by Lex Sinclair
‘The thing with the goat’s head travelled Europe to increase the number of followers that we have today until they were a legion. It made them perform deeds, similar to the four monks, to prove they were worthy and could be trusted with the greatest secret known to man.’
Captivated by how this story was unfolding, Sofie leaned forward. ‘And what is the “greatest secret known to man”?’
‘Satan Lives! The thousand years had nearly ended.’
An icy chill snaked up Sofie’s arms pebbling them in goose bumps, freezing to the marrow that had nothing to do with the draught. Her throat bobbed up and down. The heat in her cheeks coloured her face a pink hue as stars floated past in her retinas.
‘In a small town in Dortmund, Germany two men wielding axes they used for cutting down trees and kindling went on a rampage one night in their local pub, killing eight locals before being outnumbered by the mob and apprehended. A week later they were hanged in the gallows. When asked if they renounced all evil and repented they all said “no”.’
‘What? The thing with the goat’s head didn’t save them, after they had killed on its behalf,’ Sofie said, contorting her features in disdain.
‘I’m not finished,’ Margaret said. ‘A week after they had been hanged and buried, townsfolk started reporting to the authorities who initially believed their tales to be fictitious or that of a mad person needing to be taken to the nearest asylum. Yet, according to folklore, the police also began reporting sightings of the two men wielding those same axes, chasing them in the street, grinning malevolently.’
‘So, what happened then?’ Sofie wanted to know.
‘Why, nothing, of course. Even if the men had not scared the wits out of the townsfolk whom they terrorised there would be no way you sentence someone to death after they had already died. The townsfolk went stark-raving mad. By the end of the year there was hardly a single soul alive who hadn’t lost their mind.
‘Same thing befell a small town in the city of Montreal; Valencia and Ajax. Only someone must had done some thorough investigating and sussed out that there was no coincidence here; that there was some perpetrator - or perpetrators - wreaking havoc in the countries mentioned. What they couldn’t quite fathom was the reports ensuing the aftermath of apparitions and how a whole community could lose their minds, as if they did this in unison. What they did instead was study the locations, realising that in one chosen city in each and every country a normal member of a small, close-knit town would for no palpable reason would go on a killing spree without any forewarning that they were about to do something drastic.
‘This investigator deduced that either the perpetrators were part of a cult or they were propositioned or given an ultimatum that they either go ahead with the deed or a family member would lose their life. This, of course, wasn’t the case. However, he was on the right track and also deduced that the killing spree seemed to be going north on its way to Denmark, and Sweden, Norway and probably Finland.
‘The Copenhagen massacre took place in a catholic church. Forty-five citizens lost their lives. Some were stabbed repeatedly; some strangled, others were beaten to death, and two suffered burns and later died in the emergency ward. The police investigator hastened to arrive at the crime scene, gathered as much evidence from the sergeants and with the aid of the local constabulary tracked down the one remaining survivor: a young, terror-stricken boy who had escaped by entering the priest’s vestry, smashing the window with a loose brick jutting from the wall and squeezed through the horizontal space, cutting his hands to pieces, breaking his leg when he hit the unyielding cobbled path and cried out when he saw people running towards the church until someone heard him.
‘The boy told them in the hospital he was being kept at how something so ghastly and demonic had entered the church during the Christmas Eve service carrying a long staff with a shiny gold goat’s head breathing out green vapours; a long, scarlet cape whispered across the thin carpet in the aisle that cascaded from his broad, muscular shoulders. Its entire body was described as physical human perfection. Every muscle bulging with veins the size of cables pulsing blood throughout its anatomy. But the hands, the boy said, were long fingered ending with pointy overgrown nails that looked more like claws belong to a wild animal. The head itself attracted undivided attention. So terrifying was it that not one person could turn away from it, even though the eyes burning with phosphorous light sent pulses racing, hearts pounding, drying all the saliva in the gaping mouths of the worshippers.
