Trinity of Darkness: The Darkness Unbound Collection

by Glenn Porzig

  "Okay, I'm rolling," Adam said.

  "It is now the Witching Hour, twelve midnight, the time that spirits seem to be most active. Amelia is going to be asking the spirits questions, and we hope to capture their replies as EVPs on this digital voice recorder," Brad said.

  "An EVP is an electronic voice phenomenon. A voice that shows up only on the recorder, and can't be heard in person. A voice that many believe may be—from beyond the grave," said Christina dramatically.

  "I'll begin," said Amelia as she closed her eyes in concentration. "If you are here, and you can hear me, please speak into the recorder. We will be able to hear you."

  Adam zoomed in on the recorder to show the lights flash as it picked up her voice. The dark room was eerily quiet with only the sounds of their shallow breathing, and the faint whir of the camera as the motors adjusted the lens. After a few moments, he zoomed back out to show Amelia ask more questions.

  "Are you here with us now? Did you live in this house?" She paused and then asked "Did you die in this house?"

  "What is your name?" asked Adam, from behind the camera.

  "Do you feel anything, Amy?" asked Brad.

  "Yes, yes I do. We aren't alone in here."

  "Can you describe what you're feeling, Amy?" asked Adam.

  "I feel something oppressive weighing me down, a heaviness in the air. I also get the feeling like someone is watching from the dark."

  "That really creeps me out," said Christina.

  "If you are here, please give us a sign. Talk to us, tell us who you are," Amelia said, as she stared at the digital recorder in the dark room watching for the light to flash.

  The quiet was broken by a series of creaking sounds from above them.

  "Did you guys hear that?" asked Brad.

  "What was that?" asked Christina.

  "It sounded like footsteps, right above us, if you ask me," replied Brad, "Tell me you got that!" he said, turning to Adam.

  "Oh yeah, I got it. I saw the blue marks show up on the audio meter."

  "If you are here, come to us, make your presence known," said Amelia.

  "Prove to me that you're here. I don't believe you have the strength to do any of the things they say you did. Prove it!" Adam said, trying to goad the spirit into action.

  "Hey, chill out. Don't challenge this thing, we don't know what we're dealing with yet," Amelia said.

  Just then, Adam let out a scream and almost dropped his camera.

  "What happened?" asked a very startled Christina.

  "My back! Something really stings!" Adam danced around, turning his back toward the rest of the crew.

  "Lift up your shirt, here—hand me the camera," said Brad, as he reached out and grabbed the video camera away from Adam.

  "I think I see something. Shine a light on it," said Christina.

  Everyone was shocked into silence as they saw the three long scratches that were raked across Adam's back, starting to form welts and ooze blood.

  ***

  "Wait out here on the porch until I call for you," said Drake to Sister Marian in a hushed voice. He had his .45 pistol drawn and was standing with his back to the wall outside the door to James Nichols' house. Marian nodded in confirmation. Drake whipped around quickly and quietly, pushing the uncharacteristically unlocked door open.

  Immediately, his eyes were drawn to the bloody mess on the wall. Like the other victims, a large pool of blood had formed on the floor under the suspended body. But, somehow this seemed much bloodier than the other murders. The detective's mind finally registered what he was seeing. There was so much red, but it wasn't just blood this time... it was bare muscle. James Nichols had been skinned alive, his flesh laid in piles of long, bloody sheets at his feet.

  Still reeling from the shock of what he was seeing, Drake heard something move behind him and spun around. He instinctively pointed his pistol. It was Sister Marian, slowly stepping through the open doorway. He lowered his sidearm.

  "I thought I told you to wait outside?" he said. Only then did he notice the figure behind her. It was too late.

  Officer Williams was standing there behind Sister Marian, his 9mm service pistol pressed firmly against her side. He held her tightly with his other hand, using her as a human shield. Both of the officer's hands were caked with dried blood. The sleeves of his uniform were soaked in it.

