by Dyrk Ashton
Mol nudges the old lady’s cheek. She’s breathing.
“Oh, thank God,” Fi exclaims.
“She’ll be alright, Fiona.” Edgar is shaken, but resolute. “We have other matters to attend to.”
Fi and Zeke once again aim their flashlights at the mouth of the lower tunnel.
Max creeps toward them far enough to reveal his soiled stocking cap, soaking wet and steaming, their lights mirrored in his four pairs of sunglasses, and his savagely grinning mouth.
He chortles, “There ain’t no rain can wash this spider out.” And he changes...
The stocking cap is now a mangy tuft of gray hair above a face covered in patchy gray fuzz, matted with filth, his nose two seeping holes and mouth a wide slobbering crescent grin with yellowed and blackened fangs that protrude over rubbery lips. Each lens of the sunglasses is a lidless, yellow orb of an eye, eight of them in all, one pair above the other, each pair a different size. The black pupils are rimmed in red and all of them move in unison as he peers around the chamber. He inches forward, revealing more of his true form in all its hideous glory
Zeke’s insides turn to water at the sight. A ribbed thorax, black with red markings, and a bloated rippling bulb of an abdomen that expands and contracts as he breathes, with shabby peeling flesh sparsely covered in gray bristles. Attached to the thorax are eight legs, like any self-respecting spider should have, but the first set is more like scrawny arms with slender hands that each have two fingers and a thumb with curved black claws, and the back set is oddly angled in bony hips that afford him the ability to walk upright when he wishes. Each of the back six legs have a pair of hooked and sharply toothed claws, bristling with spiky hair. Crawling on the ground, as he is now, the knees--or elbows--peak above his head and back.
Fi covers her nose and mouth against the stench. Zeke gags. Both shrink behind Edgar but peer around him to keep the creature in sight.
Max crawls along the edge of the well, all eight eyes trained on Edgar. His voice is eerily whimsical and soft.
“Will you walk into my parlor?
said the Spider to the Fly,
‘Tis the prettiest little parlor,
that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlor,
is up a winding stair;
And I have curious things to show you,
when you are there.”
Edgar takes a bold step to block Max from Mrs. Mirskaya’s prostrate figure, and Fi and Zeke are surprised to hear him finish the stanza.
“Oh, no no, said the Fly,
to ask me is in vain;
For who goes up your winding stair
can ne'er come down again...”
Max zigzags closer, side-stepping this way and that like a crab, his claws skritching on the stone floor. Edgar adjusts his stance with each movement, anticipating the coming assault.
“Sheathe your sword, young wæpenbora,” creaks Max, “and I’ll kill you quickly, I promise.”
“I cannot tell you how many times I’ve heard that one, little Spider,” Edgar scoffs, “and the word of Anansi is dubious at best.”
“Alas,” Max sighs, inching closer. “I have other tricks up my sleeve--Oh!” his hand shoots to his mouth and he looks at his arm, grinning like a fool. “No sleeves.”
A high piercing squeal slashes the air, causing Fi and Zeke to jump. Edgar is distracted for an instant--just enough time for Max to strike, quick as lightning.
Edgar crouches, stabbing past his shield, straight at Max’s eyes, but The Spider rolls sideways, avoiding the thrust by an inch, and propels himself upward with all eight legs, high into the air. Edgar raises shield and sword.
A phantom shadow descends from a walkway above. Fi tries to shout in warning, but before she can utter a sound Kleron sweeps Edgar’s sword arm aside with his left wing and clamps Edgar’s wrist with the claw at the peak of it, then grips Edgar by the throat with one hand, hoists him off his feet and pins him between shield and wall with a leaping shove.
Edgar exhales sharply, pain shooting through his chest and back.
Fi screams, “Edgar!!!”
With a lion’s roar, Mol attacks. He clamps his jaws onto Kleron’s leg and wrenches with all his might--to absolutely no effect. With less concern and effort than one might shoo a gnat, Kleron kicks him. Mol sails across the room, thuds against the far wall with a piteous yelp, and falls limp to the floor.
“Mol...” Fi wants to go to him, but she fears more for her uncle.
Kleron leers up at Edgar with his grotesque, bat-like Trueface. “What did I tell you, boy?” He clenches his wing-claw, snapping Edgar’s arm below the wrist. Edgar grunts in pain. His sword clangs to the floor.
