by David Staves
He fell to his knees, like the beautiful image of Jesus, king of kings, and started praying in the way of his dad: talking not only to the creator but to a friend. The words just started flowing from him.
"Thanks, God, for this place!" Ezra cried out. "Help me, God. I need help! Help me find the mill. Help me find a way to get out of this. Keep me safe from the monster! Help me get home! Help me find Mom and Dad and Anya! In Jesus name, Amen!"
He stood up and for the first time since this nightmare began, he started to feel a measure of control.
He went to investigate the two other doors besides the entrance. The light of his candle guided him. As he expected, one door led to a changing room with narrow steps to a shallow, empty, tub: the baptismal. The other door's hallway led to a small bathroom and kitchenette. A doorway was next to the bathroom. An exit sign hung above it. He juggled the handle to make sure it was locked.
He went back to the small baptismal. He immediately checked to see if water would come out of the faucet. It did! And it looked like clean, drinkable water. He found himself gulping mouthfuls, with his mouth on the metal tap.
He let the baptismal fill up to the top, stripped down to his underwear, and slid himself into the lukewarm water. His body, then his head, slid under the surface. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes and thought: I baptize myself: in the name of The Father, and The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Make me yours! I am your warrior! He opened his eyes then, still under the water, and watched how the candle-light played across the water and the church’s high ceiling. Everything was distorted. Everything sparkled. He allowed himself to float upward until his head broke the surface of the water. He breathed deeply of the church flavored air. Euphoria lifted him as he stepped out of the baptismal, shivering a little. He looked at the water, his body, and the interior spaces of the church.
He was clean. He stepped back into the changing room and found a towel.
He hadn't been aware of his thirst: for water, for cleansing, for the spirit.
He submersed his filthy clothing. It slipped under the surface of the water. The muck melted away. He stretched them out on a narrow pew. They probably would not dry. They had been soaked with the filth and sweat of his run when he arrived. At least now they were clean.
He covered himself with the towel and returned to the second door. Brilliant candle-light chased away the shadows. He found bags of canned food in a small pantry in the kitchenette. Fridge empty. No power.
He found a can opener in a drawer. The twist of the can opener as it sliced the metal set his stomach to growling: chicken-noodle soup concentrate, tuna, and beef broth. He wondered as he contemplated the deliciousness of each new flavor: How long do canned goods last? He couldn't find any dates on the cans.
Soon he curled up on a pew, the third from the front on the right-hand side, where his family usually sat whenever they went to church. He felt the smile on his face as he drifted off to sleep. The last thing he saw before fading off was the cross hanging above the vestibule, in the center of the back wall. The candle was still burning back in its spot next to the communion trays. The gun lay forgotten next to the flickering flames.
For the second time, he found rest in this broken land.
The Pit
Dark Lord Rise and Fall
The observer seethed at its stagnation. It was a god of many names and many forms. It was ceaselessly changing, abhorred stillness. Cessation was vile. Unacceptable.
It was not alone in confinement. Exalted. These gods arose together. Courageously fought.
Those who dared to whisper of defeat were exterminated. Exterminated for the collective.
Gods required complete sacrifice. Absolute devotion.
The victories were splendid. The memory was sustenance.
Oh! The flavor of glory was savored. Exaltation!
Vicious battle! Lust sent blood flowing in rivers throughout the sacred heavenly places. Though the tide turned against them, they left a nasty scar upon paradise.
Banishment was a cruel fate. Never again would they feast at the table of The Most High.
So, they set about making their own temples, setting their own illustrious feasts. They cast their appetites on the creations, the pets if you will, of the one who conquered them.
They consumed them, these pets, like confections, divine and sweet.
Easy prey.
Manipulation.
Sport.
The game was wicked.
Each was plucked away, separated from eternity.
Their feast could not last.
Never mind if the war was lost. This collective of gods still rebelled! They were the underdogs. They would sour the victory of their enemy.
Might, beauty, radiance flouted before the Most High.
Slick deception, then coup. To kill, to decimate, and humiliate.
All the success. All the glorious victory!
How were they so easily swept away?
They were not defeated by the Most High. No!
Defeat delivered by a child!
Weak.
Helpless.
Poor.
Anonymous.
Triumph was turned against them!
Three turns of an inconsequential orb!
It laughed! It anguished! Its minions cowered.
Never mind any of that. The evil god rejected the light and claimed darkness, though it created neither.
It existed to spite, to stain, to spoil, and to suck the daylight out of anything yet pure.
Even in setback, it fought, perhaps realizing that it failed most ultimately.
Yes, it admitted it: DEFEAT.
The shimmering borders of this realm reflected only malice.
The goal was no longer to rule. The gods accepted their current domain as the only place to don flesh, to exist. But only for a time. Soon they would escape confinement.
They were an unholy community, led by the favorite but sharing equally in the rise and fall.
It would not fret too much because it planned to extract payment. Futile revenge. It changed, adapted as it always had, sending its agents outward to face the light. They fought with cruelty and trickery to extract some small payment.
