by Devin Hanson
“I don’t understand.”
“I need a beer.” Ryan brushed past me and went to the kitchen.
I followed, feeling confused. “Why’d you load the truck three times? Did you need the exercise or something?”
Ryan popped the top off a beer and pounded back half of it before putting the bottle on the counter and stretching his back. “No. How was your day so far?”
I waved a hand, dismissing the question. I didn’t want to talk about my day. I wanted to know what was eating at Ryan. “Never mind that. Talk to me.”
He pulled at his beer again. “The first time I finished loading the truck, I went into the house to go to the bathroom before driving to the dump. I was on my phone, maybe ten minutes. When I got back to the garage to head out, the junk had all been returned to the floor of the garage.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Someone broke in again to prank you? Was anything stolen?”
“That’s what I thought. I checked the locks, I went through the house room by room. It was empty. There wasn’t any new damage to the circuit box, the fences, nothing. So, I went back to the garage and loaded the truck again.”
Ryan gestured at the fire axe leaning against the counter. “I brought that with me in case there was some punk waiting to jump me while I worked. Fortunately, nobody showed up. I finished loading the truck and took a walkabout to make sure everything was still secure. When I came back…”
“The truck was unloaded again.”
He nodded and killed the last of the beer. “Right in one.”
“So, you just finished loading number three… want to see if it’s still in the truck?”
Ryan’s mouth thinned and he tossed his bottle into the recycling. “Not really. But let’s go.”
I led the way back to the garage. “I didn’t hear anything. That much junk would make a racket if someone tried to move it.” I pushed open the door and stepped into the garage. “Looks like nothing…”
My voice trailed off and the hairs on my arms rose. All the junk was emptied out of the truck and was scattered at the back of the garage in untidy heaps. I stopped in my tracks and Ryan ran into me from behind.
“God damn it,” he muttered. “Not again.”
“Back. Back into the house.”
Ryan turned around and I hurried after him. I shut the door and leaned against it.
“So,” he said, crossing his arms and scowling down at the floor. “You believe me now?”
I swallowed. What the hell was going on? “Yes. I believe you.”
He looked a little surprised. “Oh. Good. I don’t know how to say this, but I think your garage is haunted.”
“I think you’re right.”
Ryan’s grin faltered. “I am? It is?”
I nodded. “I’ll have to run some tests, but you’re probably correct. Doesn’t make sense, though,” I muttered mostly to myself, “there is a threshold on this building now.”
“Say what?”
I gave myself a shake. “Well! That explains some things, doesn’t it? Haunted junk in the garage. In Los Angeles, no less. I guess that’s what I get for moving into a building with a history. You feel like getting out of the house for a few hours?”
“Uh, yeah?” Ryan shot a look at the door to the garage. “Is it safe?”
“Why wouldn’t it be? Oh. Yeah, I mean, as long as we don’t try and move the junk too much, we shouldn’t anger whatever is possessing it.”
Ryan’s face went a little pale. “Uh.”
“Just kidding. If you didn’t piss it off yet, and believe me you would know if you had, it’s safe enough for now.”
“Oh… okay. Where are we going?”
“Feel like meeting a bunch of Satanists?”
I felt a little bad for Ryan. Whatever he had expected from his stay in LA, hanging out with me was probably not what he’d had in mind. I got the rented truck out of the garage after Ryan expressed extreme disinterest in going back in there, and we headed out after making sure the house was locked up.
“So, these Satanists we’re going to see,” Ryan said, “how worried should I be?”
“It’s December,” I shrugged. “Most of the sacrificial rituals are in the spring.” I shot him a grin. “Relax, that was a joke. I’ll protect you.”
He huffed something under his breath and scowled out the window.
“What’s the problem? They’re just people.”
“They worship Satan. The Devil.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not one to point fingers, but Christians are responsible for more deaths than the Satanists could ever hope to aspire to.”
“You’re talking about the crusades?”
“And the Inquisition. And maybe not directly, but the millions killed by the bubonic plague, cholera, typhoid, and God only knows how many premature deaths caused through their rejection of Roman hygiene.”
“You can’t pull all of that on the Christians. And there were many reasons for the crusades. The claiming of Jerusalem was only the easiest objective to point to. But that’s not worth arguing over right now. Fine. The Christians haven’t always been paragons of virtue.”
“Is your objection to Satanists a religious thing, a moral thing, or a societal thing?”
Ryan paused and frowned to himself. “All of the above?”
“Well, think of them as religious anarchists. They reject the teachings of God, not because they want to kill everyone and destroy everything, but because they don’t like the idea of someone arbitrarily telling them what is wrong and what is right.”
“Are you defending them?”
“I’m telling you what to expect,” I shook my head. “I’m not a fan of them either, but I prefer to have a reason for my hate.”
“Okay, why do you hate them, then?”
“They worship the things I despise about myself,” I rolled a shoulder. “They would have me abandon what I think is right.” I looked away from the road long enough to catch Ryan’s gaze. “And I refuse to be controlled by someone else’s agenda.”
Ryan chuckled. “Yeah. I pity anyone who tries to control you.”
I turned back to the road, a little embarrassed.