Fi screams, “Nooo!!!” and moves to help Edgar, but Zeke holds her back.
Kleron steps on the sword and kicks it backward into the well. Edgar squeezes his eyes closed at the sound of the splash.
Zeke tries to drag Fi away but she fights against him, shouting again for Edgar. A hideous cackling comes from above and she looks up to see what Zeke has been fretting about--Max, clinging upside down to the bottom of a platform overhead. They back away, but not fast enough.
Max drops, knocking both of them to the ground. He pounces on Zeke, swiftly lifts him with middle legs and rolls him over and over, using his back legs to guide a stream of milky thread that exudes from his abdomen. In seconds Zeke’s wrapped from ankles to shoulders, arms bound to his sides, and dumped roughly, just as Fi aims a kick at Max’s head.
“Ho ho!” Max shouts, easily deflecting the blow. He leaps on Fi, who lands on her back with a shriek. He pins her tight, pressing a disgusting hand over her mouth, all eight eyes and drooling mouth of pointed teeth hovering inches from her face. He presses his ghastly body against hers, paws at her with his claws--but he’s careful not to harm her, not to damage her precious skin. Not yet.
“Little Miss Muffet, sat on a tuffet...” he breathes. The reek of his breath makes her eyes water.
Dizzy and nauseous from being spun in Max’s web, Zeke sees the blurry image of The Spider perched atop Fi. He struggles in his bindings, tries to shout, but is forced to gag back his own rising gorge.
Edgar fights frantically in Kleron’s grasp. “Do not touch her!” he gasps. Kleron presses hard against him, tightens his grip on his throat. Then both of them notice a wisp of smoke curling between them.
“Ahh,” notes Kleron. “The blood of Joseph of Arimathea.” He grips the edge of the shield with his free hand, moves back just enough to peel it away from his chest and wrench it from Edgar’s arm. The fur on Kleron’s chest is burned, the skin blackened and smoking in the shape of a ragged cross.
“That will leave a mark,” says Edgar wryly.
“You did warn me,” Kleron concedes. “The bloodline of Joseph may be toxic, but it is not deadly to one as old as I.” He gives Edgar’s broken arm a twist with his wing claw, causing Edgar to wince hard. “Tell me, how did Pater dispel the mentia so quickly? It is... unprecedented.”
Edgar glares in response. Kleron loosens the hold on his throat, enough for him to croak, “Divine intervention. Unconditional love. Blessings The Accursed One will never know.”
Kleron smiles his mirthless smile and gives Edgar’s broken arm another twist. Edgar suppresses a moan. Kleron turns his attention to The Spider. “Max, enough,” he reproaches.
“Yes, Master,” Max says in disappointment. He lifts Fi and gives her the same web-spinning treatment he gave Zeke, though he wraps her more sparsely, with a few strands of web around her ankles and just enough to hold her arms to her sides. He drops her on her back, then proceeds to secure the unconscious bodies of Mol and Mrs. Mirskaya. When he’s completed his task, he returns to hunker on top of Fi.
Edgar struggles in protest. Kleron leans close. “Begging your pardon, good knight,” then suddenly releases him and steps back, holding his arms out in a non-threatening gesture, though still holding Edgar’s shield.
“Children!” he cries
Edgar doesn’t dare attack without his sword, but at least he can speak his mind. “Do not hearken the Lord of Lies!”
Kleron ignores him and addresses Max. “Maskim Xul, leave the young lady be, if you please.” Max removes himself reluctantly, skitters to squat between Edgar and the well, blocking him from the others and all exits.
Kleron gazes at Fi with what appears to be heartfelt compassion. “I hate to tell you this, young lady, but Galahad, your dear Uncle Edgar, is little more than a well intentioned fool, guiltless of all but faith in a non-existent God, and folly in his devotion to a fickle lord. Peter is not who he pretends to be. He is The Father, yes, but one who abandons his children. He will bring you nothing but misery and woe. Woe to you, and all whom you love.” He looks at Zeke for a long moment, then sets Edgar’s shield against the wall and crouches next to Fi.
“We haven’t much time, dear ones.” He continues, switching to the language they heard earlier when the water from the well was frozen then decimated by fire--foreign beyond time and place, ugly, unintelligible, but he speaks calmly and without malice. The words morph, melt, and though they still echo in the background of their minds, Fi and Zeke also hear Kleron in English, his voice mellifluous, consoling.
