Dark Entities

by David Dunwoody

  It was just as well, then, that he serve as a counselor in the high court. This way he was spared from having to walk the streets, from having to endure the pitying stares of his brethren. Instead he remained in the Set Temple, sheltered from the harsh light of a sky that bled a crimson glow from great rifts in the atmosphere.

  Sheltered as he was, however, Abezeth knew that he would have to see the scene of Rachel’s demise for himself. So he called for the human, Al Hallows.

  * * *

  Many, many humans had been received by Hell, often by their own will. Hell offered an alternative to Heaven, an Earth-like existence without the pomp and religious fervor of the other place. Here souls lived for themselves, not for God’s pleasure. One of these was Hallows, an American investigator who had committed suicide in the twentieth century after Christ. He was a brilliant intellect with keen senses and a realist view – perfect for service in Hell’s justice system.

  Hallows wiped ash from his bald head as he trudged down the corridors of the temple. He knew the place by heart, knew of every shady dealing and tenuous alliance forged there. He was the high court’s chief inspector and he relished his job to no end.

  Meeting Abezeth at the Apex - a gated atrium with pathways crossing over a seething river of lava – Hallows was briefed on what was known so far. “A dead angel,” he muttered. “That’ll be a first for me.”

  “I haven’t seen you in a fortnight,” Abezeth remarked.

  Hallows nodded. “I’ve been in the South Pits. There are some rumblings about an uprising. Weird chants down in the tunnels...better just to suppress it than to try and make sense of it.”

  “This new matter takes priority,” Abezeth said. They exited the temple and walked into the city of Tartarus.

  Everything was tinged blood red due to the light from the sky; it had taken Hallows some getting used to, but nowadays he couldn’t even remember what the living world had looked like. And, although one would expect Hell to be a furnace, there was in fact usually a pleasant breeze in the streets. Storms were constantly forming over the Fire Sea and sending cool winds across the landscape.

  It was cool and quiet in the marketplace. Everyone had been removed, leaving only bins of produce, racks of tools, and the dark remains of an angel who had literally fallen to pieces.

  “Beelzebuth said that something came out from her womb,” Abezeth said. “I have officers searching the area, but I tend to think Beelzebuth was merely exaggerating.”

  “Nothing in Hell is quite what it seems,” Hallows mused, kneeling over a shattered ribcage threaded with entrails. “This is a world of contradictions. A demon planet ruled by angels - who knows what knowledge the demons possess that we do not?”

  “Demon trash,” Abezeth spat. “They reject magic in favor of prayers and platitudes. They know far less then we do, friend.”

  “Look at this.” Hallows lifted a rib, showing Abezeth tiny grooves etched into the bone. “What do those look like to you?”

  “Claw marks...”

  “On the inside of her ribs.”

  Abezeth snatched the bone. “Demons’ claws, and the claws of an infant at that. How, Hallows? The demon race doesn’t procreate. There is only one child-bearer among them...”

  “We need to see Samael,” Hallows said, finishing Abezeth’s thought.

  * * *

  The Graven had only been born an hour prior, and already it was nearing adult size. By feasting on the guts of its host, along with any garbage it came across in Tarrtarus’ back alleys, the demon seed had increased its size sevenfold. Soon, very soon, it would be bigger.

  Its glassy red eyes studied the window of a small hut. Inside an angel was visible, seated in a stone chair, wings spread wide. It was tattooing them with arcane lettering. Although the Graven couldn’t read the writing – barely understood it to be writing – the characters in the angel’s flesh enraged the creature. This was wrong – alien – it did not belong, had to be destroyed! Consumed!

  The Graven felt black blood surging through its veins. Clawed fingers flexed, and foul breath quickened. The Graven approached the window.

  The angel looked up. “What are you gawking at, demon! Begone!”

  Then, the angel’s gaze changed. Revulsion gave way to horror. The tattoo needle fell from his trembling hand, and he watched, transfixed, as the Graven’s entire head split open, one great dripping maw ringed with razor teeth. Then it came through the window.

