What Hell May Come

by Rex Hurst

  WHAT HELL MAY COME

  Rex Hurst

  Published by Crystal Lake Publishing—Tales from The Darkest Depths

  Website: www.crystallakepub.com/

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  Edited by:

  Monique Snyman

  Cover art:

  Ben Baldwin—www.benbaldwin.co.uk

  Layout:

  Lori Michelle—www.theauthorsalley.com

  Proofread by:

  Paula Limbaugh

  Tere Fredericks

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  Welcome to Crystal Lake Publishing—Tales from the Darkest Depths.

  OTHER NOVELS BY CRYSTAL LAKE PUBLISHING

  Lilitu: The Memoirs of a Succubus by Jonathan Fortin

  Doll Crimes by Karen Runge

  House of Sighs (with sequel novella) by Aaron Dries

  Beyond Night by Eric S. Brown and Steven L. Shrewsbury

  The Third Twin: A Dark Psychological Thriller by Darren Speegle

  Aletheia: A Supernatural Thriller by J.S. Breukelaar

  Where the Dead Go to Die by Mark Allan Gunnells and Aaron Dries

  Sarah Killian: Serial Killer (For Hire!) by Mark Sheldon

  The Final Cut by Jasper Bark

  Blackwater Val by William Gorman

  Nameless: The Darkness Comes by Mercedes M. Yardley

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Satanic Panic was a moral panic which swept through the United States during the 1980s. Concerned political and religious groups jumped all over the new imagined trend of “Satanism” found in popular youth culture at the time. Preachers, pundits, and politicos all spun the yarn that a vast underground network of Satanists were in control of secular society and corrupting the youth away from moral righteousness.

  It began in 1972 with the laughably bad book The Satan Seller by Michael Warnke. The author claimed to have been a satanic high priest who recruited over 50,000 members to the Dark Lord before finding Jesus. All of his claims have been subsequently debunked. It continued on with a series of short illustrated tracks produced at cost by the infamous Jack Chick. The tracks became crazier and crazier until they eventually claimed that every other religion, including non-fundamentalist denominations of Christianity, are under the control of a Satanic illuminati. You can still order his tracks online, if you want a good laugh. They cost about 10 cents per, plus shipping. In the 1980s, the popular memoir Michelle Remembers was published. It is a supposedly autobiographical account of a mentally ill woman whose psychiatrist hypnotically helped her recall repressed memories of Satanic ritual abuse at the hands of her family. The technique used to “recover” memories has also been thoroughly debunked. Then in 1987 came Turmoil in the Toybox, my favorite accidently hysterical book, which claims, among other things, that He-Man was designed by “occultists” to recruit boys into homosexuality and that Yoda is a demonic figure.

  Eventually these ideas stuck around long enough to filter into everyday life. Halloween was banned in many communities for years. Geraldo Rivera got massive attention with an hour and a half long exploitative special on ABC about supposed Satanic influences. The panic culminated in a witch hunt among childcare workers in California that were claimed to be part of an organized system of Satanic ritual abuse on children. Thirty low paid workers were sent to prison. All but one of the convictions were eventually overturned.

  Why did it happen? Well, a good moral crusade, especially against an imaginary foe, is an easy target. One that guarantees to generate money and power. Many certainly profited from it. Televangelists in their ‘80s heyday raked in a combined billion dollars a year. Politicians could prove their virtue by attacking a boogeyman they would never have to answer to. Corrupt district attorneys could gain name recognition with bogus prosecutions.

  In hindsight, these are all ridiculous claims and are easily disproved in the internet age. However, I want you to imagine a world where all of these allegations are true. Satanism secretly rules popular culture. Playing an elf in Dungeons and Dragons can lead to learning true witchcraft. Heavy metal music has secret brainwashing messages encoded backwards in each song encouraging fans to rape and kill. What would such a world actually look like? Turn the page and find out.

  PROLOGUE

  The ritual had taken eighty-one days.

  They were at it for more than a quarter of a year.

  Eighty-one days of smoke, and animal shrieks, and groans of pleasure, and spilled blood. Months of heady incense burning. The occasional hallucinogen was tossed into the mixture, turning the world into a fever dream. Weeks of chanting. The constant intonation fell behind the ears and awoke powers in the subconscious. Robed heroes of all races and classes came and went, adding to the celebration, until they collapsed and were dragged off to recuperate.

  Crixen Runeburner, elf mage, had been there for all of it. The chanting, the killing, the sex. He had cast down enemies, seen proud heroes fall, and evaded all magical traps to come here at this time. Many adventures across bleak and alien landscapes had led him to this ancient crypt. He had faced dagger fanged monsters, green skinned humans with cruel blades, and pale shadows of the formerly alive. All of these he had struck down to reach his goal. Now, he just had to hang on.

