Epistle of the Damned

by M. Lee Mendelson

  I backed away while professing my sorrow for what I had done. I sincerely started to cry. I remember disconsolately saying, “I’m so sorry, honey. I’m such an asshole. You deserve better!” With that, I turned around and left the room.

  As I left the room and closed the door behind me, the accusatory voices returned. “You know what you should do. There’s no going

  back now. She could never love you again. She hates you!”

  I rationalized that the voices were right, and I went straightaway to the linen closet. There was where I kept my prized, short barrel pump shotgun with the pistol grip. I retrieved it and proceeded down the stairs.

  Once downstairs, I went first to the bar, where I found an unopened bottle of scotch. I would partake in a few shots of liquid courage before shooting my final scene, no pun intended. Behind the bar, I also found a half empty box of cigarettes. I hadn’t smoked since high school. These must have belonged to one of the workers who had come and gone from the house. I figured ‘what the hell’ and lit one of the cancer sticks, then smoked it on my way to the living room.

  The living room was illuminated only by the glow from the bright moon outside. The room was a collage of shadows and reflected bluish moonlight. The tile floor was cold on my bare feet as I made my way to the sofa in front of the large plate glass window. I cracked open my scotch and chugged from the bottle, like a man finding an oasis in the middle of the desert. I paused for a moment to look outside. I could barely make out the silhouette of an old lady on the porch across the street, nosy Mrs. Johansen. Of course, it had been her who had called the cops, who else? I could see the deputy walking back to her, assumedly to tell her everything was fine.

  I took up my position on the sofa with my back toward the window, took one last drag on the stale cigarette, then placed the still lit remains on the glass tabletop. One last swig of scotch, and I placed the bottle on the floor by my feet. I remember for a split-second questioning whether or not this was the right thing to do. But the whispering voices and the now half empty bottle of scotch reassured me, “This is the only way. Everything will be fine after this. Just end it, Michael. Come home now.”

  My thoughts were solely on Meredith. She didn’t deserve any of what I had done to her. I loved her more than life itself, and now I would prove it.

  I cradled the pistol grip between my legs; the moonlight was glistening off the well-oiled barrel. I leaned forward and inserted the business end into my mouth. The black steel was cold against my lips, and my teeth clanked against the metal. I can recall the taste of gun oil filling my mouth. It was bitter, but familiar. I had learned years before the importance of keeping my weapons cleaned and well lubed. I was quite proficient at keeping all my weapons in good working order. I had no doubt that this prized instrument of destruction would work flawlessly at its appointed time. I can still feel my tears running down my cheeks and into my mouth as the salty taste of the tears mixed with the gun oil.

  This was my only chance to make everything right. She could now be free to find someone deserving of her. I was convinced she could never love me again.

  My trembling thumb reached down and rested briefly on the trigger. With one last chance to change my mind, the voices whispered relentlessly in my ears, “Come, find the peace you desire . . . come home, Michael.”

  Five pounds of downward pressure on the trigger, and it would all be over.

  The final decision made, my thumb depressed the resistant trigger, that five-pound trigger pull suddenly felt like a hundred pounds. My plan already set in motion, I suddenly heard Meredith cry out, “I LOVE YOU! NO . . . ”

  Everything slowed down. I could feel the trigger as it progressed halfway through its range of motion. Suddenly, I heard Meredith in the background. “I love you,” she said. I immediately made the decision to stop; she couldn’t witness this. But the deed was already in motion and the signal from the brain to the hand was not fast enough to stop the trigger traveling just past the point of no return. At that precise moment, I heard the click.

  Milliseconds seemingly turned into hours. I can now recall the sensation of heat filling my mouth from the blast of the shell. I can still feel each one of the nine double ought buck pellets penetrating the roof my mouth and the back of my throat. I swear to you I could feel every .33 caliber lead pellet as it coursed its way through my shattering basal skull. Bone fragments and pellets were ripping my brain to shreds, vaporizing my dura, white and gray matter into ten thousand gelatinous projectiles that would paint the window, walls and ceiling of my once serene living room. Then silence.

  Now I know what you’re thinking— “That’s all bullshit!” Well, friend, I challenge you to prove me wrong.