  * * *

  Samael was kept in a cavern beneath the temple. There he hung suspended in mid-air, his flesh skewered and flayed open by chains, hellfire churning in the pit beneath his feet. And, as the archdemon wailed in anguish, squealing babes fell from his open belly into the flames.

  Samael gave birth roughly every ten minutes. He had populated all of Hell with demons, once, but now his precious offspring were sent straight to their deaths. And he had watched every single one fall from his womb and into the fire, every last one, for thousands of years.

  Samael was a good twelve feet tall, maybe a thousand pounds. The chains laced through flesh were monitored around the clock by angels, who took great pleasure in tugging at them.

  Nearly blind from the pain and insane from the torture, Samael could only spit and gibber at Abezeth and Hallows as they approached him.

  “An angel gave birth to a demon today,” Hallows called.

  “Right to it, then,” Abezeth whispered.

  Samael looked down upon them with wide, empty eyes. There was probably no getting through to him. Hallows was about to turn away when the archdemon let out a long, howling laugh that shook the cavern.

  “What!” Snapped Abezeth. “What have you done? What is this?”

  Samael drooled and sputtered something in demon-tongue. Hallows looked to Abezeth for a translation.

  “It sounded like ‘graven’,” Abezeth said. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “How was it done?” Hallows asked Samael. “Is it magic?”

  “They don’t use magic,” Abezeth argued, but the inspector ignored him, instead grabbing the chains piercing Samael’s nipples and yanking on them.

  “Talk!” Hallows yelled. “It is magic, isn’t it! And maybe you weren’t the one to do it, but you know exactly what we’re talking about. That means this has been in the works for millennia. So what is it, Samael?”

  “If it’s magic, it’s God’s magic!” Abezeth growled. “It’s God that’s behind this, isn’t it, baby-spitter?”

  Samael nodded, shaking blood from his eyes and ears.

  “We have to go to the hall of records,” Abezeth said. “The old demon scriptures are locked away there. They might shed some more light on this.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Hallows. He released Samael’s chains. The archdemon shuddered, then let out a long wail.

  Hallows watched as a baby demon, still curled in a fetal ball, slid out of Samael’s belly and into the flames.

  “Why don’t they just kill him?” He wondered.

  “Because this is Hell,” came the answer. “Now come on.”

  * * *

  The demon apocrypha were kept in a musty vault underneath the records building. An angel unlocked the vault and ushered Hallows and Abezeth in, standing guard as they perused the stacks of yellowed texts.

  Selecting a volume from atop a large pile, Abezeth sat on the floor and turned the brittle pages. “These haven’t been touched in centuries, Hallows. This is lost knowledge – the history of the demons before our arrival.”

  Hallows lit a cigarette. He always had one on hand, even though it did nothing for him; a habit carried over from the last life. “You shouldn’t do that in here,” Abezeth warned, but Hallows just shrugged.

  “I don’t know,” the inspector said. “Maybe all these books just ought to be burned.”

  “Lord Satan decreed otherwise.” Abezeth scowled, then looked down at the book in his lap. “Here. The Graven – the rebirth, the second coming of the Demon-Father.”
Abezeth looked up. “That’s referencing Samael. This Graven would be his second coming – another baby-spitter! And it’s out there right now!”

  Casting the book aside, Abezeth stood. “Come Hallows, we need to gather the high court.”

  Then a wretched scream tore through the vault, and the angel standing guard was tossed into a stack of books, ichor spewing from his gouged face – and the Graven entered, all ten feet of it, its skull yawning wide to reveal its quavering razor maw.

  Abezeth leapt behind a pile of texts. Hallows did the same, dropping his cig on the floor. It rolled underneath a pyramid of leather-bound tomes.

  The Graven had seen both of them and looked from side to side, trying to decide its next move. Ribbons of angel-flesh hung from its jaws, with more clumped beneath its claws. It left a bloody print on the floor as it shifted its weight from one foot to the other.

  “Well?” Abezeth shrieked. “What are you waiting for? Kill him!”

  He wasn’t talking to Al Hallows.

  He was talking to the Graven.