  Marian looked past Drake, and recoiled in horror at the sight of Jamie's bloody body suspended on the wall behind him. She gasped.

  "Drop your piece, Drake," Williams sneered, "Or the nun gets it!"

  Left with no other choice, Drake let his pistol ease out of his hand then drop to the hardwood floor.

  "I'm touched, really. It's like a family reunion in here tonight. Too bad poor Brother Jamie had to go and die on us before the party even started."

  "Just let Marian go," pleaded Drake.

  "Oh, right. I'll get right on that. Do you think I clawed my way back from Hell so I could just let her go... because you asked so nicely?"

  Drake put up his hands, as if to surrender, as he tried desperately to figure out a way to save Marian. He had a five shot .357 back-up gun hidden in an ankle holster, but there was no way to reach that before the possessed policeman had a chance to get off a shot. Even if he did manage to shoot Williams first, he didn't know if that would stop him. And if it did stop him, how would he explain killing a fellow officer?

  He knew Williams had problems, with alcohol, with money, but it wasn't that long ago that he was in a similar situation himself. There had also been rumors, talk that maybe Williams was dirty... but did he deserve to die?

  "Williams... Fred, isn't it? Fred, listen to me. You don't want to do this. You can fight him, just tell him he isn't welcome. He can't stay if you didn't invite him," said Drake.

  "You're wasting your breath; Fred checked out a long time ago. In fact, I can't remember the last time I wore such a weak-willed meat suit. But this one has been convenient, and it came with toys!"

  The animated body of the officer took his sidearm, turned it in his hand admiring it, and then pressed it hard into Marian's side causing her to whimper.

  "If only I had made it back before poor old Father Martin shed this mortal coil. I would like to have helped him do it with a little more style. A brain hemorrhage is just so... pedestrian."

  The possessed police officer nuzzled his face in the nape of Marian's neck, he inhaled deeply, never once taking his eyes off of the detective.

  It took all of Marian's willpower not to freak out. Here she was, helpless again. But she wasn't helpless—all of these years she had been training her mind and her body to defend herself. But now that it was real, now that the moment was upon her... she couldn't take the chance. The officer holding her was superhumanly powerful. If she tried something and failed, not only would she die, but so would one of her only friends.

  "Now, who do I shoot first?" Williams began moving his gun back and forth, shifting his aim between Marian and Drake. "The cop or the nun? The nun or the cop?" They tensed, fearing the inevitable, both of them more worried about the other than themselves.

  "I know... the cop!" with a maniacal grin, the possessed policeman placed his pistol in his own mouth and pulled the trigger.

  The sound in the confined space was deafening. Blood and brain matter was splattered all over the entrance to the house, and all over Marian. She stood there in shock as the officer's body crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

  ***

  The old man had beads of sweat cutting grooves through the grime on his face. He was a large man, and still impressive despite his advanced age. His gray hair was messy and matted, his clothes torn, muddy, and stained with blood. He had his back against the wall, and a shotgun in his hands. In front of him were a dozen or more undead. Reanimated corpses with only one desire—to feast on his flesh.

  He was in a rage as he let loose a blast from his shotgun into the oncoming mob that was shambling towards him. The buckshot blew one of the zom
bies in half, and took chunks out of several others around it. The severed torso hit the ground and continued to crawl towards him, leaving a bloody trail of intestines.

  "Why won't you stay dead?" he muttered. The others kept coming, clawing, snapping their teeth together nonstop. Their dead eyes staring hungrily at him.

  One more blast and his shotgun was empty. They were still coming. He cursed and swung the empty shotgun like a club, knocking the lower jaw off one of the advancing creatures. He gathered his strength, and then gave another powerful swing of the shotgun before he dropped it and pulled out a long barreled .44 revolver from a shoulder rig.

  "Come get some, you sons of bitches!" he yelled.

  Suddenly, a loud ringing jarred him. He couldn't take time to figure where it was coming from, he was fighting for his life. He took careful aim and squeezed off a shot. The magnum liquefied the head of the nearest zombie.

