by Hunter Shea
The creature had the new flesh up to its waist when it flashed scarlet eyes in his direction. It continued boring its gaze into him as it struggled with its new home.
“Perhaps you’d like to be next,” it hissed at him, now shoulder-deep into the younger man.
“Shit no,” Shane shot back. “You and him look like a perfect fit to me.”
The creature sneered.
“Human waste! I have a solution for that mouth of yours.”
Father Michael walked the streets of Manhattan buffeted by blustery winter winds as they whistled past row upon row of skyscrapers. He arrived at the parsonage beside Saint Luke’s Church on the Lower East Side. Ringing the bell, he lowered his hat to prevent a gust of wind from whisking it from his head.
An old woman, her gray hair wrapped in a tight bun, answered the door. She brought a pair of glasses held by a chain around her neck to the bridge of her nose.
“Yes, can I help you?” she said with a warm smile, eyeing Father Michael’s white collar.
“I’ve come to see Monsignor Stanton,” he replied, working hard to keep the bass level of his voice from hitting the fringes of its usual disquieting timbre.
The old woman, most likely a volunteer, pulled him in by the elbow. “Do come in. It feels like snow’s about to fall any minute now.” The air inside was warm, almost balmy. A desk cluttered with Mass cards sat to the left of the entranceway. “Do you have an appointment to see the monsignor?”
“I hadn’t expected to be in New York,” Father Michael said.
“That won’t be a problem, Father—”
“Michael.”
“Yes. I’ll tell him you’re here.”
The old woman walked down a narrow hallway and up a flight of wooden stairs.
Monsignor Stanton was one of the few members of the cloth aware of Father Michael’s existence. It had been agreed in the early part of the twentieth century that selected clergymen from major cities in America be informed of Father Michael and his special purpose in defending the church. This new land of so many freedoms had become a lodestar for the evil in the world. Without a secret network of informed clergy, chaos would easily destroy what had become the strongest nation on the planet.
As a young priest, Monsignor Stanton had performed an exorcism on a Bronx woman fifteen years into his priesthood and then another on a teenage boy. The Vatican selected him due to his outstanding service and ability to keep such matters silent, and elevated him to monsignor, moving him to Saint Luke’s Church, his childhood parish. He had been offered the title of bishop many times over the years but had refused, preferring to stay close to his parish.
Father Michael had met the monsignor in the 1960s to seek out a serial killer who had left certain clues where only a select few in the world could divine that the madman was, in fact, a demon. The evil entity in this case was actually a demon named Melcinor that the monsignor had exorcised years earlier from a young man who, because of boredom and a general lack of religious education, had joined a satanic cult that performed dark Masses in the Inwood section of Manhattan. After losing a member of his parish to the beast and deciphering the clues intentionally left by the unholy spirit (it had scrawled his name, as well as its own name, in the victim’s blood, which the police thought was some sort of code, but for what they could only guess), Monsignor Stanton had an urgent meeting with New York’s cardinal, who then called upon the Vatican to meet Father Michael and employ his services. The series of events that unfolded in the weeks after his arrival nearly killed the monsignor. Father Michael had insisted he stay locked away in his church, but he had refused. He felt responsible for pulling the demon from the man’s body, leaving it to find purchase in our world.
The demon, lying in wait and deformed beyond description, had ambushed him near an abandoned apartment building on the Lower East Side. If not for Father Michael, it would have torn his throat out, or worse, dragged his soul to the rot of hell. The demon was subdued in the end, a bloody clash between two immovable objects, though the official police report still states that the murderer was never found. Father Michael’s magic-fire powder had erased all traces of the beast and he carried the wounded holy man fifteen blocks to the emergency room.
“Father Michael, it’s been a long time,” a raspy, withered voice cried out.
Emerging from the darkness of the hallway, Monsignor Stanton was a mere shadow of his former self. Almost ninety now, his frail body and papery skin made Father Michael long to be able to grow old and die.
“You look good,” Father Michael said, his face a mask that betrayed no emotion.
“You’re full of it. I look like crap, but at least at my age, I’m supposed to look like crap.” The monsignor laughed, which quickly turned to a dry cough. “Come, let’s go to my study.” The monsignor was one of the very few people who never regarded him as a monster. Father Michael was, in fact, a savior to him and his beloved parish.
His study was a cluttered affair that smelled of old books and dust. He slowly lowered himself into a plush chair behind an old oak desk.
“It’s good to see you,” he said.
“Not many would say that,” Father Michael said.
“Not many are aware how indebted they are to you.” He absentmindedly fiddled with a fountain pen. “Since you’re here, I can only assume something horrible must be near. I don’t know how an old man like me can help you, but you only need ask and I will do everything in my power to assist.”
Father Michael removed the dark sunglasses.
“I’m seeking a demon, one as old as time and more dangerous than a legion of evil.”
Monsignor Stanton leaned back in his chair. “Does the demon have a name?”
There was a slight pause.
“Cain.”