  Hallows sighed. “You went straight for that book. You already knew what the Graven was.”

  “And soon all will know – and I will be redeemed after an eternity in this miserable place!” Abezeth foamed at the mouth as he ranted. The Graven watched him curiously, arms slack. “I called the creature forth – I planted the seed in Rachel’s virgin womb. That’s why it followed us here, and why it will kill you on my command. This is only the beginning though, only the beginning! The uprising has been years in the making. I’m a hero, Hallows. But I know you’d never understand.

  “The demons can have Hell. I want back into Heaven. I want to go home.”

  Hallows rose from his crouch, facing both the angel and the demon, and nodded. “You’re wrong, Abezeth. I do understand.

  “I just don’t care.”

  He heaved all his weight into the pyramid of books, and it collapsed, fire erupting from its center as the smoldering volumes on the bottom met the air.

  Flames leapt across the vault, devouring its treasures in seconds. Abezeth ran for the door. He was almost out when four massive claws punched through his chest, lifting him off the floor.

  The Graven turned Abezeth upside down, watching the blood drain from him, listening to his pathetic screams. It had no interest in Hallows, the human spirit. Men were to be tormented eternally, not devoured in an instant. No, that fate was for the angel.

  It closed its jaws over his head, and the horrible mechanism in its skull went to work, teeth spinning like saw blades, a thousand tons of pressure mashing bone and pulping the rest. Abezeth’s protest ended abruptly.

  The Graven turned. Hallows was standing in the vault entrance. He slammed the door shut.

  The creature pounded on the door, bellowing, but it held fast. Still, Hallows backed off and watched from a safe distance until the howling ceased.

  An army of angels was gathered to open the vault. Inside, they found the skeletal remains of the Graven, along with the tiny bones of the fetuses that had been germinating in its belly.

  * * *

  “There are probably others who feel as Abezeth did,” Hallows said grimly. “You’re facing civil war. I’ll do what I can to handle this quietly, but a public inquisition is probably inevitable.”

  Satan nodded, his chin cradled in his hand, leathery wings folded around his torso. He was silent for several minutes. The high court sat in suspense.

  “The price of being Lord,” he finally said.

  “I suppose so.” Hallows nodded.

  “And into what pit shall I cast mine enemies?” The Devil asked.

  There was no answer.

  The Abbot and The Dragon

  Ben’s best friend Jonathan died just before sunrise. As the village pastor read a prayer over him, Jonathan stirred. Ben, kneeling beside him, was the only one to notice. He looked into his friend’s eyes, and saw nothing; then Jonathan seized Ben’s hand in his teeth, tearing all the skin from the thumb before he was wrestled away and set aflame.

  “What will you do, Ben?” asked his mother, wringing her hands. “I’m infected,” Ben replied in a flat tone. “I will leave and go to the wasteland to die.”

  His mother saw him off at noon. She stood alone.

  With him Ben took a knapsack filled only with bread. The village couldn’t spare any water for a doomed boy. He chewed reeds of grass to keep his lips moist, but already, early into the first day, he felt fatigue overtaking him. Ben wasn’t sure if it was the afternoon heat or the infection. He studied his hand as he walked, to see if its corruption was perceptible to the naked eye.

  Ben slept under an outcropping of rock and listened for dragons. He had never seen one in person, but drawings circulated around the village with tales of the monsters in the wasteland. Beyond the walls surrounding the village’s hovels they roamed, half-blind horrors, their very blood churning with the plague in his claw of a hand. He also knew that those before him who had gone into self-imposed exile would be nearby, hungering even for his diseased meat.

  He caught a small lizard creeping past his sleeping form, on its way to sun itself atop the rock. He crushed the life from it with a ferocity that surprised him and squeezed its blood into his parched mouth. Then he threw up.

  The bread was hard, difficult to eat, but he forced dry mouthfuls down to his aching belly. Eyeing the lizard again, he began gathering sticks for a fire.