‘The thing with the goat’s head stood at the back of the church well over six feet, wider than most doorframes, proud, staring at each and every one of the flock, sensing their trepidation like you and I feel vibrations whenever there’s a tremor or folk do now when their on a plane. Satisfied that it now had everyone’s attention and even the self-proclaimed tough guys seated amongst the others in the pews had pissed their pants at the very thought of confronting this... monstrosity before them that could only be described as an abomination it was so grotesque and vulgar, it began its slow, purposeful stride down aisle towards the altar.
‘The young boy who was reciting this tale to the police had been seated on the far end of the pew next to a concrete pillar. Down the outside aisle on his right was a door leading to the vestry where he made his escape during the massacre that was about ensue. He said he didn’t know people were going to die. But he was fully aware that singing Christmas carols and going home to sit by the fire before retiring to bed to wake early the following morning was as likely as being able to fly.
‘The priest, no longer trembling started shaking involuntarily. From where the boy was positioned, he said he thought the priest was having a massive seizure. No one would ever know whether he was or not, because when the thing with the goat’s head slammed his iron rod into the ground, where it stood upright, it seized the priest - a balding, five-foot four man with a saggy, doughy face - and in one sudden, forceful movement, snapped the merciless man’s neck. The audible crunch reverberated off the walls and ascended to the rafters far overhead. All slack, the priest’s head swung to the side the flabby chin resting comfortably on his shoulder blade as the rest of his corpulent figure shot forward and the slammed the ground upon seconds ago he stood giving a sermon.
‘The congregation gasped simultaneously, shaking themselves. A couple of women shrieked; others whimpered and started asphyxiating, incapable of breathing due to the oncoming panic-attacks assailing them. An elderly woman at the seated towards the rear of the church collapsed, smashing her aquiline-shaped skull on the timber shelf where the Bibles were kept during the service, crumpling out of sight, her frail form on impact was deafening in the hushed environment - a far cry from the joyful singing and wishing each other a merry Christmas earlier on.
‘The thing with the goat’s head stood before them watching the coils of green vapour cloud the interior, atop its makeshift throne, looking down on the flock that were paralysed with trepidation that they never fathomed until right then. They were unaware that they were inhaling a poisonous substance for which there was no cure.
‘One of the men seated in the second row snapped out of his trancelike state that had momentarily kept him immobilised and shoved past the others, got to the aisle and pelted towards the altar, leaping up the three steps only to be impaled by the staff the thing with the goat’s head tore from the floor it jutted from and rammed the sharp end into the man’s abdomen. Then it raised the staff with the body speared, limbs dangling, head arched back, exposing the oesophagus, to the light and expressed its inexorable fury with a cry of a wicked banshee, piercing the eardrums of every person inside the church, who clamped down on their ears where trickles of blood dribbled through their fingers, shattering the windows with some invisible, omnipotent force that sounded like an explosion in a glass factory.
‘The young boy heard the cries of his beloved parents and everyone else
in the congregation reached an awful, inhuman crescendo. He crouched down just as people began striking and choking each other and hurried down the flanking aisle to the broad, timber door standing ajar and disappeared into the darkness that would lead him to his eventual escape route.’
Nauseous, Sofie exhaled with some effort, seeing the tale unfolding in her mind’s eye.
‘The other police officers immediately dismissed the boy’s statement regarding the thing with the goat’s head, believing it to be inadvertent embellishment due to the hysteria that had understandably befallen the traumatised youngster, who was now officially an orphan. But the investigator who had been following the incidents since what transpired in the monastery in Neath Abbey in the UK, queried the boy’s description of this monstrosity, making sure he made a note of every intricate detail. Then he asked the boy if he saw this demon - or whatever the hell it was - depart. Regrettably, the boy shook his head, genuinely sorry that he could be of no assistance in helping this nice, plain-clothed officer track down the one who had murdered his parents and everyone else inside the church on that festive evening which should have been one of mirth and contentment.
