The Wicked

by James Newman

  “Come in, David. Have a seat.”

  “Thanks,” David said, his expression solemn. “What’s this about, George? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I can handle ghosts, David.” A nervous snicker. “Just sit. There’s a lot we need to talk about.”

  “What exactly are we—”

  “Moloch,” George said.

  “I see.”

  David sat.

  David said nothing as he watched the ex-Marine pace back and forth across the room like a man gone mad. George looked like he was going to have a heart attack if he didn’t slow down, breathe easy.

  “I knew there was something going on, David, but I didn’t want to admit it. I’ve been putting this off all along, and now people have died because of it. Good people. And folks have changed. I can’t just sit by and ignore it any longer.”

  “Changed?” David said. “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever seen that movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers?”

  “Sure. Good flick.”

  “I guess,” George said. “My point is, this town is starting to feel like that, David. Like people have been taken over by something. I feel like the crazy Kevin McCarthy character who knows what’s going on, but everyone thinks he’s lost his frigging mind. You know what I mean? But I haven’t, David. I haven’t lost my mind. People in this town aren’t themselves anymore. I mean, they look the same. But they’re different. Something’s inside them. But instead of outer-space fuckers, they’ve been infected by something from Hell. Something evil. A demon, I guess. Goddamn.”

  George stopped just long enough to take a deep breath.

  “First things first, I need to fill you in on what we’re dealing with. At least, what I think we’re dealing with. That’s one of the first things I learned in the Corps. You’ve got to know your enemy before you can defeat him. Of course, I may just be some senile old man, David. You’ll probably think so after I tell you what I think about all this. But please, will you just hear me out?”

  “Sure,” David said. “That’s why I’m here.” He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, fidgeting beneath the old man’s agitated gaze. “Explain to me what’s going on, George. Please.”

  The grandfather clock ticked quietly away in its corner, like some ominous soundtrack to George’s story, as the ex-Marine first told David about his nightmares.

  “That’s awful,” David said when he was finished. He shuddered.

  “‘Awful’ ain’t the word for it,” said George. “It was so fucking real...”

  George turned to leave the room.

  “Where are you going?” David asked.

  “Wait here. I want to show you something.”

  David sighed, ran one hand through his unwashed hair.

  George came back into his living room a couple minutes later, a stack of books in his hands. Most of them looked heavy enough to use as doorstops. Some were thick tomes that might have been centuries old, though just as many were protected by shiny dust-jackets as if they had been published yesterday. Perched atop the old man’s nose was a pair of plastic-rimmed reading glasses. A cigarette burned between his lips.

  “I didn’t know you were a smoker,” David said.

  “I’m not,” George replied. “At least, I haven’t been for the past thirty years.”

  David watched the old man with an expression somewhere between bewilderment and an odd sort of pity as George dropped the pile onto the table between them. “Books?”

  George took a long drag on his cigarette, placed it in the ashtray atop the coffee table. “Hear me out, David. I need you to believe me when I say that I didn’t jump into this without thinking about it first. I’ve studied up on what I’m about to tell you, so I would know exactly what I was going to say. Admittedly, I’m still not quite sure. All I know is, it doesn’t matter how crazy this is all gonna sound because it’s true. He doesn’t care if you believe in him or not. He exists either way.”

  David ran his hands through his hair again, grimaced. “You’re talking about Moloch.”

  “Right.”

  “Just spit it out, George. Nothing you say is going to shock me, I don’t think. Not at this point.”

  “Just wait,” said George.

  George spread the books out before them on the table, but he didn’t join David on the sofa. Instead, he knelt before the coffee table, took another long drag off his cigarette.

  “A Study in Demons? Black Magick in Modern Society?” David read off several of the titles. “Where did you get this shit?”

  “Public library,” George replied in a dismissive tone that seemed to say: That’s not important right now.

  David shook his head, waited for George to begin.

  “Now,” said the old man. “We both agreed that we don’t believe in demons. I’m aware of that. But they exist, David. They’re as real as you and me, I think. And there’s one living here. In Morganville.”

  “Moloch,” David said.

  George picked up his cigarette from the ashtray again, stuck the thing between his wrinkled lips, and let it dangle there while he read aloud from a hefty black-bound tome titled The Encyclopedia of Demonology.

  “‘Moloch was a divinity worshipped in the land of Canaan before the birth of Christ,’” George read, his voice grave. “‘This pronunciation, Moloch, represents the Hebrew version of the god, though he has also been referred to in ancient texts as Melech, or ‘king,’ Maluk, ‘ruler,’ and Malik.’

  “‘The worship of Moloch among the early Jews subsisted mostly in the form of child sacrifice. Outside Jerusalem, in the valley of Geennom, existed a place called Tophet—loosely translated, ‘a place of abomination’. Here, worshippers of Moloch committed their atrocities in a temple erected by Solomon, who has hence been regarded as the monarch who introduced the cult into ‘God’s Land.’

