by Brom
“Let’s plaaaay,” echoed the boys’ voices.
Were they in front of him? Behind? Chet couldn’t tell. His heart drummed in his ears. “Grandma,” he whispered, trying to reach out to her. Never had he more wanted to hear her reassuring voice. Grandma, please hear me.
Two sets of fireflies bounced toward him in the fog. Dark shapes formed around them. It was them, the boys, only now they were nothing more than molten black flesh. He could see smoke rising off their bodies. They extended their hands to him and began to laugh.
Chet bolted, running heedless of obstacles. His shoulder hit a tree, spinning him, and he struck his head on a branch, hard, knocking him off his feet. He tried to stand, reeled, dropping to his hands. He touched his head, felt wetness, saw blood on his hand.
They appeared again, walking slowly toward him, all their teeth exposed in a face-tearing grimace. “Chet,” they said, their voices low, almost a growl.
“Children,” came a firm, strong voice. Lamia appeared out of the mist behind the ghouls. Their faces changed when they saw her, shifted. Even scabbed and twisted, Chet could read their joy.
“Mama!” they both exclaimed and ran to her. She bent, gathering them in her arms. They hugged her, pressing their blackened, blistered faces into her chest.
“Grandma?” Chet called.
Lamia looked at Chet. “Chet, I’m sorry. Did they scare you?”
“What . . . no . . . they’re . . . monsters.” He could barely get the words out.
She released the children. “Boys, stay back. You’re scaring him.” She spoke to them calmly, sweetly.
“We just want to play,” they groaned.
This isn’t real, Chet told himself, struggling to one knee. No way this is real. Yet his horror, his desperate need to escape this madness, that was real and he tried to stand, stumbled, landing back on his hands.
Lamia came to him, kneeling down, draping her arms about him. “Now, there, dear. It’s all okay. Don’t fear them. They cannot help what they’ve become.” She touched Chet’s face and he felt all of six years old again. Lamia was warmth and love, the moon and stars, his safe harbor, and all he wanted was to curl up in her arms. “Kindness is the only way to alleviate their suffering,” she whispered.
A sharp sting along his throat, something warm and wet, gushed down his neck. Chet saw a knife in Lamia’s hand, the one with the serpent on the handle from her box—it was now covered in blood.
She gazed at him with doting eyes and the silvery specks within her irises began to pulse, then slowly spin, and Chet felt himself spinning along with them.
Chet tried to raise his hand, but his arm felt impossibly heavy. Everything was dimming, growing darker and darker. He closed his eyes, and began to drift.
CHAPTER 6
Chet opened his eyes and tried to focus, but everything was cast in a silvery light. He climbed to his feet, feeling weightless, unsteady, as though he were drifting. He clasped his head, struggling to maintain his balance. His surroundings were hazy, distorted, and drained of color. Even the crashing waves sounded muted.
He heard lapping, like that of an animal drinking. He turned toward the sound and made out a hunched shape. He blinked, a bit more detail came into the world, and he saw it wasn’t an animal, but a woman. She was on all fours straddling a body, that of a man. Chet blinked again and his vision cleared, only he wished it hadn’t, wished he could unsee what he was seeing. Lamia, except not, her limbs too thin and too long, her bones pushing at her ashen flesh as though they might tear through, her spine a row of spikes beneath her gown. She was hunched over, grunting and slurping as she licked and sucked at the man’s neck.
“Grandma?”
Slowly, she lifted her head, looked at him, her face now elongated and goatlike. Blood dripped down her chin, neck, and chest in gooey strands, matting her long white hair. She set eyes on him, small silvery eyes with black slits down their middles, eyes that pulsed. She smiled. “Chet, I thought all was lost, but you . . . you have saved me. I love you, child. I’ll always love you.”
Chet glanced at the body, at the face of the man his grandmother now straddled. Saw his own face, his own blank eyes staring back at him, and somewhere deep down understanding began to dawn. He put his hand to his mouth. “Oh, no. Oh, no . . . no . . . no!”
