I think that about sums it up.
One of the crazies?
I can’t see it any other way. I’m insane, surely. But what if I’m not? What if all this is true, and I were to only believe I was crazy… and did nothing?
No. I can’t live with that. I must do something. The world can choke on its opinion of me.
The sky is darkening now. Evening is on its approach. I say my goodbyes to Mom and catch the Metro to Rockefeller Center.
Chapter 24
The moonless sky is clear above Manhattan tonight, but you’d never know it. The city glow washes away any sign of the celestial map. The streets are still packed with tourists and peddlers and crazies at midnight, as though the day was still burning brightly. Commerce never dies here, nor does leisure or crime. Truly, this is the city that never sleeps. Only religion seems to take a break at the end of the day in New York. Most churches close their doors when the sun goes… and lock them. “Come unto Me, all who are weary, and I will give you rest…” Jesus clearly didn’t live in New York. I sometimes wonder what would happen if the church and those who call themselves by his name would keep their doors open around the clock. What if food was always hot and ready, for any vagabond, tramp, or homeless addict? How many of them would find peace, shelter, and hope for a better life if the church could focus on “the least of these my brethren?”
But after the stagecraft, marketing, and salaries, most churches don’t have the time, treasure, or talent to save those hungry souls who wallow in their own misery… at the church’s very doorstep.
St. Patrick's Cathedral stands as a monument to this grand hypocrisy. A towering marble idol to the god of religious power and platitudes, satisfied in its flaccid impact on the city, and too proud of a history dripping with the blood of martyrs. A memorial to a has-been religion that dominated the West for a thousand years, St Patrick’s is simply a tourist attraction, a venue for those who make a show of religion, and an excellent selfie opportunity.
I loiter across the street from the cathedral, occasionally rounding the giant city block of Rockefeller’s International Building, so as not to seem conspicuous. As the night creeps on, I slip up and down East 51st Street and East 50th, watching the side entrances to the church, watching for any sign of Shipley. Eventually, my legs grow tired, and I park myself on a bench behind the great bronze statue of Atlas. The Greek Titan holds the universe on his shoulders, typically a globe of the earth. But this statue is unique in that instead of a globe, it holds a spherical framework of rings, representing the vault of the universe, with the signs of the zodiac, and the ancient occult symbols of the visible planets. When I look at the church from behind the statue, the armillary sphere perfectly frames the cathedral’s stone cross over its front doors. Tourists who look closely will be told that the Atlas was intentionally designed to proclaim Christ at the center of the Universe. I believe that there’s a more sinister purpose for the design. The artist may have positioned the spherical rings in such a way to give that illusion, but even if Christ is at the center of the Universe in this bronze masterpiece, it’s still a Greek Titan that ‘holds the whole world in his hands,’ as the old Sunday school song says, and he’s just a demigod. The message is clear to me. The artist is claiming that Christianity is a reinterpretation of an older mythology; one that the Greeks carefully catalogued in a pantheon of gods.
Fritz arrives shortly before midnight and sits next to me, chatting away as if the whole world can see and hear him. But I know now that he can hear my thoughts, and I need not trouble the public, sending up crazy town smoke signals by talking to my invisible friend.
A policeman passes by me, eying me with suspicion, but I just smile and nod. Normal as normal can be.
As midnight approaches, I ask Fritz to slip into the church and check things out. I’m sure that Shipley would never willingly participate in arranging the ceremony. Most likely, the professor left town after his apartment was ransacked. Or perhaps before. Either way, the Nine are after him. I ask Fritz to see if there are any signs of the nine women and to help me find a way into the locked church. Fritz bounces off on his errand, crossing the street and slipping into the shadows around the sides of the cathedral. The policeman passes by once again, and we go through the same sanity verification ritual. I smile and nod, and don’t make eye contact. He nods back and keeps walking.
After an hour of uncomfortable waiting, Fritz finally materializes, suddenly appearing next to me on the bench. This little trick startles me, and I jump from the bench with a couple of slightly naughty expletives escaping my lips. This isn’t the time for pranks.
But Fritz isn’t smiling. He looks confused, worried even—if a death angel can worry.
“They have Shipley.”
No. I can’t believe it. Why would Shipley participate in the ritual? Why is he here?
Again reading my thoughts, Fritz answers, “He’s in trouble, Henry. He didn’t come here by choice.”
“What do you mean by choice?” I say aloud to the invisible reaper on the bench in front of me. Fortunately, there’s no policeman nearby.
“I mean… that he’s in there right now, against his will. He didn’t come here… he was brought here, bruh. They have him tied up and lying on the altar.”
My head reels. Shipley will be the sacrifice for the ritual? I didn’t see this coming. I guess it makes sense to kill off the one person who understands the secret ways of ancient ritual to be performed and understood only by devils.
But I’m going to stop them. And I’m going to get the professor out of there.
That’s why I’m here.
I can’t cross over. I don’t have the Harpe. I have nothing. No weapons, no special fighting skills, and still no idea as to what I’m going to do. But I will stop them.
Or die trying.