  “‘Said atrocities included—though were not limited to—parents offering their children to the fires in Moloch’s temple. The temple was constructed from solid gold and/or other precious metals, was approximately the size of a small modern gazebo, and was molded to resemble Moloch himself. Moloch was portrayed as a massive bull with a humanoid body—note the similarity to the Minotaur in Greek mythology—and his sacrificial altar was built with the god’s hands outstretched, palms up. Here, within Moloch’s palms, worshippers would lay their children. Inside the hollow body of the altar itself they would stoke a roaring fire, and once the metal of the altar grew hot the child would burn to death.’”

  “Jesus, that’s awful,” David said. “People really did that?”

  George took a deep drag off his cigarette, read on: “‘Moloch is also visible in classic literature, the name of the fallen angel in John Milton’s Paradise Lost who urges his fellow demons to implement a new war against Heaven. In Milton’s manuscript, Moloch’s ultimate goal is to build a place in Hell called Pandemonium—or ‘The Palace of All Demons’—a sort of anti-paradise he believes will rival Heaven.

  “‘Moloch’s role in Hell, according to ancient theology and demonology, is the Chief of Satan’s army. He has also been called the ‘Prince of the Land of Tears.’”

  George closed the book, reading the last few lines without the words before him, as if he had read over the text so many times in the last few weeks he had memorized great chunks of the dark knowledge contained therein and would never forget it: “‘Many ancient gods, in Qabbalistic rituals, are paired with a specific number as well as a specific month of the Roman calendar. Moloch’s number is sixty. His month is December. His colors—like those of the original fallen angel, Lucifer—are red and violet.’”

  David stared at George for several long seconds after the old man finished.

  “This all started in December,” he said at last, his voice no louder than a whisper.

  “Right,” said George. “I thought you might catch that.”

  “Do you think it means anything?”

  George licked his dry lips, said,
“If you had asked me that six months ago, I would have said hell, no. I would have called you a fool, and chalked it up to coincidence. Now...I’m pretty sure I do believe it. That there is relevance there. Very much so.”

  “Do you think there’s any significance to the number sixty?” David asked.

  “Think about it.”

  David thought about it for several seconds, but came up with nothing.

  “Sixty children died in The Great Fire,” George said. “At Heller Home.”

  “Jesus. You’re right.”

  George nodded. “That’s not all,” he said. “Have you noticed the church? Morganville First Baptist?”

  “It’s closed.”

  “Besides that. Someone’s painted it, David.”

  “Don’t tell me—”

  “Red. And violet.”

  “Goddamn.” David hung his head for a second, then looked back at up at the old man. “It all seems like too much to be simple coincidence, doesn’t it?”

  “It does.”

  “Do you think The Great Fire...do you think it somehow...brought Moloch here?”

  George nodded slowly as he finished off his cigarette, then snubbed it out in the ashtray. “I think maybe it did. I think that Bobby Briggs kid was involved in some fucked-up shit. I don’t know what—black magic, devil worship, fucking New Age Shirley McLaine claptrap—it doesn’t really matter, does it? All I know is, when Briggs burned down Heller Home, and sixty people died in that fire...it somehow brought Moloch here. Did the boy specifically plan for that to happen? I don’t know. Probably. But how did he know exactly sixty people would die? Maybe he didn’t. Damned if I know. All I do know is, this Moloch is growing stronger every day. And that scares the living hell out of me.”

  David stared at the books on the table, then finally looked back up at his friend. “There’s this saying I heard one time. Sherlock Holmes said it, I believe—”

  George nodded, knew where David was going. They said it together: “‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains—however improbable—must be the truth.’”

  The grandfather clock in the corner ticked on as the men sat silent for several minutes, contemplating that.

  “Scary, huh?” George said.

  George looked so, so old in that moment, David thought, and he quickly looked away from his neighbor.

  “This is insane,” David said. He reached down, began thumbing through a book called Dark Gods: A Guide to Ancient Religions and Arcane Cultures. He turned it to the index, looked up “Moloch,” then flipped to the page to which he was referred. It was a reproduction of an old woodcarving, a faded picture depicting the bull-god’s altar, his golden arms outstretched to hold a screaming baby. Inside his hollow stomach, a fire blazed...

  Were such things still happening today? David wondered.

  Impossible.

  “What do we do?” David asked his neighbor. “You’re the old leatherneck, George. Tell me what we have to do to fight this thing.”

  George pondered the question for a minute or more. “I’m afraid it’s not that easy, David. I’ve fought Japs, I’ve fought Germans. They bleed. They die. Don’t need much more than an M-14 to make that happen. Something outta Hell, I don’t think it’s gonna be so easy to kill.”

  “Good point,” David said.

  “I think the best thing we can do is wait,” George said. “For now. Wait and watch. Watch everybody. I think there are very few people left in this town we can trust. I think they’re all under his influence, in some way or another, and we have to know what we’re getting ourselves into, first and foremost.”

  David bit his lip, tried to hide his fear.

  “What’s the matter?” George asked.