“Go play, Chet. Go play with your brothers and sisters.” Lamia gestured to the fireflies around them. Chet saw that they weren’t fireflies after all, but eyes. He blinked and saw more—faces behind the eyes, faces of children, hundreds of them, from toddlers to four- and five- and six-year-olds. And all of them, every single one, stared at Lamia, their faces tormented with longing. Never had Chet seen such desperate plaintive need.
“Mommy, Mother, Mama,” they murmured. The words garbled, in many variations, many languages, but regardless, what they were saying was clear: they were calling for their mother. They pushed closer, and closer, hands outstretched, reaching for Lamia.
Davy and Billy moved forward, snarling and baring their teeth. The children’s faces turned from longing to fear. They backed away, keeping plenty of distance between them and the two ghoulish creatures, but never so far as to lose Lamia from their sight—all those eyes, those desperate eyes, staring and staring.
This can’t be. Can’t be, Chet thought. “Grandma!” he cried. “Grandma!” he screamed, almost wailed. “Help me! You gotta help me. Make it stop. Please, oh God, please make this stop!”
Davy and Billy laughed but Lamia took no notice, returning to the body, his body, returned to feasting on his blood. The sounds of her chewing and sucking echoing in his head, making him want to claw out his own eardrums.
Chet started toward her, his hands out, reaching. “Grandma. Please.” And he realized how like the others he must look, must sound.
Billy and Davy set eyes on him, showing him their teeth as they stepped toward him.
Chet stopped, tried to back away, found his feet sliding as though on ice.
As the demons moved from Lamia, several of the children rushed forward, swirling around her, clutching at her, sliding their fingers across her face, through her hair as they sang her name. Lamia hissed and batted at them the way one would a mosquito.
Davy and Billy spun about, leaping after the children. The children screamed and dashed away. But Davy caught one, a girl of no more than three, clamping his teeth into her arm. She shrieked as he shook her savagely back and forth, tearing her arm from her shoulder. No blood, or gore, just wispy, stringy tendrils. Screaming, she stumbled away, disappearing into the misty woods.
And as Davy devoured the girl’s arm, a thought hit Chet, chilling his heart. Trish. Oh my God, Trish! He had to get to her before these monsters did—tell her to get out of here now. He stumbled back, trying to flee, felt as though he was sliding, unable to get any real traction—floating, drifting into the mist, into the trees.
“Don’t go too far,” Davy called. “The Burning Man still wants to see you.” The two ghouls burst out laughing, the sound of it grating, biting into Chet’s head.
Chet pushed through the children. Their bodies were soft and yielding, cold, none of them paying him any heed, all of them vying for a view of Lamia. With focus and effort Chet gradually managed to gain some control of his movement. God, what’s she gonna do to Trish? He pushed through the trees, searching for the house, fighting the urge to shout for her. He was about to turn around, try another direction, when he came upon the sandy drive. He headed up the road, managing to move faster, more of a pushing effort than running, almost gliding, almost like ice skating.
Chet stopped at the edge of the field. A light breeze blew the thinning mist about, giving him glimpses of the house at the top of the hill. A light was on. Is Trish awake? Did she hear me? Did she hear any of it? God, please.
Lamia came into view, no longer hobbling, but strolling up the hill on the far side of the field. The demons walked at her side, snapping at any children who dared come too close.
&n
bsp; Chet ducked down in the reeds.
Lamia entered the house and as soon as the door shut, the demons turned on the children, chasing them back into the woods.
Chet waited until the demons were out of sight, then he headed up the hill. He approached the house, sticking to the bushes, praying he could get to Trish before Lamia hurt her. He dashed up the porch steps and collided with something solid, something hard enough to knock him down. There came a jingle, followed by a blast of pain in his head. He clasped his hands over his ears until it ceased. He looked at the porch: there was nothing—no wall, no fence. He noticed the multicolored string, the bells, reached for them and again bumped something firm, the air darkening, a numbing chill traveling up his arm. One of the little bells jingled, followed again by the blinding pain in his head. “Fuck!”
