by Ken Lindsey
Soon, his pupils retracted and the light became less offensive. Timothy's eyes were dry and sore, so he allowed his lids to drop for the briefest of moments.
With a fizzle, the bulb winked out, leaving the room in darkness again. The preacher could feel it. Without needing to open his eyes, he knew that he was no longer alone.
With a breath, he began whispering again, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
“Tsk tsk tsk,” a high-pitched, gravelly voice rang through his skull, “Wrong. You're always wrong, Tim-tim. If you'd just open your eyes, you'd see that your precious light has left you. Again.”
It was hard for the young preacher to breathe as a knot of fear swelled in his belly. His hands shook so violently against the Bible in his lap that it sounded like a child clapping somewhere in the distance. Still, he continued, “For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places.”
“Now you're getting somewhere, Tim-tim. No flesh and blood here. You're done wrestling now. Your light failed.”
“No.” Timothy's voice quavered, even his whisper sounded frail. “I belong to the Lord. You can't change that. Nothing can change that. You are already defeated,” finally, he tightened his grip on the old Book once again. “Begone, Unclean One!” he shouted with renewed strength.
With a pop, the bulb burst back to life, coloring the world behind the preacher's eyelids orange and pink. His throat rasped as he tried to swallow the saliva that was not there. Timothy clucked and coughed until it unclenched and ran his tongue along his lips, over and over and over. Exhaustion mingled fear and relief until the preacher was left hunched over. He sobbed, moving between relief and hysteria.
He let it out. The tears and the laughter crashed in waves until he knew he would go mad. Then just as suddenly, they were gone, and Pastor Timothy sat silently in his bed. He set the Bible on the pile of books that littered his nightstand and got up off the bed to get a glass of water. As he stood, he caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror across the room from his bed.
He was only thirty-two years old, but his skin looked pale and thin and worn. He walked closer, stopping when he could reach out and touch the glass. He traced the dark lines which circled the turgid bags beneath his eyes, leaving streaks on the mirror's polished surface. He parted his lips, showing his darkened gums and yellowing teeth to his reflection. His once thick, raven colored hair was now threadlike and being swallowed up by patches of dingy gray.
The Voice came more frequently than ever now, stealing his dreams and replacing them with unspeakable visions while he slept. It shook his faith, cracking the foundation of his beliefs, one terrifying word at a time. As he looked at himself in the mirror, he knew that It (whatever It was) had been right about at least one thing.
His light had failed. Whatever strength he used to possess, whatever he had that kept the Voice at bay for the last several years had abandoned him once again. Timothy dropped his hand from the glass surface, ready to walk away, but before he could turn, something caught his attention. There was something wrong with the mirror.
After a moment of confusion, the young preacher realized that his reflection had not moved with him. It stood, staring out at him, hand pressed to the mirror's surface, eyes searching. The reflection was reaching out for him. A shiver crawled over his spine as he stepped in for a closer look. The other him, the one in the reflection wore a cruel smile—lips parted, teeth too large and soaked in shining gore, eyes colorless and dull. Blood dripped from the corners of his... no, Its mouth, leaving ruddy streaks down the reflection's chin and neck.
The reflection's fingertips broke through the mirror's surface as the Other continued to reach for him.
A guttural sound escaped from deep in his belly—closer to a roar than a scream, he grabbed the edge of the mirror, and tore it from the wall. The rectangular frame flipped and fell to the floor in an explosion of glass that scattered mirror fragments throughout the room.
“That seems a bit extreme,” said another of his reflections, from the mirror on the far wall. The voice wasn't his, but it was just as familiar to the young preacher by now.
Timothy spun and saw the same dreadful face—his face, but broken and vile, smiling out at him. Still reaching for him.
He fell prostrate; shards of glass tore at his flesh wherever he touched the floor. His knees. The palms of his hands. His forearms. Timothy spoke, his voice barely a whisper, “The Lord is my rock and my fort... fortress...” He was weeping now, tears flowing and mixing with snot and spit on his face, dripping to the floor. He stared down as he watched the blood from his palms spreading into the carpet. The sticky, sweet smell of death threatened to swallow him.
“You don't get it yet, do you, Tim-tim?”
The preacher flinched at the sound of his mother's nickname for him. She was the only one who had ever called him that. Until...
“Your words mean nothing. If I come from the darkness, it is the darkness of the grave. The darkness of rot and time. If your god is up there, he doesn't give a shit about you. You've been left here for me to play with, and I'm not finished with you.”
Timothy was woozy with panic, barely able to keep his mind in the moment. He slid to the floor, no longer feeling the slivers of glass as they rolled with his movements, grinding and churning his flesh, digging themselves deeper. Into the tissue, the meat. Timothy only knew fear.
Laying there on the floor, Timothy could see the corpse, still and rotting, beneath the bed. Ten days since he'd slit the Harlot’s throat, and already the Voice was back to haunt him. Each time, the blood seemed to be less potent than the last, while the Voice grew louder and stronger with each visit.
As the preacher drifted to unconsciousness, he imagined the oceans of blood he would need to spill to fulfill God's mission. Whores and blasphemers and homosexuals would scream. They would bleed. They would repent. They would die.