Dying. Shipley will be dying soon. The ritual requires blood sacrifice. Shipley’s blood. But if they can’t sacrifice Shipley, if I can get him out of there beforehand… perhaps we can stall the ritual.
“You have to get me in there, Fritz!”
Fritz nods, leading the way across the street and down East 51st. He leads me to a small wooden door behind the lady chapel. It’s hidden from view by scaffolding and a temporary chain-link fence, covered in plastic. Renovation work has concealed the priest’s private entrance, and with a quick hop of the fence, I trespass onto the grounds behind St Patty’s and slip into one of the side chambers.
The moment I step inside and shut the door behind me, I hear it, a low humming sound. A deep vibration like the chant of Tibetan monks, slow and unbroken rattles off the stone walls. I tiptoe from the chamber past the graven image of St. Michael. His stone face looking down on me with disapproval, I can practically hear him calling for my enemy to take me away.
The rumbling grows louder as I approach the raised dais on which the high altar is perched. I slip behind one of the great marble support pillars, and from behind it, peek at the group of dark, cloaked occultists standing in a circle around the altar.
All nine are women. No surprise there. I’m sure all nine are demon-possessed and crazy as hell. Eight of the nine women are covered head to toe in black. Their heads are hidden in the deep dark of their oversized cowls. And though the cloaks are long and thick, the figures of their perfectly formed bodies cannot be hidden. At the head of the circle, standing at the altar is another woman similarly clad, only in deep crimson, with her arms raised to the buttresses high above.
On the altar lies Professor Jeremiah Tiberias Shipley, bound hand and foot. A crimson bolt of silk gagging him, I can see the top of his balding head, white tufts of hair protruding from over his old wizened ears.
The deep guttural chanting comes from the women, but is too low to come naturally from the throats of the female of the species. Something brutal and vicious deep within each woman contorts their vocal cords giving them inhuman voices.
The red woman holds in her right hand a long bejeweled knife, a ceremon
ial dagger. And while the hilt is gilded, I’m sure the blade itself is black stained from the blood of many such sacrifices. I can practically smell the rot from where I hide and watch. In her left hand is a chalice. I glance to the nearby tabernacle, the ornate box used to house the instruments of Communion. It’s been pried open, and the Cup of Christ that has touched hundreds of thousands of Catholic lips, is now being profaned by the most unholy of rites.
“This is the secret of the Holy Grail,” she cries out to the darkness above. “That is the sacred vessel of our Lady the Scarlet Woman, Babylon the Mother of Abominations, the bride of Chaos, that rideth upon our Lord the Beast.”
A small roll of thunder sounds off from above the cathedral. I distinctly remember this being a clear night, with no signs of rainy weather. The thunder is induced by the ancient powers awakening to the sounds of the ceremony.
When the thunder subsides, the other eight women respond in perfectly orchestrated unison, “Thou shalt drain out thy blood that is thy life into the golden cup of her fornication.”
The scarlet woman then lowers the cup and sets it next to the professor’s head. And while she turns the blade of the knife downward, she grabs the handle with both hands.
“Thou shalt mingle thy life with the universal life. Thou shalt keep not back one drop.”
I quickly retreat to the statue of Michael. Next to his stone feet is a brass candlestick. I lift it, surprised at its weight and quietly pull the wax cylinder from its top, letting the candle fall to the floor.
This will work fine. Gosh I wish Fritz were here to help me.
I creep like a devil, myself. Slowly, step by cautious, quiet step, I ascend the steps to the raised dais behind the red women. But my path is blocked. Between me and my intended victim is a void in the floor. It's the entrance to the crypt below the altar, flanked by marble steps that descend from each side. I’ll have to go around this gaping hole to reach the woman and Shipley. But doing so will ensure that I’m spotted by one of the other eight.
“Then shall the winds gather themselves together and bear thee up as it were a little heap of dust in a sheet that hath four corners, and they shall give it unto the guardians of the abyss,” she continues.
Suddenly, the front doors at the far end of the nave burst open. An icy wind howls up the center aisle, carrying with it the agonizing moans of demonic voices—a cacophony of unending pain.
A strange, pale, yellow light emits its glow from outside the church. The wind picks up, and all nine cloaks flap wildly, though the women remain perfectly motionless.
The eight women respond to the events with scripted response. “Thou shalt mingle thy life with the universal life. Thou shalt keep not back one drop.”
“Come to me, Semjaza! The offering is ready! Come and drink, Semjaza!” the red woman screams in delight. The light outside brightens, and all eight women turn to face it along with their crimson leader. Now is my moment. With their backs turned, I quickly stalk around the crypt entrance and move in behind the red woman. As I lift the bronze candle stick to strike, I happen to glance over her shoulder and get a quick view of the source of the strange light. Across the street from the front doors of the church, a pulsating ball of light hovers dead center in the bronze spherical rings held by Atlas. The eight women fall to their knees in worship as another wind blows into the church from across the street. The wind resonates with the voice of a powerful being.
“Unto me, cast thy flesh.”
