but he knew better. These were more real than anything else he could think of. Solid. Three-dimensional. Alive.

  A crazy woman with matted, wild hair squatted over a corpse, stabbing it with a fork over and over, giggling. The sight revived his fears of insanity he had as a kid, sent the same weakening tingle through his spine, the same spike in his heart rate. The thought of a person who wasn’t really there, whose brain was not quite human, a person who couldn’t be reasoned with, whose homicidal mind he couldn’t comprehend, still made his skin squirm with unease.