‘The next logical nation the perpetrator was headed was Sweden. The investigator deduced that now he - or it - had committed a massive crime that had shocked the entire world it would seek a town or city much less known.
‘Call it intuition - or fate - but for some unexplainable reason that investigator caught up with the thing with the goat’s head. He had been in Sweden less than a week, going top to bottom via public transport. Then one night while nursing a pint in one of the local pubs, he overheard a private conversation between two men seated behind him. They both spoke in low voices. Not quite whispers but near enough. Basically, he eavesdropped and discovered that the man telling his friend had come across something he couldn’t describe in detail, other than it was a “ghastly monstrosity”, which brought to mind what the young had told him back in Copenhagen and set off the alarm bells.
‘Believing his intuition to be acute, the investigator continued to listen intently at how the yarn-spinner had arranged to convene with the perpetrator of some of - if not - the worst crimes ever known later that evening in the same forest you discovered its remains.’ Unexpectedly, Margaret ceased talking without any forewarning.
Perplexed, Sofie glanced over her shoulder at the doorway leading to the narrow, dim staircase, saw nothing amiss, then turned back to face the disfigured woman.
‘Well? What happened next? How did it die?’ Sofie asked, pushing Margaret to finish her engrossing tale.
Margaret remained silent for few extra moments, then reluctantly resumed.
‘The investigator was in two minds on whether to get up from where he was sitting and warn the two men to stay as far away from those woods as possible; to go home, lock their doors and windows and not give in to temptation or curiosity, at all costs. But when he looked over his shoulder and saw the size of the two locals, he decided if he chose that approach there might be an altercation and an uncomfortable situation could very easily evolve into something physical. He decided that an inconspicuous approach would be his best option. For one he knew where the two men were headed. All he had to do was follow them to the intended destination and see for himself who - or rather, what - this perpetrator was that had induced endless anarchy and havoc; not to mention the lifetime of grief of those left behind, anguish the insurmountable after effects.
‘Donning his hat and coat, the investigator nonchalantly trailed the men’s path, climbing the step incline into the woods. His worst fears came true though, the moment a twig audibly snapped underfoot and the two men whirled round and spotted him in their wake. They began to charge him then halted when he raised both hands in the air, showing his police credentials he kept in his top pocket. The investigator explained, as best he could, how he’d overheard them and was tracking down a suspect that was currently travelling across Europe, killing anyone who he came into contact with; had been afraid for the men’s lives and done what he had.
‘Once the two men realised that the investigator was on one of the biggest cases ever known, their bravado was soon replaced by an overwhelming trepidation which turned them from two of the toughest, meanest son’s of bitches walking the face of the earth, to two schoolboys escaping the clutches of a werewolf by the skin of their teeth.
‘The investigator queried the fellow who had spoken with this “monstrosity” about the exact description, and when he mentioned the shiny gold staff and the goat’s head, he knew he’d found the culprit. He explained that this to the two men, handed them a piece of paper with his Chief inspector back at Scotland Yard and informed them to go back into the town write to him explaining everything that had happened thus far, and that he was going into the woods to approach and apprehend the perpetrator before it got away again.
‘The two frightened men did as they were instructed after repeating their instructions so the investigator knew they wouldn’t forget anything that may prove to be critical later on. He watched them get swallowed up the pitch darkness, still hearing their pounding footfalls on the path as they ran in the opposite direction. Then he continued further into the enveloping darkness not knowing what to expect. And it’s man’s greatest fear... the unknown. This fact alone brought on a sensation the investigator had never experienced.
‘In spite of this he reached the woods and scanned the environing landscape studiously. By then his eyes had adjusted to the darkness; his pupils had expanded. He jumped at every tiny sound; a squirrel darting across the woods terrain, scurrying up the towering, sweet-smelling firs out of his peripheral vision. Birds chirruped, flapped their wings and took flight, causing his heart to pull against the ventricles. Then, in the midst of the thicket to his right, a shape came forth, materialising from the shroud of blackness, standing tall and proud in all its magnificent, hideous glory.