  He was on the verge of physical ruin. His eyes were raw around the rims, skin deathly pale for lack of sunlight, hair wild and shaggy, gums juicy red, and teeth yellowed from neglect. The elf had lost too much weight and seemed to have shrunk in height as well. Crixen Runeburner knew he was in danger, but he had volunteered for this, begged for it, and he would not fail!

  The underground chamber had once been a family tomb from an unnamed religion. The bones of the occupants rested no longer in saintly contemplation but were added to the altar decorations. Each of the eight walls, the ceiling, and the floors, had been painted with eldritch symbols and phrases in angelic script. Each rune was designed to beckon, focus, and bind. All the signs and symbols were directed at one bare patch in the center of a pentagram, located behind the altar of stone and bone.

  It was The Feast of the Beast, an ancient rite established—if you believe the musty grimoires—in the year of their lord, six hundred and sixty-six. On the surface, its purpose was general hedonism and over-indulgence, but in reality, the room became a meeting point where the upper eche
lons of the infernal family made contact with the beyond.

  Here it was. The final day. Crixen Runeburner pushed forth the last of his physical reserves, burning whatever proteins were still circling his stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time food had passed his lips. All the hunger pains had died off after the third day. The elf had only managed to choke down a few cups of sugar water every few hours.

  Heavy gongs rang. Six naked bearers, three of each sex, their heads swathed in black hoods, carried in a cushioned litter. On it lounged The Scarlet Woman. Round and succulent, her face lolled to the left and right, barely taking in the environment. Her legs were tied with silken rope to the poles, forcing them open to reveal her sex between. She didn’t complain. Long had she been prepared for this event.

  Behind her entered the High Priest, decorated in a shining purple robe, wearing a mask knitted from the flesh of unbaptized children. Other heroes of old campaigns shuffled in behind him, garbed in the same gruesome fare. They wrestled in a figure that was tied up in a burlap tarp.

  “Glory. Glory. Glory,” he roared. “Let us commence the communion of our race.”

  The Scarlet Woman was positioned at the northern point of the pentacle, legs spread open to embrace the blank spot. The unseen figure was dumped onto the altar and strapped down on the stone. It was a woman. Her shrieks of fear could do nothing but add to the discordant harmony rolling about the room.

  “By the power of earth. By the power of air. By the power of water. By the power of fire. Let forth the spirit. Descend to the lantern of sorrows of the South, to the trumpets of doom of the West, to the praise of harlots to the East, to the horns of death to the North. Descend!”

  The heroes cheered, repeating the ends of his sentences. They howled and gibbered in triumph. Everyone was focused on the blank spot. Everyone waiting for the end. Everyone except Crixen. He had spotted one odd thing in the eyes of the High Priest. Terror. Why was that? What had he missed?

  “Descend and clothe thyself in one of the sacred shrouds, one of the mystic mantles. Asmodeus, creature of judgement. Abaddon, who destroys both body and soul. Af, the sower of hatred. Belial, angel of hostility. Samael, who poisons the world. Lucifer, lord of proud spirits. Satan, the great adversary.”

  Crixen Runeburner was lead forward and placed before the altar. A golden knife slapped into his hand. The victim before him, a mask of blank terror, screamed his name. He saw her then. It was the girl who had taken his virginity

  He raised the blade.

  CHAPTER 1

  Do Unto Others First

  Evil had always been in Jon St. Fond’s life. Lurking behind the wallpaper. Breathing down vents. He would turn quickly and in the span of an eye blink, the beast would be there. A horned shadow on the wall, a cold dusk of air, a tail slap on the door, a fallen picture frame, a deformed insect scuttling over the ceiling. It was there.

  Right now, he couldn’t care about any of that. Right now, Jon was kicking open the screen door at the back of his parents’ suburban home and bringing something cupped in his hands over to the sink. He placed it gently into the basin and wrapped a hand towel around it.

  It was the end of Indian summer in 1986. School had just started up and all of the anxieties that went with being a teen in the ‘80s plagued Jon. Lack of social graces, teenage awkwardness, no money—all these bothered him, but none of his problems loomed as large as his family.

  Jon heard a sharp intake of breath. The warning “Oooooo,” of his snitchy little sister rose behind him. Jon knew it by instinct. How many times had he suffered after that preamble? He swung around and snarled at her.

  “What, Catherine? What do you want?”

  “You not ‘spousta use your feet to kick open the door like tha’,” she stuttered out. “And those towels are for hands, Mom says.”

  She stood at the kitchen door, her mouth a flat frowning line of defiance at Jon’s heinous breach of protocol. Six-years-old and ready to rat on the world, Catherine was wearing her ugly tan Brownie uniform and clutching an empty plastic soda bottle in each arm. Behind her, he heard the murmur of his mother lecturing the other girls in Catherine’s scout troop, as she did every other week.

  “Don’t say anything Catherine,” Jon pleaded. He heard the whine in his voice and hated himself for it. But she held the power and only an earnest plea might stop her smiting tongue.