  David’s head hung low. “I think...”

  “Spit it out, David.”

  “What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room,” David said.

  George laid one hand over his heart. “You have my word.”

  “I’m scared, George. I’m starting to think...there might be something wrong with my wife.”

  “Oh, no.” George stood up quickly, came around to sit on the sofa beside David. “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know. She’s just...she’s been acting strange. Ever since she went out to the old Heller Home property with her brother.”

  “Aw, shit, man,” George said. “When did she go out there?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s where Joel’s boyfriend died. Remember, the wreck that night?”

  “Damn. And Kate went with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said she’s been acting strange. How so?”

  “It’s nothing major. Little things. Sometimes it’s just...a feeling. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  “What about your brother-in-law? Has he acted any differently?”

  “No, not really. I can’t say. I haven’t seen much of him since Michael died.”

  “I see,” George said. He stared up at the ceiling, in deep thought.

  “I found something tonight, George,” he said. “Just before you called. Something I think Kate might have done.”

  George stared at him, let David tell his story. When the younger man finished, George said, “You think Kate did it? Cut through the book like that? Removed all the...Molochs?”

  “I certainly don’t think it was Becca,” David said. “Do you?”

  “Doubtful. But there’s no way to be sure. You’ll have to watch both of them.”

  David’s heart grew heavy. He hung his head, buried his face in his hands. “Why did I ever agree to come here? My whole fucking life feels like it’s been turned upside-down. I hate this goddamn town!”

  George nodded, patted his friend on the back, but said nothing.

  “Here’s something I don’t understand,” David said a few minutes later, after regaining his composure. He stared at his neighbor, his eyes moist. “Explain something to me.”

  “Shoot.”

  “My wife has been a die-hard Christian all of her life,” David said. “Sometimes to a fault, if you want to know the truth. She believes in Jesus, that He died on the cross for her sins, all that stuff. And I do mean she devoutly believes it. Her father was a Baptist minister. So tell me, George, if she’s ‘under the influence,’ as you say, how is that possible?”

  “Good question,” George replied. “And to be perfectly honest with you, I don’t have a definite answer. I don’t think there is one.”

  “I can’t imagine Kate would—”

  “If you want to know what I think, however,” George went on, “And mind you, this is just a theory...I believe, if Kate really is ‘infected’—for lack of a better term—her religion somehow enabled it. It made her more...susceptible, if you will, to Moloch’s power. It left the door open, so to speak.”

  “I don’t get it,” David said.

  “Let me put it this way,” George explained. “I think that someone who believes so strongly in the good...must also believe in the bad. No light without dark, that sort of thing. And if that’s the case, the person in question damn well better be secure-as-fuck in his or her beliefs. Otherwise they’re fair game. For both sides of the battle.”

  “I hope you’re wrong. Jesus Christ, I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Do you believe in God, David?” George asked.

  “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll believe in Him when I see Him one day, I guess.”

  “Hm.”

  “Why?” David asked. “Does it matter?”

  “Maybe. We need all the help we can get, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, but if you’re right about Kate—”

  “Exactly. Which is why I said ‘maybe.’”

  David just stared at him.

  “I’m no expert in this stuff, David. I’m learning as I go, just like you.”

  “Do you believe in God?”
David asked.

  “Yeah,” George said. “I do. But I don’t allow that belief to control my life. I think there’s a fine line between faith and fanaticism. And once you cross that line, I religion can be a dangerous thing.”

  David stared at the floor, nodded but said nothing. He thought of his wife, and what might be happening to her.

  “Take Reverend Rhodes, for instance,” George said. “He’s a man of God—or used to be, I should say—and I think he’s tied up in this shit worse than anyone else.”

  “How?”

  “Remember the way Keenan just stopped and stared at the place that night? Like he’d seen God in the flesh or something?”

  “Yeah,” David said. “Fucking creepy.”

  “There’s got to be something to that.”

  “You think Moloch’s using the church as his...headquarters?”

  “Possibly,” George said. “I told you, David, I did plenty of research before I called you over here. I drive around in the middle of the night sometimes. I see things. Because of the dreams, I find it harder and harder to get a good night’s sleep anymore. Sometimes I’ll hop in the Ranger, take a ride around town in the wee hours of the morning. You’d be surprised, some of the things I’ve witnessed.”

  “Like what?” David asked, his face pale.

  “People going in and out of the church at all hours of the night. Sneaking around. Out of Rudy’s Junkyard too, on Sourtree Road next county over. Like there’s anything to see out there. One of them, swear to God, was that Dawson fellow who tried to snatch your daughter. Still had on that fuckin’ Santa suit, too. How weird is that? I saw one couple, just last night, fuckin’ on the front steps of the church. Damned if one of them didn’t look like Gerda Greenhorn.”

  “So?”

  “Gerda Greenhorn’s ninety-nine years old.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I know what I saw,” George said. “And just so you know, it was the good reverend I saw Ms. Greenhorn ridin’ like a Harley on a bad piece of road.”