  The next thing I remember, I was waking up on the couch. The room was still dimly lit by the moon. I was immediately relieved, convinced that I had been dreaming. I was sure everything I had experienced was just a nightmare and that Meredith was upstairs sleeping or perhaps wondering why I wasn’t in bed next to her.

  I was startled when he spoke to me. “Welcome home, Michael.” From across the room in the maroon wing chair, against the wall opposite from the sofa, there he sat, Mammon Abaddonus, a well-groomed, handsome man who claimed to be old, but I swear didn’t look any older than his early thirties. I first noticed his eyes. They were solid black; honestly, there was no sclera. He was wearing a meticulously pressed three-piece black suit with a custom tailored, white shirt. His diamond cufflinks sparkled through the ominous darkness. The red tie and the red rose in his lapel appeared purple in the blue-hued moonlight. His hair was slicked down and neatly parted. He smiled. His teeth were bright and glistened in the low light.

  I immediately asked him what he was doing in my home.

  “I was summoned here by the lady of the house, Michael. She called me here when she became concerned that you would not fulfill your end of the bargain. We were afraid that you had changed your mind about staying.”

  I asked him what he was talking about.

  “Please don’t let me keep you, Michael. She is waiting for you upstairs.”

  Immediately, I thought of Meredith. I rushed up the stairs calling out, “MEREDITH? MEREDITH!?”

  There was no response.

  Filled with hope that none of the nightmarish events had actually occurred, I made my way to the top of the stairs. “HONEY?” I called out. It was quiet.

  From the baby’s nursery, I saw a dim light coming from under the door. I could hear a woman’s voice singing an ancient Gaelic lullaby,

  “Hush Ye, My Bairnie.” My mother would sing it to me as a young boy.

  As I neared the room, I could hear,

  “Hush ye, my bairnie

  Bonny wee laddie

  When you're a man you shall follow your daddie. Lift me a coo . . . ”

  Bewildered, I opened the door.

  There she sat. Not my beautiful Meredith, but another woman. Next to her stood Mammon Abaddonus. I was swept back to that summer of 1985. I was looking out my window as a pretty young redheaded girl removed her top. A few weeks later, she was at the bus stop with me, Katie and Sheila, and for no reason started freaking out. I tried to console her and asked if she was all right. She yelled, “NO, YOU FUCKING JERK, I’M NOT OKAY! YOU’RE MY MAN! I GAVE MYSELF TO YOU AND THIS IS HOW YOU TREAT ME? WE WERE

  SUPPOSED TO BE TOGETHER FOREVER!”

  The word “FOREVER” still echoes in my ear.

  Now, back in the room, I started to yell, “Sarah? SARAH SHILLING!? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE IN MY HOUSE?”

  She smiled and told me, “Yes, Michael. That’s who you remember me as. In my former life I was known by that name, but now you can call me Adrianna. I serve the Supreme One, the almighty and powerful Moloch.”

  Suddenly before my eyes, Mammon Abaddonus transformed from a well-dressed young attorney into a hideous beast. I recalled from my Greek mythology class that this was a Minotaur, with the body of a man and the head of a bull. I then remembered
my research from working the Moloch Society cases that Moloch was a horrific god worshipped by the Phoenicians and Canaanites, a god who required the burning sacrifice of children. He couldn’t be real, yet there he was standing before me.

  Sarah smiled and said to me, “Welcome home, darling. Come and see your son.” The redheaded freak was sitting in a rocking chair on the opposite side of the room, cuddling what appeared to be a blanket-wrapped infant.

  Horrified, I began yelling, “NO, NO THIS CAN’T BE! THIS IS SOME KIND OF SICK JOKE!”

  Time stood still. Sarah sat motionless. Mammon, or Moloch as he was now presenting himself, spoke up and assured me that this was no joke.

  “I am known by many names, Michael. To some I am Satan, to others The Beast or The Serpent. To Sarah and her followers, I am Moloch. When you and I first met, you knew me as Nandi, but for you and Meredith I was Mammon. Through many ages and cultures, I have had many more names, but my favorite has always been The Deceiver.”

  In his hand was a document. He snorted, “Mr. Carson, as you can see in this document that you signed, you agreed to all the terms.”