  No dice. She stared at him blank-eyed for a moment, and then ran back to the living room calling for mother. “Jon’s doing . . . ” whatever. He knew the drill but wanted to delay it as long as possible. He scooped up his cargo and ran for the cellar door.

  Inside the living room, his mother’s high-pitched squawk rang out, “I’ll deal with Jon in a minute, sit down. Now remember girls, any man who makes you feel uncomfortable should be immediately reported to the police. If he touches you, talks to you, looks at you, is near you, and you don’t like it then he should be locked up. It can be a stranger, a teacher, your father, your uncle, your brother, your grandfather, your cousin. Report them and keep talking until they are locked up. What’s the number again?”

  “911!” the gaggle of girls shouted.

  Jon groaned. He had actually been victim to one such call by his younger sister wherein she made some pretty evil accusations. His parents convinced the police to leave the matter alone, but how close he came to being locked up stuck with him. He paused at the cellar door and sucked in a deep breath. The package in his arms squirmed and eeked.

  “I’m not scared. I’m not scared. I’m not scared,” he intoned three times, then spun around and spat behind.

  Jon flung open the door and jumped down the stairs, hoping to avoid— No, it gripped him as it always did. A wave of nausea ran through him. Some hidden scent, some forgotten childhood nightmare, some trick of the light always triggered unease in his soul. His gorge would rise and his bottom would drop. Every time his appetite dried up upon walking down the steps. He never actually did vomit but felt constantly on the verge of it. The ritual followed was to ward off the evil which lurked there. Childish, yes, but it was the only thing that gave him confidence.

  He didn’t know why this happened. It was just a normal-looking cellar filled with standard cellar junk. Old holiday decorations, the water heater, a warped workbench with rusty tools, and the washer and dryer. It smelled dank and musty, but that wasn’t different from any of his friends’ cellars and he never had the gripping nausea when at their homes.

  That was a mystery for another time, though. He needed to take care of his charge. Jon laid the towel down in a slightly grimy sink next to the washer and unwrapped the creature inside. It was a squirrel he had accidently run over with his Huffy on the way home from school. Its back legs were crushed and bent in weird angles. Its eyes fluttered open and shut, and the animal’s breathing came in rapid short breaths.

  Guilt washed over him. He didn’t know what to do. It was an accident, yet he was responsible. The creature’s feeble eeking made the whole thing even worse. Jon paced back and forth, anxiety sending tremors of panic down his spine. He had to help, but how?

  Maybe some splints for its legs? What could he make them out of? Twigs? Popsicle sticks? Oh, hell, its back was probably broken. Maybe something to eat, or some water, or some whiskey to ease the pain. Could squirrels drink alcohol?

  He went back upstairs and ransacked the kitchen, finally coming across a can of Spanish peanuts favored by Father. Taking that was a mortal sin, but he recklessly did it anyway. Jon filled a saucer with water and hurried back down to the animal.

  Inside the living room, his mother was wrapping things up. “Okay girls. Remember, you deserve to be given the best of everything. If someone can’t provide what you need, then take what you can and move on.”

  The squirrel had gone silent. He slid a peanut between the squirrel’s weird thumb and fingers. It fell out, so he tried again. The creature’s eyes flitted a bit then dropped the food. All right, it was too far gone for that. Jon edged the
saucer to the animal’s snout. Surely it could use some liquid. That was the one thing you always needed when you were sick or run over by a vehicle.

  “Jon, Jon, where are you?” His mother was stomping around above. “What’s this about you kicking the screen door again?”

  He froze. This would not end well. He knew it. His mother took a sadistic glee in ranting about petty crapola. It was only Jon who received these assaults. She left her other two daughters alone. He was her favorite stress ball.

  Though he couldn’t end it, Jon hoped to delay the attack for a while. He remained still by the sink, watching and waiting. His focus was on the door exclusively and didn’t notice that his hand had strayed a little too close to the squirrel’s mouth. The animal roused a bit and, whether he recognized Jon or just lashed out because of the pain, the squirrel bit deep into the webbing between Jon’s thumb and forefinger.

  Pain. Scream. Crying.

  “Ah ha!”

  The cellar door kicked open. His mother, all five-foot-two-inches of her, stood silhouetted against the dying afternoon light. As she stomped down the stairs, a hideous joy was revealed on her face. She loved having the high ground. She loved having an excuse, no matter how petty, to rip into someone. It filled her with a cold warmth that neither children, nor marriage, nor church could supply. These moments were what she truly lived for.

  “How many times do I have to tell you to use your hands to open the fucking door, you idiot. Your feet will bend the metal if you kick it enough times,” Slim figured and large breasted, her visage was the living definition of a ‘bitch face.’ Her shrill words spat out rapid fire. “Why are you such a fucking retard? This house is going to be yours one day, stupid. You might want to fucking take care of it a little.”

  Catherine peeked around the cellar door, barely stifling a giggle. Her face mimicked her mother’s as she absorbed the scene, excited by the chaos she’d caused.