  “Child,” came a bold voice. Overhead on the rock stood a gaunt older man dressed in tatters. “What do you want?” Ben asked. “I come only to give,” the man answered. “I give you release.” He fell upon the boy, raising an ivory club skyward. Ben threw him off and ran, he didn’t know in which direction. It didn’t matter as long as he escaped the man who was surely a deadsmith: a wanderer commissioned to kill the infected before their transformation was complete. Ben dreaded the change, but dreaded more the thought of dying beforehand at the hands of another man. It wasn’t the way of civilized people.

  Reaching a gnarled cluster of trees, Ben scrambled up into their midst, grateful for his small size. The deadsmith peered at him through the branches. “Your mother sent me,” he said. “She doesn’t want you to suffer.” The club swung by his feet, resembling a great leg-bone. The man’s knuckles were as white as the weapon they held. Ben didn’t believe his explanation. He tried to imagine the skeletal deadsmith wandering into his modest village, tried to imagine his mother’s eyes lighting on that club with a feeling other than sheer revulsion. It wasn’t possible. “Leave me alone,” Ben pleaded, twigs scraping his back, sweat in stinging rivulets invading his eyes. “Tell her you killed me. I’ll give you my knapsack as proof. She will pay you well, I promise.”

  “A mother always knows,” was all the deadsmith said. He began to walk around the trees, swinging the club at his side. He paced for hours while the sun gnawed at Ben and bits of tree bark peppered his hunched body. When night fell and all was dark, Ben listened for the deadsmith’s footsteps to stop. They did, and a moment later a small fire sprang up outside the trees. The deadsmith sat to warm his hands and wait.

  Ben reached downward with one foot and tested a lower branch. Gritting his teeth hard enough to grind them right out of his skull, Ben wormed his way to the ground, freezing every time he made the slightest sound. An hour later he emerged from the edge of the trees on the side opposite the deadsmith, limbs threatening to give out from beneath him. He inched along on his hands and knees throughout most of the night.

  The wasteland was dotted with ruins of cities. The cities were much larger and well built than his home; perhaps that was why they’d been most appealing to the dragons. Ben hid himself in the shadow of a crumbling tower and dug the soft centers from his remaining pieces of bread before discarding the rest. He prayed that he would find food here. Starving as he was, clinging so desperately to hope, he didn’t even sense the deadsmith until the man was just across the street, crouched beside his club which seemed more and more
certain to be a bone.

  The deadsmith opened his mouth to speak, to call the boy. But a low rumble, echoing off the sides of the buildings, clenched the deadsmith’s throat sure as it rooted Ben to the ground where he stood.

  With a quiet, nightmarish gait, the dragon lumbered around the corner of a tower on two hind legs and sniffed at the dirt. The deadsmith, his back exposed to the monster, didn’t move. The dragon’s weak, shuffling steps moved the earth, and a stench of rot wafted across the road. Particles of dirt danced on the ground around the frozen deadsmith. His limbs trembled visibly, both from the quaking caused by the creature’s movement and the thundering of his own heart.

  Despite his terror, there was wonder tickling Ben’s imagination and he stared at the dragon. Standing as tall as two men, its scales were stained orange and red in splotches, dull and armorlike; it possessed small, dark eyes unlike the fiery orbs of children’s scribblings; great crests over those eyes jutted forward like horns, flanking a knobbed pate. Fatty haunches sagged as the dragon nosed the earth. With each breath, sending clouds of dust spewing, it exhaled the plague that had infected mankind. These things had once roamed in great packs, it was said, venom like spittle spilling from hungry jaws as they hunted. Even with a feeble, solitary dragon like this one – one said to have passed from life into death – its constitution still seethed with death for men.

  Ben, infected, did not feel kindred to the creature; in fact, there was no doubt in his mind that it would as soon eat him as it would the deadsmith…but it was the deadsmith upon whom its gaze settled. The man turned and shielded his eyes from the sun with his club.

  The dragon came at him then, and Ben saw fissures in his leathery skin open like a thousand screaming mouths, and a dark rope of gore trailing between the rotten monster’s legs to snarl around its tail. The deadsmith turned his club over and thrust its sharp bottom forward.