  The old man sat with his recliner tilted way back, asleep. His eyes were darting rapidly back and forth. He moaned and his arm jerked, his finger flexing as he pulled the trigger on a phantom gun and drool went sputtering down his chin.

  Once again, he heard the loud ringing. This time it abruptly woke him from the nightmare. He nearly fell out of his recliner as he bolted upright, and instinctively reached for the phone.

  I really need to stop falling asleep watching that zombie show, he told himself as he wiped the drool from his chin.

  "O'Bannon," the old man gruffly answered.

  "Chief, it's Alex."

  "Don't call me Chief, and quit calling me in the middle of the night, I'm retired now!" O'Bannon chuckled. "I wondered when I'd be hearing from you. How's that case coming along?"

  "Chief, I need your help with something. Think you could come meet me?" Alex asked.

  "Alex, you in some sort of trouble? Do I need to bring my shotgun?"

  "It's nothing like that, but I do need you to hurry. I have a friend, you may remember her, she needs a ride—quick. No questions asked. And maybe you could bring a towel?"

  ***

  With Sister Marian safely transported to O'Bannon's to clean up, Drake had called in explaining that he had found the crime scene at the mansion. Police Chief Underwood himself had come out, since there was both an officer, and a well know citizen involved. Luckily, the mansion was far enough from the neighbors that no one had called to report the gunshot.

  "Care to explain to me how this went down?" asked Underwood.

  "It goes like this—I was coming here to meet Mr. Nichols to discuss any similarities between the Carver family and the Reid family cases. When I arrived, I found the door ajar," said Drake.

  "And you entered without a warrant, without calling for back up?" asked Underwood.

  "When I called out and no one answered, I began to suspect something was wrong. Upon closer inspection I noticed the blood in the doorway. I then announced my intentions and entered the premises," said Drake.

  "And this is what you found? An officer down and the homeowner mutilated? Do you have any insight into how we could have arrived in this situation?"

  "Everyone was dead when I got here. I can only speculate as to what led up to this. My best guess is that Officer Williams arrived to find Nichols, the homeowner, in the state that you see him in now... skinned and nailed to the wall."

  "Go on," said Underwood impatiently.

  "Sir, if I may speak frankly. Everyone at the station was aware that Officer Williams had... problems. He was unstable, he was known for drinking on the job. I think it's highly likely that the sight of the man crucified, nailed to the wall with knives, and skinned from head to toe—I think it was just too much for him—I believe that he took his own life."

  "Then how do you explain all of the dried blood on Williams' sleeves and both of his hands?"

  "I'm sorry, sir. I can't. Unless he tried to administer aid to the victim?" answered the detective.

  "I just hope we don't find Officer Williams' fingerprints on those knives. I don't need that kind of headache," replied Underwood.

  ***

  "I'm Vicki Taylor, and I'm sitting here with Lee Miller. Many of you may remember Mr. Miller as a suspect in the Carver family murders some thirteen years ago. Lee, I'm so glad you could join us today." Vicki smiled and the camera angle switched to Lee Miller who had cleaned up to look more respectable than usual.

  "Thanks for having me, Vicki," Miller said.

  "Lee, I'm sure you've been asked this hundreds of times, but why do you think the police were first interested in you?"

  "I think it's obvious, Vicki. Back then, I was just a seventeen year old kid that wanted to be cool. I was different, I liked heavy metal music, I liked to dress in black," he said.

  "So, you think it was profiling? Did they unjustly target you only because you were different?"

  "That's basically what I'm saying, Vicki. I was different. People fear what they don't understand."

  "What do you say about the rumors that you were involved in a cult?"

  "That's ridiculous, I was never involved in a cult. Nothing more than ugly rumors. I had the long hair and yeah, maybe I drew pentagrams in my notebooks, sure. Maybe I was a little antisocial—but that doesn't make me some satanic killer, does it?"

  "And to this date there has been no physical evidence to link you to the murders, isn't that right?" she asked.

