by Brom
“This will make things difficult.” The man sounded utterly defeated.
“Make what difficult?” Chet asked.
The man didn’t answer, just pressed his hand against his brow and shut his eyes tight as though trying to block everything out. The sigil fluttered, dimmed, and the demons took a cautious step forward.
“Make what difficult?”
Still, the man didn’t respond.
Chet felt his temper getting the better of him. “Hey . . . I’m talking to you.”
Nothing from the man.
“Hey,” Chet said again, raising his voice. “Hey.” He stepped forward, clutched the man’s shoulder, and gave him a shake. “Talk to me, goddamnit!”
The man’s eyes flashed opened; he looked from the hand on his shoulder to Chet, glared at him. Chet released him, but held his eyes.
“You dare?” the man said. “Dare to touch an angel, an emissary of God?” But he didn’t sound angry, he sounded intrigued. “You are bold, Chet. That I give you . . . and perhaps a bit foolish.” He seemed to weigh this. “And maybe that is just what is needed.” A thin smile graced his lips. “Perhaps there is hope. Yes, I am wont to believe so. Because a chance, no matter how slim, is still better than no chance.”
“Who are you?” Chet demanded.
The man gazed upward, his lips moving silently—a prayer, or maybe a curse. A light lit in his eyes. “I am Senoy. Gabriel’s sword. I serve Heaven and righteousness.” The angel straightened, drew himself up to his full height, seemed to grow taller. The sigil brightened and an aura bloomed around him, forming great, ghostly wings. The demons fell back, shielding their eyes, but not Chet. The light felt of all things good and he basked in its radiance, felt an overwhelming desire to enter its glow. Then as quick as it had appeared, the aura faded. Chet reached for the glow, but it was gone.
The angel slumped. “I serve the one true God,” he gasped weakly. “And this”—he made a dismissive wave to the land around them—“from sea to sea . . . was once my ward to watch over.” His voice fell to a labored whisper. “Until it was stolen from me.” Senoy set his eyes on Chet. “Hear me, Chet. And hear me well if you want to save your dear Trish.”
“Trish?” Chet bristled. “What do you know about—”
“Silence,” Senoy snapped. “We do not have long.” The sigil flared, gleaming off the boys’ scaly, scabby skin. “See them, Chet. See them true. And Lamia as well. Know them for what they are . . . profane and ungodly creatures all. It was my charge to rid this land of them . . . but, as you can see, I have . . . failed. And there is but one reason, one only.” He tore open his cloak, revealing a large deep wound above his heart. “Gavin Moran.” His voice filled with venom. “Your grandfather killed me. Stole everything from me.”
Chet couldn’t look away from the gory gouge in the man’s chest.
“It was Gavin that brought these demons here.” The angel’s voice rose with each word. “Him that murdered his own children, traded their souls—his own children’s souls—for Lucifer’s favor. Him that brought ruin to all.” His words turned into a hacking cough. He grabbed Chet, his cold, hard fingers digging into his arm. “He stole my key, trapping me. Then left me here, imprisoned upon this island to rot.”
Chet stared at the angel, shaking his head, trying to make sense of any of this.
“Do you want Trish to live? Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes . . . yes, of course. Fuck. Of course I do. But—”
“Then you must go down and find him, find Gavin, take the key, and return it to me.”
Down? Chet’s head reeled. What does he mean by down? But he thought he knew.
“The key is the heart of my divinity, the cornerstone of my will, strength, and purpose. With it I can unlock my shackles, can call down Heaven and bring this evil to an end. Do you understand? I must have the key if I am to stop her . . . to stop Lamia. To set us all free.”
Chet didn’t understand, not any of it.
Senoy stole a furtive glance at Davy and Billy, then slipped his hand beneath his cloak, withdrawing a leather pouch. He shoved it into Chet’s hand. “Here.” It felt heavy and something clanked inside. The angel swooned. The sigil flickered, dimmed, and he clutched Chet’s arm for support.
Davy and Billy snorted. “Soon, angel man. Soon.”
Chet started to open the pouch.
“No, not here,” Senoy said sharply, glancing at the demons. “They must not see. Now, into the cemetery.” He pushed Chet toward the fence. “It is consecrated ground.”
Chet slipped over the low fence.
“Aww, Chet. Where you going?” Davy asked. “We wanna play some more.”
Strain lined Senoy’s face; Chet felt sure he would collapse at any moment. The glowing sigil fluttered like a dying candle and the demons moved yet closer.
“Go now,” Senoy said. “Go down and find Gavin. Make great haste as Trish does not have long.”
“What’d you mean?”
“Keep your mark hidden,” Senoy said, speaking faster as the sigil continued to dim. “Satan’s hounds will be sniffing after you.”