We drove for a minute in silence, then Ryan said, “I’m Catholic. My father insisted. When I was young, it seemed like an unnecessary burden. I had better things to do with my Sundays than spend them cooped up in a stuffy church.”
“But you saw the light?”
Ryan gave a wry smile. “You could say there are occupational benefits to being religious.”
“How do you square a practical application of religion with having an unresponsive god?” I was genuinely curious. The only real practical uses of religion I was aware of were exorcizing demons or swindling the faithful of their money. Ryan didn’t strike me as someone who used religion for either of those purposes.
“You seemed pretty calm about there being ghosts in your garage. That seems like a religious faith to me.”
If what was possessing the junk in my garage was a ghost, then I was a priest. No need to worry Ryan with my guesswork just yet, though. Especially since I wasn’t sure myself. “You’re mistaking practicality with faith,” I shook my head.
“Practicality? You mean you actually plan to do something about the ghosts?”
I shrugged and changed the subject. “When we get to the Satanist church, regardless of your personal feelings, do try to be respectful.”
Ryan’s lip curled and he looked out the window. “Sure.”
“I’m serious. We’re not visiting the church on a whim. I need information from them, and they aren’t going to be friendly if you’re spitting on their shoes the whole time.”
“What’s the big deal, anyway? Why even bother with them?”
“I’m trying to find someone.”
“They kidnap her?”
“Him. It’s a guy. And no, he’s using them to hide.” I could see the questions brewing within Ryan. “Look, I promised Sam I would bring you w
ith me, okay? That’s why you’re coming. It’s this or being home with the haunted junk. I can’t answer all the questions you have because I don’t have all the answers myself.”
Ryan frowned, but nodded reluctantly. “They aren’t evil people?”
“Most of them are just goths. There are a few nasties, but they’re the minority.”
“Are we going to be in any danger? I still have that fire axe in the back.”
“Christ, I can’t believe you brought that. No. You won’t need the axe.”
Ryan grinned and leaned back in his seat. “Boy Scout motto. Be prepared.”
“I hardly think that’s what they were talking about,” I said. “We’re almost there. Are you going to behave or do I have to leave you in the car?”
“I’ll behave,” Ryan assured me.
“Good. Once we’re inside, follow my lead and let me do the talking.”
He threw me a salute and a sour grin. “You got it, boss.”
The Satanist Church of the Crucified Innocent was an old hotel that had been renovated a few decades back. The construction crew had pulled the asbestos out of the ceiling, redone the siding, put new shingles on the roof, and started to scrape the plaster off the basement foundation walls in order to get at the mold that had been growing there since the building’s construction in the late twenties. The workers had discovered a corpse embalmed in the poured concrete and understandably freaked out and refused to do any more work.
Assuming that workers could be found to carry out the task, having a significant portion of the basement torn out and rebuilt turned out to be financially and physically questionable. Leaving the body in place wasn’t an option; the owners found getting permits for a hotel turned out to be impossible with a dead guy built into the basement. So, they found an insurance loophole instead and wrote the whole thing off. The Satanists picked the hotel up for pennies on the dollar, finished the renovations themselves and enshrined the corpse.
That’s the story I heard, anyway. I pulled the rental pickup into the tastefully landscaped horseshoe driveway and parked at the curb. The primary building didn’t look like it was the unholy meeting ground of the servants of hell. It looked like a country retreat, maybe someplace corporate staff could go for a weekend of team building.
The engine rattled and wheezed to silence as I killed the engine, and I leaned over Ryan’s lap to get a better look up at the front of the building. From the outside, it looked like the place was empty.
“Are we at the right address?” Ryan asked.
“There’s only one Satanist church in LA,” I said. “Come on. Let’s go knock and say hello.”
I got out of the car, ignoring Ryan’s muttering, and climbed the short flight of steps to the front door. The original entryway had been upgraded with double-paneled, hand-carved oak doors. Letters had been carved into the marble façade above the doorway. My Latin was barely functional, but I think it said something about all being welcome, but don’t bring God with you.
Ryan came jogging up the steps after me. “What’s the plan? You do have a plan, right?”
I rolled my eyes at him and knocked on the door. My knuckles barely made a tapping sound against the heavy oak panels, but almost immediately the doors swung open. A thin man, almost skeletal, stood hunched over in the gap. He wore a black canvas robe with the hood thrown back. Combat boots peeked out from under the hem and tattoos were visible on the back of his hands. His eyes were intense with fervor, and he clutched a charred rosary in his hands.
“Ah, Alexandra Ascher. We’ve been expecting you.”
I shot a glance at Ryan, warning him with my eyes to hold his peace, before nodding at the man with a smile. “Hello, Seneschal. May we come in?”
The man stepped back, making room for us to enter. “You are always welcome in this house, Ms. Ascher.”
“Thank you.”
“Who is your friend?”
“Mr. Halsin is staying with me for a few days.”
Ryan fixed a smile on his face and extended a hand. “A pleasure, Mr. Seneschal.”
The man smiled back as he shook Ryan’s hand, then raised a sardonic eyebrow at me.
“Seneschal is his job title. Like a head butler, but with more responsibilities,” I said as an aside.