“The sinful son.” His hands shook as he placed the pen on the desk. “Murderer of his brother. Is it true that, other than the devil himself, he is the most powerful demon in all the underworld? I’ve heard whispers about him, but never thought there could be truth behind the tales.”
Father Michael nodded. “He was handpicked by Satan himself. His powers are formidable. Have you heard of anything that might suggest his vile presence?”
“This city is filled with so much evil, as well as good. For all I can tell, he has always been here.”
An old clock ticked, marking the time lost in the search for Cain.
“I’ve come from Vermont where he murdered an entire town. Before he departed, he told me I could find him here.”
Monsignor Stanton grew pale.
“An entire town?”
“Yes.” Father Michael thought it best not to mention his own hand in eliminating the remaining population of South Russell.
“God rest their souls. I fear what this Cain could do in a city so large.”
“As do I.”
“All I can offer is a place for you to stay and rest and a promise to keep a watchful eye out.”
Father Michael thanked him.
“I know you don’t require sleep, but consider this your home should you be in need of one.”
“Can you do one more thing for me?” Father Michael asked.
“Certainly. It feels good to be needed again.” A tiny smile faintly touched the corners of his mouth.
“Would you call Cardinal Gianncarlo for me and give him this message. I will return if needed. Thank you, Monsignor.”
Father Michael handed him a neatly folded piece of paper and donned his sunglasses.
“God bless, Father Michael. My prayers will be with you.”
Monsignor Stanton knew better than to try to detain the Vatican exorcist. As he watched him leave, he fought back an urge to cry at the thought of what wickedness lurked in the wings for the people of the city he loved so much.
The hideous creature had successfully clothed itself in the skin of the younger man. It was now a trim, attractive man in his late twenties, with a Wall Street look about him. The laughter died in Shane
’s throat. Fear and fascination kept him rooted to the spot.
“What’s wrong?” the beast-man asked. “Terror got your tongue?”
Then it laughed, an ear-piercing cackle that turned Shane’s nerves to jelly. A part of him was shouting, “What the hell did you think was so funny? Why didn’t you run when you had the chance?”
“I was just going to kill you. Nothing creative, maybe a little disemboweling, perhaps a slow decapitation. There’s something about your face that makes me want to hurt you more than you could ever imagine.”
The good-looking man sneered and slowly approached him.
“Is it the hair?” Shane blurted out. “A lot of people don’t like the hair. Sure, it’s retro-seventies punk but I like it and, hey, who really gives a frog’s fat ass what anyone else thinks. You know what I mean?”
Shane couldn’t believe it even as the words flowed from his mouth. He was well aware that he possessed a self-destructive streak that stretched from Earth to Pluto but this was stepping out well past the Milky Way. Somehow, he managed to stand his ground without soiling himself.
“When I’m done with you, I’ll use your hair to wipe my semen from the bloodied asses of the corpses I defile!” the thing wailed. “I won’t just kill you. I’ll obliterate your soul!”
They were only several paces apart, a frightened street kid and a naked man whose eyes were swirling from blue to red. Shane braced himself against the garbage can and waited for the worst. Whatever last words he might have wanted to say were lost in a sea of panic. And maybe, if he was lucky for one of the few times in his life, this was just a dream. It all seemed too unreal, to the point where even his self-defense reflexes couldn’t find their cues to kick in.
The thing’s eyes had transformed into bright-red lasers.
“Are you ready to glimpse hell, mortal dog?”
Shane held his breath and waited to die.
Chapter Nine
Shane squinted as a rippling haze began to form around the creature-man. An actual heat emanated from its body and Shane could just make out a twisted smile through the wavering air between them. It was like looking at pure, shit-stained evil coming at you over a horizon of sunbaked asphalt.
Shane’s fight-or-flight response decided to kick in, choosing the latter option and ready to do so immediately. Much to his dismay, the pocket of heat had enveloped him in an impenetrable bear hug of death. No matter how he struggled, there was no way to escape its fiery embrace.
“Just my luck,” Shane said, more to himself than the thing before him. “A day late, a dollar short and screwed like a crack whore.”
His nose was assaulted by a sharp, pungent odor and he realized the hair on his head was starting a slow burn. Sweat broke out from every pore on his body and each breath brought a gust of fire into his lungs. It wouldn’t be long before he’d suffocate in the sweltering embrace of this fiend that wore human skins like men wore suits.
“Preview’s over,” the thing said without moving its lips. Its voice boomed in Shane’s head. “Time for the main attraction.”
Father Michael strode along Second Avenue, every heightened sense straining for a glimmer of Cain’s presence, when he felt it. A shift in the collective spirit, a dark stain spreading across the fabric of mortal men’s souls that were the unseen glue holding the inhabitants of Manhattan together.
It clutched at his heart, drawing him in like a beacon. This soul-pulse, as he liked to call it, reeked of Cain. He was cracking open a portal to ultimate annihilation and its foul stench revolted Father Michael’s senses. He wondered if Cain was aware of his arrival and was luring him into a trap. The ancient evil was tearing a hole in time, allowing true hell purchase in this world. It was an awesome power that would rend a man’s body and soul into shreds. Cain was well aware that its use would reveal his whereabouts to Father Michael, like the scent of blood to a shark. It always did.