“We hear you, Chet.” It was one of them, the demons, but it sounded far away, a voice on the wind. “Time to meet the Burning Man.”
The burning man? Who’s the burning man? But Chet thought he knew and it struck him that there might be worse things than death, far worse things. He pushed to his feet and darted around the house, searching for a way across or over or under the string. He found none; the string wound all the way around. He stopped under Trish’s window. The room was dark. “Trish!” he cried. “TRISH!” he screamed as loud as he could.
“Better find a hiding place, Chet,” called one of the demons in that maddening singsong voice, closer now.
Chet searched the ground for a stick, a stone, something to hit the window with. He found a rock and grabbed for it. His hand passed right through. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“Che-et, ready or not, here we come.”
He looked at his hands, squeezed them together. They felt solid. He tried again, concentrating, and again, his hand passed through, but this time it moved, just a nudge, but he had moved it. He tried once more. Focus. Just focus. It was in his hand, he could feel the weight of it.
“Che-et, where are you?”
The rock slid through his palm, hit the ground with a thud. “Dammit!”
“Che-et.” The voice sounded right around the corner of the house.
Chet dashed back down the hill, searching for a place to hide, sliding behind the trunk of a great oak. He pressed his back against the tree and gritted his teeth, trying to calm himself. There’s gotta be a way.
“We smell you, Chet.”
Fuck you, Chet thought, wondering how much longer he could play this game.
Something touched Chet’s arm. He started, almost cried out.
A young black boy in tattered clothes, no more than five or six years old, hunkered in the weeds behind him. Only he wasn’t really a boy, but a wispy play on shadows, much like the children who followed Lamia. Chet started to flee, but there was something in the boy’s eyes, the urgency, the fear, that Chet knew must mirror his own.
The boy put a finger to his lips, waved Chet to him, turned, and crawled away into the tall grass.
Chet hesitated.
“Olly, olly, in come free,” one of the demon ghouls called out.
Chet glanced past the tree, saw Davy wandering around the house. Chet bit his lip and followed the child, catching up with him a moment later. “Where we going?” he whispered.
The child slapped his hand over his mouth, shook his head, wagging a finger frantically at Chet.
Chet got it, put his fingers to his own lips, and nodded.
The child pointed ahead to the gravestones poking up from the grass, then leaned forward, putting his lips near Chet’s ear, and spoke in the softest whisper. “Safe there.”
The boy glanced anxiously about, then headed quickly away. Just as he passed an oak, Billy jumped out, catching him by the arm and slamming him into the ground. “Got’cha!” Billy cried, leaping atop the boy and shoving his face into the dirt. Claws sprouted from Billy’s fingers and he raked them down the child’s back, shredding his wispy shirt and flesh. The boy let out a piercing scream.
Chet leapt up, every instinct screaming at him to flee, escape while he could, but he charged instead. At the last moment he thought of the rock he’d tried to pick up, wondering if he’d pass right through this monster. He didn’t pass though. He slammed into Billy, knocking him off the child.
Billy tumbled, then sat up fast, wide wild eyes on Chet. Even on that twisted, burned husk of a face, there was no hiding the shock, surprise, and something else—perhaps a touch of fear.
The child didn’t waste a second, scrambling away and leaping into the cemetery.
Chet made to follow, but Billy jumped up, blocking his way. Whatever Chet thought he’d read on Billy’s face was gone, replaced by pure malice.
“Gonna peel your skin, Chet. Nice and slow. And when I’m done, I’m gonna do it again. That’s the nice thing about being dead. The suffering never ends.”
Chet balled his hands into fists. He was tired of running, tired of being scared. Whatever this was about, it needed to be over. “Well c’mon, you little fucker!” Chet cried. “Just c’mon!”
Billy slowly raised his hands—they were mostly hands again—and held them to either side of his head, palms out, fingers splayed. He jabbed a thumb in each ear and began to wiggle his fingers.