‘The investigator gasped involuntarily then steadied his soon-to-be-shattered-nerves, using the mind over matter technique. And perhaps due to the listening to the orphan’s detailed description when the other officers at the Copenhagen church crime scene had dismissed him, it had prepared him for the repugnant sight being absorbed in his naked vision, shattering any tranquillity or peace of mind he had hoped to enjoy the rest of his life with. His knees buckled. He did well to stay vertical and not lose control of his bladder. He deliberately chose not to make direct contact with the scarlet eyes shining neon, like taillights, piercing the darkness...’ Margaret trailed off once more.
Sofie threw her arms up in the air. ‘Yeah? And? Come on,’ she said. Then she banged her taut fist on the table. ‘What happened after that, goddamn it?’ Her voice rose a few decibels.
Margaret shook her head, insubordinate. ‘No. No. No. You will not hear how the thing with the goat’s head was temporarily defeated. You are not truly one of us. You were chosen, yes. But you still haven’t been indoctrinated. Therefore, it is not for you to enjoy the splendour of vast knowledge. But in time you will, when the last residues of your old-self have been obliterated. Then, and only then, will you discover everything. Then you will finally know what you unleashed upon this earth...’
A shudder went through Sofie.
After taking in everything that Margaret had told her thus far, she knew how grave a mistake of hers it had been to solve the mystery to finding her way out of that sinister cavern in the woods in Vastmanland. But if it was her sworn destiny did that mean she would be held accountable for her actions? She didn’t think so. Unless she’d known what she was doing subconsciously?
No! She refused to take responsibility for being afraid for the first time in her life; of being stuck underground until she starved to death in the tomb belong to the decapitated demon with the ominous iron rod and the hideous goat’s head.
Sighing wearily, Margaret rose from her chair and padded across the vestry to
the open doorway, beckoning the young Swedish-born woman to follow.
After much hesitation, Sofie crossed the room, reaching the bottom of the narrow, dusty staircase, watching Margaret’s form disappear around the corner and into the church itself. She gripped the round banister and carried her deadened legs up the stairs, going as slow as she could, not wanting to face the fact that from now on she would be living with Reverend Rodney Ward in his cooped-up rural cottage until she gave birth to the antichrist.
11.
At the top of the staircase on the wood-panelled wall a silver crucifix approximately seven inches long and the three inches in width hung of a bracket. Sofie stared at with sudden fascination, reached out with a trembling hand and pried it from the hook it was attached to. She braced herself, intuition hinting that something ominous was about to befall her and that she’d need the crucifix on her. Prudently, she concealed its identity by sliding it into her jeans pocket and pulling her shirt on underneath down so that it was out of sight. Then she parted the heavy curtains of silk damask and stepped into the church.
Her heart skipped a beat. A pain emanating from her chest caused her to stagger slightly at the view rushing at her, filling her senses with a deliberating dread so profound for a few seconds she thought she would die right there, on the spot.
The church had been redecorated at enormous cost into a Satanic Temple. Orange light burned black candles from the altar, wall sconces nailed to the dense pillars and more heavy curtains of silk damask blocked out the light giving the church an eerie appearance to match the ambience created by the congregation all dressed in black robes covering their faces with a crimson pentacle emblazoned in the on the front. At the opposite end to the altar a large tapestry hung which was woven a colossal figure of Lucifer. The flames danced wickedly, lighting the figures and the altar decorated with a liturgy of Hell. The communion table that had been swept clear adorned with six black candles - three on either side - and rusty manacles, dimming the high, cone-shaped ceiling and the aisles. Amorphous shadows bobbed on the outer walls. The shadow-figures moved towards her even though the tangible robed members of the satanic cult stood like statues. Sofie recoiled, holding her bare hands up to protect her from the mass of blackness drowning the interior in an otherworldly abyss.