He sprinted down Second Avenue and made a left onto Fourteenth Street, allowing the tug of the soul-pulse to lead him to his prey.
Three thousand miles to the east, Pope Pius XIII pulled himself up from the padded kneeler with great difficulty. His knees popped and crackled from the effort and bolts of fire shot down his legs. He again made the sign of the cross, pushing the pain from his mind, concentrating on prayer instead.
He had been feeling tired after lunch, a weariness that seemed to have settled not just in his bones, but in the fabric of his cells. He cancelled a meeting with the head of the Vatican’s new Social Media Department, an arm of the church’s responsibilities that he himself could not fully appreciate or understand, but he was no fool and saw how the world worked today. Spreading the word had never been easier, though he often wondered how deeply the words sank in when provided in limited chunks of characters.
He hoped a short nap would replenish his spirits and give strength to his taxed body.
It hadn’t taken long for sleep to wash over him and he sank into a dark, comforting void. He had awakened hours later with a start; not because of a dream or nightmare. It was more of a feeling that had propelled him from his slumber and caused his heart to pound a lunatic’s beat in his chest. An impending terror gripped his mind with pit-bull jaws. He was reminded of an afternoon thirty years earlier, hearing the news of a plane crash in Colombia. His brother had told him just the day before that he was going to visit that country to do a story on the growing power of the drug cartels. He had been a reporter for the Associated Press and had often gone to places most people made a point of avoiding. That had been one of the most frantic, tense and dreadful afternoons of his life as he waited to either hear from his brother or receive confirmation from the authorities that he was, indeed, on that plane.
When do you think you can come identify the body?
That phrase had rung through his head over and over again as he conjured up the worst possible outcome. With each passing hour, the ache of profound loss grew heavier and heavier in his gut. Blessed relief came when his brother called later that night. After the call, he had given the Lord his thanks in a six-hour session of uninterrupted prayer.
The feeling of that afternoon had plagued him from the moment he had bolted upright in his bed. So he had prayed, though for what, he could not and did not know.
But he did know that Father Michael was in the States and the two had to be connected. After his prayers (he was no longer capable of six hours of kneeling), he pulled a key that dangled from a gold chain around his neck from beneath his undershirt. It took several attempts for him to fit the small key into the lock on his desk drawer.
Within it was a book, incredibly old and bound in thick, brown leather. He carefully lifted the book by its edges and placed it on his desk.
The book’s author was unknown, the writing within the yellowed pages simple, with no ornamentation or fanfare. He often wondered if one of his predecessors, perhaps the first pope to offer Father Michael residence in the Vatican, was responsible for it.
With great care, he read through its pages, trying to glean the future through words written a millennium ago.
Its sole subject was the man they called Father Michael and his role in the world to come.
The creature clenched its fists and went rigid. It and Shane were now engulfed in a bubble of blazing heat and pain. The casual passerby would have seen a shimmering orb where they stood, like looking through the unstill waters of an aquarium, their bodies made invisible by the field around them.
Shane struggled to breathe. Black spots formed before his eyes, mercifully blocking out the visage of the leering face before him.
He heard a rumbling deep within his head. It was as though an entire ocean was rushing up through a tunnel, the breakers making a beeline for the center of his skull. His jacket caught fire with a dull whoosh and all he could feel was a harsh pang of sorrow for leaving Aimee behind, though she was probably better off without him, at least according to all of her friends and family.
The sound of mi
llions of screaming souls intermingled with the thunderous booming in his brain. He thought he heard the creature shout in triumph and he was seconds away from passing out, hopefully before his head exploded or he spontaneously combusted.
And then it stopped.
The sounds, the searing heat, the agony of the last few minutes, all gone like an interrupted dream.
The creature was baffled, staring at its hands the same way a baseball player glares at his glove when he makes a crucial error.
Shane gulped the cold air and fell into the open garbage can. He saw that his jacket, which had been on fire seconds ago, was unmarked. A quick inspection of his hair revealed all was fine, no Kentucky Fried ends. It was like all of the agony had never even happened.
“What the hell was that?” Shane said.
The beast in human flesh stared down at Shane, seething with anger and something else that gave Shane hope. Confusion.
“What are you?” the thing asked.
Shane struggled to extricate himself from the garbage can, to no avail.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” he replied.
It leapt for Shane’s throat, opting for a more visceral kill than the theater of the bizarre it had employed a moment ago.
That’s when the giant priest with no eyes came thundering into the alley.
Father Michael had run across ten blocks, crashing into countless people, when he was mystically drawn into a dank alley. Down at its darkened end were two men; one sitting in a refuse can, the other naked.
The naked man lunged at the other man. Father Michael shouted, “Cease!”
The naked man attempted to grab the other man’s throat but was repelled by some unseen force. He landed on his back, shouting in frustration. When Father Michael heard the man’s cry, he knew he’d found his adversary. Without hesitation, he hurled a crucifix-dagger at the naked man’s head. It hit home with a loud crack.