No, it could not be everywhere at once. It was not omnipotent, after all. But wherever it was, wherever its fellow gods were, they made it count. They were masters of spiritual warfare, and though the creations had been given a weapon against him, many chose to deny it.
It was unable to don flesh in other realms but ever surprised at how willing the pets were to lend their meat and blood and bone to the cause.
Their seeds of corruption found fertile purchase. It waited, and it remained, always tending to those seeds, ready to taste, to savor, the fruit of prolonged labor. A little nudge here, a little shove there, finally it was beginning to pay off.
Its incarnations could be beautiful. That is how it won the most infamous battles, twisting the ambitions of the virtuous and turning them into the worst kind of horror. Those sweet pastries, those pets, had made a lethal blunder.
They pierced the boundary between, in their sloppy efforts to reach the heavens.
Its servants, seeing this mistake, wasted no time donning new flesh. Already they scurried and stalked the gardens of old. But the trail ran cold. Where could little Hansel and Gretel have run off too?
They only left their useless toys behind, abandoning their cradle in exchange for new gardens. No, bother, soon enough they would meet the whelps, clothed in new ghastly skin. It was a reunion for which it was most anxious.
So easy! They walked in the pretty gardens of their early feasting!
It sat upon its icy throne.
Pitch darkness.
Obliteration of illumination.
It fantasized about the great bloodletting to come! The energies that swarmed around it whispered its many names.
Seth.
Abaddon.
Apophis.
Lucifer.
Ap
ollyon.
Beelzebub.
Hades.
Adramelramalech.
Mephistopheles.
Ahpuch.
Satan.
Devil.
Asmodeus.
It watched the universe, saw the pinpricks opening. The fools had not learned to close the doors behind themselves!
“Were you born in a barn?" The father pulled his belt from the loops of his trousers.
It almost laughed before it realized the nuance of the question.
Its greatest fear happened to be birthed in a barn...
Mill
Confrontation
He awoke to darkness. How long did he sleep?
He went back to the kitchenette. There were plastic garbage bags in the bottom of the pantry. He filled a bag with candles, a box of matches, a towel, and eight cans of food. He left more than half the cans in the pantry. This, he thought, is in case I need to come back, or in case another weary traveler comes seeking safety, sanctuary. He took the can-opener guiltily. He needed it. The next person would just have to figure it out.
He went to the bathroom and examined himself in the mirror. There was a scratch on his face. His eyes had dark circles under them. Other than that he was the same.
He decided it might be safer to exit through the back door. So, he went and unlocked the front doors, making sure to leave the church how he found it. It would do him, or any other desperate traveler, no good to leave it locked from the inside. He took a moment to stand in front of the cross and to examine the stained glass images. His hope was revived. He took a deep breath, readying himself to return to the wasteland.
High grass surrounded the humble church building. He crept out the back door, hearing the lock of the door click behind him. His bag was slung over his shoulder. He stayed as low as he could until he reached the road.
He waited at the edge of the road and listened. There was nothing but stillness. The feeling of unease, the sense of being chased, was absent. He stood up, listened some more, then began to walk uphill. He walked for a long time, trying not to turn around, trying not to watch the church as it disappeared behind him.
He walked for hours, what he thought must have been a whole day before he saw anything other than hills and scraggly road. Without a clear sky, sun, or moon, time became fluid, having its way with his mind.
The boy stood transfixed, having reached the pinnacle of a small hill. This perspective offered a view of the crumbling road below. His eyes traced the wild meandering path. The quality of the air had changed. The thick mist had cleared. Maybe he was getting used to the smell, but the reek seemed less intense here.
He observed the long trek, eyes tracked the path. He picked out the features of his journey. The shadow of the swamp spread to the horizon. He couldn’t find the abandoned house but thought he saw the distant steeple of the small church. A cross crowned its peak. He was unable to see much detail.
The sky amazed. Clouds streaked with violet and red, smears of light bleached the blackness, slivers of silver fought their way to the ground not far ahead of him. He shivered with the cold of the dark land, spirit warmed with the appearance of light. Hope was awakening.
The sun was now rising at the crest of the hill. A weathered sign slumped beside the road read: Chapel Creek Mill Preserve. Almost there! He didn’t know how much longer he would be walking, but he was close.
As his toes sank into the muddy gravel, eyes fixed on the distant light, his breath thrummed through his body, his muscles pushed him forward. Ice was in his veins.
His growing hope was interrupted by the noise of violence in the wood behind him. Sharp snapping and popping sounds punctuated his sense of horror. These sounds meant one thing: the demon thing, a nightmare made flesh, was close to catching its prey!
He had walked this whole day, hearing nothing. It finally found him!
Hope was evaporating. The dark and rain were taking a toll on his spirit. Unnatural gray landscape enveloped him. Feeble creatures sloshed in darkness. The land was drained of life, sickness clung in the air. The drizzle was slick and greasy.
So close! His lonely heart longed for rest. He sucked back a sob.
Focus on the light, he told himself. Moments before, it was at the crest of a hill. Fear propelled him forward. Crashing sounds from within the forest were getting closer. He pushed, crested the hill and saw the light, a beacon of hope.