I’m horrified as all eight women slip the dark, black cloaks from their perfectly naked bodies and twist themselves in passionate gyrations and seductive contortions. As the women writhe naked on the floor to the voice of their master, I hear once again the voice bolting from the light source, each word a pulse of frigid air.
“Release me.”
The red woman removes her cowl and silky blond hair tumbles around her neck and shoulders. She’s beautiful beyond words. This is no doubt the victim of Og, overcome by the demon lord in the restroom of Grand Central.
The woman plunges the dagger down with both hands towards Shipley’s bound chest, but my candlestick catches the base of her skull with a sickening thunk, and she goes flying to the floor in a heap of blond hair and crimson silk.
A tremor shakes the entire church. The powerful entity is displeased, and the wind that carries it angrily screams, whips, burns, and blows into the nave. Thunder in the dark recesses of the vaulted ceilings peels and cracks. Light still emanates from the statue of Atlas, the Armillary sphere filled with pulsating yellow light.
Shipley looks up at me with pleading eyes, desperately screaming at me through the red silk gag in his mouth. I snatch the fabric and pull it down over his chin.
“Get the knife, you twit!” he screams in frustration.
“Right! Hang tight, Professor!” I dash to the fallen women and find the dagger a few inches from her hand, covered by a fold of her cloak. I return to the high altar, slicing away Shipley’s bonds.
The eight naked women stop their gesticulations and creep towards the altar. On all fours, they crawl, like rabid animals, ready to abandon feminine dignity and grace, and rip the flesh from my bones with tooth and nail. White foam drips from their lips, and their faces have been so contorted by the demons within, that the skin is cracked and bleeding. Each set of eyes is solid black. No irises, no whites, just huge orbs emanating an ancient vitriol.
In a panic, Shipley says, “Give me the knife, Henry! You take the candlestick! Quickly now!”
I hand Shipley the knife as the eight assailants crawl closer. I’ve already cut the bonds from his chest and have also freed his hands. He snatches the knife and saws away at the cords binding his feet together.
The hissing, naked coven crawls closer, a circle forming around us. Shipley finally cuts his feet free from the ropes and hops down from the altar.
“We must get out of here, Professor!” I take a swing at a woman who has crawled a little too close. “Can we get out through the crypt?”
Shipley doesn’t answer, but I can hear him behind me.
“Professor!” I repeat, “Can we get out through the crypt?! I can’t hold them off…” I take another calculated swing at a hideous face snapping wildly at me and miss.
But Shipley still doesn’t answer me. I step backwards towards the altar and quickly turn to see if he’s in trouble.
“Are you okay, Prof….”
That’s when he plunges the knife into my chest.
Chapter 25
“Thou shalt mingle thy life with the universal life…” Shipley chants while holding me upright as I fall to my knees.
“What…” I groan as the blood trickles into my lungs, causing my voice to gurgle, “are you… doing?”
Blood trickles from my bottom lip. My mouth is full of the metallic twinge and instinctively, I cough, sending tiny droplets over Shipley’s tweed jacket and face.
“Thou shalt keep not back one drop.”
The eight crazed nudies converge on me, lifting me onto the altar and stretching out my body just as the professor had been positioned earlier.
Shipley steps towards the altar with his hands raised towards the evil presence across the street, beaming its sick yellow glow into the cathedral. I’m quickly and roughly bound hand, foot, and chest, just as Shipley had been.
As the sleeplike state of unconsciousness looms over me, I fight to keep awake. Life flows from my body, and I see Shipley lower the chalice, catching a cupful of my blood as it drips over the side of the altar.
Sorrow, more than anger, floods my eyes. The grief for what I mistakenly assumed was friendship between me and the professor, betrayed. My vision is blurred partially by tears.
“W… w… why?” is all I can manage to utter. Shipley only scowls at me, a familiar look of annoyance, this time for interrupting the ceremony. A quick nod towards my head, he orders the ‘naked eight’ to place a gag in my mouth, and seconds later, I struggle to breathe. The red silk tied between my
teeth cruelly blocks the escaping blood, and the liquid pools in my mouth.
The eight participants scamper back to their cloaks and quickly re-robe themselves and take their positions.
The ceremony continues as Shipley looks at me and chants, “And because there’s no life therein, the guardians of the abyss shall bid the first-born angel pass through. And at thy succor, he shall find his vigor, and thy name hence shall be no more.”
I turn my head away from Shipley, the mad professor, deceitful betrayer, trickster, and the orchestrator of my unsuspecting sacrifice. I look down the center aisle of the church, the front doors wide open. The blazing light within the sphere held aloft by the Atlas, expands to fill the space; a glowing pale star stretches from ring to ring. Though motionless, Atlas seems a living god, holding the raging star and raising it as an offering to his own better, greater gods. I turn my head to Shipley, and he holds the blood-filled chalice aloft in a similar way. My ears fill with ringing and rushing sounds, foreign to anything going on around me. I can’t hear the words the professor chants. The world around me blinks off and then on again, as my brain trips over death but catching itself just in time. In and out of consciousness, I drift, fighting with whatever burns within my body, whatever is left of me.
Henry Halfmoon Page 15