  I cried out, “What the hell are you talking about? I never agreed to any of this. Where’s my wife? Where’s Meredith? This isn’t funny! DEAR GOD, WAKE UP, MIKE! WAKE UP!!!!”

  His countenance suddenly changed and he menacingly expressed in a growling voice, “Mr. Carson, this is no joke. I never understand why people don’t take the time to read the fine print, especially when they’re attorneys. Again, welcome home Mr. Carson.” Suddenly he was gone, much the same way he had disappeared from the window of that motel.

  I looked up again and Sarah was smiling at me. She said, “Come see your son. I brought him here for us. That bitch you married could never care for him like I can.” She then held up a grotesquely undeveloped fetal form. His skin was translucent and I could see his organs. Two black undeveloped dots for eyes blinked blindly at me.

  I covered my eyes and screamed out, “No, no, NO! Sarah, NO!

  Please wake up, please wake up.”

  A piercing scream reverberated in my head. “MY NAME IS ADRIANNA!”

  I backed up and screamed, “NO, NO, NOOOO!” As I exited the nightmarish room, I slammed the door.

  So dear friend, this is to be my hell, trapped in this house with this psychotic evil woman and hellish baby for an eternity.

  I can’t imagine that I ever did anything to deserve this fate. I beseech anyone reading this, if you know of any way out, please help me. Please, dear God, help me . . . HELP ME! PLEASE HELP ME!!!! HELP ME, PLEASE!!!!

  EPILOGUE

  J ULY 2014, LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY. A chubby, shy, young loner stares out his window, on the second floor of his bedroom, at the moving van across the street. A new family is moving in. He sees a pretty, young redhead get out of the minivan. She looks across the street as she surveys her new surroundings, giggling at the sight of a cute, young man looking at her. She smiles at him innocently and waves ‘hello’.

  He swiftly closes his blinds and retreats to the sanctuary of his bedroom to daydream about the pretty, new girl. He thinks to himself, “She would never be interested in someone like me.”

  About the Author

  A first-time author, M. Lee Mendelson and his wife Yvonne have six children between them, three boys and three girls. Yes–the Brady Bunch. He was inspired and encouraged by Yvonne to write his first book after he proposed the concept to her. M. Lee never dreamt of writing anything before his first book, but has now discovered he has a passion for writing, with one idea after another pouring out of him.

  A rare native Floridian, M. Lee recently retired from a career as a full-time firefighter and part-time law enforcement officer. His twenty-six years of experience on the streets have given him a vast array of experiences; some good, some bad. He found retirement a bit boring after the first twenty minutes, and he has now embarked on his third career as a fire investigator.

  His first book, Epistle of the Damned (adapted from first edition, Letter from Hell ) is a complex horror/thriller novel with a little something for everyone. M. Lee’s real-life experiences, coupled with an active and vivid imagination, allow his stories to come alive. Striving to paint pictures with words, he immerses the reader into his scenes. His ambition is that people will enjoy reading his work and deem it worthy to recommend to others.

  MORE FROM CACTUS MOON PUBLICATIONS

  What would you die for?

  Samantha Danroe doesn't believe in magic. Her ex-husband cured her of happily-ever-after when he cheated on her three days after saying I-do. She doesn't believe in ghosts. Until her mother's ghost rises from a Halloween bonfire with a warning of death from beyond the grave. And she certainly doesn't believe in witchcraft. Until she becomes the prey in an ancient war waged between good and evil. A war whose rules she must scramble to learn to stay alive.

  In need of protection, Samantha turns to the mysterious Nicholas Orenda, a sixth-generation witch on the trail of a creature who is systematically killing off his family. According to his family's prophecy, three will be sacrificed to the dark. His mother and grandmother are already dead, and Nicholas doesn't have time to play by the rules.

  Samantha finds herself in the center of a deadly hunt for a mysterious foe. Can she find the strength to defeat a supernatural killer and prevent the third sacrifice? Or will she be the catalyst that opens the gates to the Underworld? Song of the Ancients is the debut book in the Ancient Magic series. Readers interested in witchcraft, shamanism--or just the dark side of the supernatural world around us--will enjoy this paranormal suspense, written by a real-life Wiccan High Priestess.