  "That's right, not one shred of evidence. I wasn't there... it wasn't me. This was all some modern-day witch hunt because the cops had to blame someone. They couldn't let a high profile case like this go unsolved. They just needed to blame someone," he said shaking his head.

  "Well, from the sound of things, you're lucky to not be in jail."

  "That's right, Vicki. In other similar cases people have been locked up for crimes they didn't commit just for being different. I'm lucky that they didn't lock me away without any proof. But, that doesn't mean it's been easy."

  "Why don't you tell me about how this has affected your life?" Vicki asked with a practiced look of concern on her face.

  "Well, my job prospects haven't exactly been the greatest. I mean, since the real killer was never caught, and I was one of the only suspects... people are slow to get to know me, or offer to let me into their home, or business. I've pretty much been convicted in the court of public opinion."

  "And there you have it, our exclusive interview with Lee Miller. What a sad life it must be, being unjustly suspected of such a heinous crime. Tune in to WYKN tomorrow for more on our retrospective of the Carver Massacre," Vicki smiled proudly.

  ***

  The next morning, Sister Marian returned to the convent, wearing the spare clothes that she kept in her car for when she worked out. Sister Mary Francis caught her as she came in.

  "Oh, Sister Marian. I didn't hear you leave this morning."

  "I'm just here for a few. Really busy today," Marian replied.

  "A courier came by early this morning. I was able to talk him into letting me sign for you, I guess he thought he could trust a nun. I'm not in the habit of lying... get it?"

  Marian gave a weak smile. She was uncomfortable keeping the details from her friend, but she couldn't exactly explain that she had stayed overnight at a man's house because she needed to wash the brains of a police officer off of her.

  "A package? I wasn't expecting anything," Marian said.

  Sister Mary Francis pulled out the small padded envelope. She began reading the label aloud.

  "From Mister James Nichols... that name sounds familiar." She handed it over to Marian. "This is the first package I can remember you getting since Father Martin passed."

  For a moment Marian flashed back to the sight of Jamie pinned to the wall—skinned alive. She managed to contain her reaction to avoid upsetting her friend.

  Marian took the package carefully. It didn't weigh much. She really didn't know what to expect. She and Jamie hadn't been on speaking terms in years. She hurriedly opened it.

  Marian tilted the envelo
pe and an antique amulet on a simple chain slid into her waiting hand. She lifted it up and looked at it more closely. It looked ancient. The amulet spun and caught the light revealing strange symbols etched along its edges.

  "Well, out all night and now getting jewelry from strange men. Is there something you need to tell me, dear?" joked Sister Mary Francis.

  "I'm sorry. It's complicated. Thank you for bringing this to me. I need some time, alone... I'll be in my room," Marian said. She closed her hand tightly around the amulet and turned to leave.

  Sister Mary Francis stood there and watched as her friend walked away. She didn't really suspect Sister Marian was messing around, but she was worried that her attempts to lighten the mood went unnoticed. She knew Marian had a deep sorrow, and wished she could do more to help her.

  Once in her room, Sister Marian sat down on her bed and looked in the envelope. Stuck against the side was a small handwritten note. It was from James Nichols.

  The note explained that Jamie had searched the world for artifacts that could protect him from the demon that had vowed to kill him. He thought that Marian was in more danger than he was, since he was safe in his home, so he had sent it to her.

  He obviously hadn't had the opportunity to test the amulet, but it supposedly had the power to keep a demon from entering the wearer. He wished her well in her struggle against the demon, and passed along a number that Father Martin had left with him in case the demon ever returned. It was the number for his contact at the Vatican.

  Marian nervously dialed the number. An elderly man with a thick Italian accent answered.

  "Monsignor Gabriele speaking. May I ask how you got this number?"

  "This is... I'm Sister Marian. Father Martin left the number for me."

  "Ah, Father Martin, I was sorry to hear of his passing. He was one of the finest I ever trained. Marian you say? You were the girl he told me about, the one he saved, yes?"