Then the Voice would finally be gone.
Chapter 1: Dirty Pictures
“I know what you're thinking. Do. Not. Run.”
The scrawny bastard had sticky gobs of sweat dripping off his face and I could hear the hiccup in his lungs as they tried to suck in enough air to keep him going. He'd been hiding out for at least three days, and by the smell, I'd guess there were no showers wherever he was holed up. Seriously, he stunk.
“I'm not a cop, Jay. I just need to know where the pictures are, and you'll be free to go.”
Jay stared, his feet twitching as he readied himself to take off again. Three times I'd already cornered this prick, and he wanted to keep running.
“Tell me where they are, Jay. If you give me those pics, you can run to Mexico for all I care. I won't chase you anymore.”
Jay was a three-time loser. He'd been busted for selling meth, his wife left him, and when he got out of jail, he decided to blackmail Darrell McKay with some dirty pictures.
Darrell McKay, who happened to be the head chef, and part owner, at the four swankiest restaurants in town. He also enjoyed stickin' it to every available woman between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five.
I wasn't a big fan of the guy, but I knew his check would clear. And the check was big. New car BIG. Not that I would ever get rid of the Jeep.
“Bullshit,” replied Jay. “Darrell's gonna make sure I go to jail for blackmail. I know him. You're a liar.”
“You're not thinking clearly, Jay. If he has you arrested, people are gonna ask questions. His wife is gonna ask questions. He only wants the pictures. All you have to do is stop running.”******
“The little asshole ran.”
“I'm going to kill him. You can still hire hitmen on Craigslist, right?”
For most folks, I'd laugh when they said something like that. Even without knowing the guy, though, I could tell McKay meant it.
“Don't waste
your time,” I said, like it was a totally normal thing to talk about. “I got the pictures. And the camera, just in case.”
As I pulled the items from my jacket I took in the splendor of the guy's office. Sparkling hardwood floors. A stone fireplace in the corner. An oak desk the size of a Cadillac. A photo of Darrell shaking hands with George W. Bush.
Maybe I should've gone to culinary school instead of the academy.
“Are you sure he doesn't have copies?” he asked as I tossed the proof of his indiscretions onto the desk.
“No copies. The guy's been living in the gutter since you turned down his offer, waiting to get picked up and go to prison for blackmail.”
Without looking at them, he dropped the camera and pics into the small, metal trash can next to his desk. Then he proceeded to pour about two hundred dollars' worth of thirty-year-old Glenfiddich over it.
Sonofabitch.
“Maybe that's not such a bad idea. A little jail time might teach him a good lesson.”
Greedy Sonofabitch.
“You could do that, but you'd have to tell the cops what he was blackmailing you with. They'd need to see the pictures you just dowsed in delicious Scotch. And your wife might get dragged into it.”
Darrell stood, looking relieved and pissed at the same time, and stuck out his hand, “Thank you for all your hard work on this, Mr. English.”
I followed his lead and shook it, trying not to let him see how dirty it made me feel. “Glad I could help, Mr. McKay. Make sure to let us know if you ever need anything else.”
“Your girl won't be sending any invoices to my house, will she?”
“Nope. The receipt she gave you when you paid should cover it.”
He nonchalantly lit a long wooden match and dropped it into the trash bin. As the blaze took hold of the scotch and everything else inside, he looked back to me, “Well, I've got work to do. Can you find your way out?”
What a prick.******
“Why do we keep taking jobs from snooty assholes?”
Kara dropped three ice cubes into the tumbler, then followed them with two fingers of Jameson. “Money, Gavin. We take the jobs that keep the business going.”
“And the whiskey flowing.”
“And the whiskey flowing,” she repeated as she handed me the glass. “Speaking of getting paid, you've got a guy coming to ask about hiring us any minute.”
“I was wondering why my ashtray was clean. What's it about?” I asked before downing half of my drink. It burned, good and hot and tingly.
Kara closed up the ice bucket and placed the bottle back in the cabinet. As she leaned, I couldn't help but notice the perfect way her knee-length skirt clung to her ass. I sipped my drink and hoped she wouldn't catch me looking.
“He didn't say, but he insisted on getting in to talk to you as soon as possible.”
Kara walked through the door into the front office, and within a minute I heard her computer booting up; then came the soft, sad indie music.
The girl is gorgeous. She's smart. She's damn funny... but the music she listens to makes me want to eat a bullet. Really. I'm fairly certain half the songs are about guys who are so sad that they only want to kill themselves.
I was lighting a cigarette when I caught myself humming along with the whiny bastard coming from her speakers.
“Kara!” I yelled. “I hate you!”
I downed the last of my whiskey as she stuck her head through the door, smiling, “No you don't.”
“You've played this damn song so many times I've got it memorized.”
“That's not even possible; I downloaded this album yesterday.”
My keen detective's brain, now properly lubricated, flashed a thought at me and I actually giggled.
“What's funny?” asked Kara with a hint of murder in her voice. “Are you thinking asshole things again?”
“This crap you force me to listen to all sounds exactly the same.”
She came fully into the office, hands balled into fists and lips curled as she readied herself to tear into me.