The man folded his hands into his robe sleeves. “Depending on where you draw your heritage from, a seneschal is also considered the first line of defense for the manor. Were you not welcome here, you would not pass within.”
I put a hand on Ryan’s arm as he stiffened. “It’s a good thing we’ve been welcomed, then, isn’t it, Ryan?” I tightened my fingers until Ryan relaxed and looked down at my hand in surprise. “You’ve been expecting me?” I asked the seneschal.
“Your mother informed us that you would likely not be far behind her. She has a high opinion of you, you know.”
“Parents,” I sighed. “You know how it is, always praising their children more than they deserve.”
“Perhaps. She made it clear that we should not try to hinder you. You will find her in the rear annex.” He pulled a hand from his sleeves and pointed toward the back of the open foyer. “Through the nave, to your left as you face the altar.”
I nodded my thanks and dragged Ryan with me across the foyer and through the indicated doorway. The hotel ballroom had been repurposed into the primary worship area. A marble statue loomed, occupying the focal point as you entered the ballroom. Curled ram horns topped the goat-headed statue posed at Atlas, the Earth carved in high relief upon the figure’s back.
Black curtains draped gracefully along the walls, framing in a double row of pews. A massively-constructed stone altar dominated the head of the nave, set about with tiers of candles. Behind the altar, an enormous wooden cross hung upside down. Dozens of rusted chains connected the cross to the walls of the apse like strands of a spider’s web. A blackened steel brazier some five feet wide glowed with hot coals beneath the cross, soaking the cross and strung chains in a ruddy glow.
The door shut behind us and Ryan made a disgusted sound in his throat. “Unbelievable.”
“It’s just imagery. Get over it.”
“What’s this statue implying? That Satan is responsible for the world?”
“Look, I get it, you don’t like the Satanists, but this is not a pissing contest you want to get into right now. Once we finish our business, if you want to come back and lecture everyone here on how morally bankrupt they are, I won’t stop you. But for now, put your dick away and watch my back, okay?”
My implication that I needed him pulled the indignation out of Ryan’s sails and his chest swelled as he shifted to a masculine protective mode that I found just as annoying. But at least it wasn’t likely to get us thrown out.
“I thought you said we weren’t in danger.”
“Maybe not physical danger, but I’ve only got two eyes. I might miss something important. I need you to pay attention, okay?”
Ryan nodded and looked about the ballroom with a newly critical eye. I stifled a sigh and led the way across the ballroom toward the back where I could see a door set into the wall behind the altar. Ryan followed close on my heels like the bodyguard of a celebrity going slumming.
It was a little strange that there weren’t any people around. I’d only been here a few times before, but there had always been at least one person hovering in the distance feigning activity. Maybe now that I was an adult, they weren’t worried I was going to vandalize the place.
Through the door behind the altar, we passed into what I had assumed before to be a cafeteria and general living space for the Satanists who called the church their home. Instead of picnic benches and ping-pong tables, the wide-open room had been converted into what reminded me of a World War I field hospital. Curtains on rails partitioned off cubicles running up both sides of the room. Through the gaps in the curtains, I could see people lying in cots.
Black-robed people bustled around with business-like haste, carrying trays an
d small packages. If they had been wearing white, I would have pegged them as nurses. The beep of life support machines ran counterpoint to the background noise of groans and moans. Somewhere, a man was sobbing.
“What in the fuck—” Ryan said softly behind me.
I snapped a hand out, cutting him off. Something was very wrong here. Satanists did not run a hospice. I walked over to the nearest cubicle and yanked the curtains open. A woman lay on a cot, padded handcuffs around her wrists and ankles holding her down. Raw lesions were visible on her exposed skin and face. Her eyes were open and staring into the middle distance and her lips moved as she chanted something under her breath.
Shit. I pulled the curtains shut and stepped to the next cubicle. A man, this time, lay in his cot. He was unbound, but his arms were spread wide despite the narrowness of the cot, and his feet pressed tightly together. Bandages wrapped around his palms were soaked through with blood, and more blood wept from pin pricks and lacerations on his forehead.
“Is that stigmata?” Ryan asked behind me.
I yanked the curtains shut and turned to look across the room. All motion in the room had stopped and probably a dozen men and women in black were staring at me.
“Ryan, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” I said quietly. “Go to the truck. Go immediately, don’t ask me questions, don’t say anything to anyone.”
Ryan gave me an alarmed look, then turned to scan the room. His face hardened. “If you’re not out in ten minutes, I’m coming back for you.”
“Just go. Now.”
With a last glare at the silently watching Satanists, he turned and left. Once the door closed behind him, the nurses started back into motion. Across the way, the curtains to a cubicle were pulled open and Steven Martin stepped through. He wore a black robe and his head was freshly shaved. He smiled when he saw me and walked over with a curiously mincing stride.
“Alexandra, I’m glad you were able to make it.”
“Hello, mother.”
Mahlat smiled at me, stretching the features of Steven’s face like a poorly fit rubber mask being forced into motions it wasn’t designed to accommodate. “I should thank you. Without your intervention, I would never have been able to escape the watchful eyes of that red bitch.”