“Come with me, my children. Follow, and be free. You will know the truth, and everything you have ever desired will be yours.”
Fi thinks she can hear Edgar shouting, somewhere, far away, but she’s spellbound, lost in Kleron’s voice and black eyes. Eyes like portals to another universe. Deep within them she sees a flowering meadow under the sun, and her mother, laughing with a toss of her hair, skipping, dancing, playing her flute. She can smell the grass, the flowers, her mother’s perfume, see the sparkle in her eyes. And suddenly Fi is with her--not a young girl like she was before her mother died, but the age she is today. Together.
Zeke has a similar experience, but his visions involve a guitar, amorphous images of parents he never knew, and Fi.
“This world will be the last, and it will be ours. Come with me, and live.”
The pain, horror and grief of the day fade away, like a nightmare forgotten upon waking.
* * *
“FIONA MEGAN PATTERSON!!!”
Edgar’s commanding voice rolls like thunder over the sunny meadow. Fi pauses, just feet from her mom. Her mother smiles, but her eyes are vacant, lifeless.
“This isn’t real,” Fi says softly, her own voice watery and faint.
“FIONA!!!”
“This isn’t real!” Fi says louder. She can still hear Kleron’s voice, but it has returned to the harsh, terrible utterance it was earlier.
She whispers, “Zeke.” She spins to the trees, then shouts to the sky, “Zeke!”
* * *
Zeke is seated at a large dining room table, family all around. And though Fi is sitting right next to him, holding his hand, he hears her voice from elsewhere.
“Zeke, this isn’t real!”
He blinks. The faces around the table are vague, unfamiliar. It’s a family he never knew. A family he never had. He looks to the Fi beside him. She smiles, her eyes void of the spark of life.
“Don’t listen to him!”
Somehow, Zeke understands. He takes his hand from the fake Fi’s, and begins to extricate himself from the dreamy web of Kleron’s spell.
“Okay!” he replies to Fi’s voice.
“Don’t believe him!”
“I don’t!”
“He’s the Devil!”
“I know!”
“He’s evil!”
“I got it!!!”
The illusions shatter into tiny splintering fragments, which fall to the floor of the chamber and vanish.
* * *
Kleron ceases to speak. He looks at Fi, to Zeke, then back at Fi, clearly puzzled. It takes a few moments for his false smile to return. “The Devil, you say? It was not I who tempted your Jesus Christ in the desert. That was our father. And I’m sorry to tell you this, but there is no such thing as evil.”
“Whatever!” Fi retorts. “Flowers in a sunny meadow? My dead mother? Is that the best you’ve got, Lucifer?”
Both Edgar and Zeke are shocked by Fi’s bold defiance.
Even Kleron is befuddled. “Well, I...“
“Go to hell!” Fi shouts.
Kleron’s smile fades and his icy black glare drops the temperature in the chamber 50 degrees in an instant. “Better yet,” his eyes glow hot, “I’ll take you with me.”
He growls, thrusting to his feet. Shedding his human cloak, he throws out his arms, clawed fingers splayed, spreads his horrendous wings and raises his face to the ceiling. His growl becomes a roar of the ghastly language from before.
This time Fi and Zeke hear no other words. They just see. And feel.
Kleron’s eyes are blazing, his breath a yellow sulfurous fume. Flames curl from his nostrils. Smoke flows out of his ears.
The temperature rises so quickly that Fi and Zeke’s clothes begin to smolder, then flame.
And they scream.
The chamber is engulfed in a vortex of fire. Edgar grits his teeth against the heat and howl of it. Wooden steps are set aflame, metal railings glow and sag.
And Fi and Zeke scream.
Kleron’s fell voice becomes impossibly loud, a chorus of horrors from another world. His wings whip up the inferno.
A whirling pillar of fire erupts from the well, and within its flames a hideous face takes shape. Red, scaled and horned, yellow eyes with pupils like black fangs, flaming pits for nostrils--and two cadaverous mouths packed with scythes for teeth, twisted up in heinous grins on either side of a wicked scar, like an axe wound roughly healed. Both mouths speak with the infernal chorus, the same words as Kleron, but with a pitch even deeper and more primeval.