“What,” Chet said. “What the h—” He didn’t finish. Something hit him from behind, knocking him to the ground. It was Davy. Both of them fell upon him, wrestling him onto his back, pinning his arms. Their small shapes were inexplicably heavy and he found himself staring up into their sputtering yellow eyes.
Davy held up his hand, rubbing his fingers together. They began to smolder, spark, then his whole hand burst into flame. He lowered it until it was just inches from Chet’s face. “It hurts when you burn,” Davy said. “Hurts worse than anything.”
“Know how we know?” Billy asked. “Because your grandpa, he cooked us to a crisp.”
Davy pressed his fingertip against Chet’s cheek. There came a sizzle, followed by searing pain as Davy ran his finger down Chet’s face and neck. Chet flailed, struggling to twist free. Davy clasped Chet’s shoulder, his fingers burning into Chet’s flesh like a branding iron. Chet screamed through his clenched teeth.
“ENOUGH!” A voice boomed across the field, gusting across Chet, knocking the flame out.
Billy and Davy tumbled off Chet and onto all fours, searching the shadows, all the play gone from their faces.
“Leave him be.” The voice was heavy with authority and seemed to come from everywhere.
“Go away!” Billy snarled.
A bent man, with skin as black as the night, strolled from the shadows. Long dark robes, dirty and tattered, hung down his lean frame and a thin golden band crowned his bald head. His brilliant blue eyes came to rest on Chet. “This is Gavin’s grandson?”
“Y’know it is,” Billy spat. “We caught him, so that makes him ours. You can have what’s left of him after we’re done.”
The man shook his head. “You are done.”
“And what if I say we ain’t?”
“I have no patience for your games, Billy. Not tonight.” He raised a fist above his head and opened his hand. Chet made out a symbol in his palm. It rose and began to glow, floating in the air in front of him, the soft blue light rolling like smoke toward the two boys.
The boys raised their hands, shielding their eyes, and fell back snarling.
“Your God’s done forsaken you, angel man,” Billy hissed. “You’re dying, we smell it. Soon enough it’s gonna be you on your knees crying, begging us for mercy.”
The man’s face betrayed nothing.
The demons stalked back and forth along the edge of the smoky light, growling, hissing, their hungry, angry eyes on Chet.
“He’s ours,” Davy snarled. “Just you remember that.”
CHAPTER 7
Angel? Chet wondered at that. The man appeared to be no more than forty. High cheekbones protruded from a gaunt face, his skin unlike any flesh Chet had ever seen before, so black it w
as almost blue. And now, beneath the glow, he appeared haggard, emaciated, his eyes sunken. It was the look of someone slowly starving to death.
The man set his piercing gaze upon Chet, and Chet felt as though every deed of his short life was being scrutinized. Slowly, the man’s eyes softened. “Stand.”
Chet stood, wincing from the burns along his neck as he did. “What’s going on?” Chet asked. “Who are you?”
“Show me your palms,” the man said, his voice urgent.
“What?”
“Do as I say. Time is short.”
Chet held out his hands and glanced from his palms to the man’s eyes, not liking what he saw. “What? What now?”
The man slowly shook his head. “Why must despair be my only friend?”
“What?” Chet stared at his palms, then raised them closer to his face, noticing strange markings on his right palm.
The man waved a hand and the marks momentarily glowed an angry red, forming a primitive horned beast head like a brand. “Lucifer has claimed you.”
“Lucifer?” Chet’s chest tightened.
“You have been marked a murderer and left to the mercy of the demons . . . of which mercy there is none.
“Murderer? What are you talking about? I’m no murderer. I’ve never—” He stopped. “Oh, no. Oh . . . dear God . . . Coach.” Chet’s knees felt weak. I killed him. Good God, I killed him. “Jesus . . . forgive me,” Chet said, all but moaned.
“You are wasting your breath,” the man said. “Jesus does not hear the damned.”
Chet stared at him. Damned? An hour ago he might’ve scoffed at the notion of having his soul weighed, even challenged the very existence of God and Satan, for that matter. But he was seeing things differently now. Now all he could think of was a childhood full of Sunday morning sermons warning him of unrelenting flame and torment.