Jesus, even when she's pissed, she's sexy.
“Take it back, you know that's not true.”
“Then how do I know this song?” I laughed.
“You don't know this song; you're being a dick.”
I started humming the tune to her, right along with the sounds coming from her computer. “Hmmm-hm-hmmmmm-badah-hmm-lalalaa-hmmmm-wish I could diiiiiieee...”
“I'm going to kill you,” she snarled before slamming my door and storming back into the front office. The best thing about her storm off is that I could no longer hear her music playing.
I took a nice long victory drag off my coffin nail, then hit the intercom button. Fighting the laugh boiling just beneath the surface, I asked, “Could you bring me a refill, amazing assistant Kara?”
“GO TO HELL!” she yelled, not bothering to use the intercom.
I let out the laugh and pulled my emergency bottle from the bottom drawer of my desk. Still half-full was a very good sign, especially if my assistant decided to boycott the liquor cabinet. I took a final drag from the pill at my lips and smashed it into the ashtray before spritzing the place with a little air-freshener.
I hated the flowery smell of the stuff, but Kara insisted it would help clients not get so turned off by my smoking in the office. It was my damn office, damn it, and I was gonna smoke in there if I wanted to... even if it meant smelling like an old lady once in a while.
“Mr. English,” came Kara's voice, almost sickeningly sweet, over the intercom, “Pastor Ford is here to see you.”
Pastor Ford? Jeeze, I wonder what level of hell you go to for cheating on a man of God.
“Thanks, Kara.”
I stood up and adjusted my tie, checked my hair, and gave one last puff of air-freshener before opening the door. Kara sat behind her desk, smiling at the man standing across from her. He was a tall drink of water, thin and tired looking, wearing a second or third hand pleated suit with a tiny, wooden cross pinned to his lapel.
“Pastor Ford, I'm Gavin English,” I introduced myself and stuck out my hand.
“Thank you so much for meeting me, Mr. English.” Ford shook it, gripping a bit tighter than I expected from a man looking so haggard. He smiled a clearly forced smile, and his eyes darted from Kara to the door, from the door to me, and then to the floor and back to Kara.
The man was terrified.
“No problem at all. Why don't we head into the office? I can have my assistant bring you something to drink.”
“Water would be just fine,” he replied, nodding to Kara as he followed me into the office.
I sat as Ford looked around the room. He was twitchy and tired and I'm positive he thought something might jump out at him. Once Kara brought in a bottle of water, though, he finally settled and took a drink.
As Kara closed the door behind her, I asked, “So how can I help you, Pastor?”
He swallowed hard, “Will this conversation remain confidential?”
The panic is gone. He's all business as he stares right into my eyes. He doesn't blink, I'm not even sure he was breathing at this point.
“Uh, yeah. Absolutely.”
“You don't seem sure. If this isn't going to remain between us, I'm going to need to leave.”
“Whatever you want to talk about will be between us. Just relax, Pastor Ford.”
Then he breathes, his eyes shift all through the room again, but he leans back into the chair. “I'm sorry. I've never done anything like this before.”
“I get it. Take however long you need.”
“I think one of my parishioners has been unfaithful to her husband.”
“Oh. Alright.” I'm not sure how to respond to this, although my first thought was to ask how it was any if his damn business. Somehow, I don't.
“I know it seems odd, and maybe I shouldn't be involving myself... He's a very important member of my congregation. And a friend. If she is having an affair... I don'
t know what kind of damage it could do. Not only to my friend, not only to the church, but also to her soul.”
I didn't want him to go any further. Talking about souls and church and salvation was never easy for me, those are things I just never understood or wanted to understand.
But the point, the cheating spouse, that's something I know about.
“So, you want me to follow her? Find out if she really is cheating?”
He took a deep breath, seemed relieved. “Yes. Exactly. I think that if I could be sure, if maybe you could get some photos of her... well I might be able to help get her right with God. And it would also be so good to know that I was wrong, if that's the case.”
“I think we can help you out.” I stood and offered a smile, “Just give the woman's info to my assistant; she'll go over my fees and schedule with you. We'll take care of the rest.”
Chapter 2: Sucker-punches and Etorphine
“Was it me,” asked Kara when she returned to my office, “or was that guy super creepy?”
“Yeah, there's something going on there. To be fair, though, I'm not sure if it was extra creepiness, or irregular fanaticism.”
“I didn't expect you to take the job, Gavin.”
“It’s just snapping a few pics for the guy. Besides, someone told me recently that we have to take the jobs that pay, right?”
“I guess.”
I smiled and stood, “If that's all we've got going today, you feel like going out and grabbing a drink with me?”
Kara smiled, but not a real smile. If I didn't know any better, I might have thought it was a pity smile.
“I can't.”
Apparently, I don't know any damn better.
“Oh.”
“I kind of have a date tonight.”
BAM. First round knock-out. Her words were a sucker-punch, out of nowhere, and I took it straight on the jaw. I couldn't think of a reply. I just stared at her, mouth wide open like an idiot.
“My friend set me up with her cousin. It's not a big deal or anything, but I couldn't really say no.”