Edgar shrinks against the wall, squeezes his eyes shut and prays. “Satan, the Lord rebuke thee. I renounce all ungodly anger and give no place to The Devil...”
Fi and Zeke gag on the mephitic fumes, cough, and scream. Pain surges through Fi’s head, threatening to split her skull.
Mrs. Mirskaya stirs, fights against her bindings, moans through the web that wraps her mouth. Mol shudders, wakes, and howls.
The chamber shakes. The walls and ceiling crumble and fall. They find themselves lying on a jagged promontory of stone overlooking an endless cavernous landscape of rock, magma, and fire, its high smoky ceiling glowing with a sickly nuclear radiance. There are hellish screams of multitudes in agony--not of the dead, but of the tortured and dying.
Edgar raises his voice as he draws strength from his supplications. “Devil, I resist thee! I loose myself from every bond of Satan in the name of Jesus Christ. I am delivered from the power of Satan unto God!!!”
His eyes snap open. “Fiona! Zeke!” he cries. “It’s only an illusion! It is not real!!!”
But this feels real. Wholly different from the earlier delusions. Wholly other. Their clothing withers in flame, skin blisters and peels. All around them, for as far as the eye can see, thousands of people are being tortured--flogged, flayed, scalded, scorched, dismembered and raped. Some are attached to machines, both archaic and futuristic, abhorrent and unimaginable, on cliffs and plateaus laid out with butcher’s tables, cables, rods, spikes, vials, crystals, and chemical vats, like an evil laboratory more despicable than anything dreamed up in a Nazi concentration camp.
Aberrant creatures stalk the cavern, abominations of parts taken from a variety of beasts, sutured and welded together, the subjects of vile experimentation. Some are recognizable from fable and myth--griffin, chimera, nue, baku, sphinx, ammit and tarasque. Others they have never seen depicted or described. But all are the substance of nightmares.
Hundreds of twisted demons with necrotic indigo skin and scorching sapphire eyes are herding the humans, manning machines, prodding, tormenting, brutalizing. Three are very close, skinning a man alive with their claws, driving wires and tubes into every orifice of his body.
Fi smells their purulent breath, observes with revulsion the sloughing skin of their gangrel bodies, the leprotic pustules and sores--and for some inexplicable reason, she knows what they are. They’re called Blues. And they are not here!
She somehow calls up the courage and willpower to resist, tapping reserves of fortitude she never thought she had, and cries out, “THAT’S ENOUGH OF THAT SHIT!!!”
And the hellish landscape is gone, every trace of the conflagration ended. Nothing in the chamber is burned. It’s not even hot.
* * *
Kleron stands fixed in Fi’s furious glare, his wings still spread, arms wide, but looking, and perhaps feeling, a little ridiculous.
Fi breathes raggedly. She’s still terrified, but she’s also really, really pissed off. Maybe angrier than she’s ever been in her life. “It’s one cliché after another with you, isn’t it?! Cheesy illusions. Fire and brimstone? Get with the times, asshole. You’re a fake.”
Max chortles, wheezes and coughs.
Kleron’s wings fold behind him, arms drop to his sides. A range of emotions flit across his features as the red glow fades from his eyes. He’s amazed, then impressed, and finally, amused. He addresses Edgar while keeping his eyes on Fi. “You’ve had your hands full with this one, eh, Galahad?”
Edgar makes no response. He’s as surprised as Kleron.
Kleron studies Fi intensely. “And still so young...”
Zeke doesn’t know what to think. He’s mostly just relieved not to have been burned alive, for real.
Kleron picks up Edgar’s shield. “Was my facile defeat of almighty Mokosh fake?” He holds it out to his side dramatically. “Is this?” He utters a single unhallowed word and the shield bursts into flame.
And Fi knows--this is no illusion.
She gapes in terror at the incandescent, unholy hue, feels the intense heat, smells the reek of real brimstone--
* * *
Through her own eyes, Fi tears her bedroom apart--but the hands doing it are black and clawed. She looks into the dresser mirror to find herself staring directly into the dead black eyes of Kleron. He smiles a crooked smile. Behind him, reflected in the mirror, are her antique brass bed with Mrs. Mirskaya’s handmade quilt, her chair and closet door, her travel posters and books. And it all catches fire. The black hand strikes out and smashes the mirror.
-->