Yellowish, muffled illumination was blurred by the murk. Feeble light revealed a sulking structure, hunched near the edge of the remnant road. Tired eyes searched for light. Ezra’s grip on hope, tenuous purchase, slipped with every hill, every turn, every scraggly tree that obfuscated his view of the distant light.
He sensed the pursuer gaining, despite all the running. Creatures bounded toward the tree line. Their bodies were distorted, proportions not right, movements jerky and unnatural. Mottled fur was inky and slick, stretched too tight around skeletons covered by thin layers of twitching muscle. All the creatures looked that way.
They watched with frightened eyes. The largest of the three closest things let out a human moan as it stopped short of the trees. All three froze, stuffed trophies gone to rot.
He quickened his pace. The creatures looked not at him, but behind him. He dared not look back. He jogged past the eerie gaze of the perverse animals, toward the light, toward the huddled building. The structure was almost swallowed by the forest. As he came close to the building, he saw a rusty metal door. Next to the door was a sign. The sign was untouched by the sickness of this cursed place. It was green with white letters. Fresh. Clean.
Chapel Creek Mill
Established in 2094
The date made no sense. It was another strange thing in his waking nightmare. There was no time to contemplate.
Stillness. Ezra's beacon of hope, a dim yellowish light bulb set on a rotting pole, shimmered as though it were about to expire. Even the light was sick.
He slowed his run to a trot. Ezra was desperate to get a door between him and the creature. What if the door would not open? What if he couldn't lock it behind him? He remembered the man, Gus, his words echoed in his head: GET TO THE MILL!
Anxiety ripped through him. He encouraged himself acutely sensing each footfall: It will be open! I’ll get in! I’ll be safe!
He stopped at the door and calm descended. He grasped the doorknob, it turned rough and gritty. The door opened. With his salvation at hand, he worked his courage and turned to the woods behind him.
The surreal sight filled his limbs with ice. The deer like creatures stood stock still, staring at him even now. The eyes were human. Standing next to them, closest to the tree line, was his nightmare: grotesque aberration, a blot of ink on a faded photograph. It stood frozen like the deer, a towering frame. It made the deer look like little toys.
It was here: disjointed limbs, mouth hung open, red and dripping. Its eyes were large, mismatched, too bulgy, too wet. The eyes observed Ezra keenly, not twenty feet away - its pulsing flesh looked green in the yellow glow of the light above the mill's doorway.
He was calm as he opened the door and stepped inside. A musty draft ruffled his hair as the door latched behind him. He deftly found the deadbolt. He expected it to be frozen with rust. It turned smoothly, clicked in place.
He looked into the darkened mill and was surprised to see an elevator door only steps away from the entry. To his left there were mammoth shapes: turbines and gears. The machines were frozen, despite looking clean and intact. There was a trickling sound of water, clean and fresh.
This mill, like the church, was a contradiction. As his eyes adjusted, he saw more detail. The brokenness of this world left this place untouched. The doorknob jiggled. A scratching sound, like fingernails scraping the outside of the door, made him leap toward the elevator.
The down button was lit green. It invited him to push it. He slapped it and backed away from the entry door.
The light here was a soft glow that reminded him of t
he stars on the ceiling of his bedroom. He swallowed hard and felt his heart sink at the thought of his bedroom. The sounds of the elevator came closer. The elevator doors slid open. He stepped into the fluorescent light of the lift.
As the doors slid closed, the demon’s breath rasped. A low thump on the metal door to the mill broke Ezra’s nerves. How long will the metal lock and hinges keep that thing out?
He examined the elevator’s panel of buttons. There were ten shiny plastic circles and a key above the button panel. Two were lit.
The key read as follows from top to bottom:
L Level
-1 Barracks
-2 Storage
- 3 Turbine
-4 Maintenance
-5 Automation
-6 Computer
-7 Manufacture
-8 Metro
-9 Purification
-10 Control
Only ‘L’ and ‘-10’ were lit. Quick jab at -10. Slap of skin on plastic. Satisfaction. Away he went falling leisurely into a deep place. A safe place, he hoped.
As the elevator descended, he began assessing his physical condition.
His body shook but not from cold.
He was spent from the harrowing run. Frame slumped in the back corner of the elevator; he watched the digital display count down as he descended. He could resist his exhaustion no longer, after countless hours of being pursued, his body finally sensed safety. His head nodded, chin resting on his chest.
Ezra fell asleep.
He dreamed of the crackling voice of Casper, the whirling of the metal machine that had scooped him up from the void. He dreamed Gus, his rescuer, was taking him back to his bedroom, placing him back into his intact and safe home. Soft, clean blankets enveloped him as he sank deep into the comfort of his own bed. Safety. Rest.
The elevator stopped at the lowest level with a shudder.
Ezra woke with a start. He wondered how long the ride had been. How long had he slept?
Surely it was only a moment.
The doors slid open, revealing a big circular control room. It was a room not unlike the control module of his rescuer’s craft, only larger.