“What’d you mean Trish doesn’t have much time?”
The sigil sputtered and went out, leaving a faint glowing vapor around the angel.
Davy and Billy crept closer and closer.
“When you find Gavin,” Senoy said, “no matter what he seems to you, no matter what he says, remember this one thing . . . he traded the souls of his own children for Lucifer’s favor. Show him mercy and it is your Trish that will suffer, your unborn child that will lose her soul.”
“Gavin, huh?” Davy said, and shared a surprised look with Billy. “What kind of mischief are you up to, angel man?”
Senoy looked deep into Chet’s eyes. “Go, Chet. Go with God’s might on your side.” And with that the angel turned and slipped away.
“Wait,” Chet called as a thousand confused questions raced through his mind. Wait. Oh, please wait.
Billy and Davy watched the angel disappear into the trees.
“Wanna get after him?” Davy asked
“Naw,” Billy said. “He ain’t going nowhere.” The two demons moved up to the iron gate and stared at Chet.
“You better run fast,” Billy said. “Because the Burning Man, he’s gonna be after you. Gonna drag you to Hell to burn with the other sinners.”
PART TWO
Erebus
CHAPTER 8
Chet walked past a few markers, glancing at the names until he found a small, simple stone in the very back of the cemetery. The inscription read, GAVIN MORAN, BORN 1900, DIED 1932, and nothing more. Chet read the name over and over. “Why?” he whispered. “Why?” He sat his foot against it, tried to push it over, but his foot pushed through it, causing him to slide to the ground. He sat there on his knees staring at the name. Goddamn, you. God . . . damn you.
A light flickered on up at the house, on the second floor, catching Chet’s attention.
“You think that’s Trish up there?” Billy asked.
“I think so,” Davy put in, his voice turning guttural. “She’ll be getting her turn soon. We can burn her up nice and slow, then do it again, and again.”
Chet balled his hands into fist, stepped closer to the fence.
“Don’t you be letting them get under your skin, Mr. Chet,” Joshua warned. “They trying to play you, trying to get you to step out.”
Billy and Davy began circling the small cemetery, shifting between demon and boy, snarls and giggles. They began to howl, screech, the sound eating into Chet’s head. He covered his ears, unable to bear it. “Where is it?” Chet growled. “Josh, the door, the way down. Where is it?”
“Door? There’s no door. Not like you’re thinking, anyhow.”
“Then what?”
“You have to sink.” Joshua pointed down. “The earth claims the dead. Going down’s easy. Just close your eyes and let go of the ground.”
>
“Huh?”
“Watch here.” Joshua closed his eyes, sank into the earth, just slipped away. Chet stepped over to where Joshua had been standing, knelt down, laid his hand on the ground. He took one last glance up at the house, at Trish’s window, then closed his eyes and—let go. He didn’t have to will it, or force it; the earth indeed seemed eager to claim him. He felt himself sliding through it, tugging him down as though hungry for him.
A moment later he stopped sinking and opened his eyes. A light fog shifted about him, giving off a dim gray glow, illuminating a cramped earthen cavern.
Joshua stood in front of him, a small smile. “See there, Mr. Chet. Weren’t so hard.”
Chet touched the wall. It wavered as though a mirage, yet he couldn’t push through it. He saw only one way out, a hole on one side of the cavern. Chet stepped over and peered down, found only darkness. “What’s down there?”
Joshua shrugged. “Don’t rightly know.”
“So you’ve never gone any farther?”
“No, sir. Scared to. Sometimes I come down here when Davy and Billy get mean. But I don’t care to stay long on account of some of the things I hear coming up from that hole. Besides, Senoy, he said I wasn’t supposed to go down there, that I’m supposed to go to Heaven.” Joshua’s face brightened. “That as soon as he gets his key back he’s going to fix things. That angels gonna come and take me home and that I’ll get to see my mama again.” Joshua beamed.
Chet touched the ceiling. “Joshua, how d’you get back up? Up to the graveyard?”
“Why, I can see my bones up above. Like little twinkling stars.”
Chet saw only darkness.
“Going back up’s a lot harder though. I have to stare at them bones, have to really put my mind to it, but when I do, I go back up.” Joshua shrugged. “Don’t know the why or how of it. When I asked Senoy, he said a soul comes home to its bones.”
Chet wondered where his bones would end up. Would anyone ever know he was dead? Would Trish even know? And his aunt? A sudden stab of guilt struck him. She warned me. Flat out told me that Lamia was a witch, a devil. Spent her whole life trying to steer me away from Moran Island. Insisted I attend church with her every Sunday, all trying to save me from this. “Dammit,” Chet whispered, thinking of how he had repaid her with nothing but disrespect and resentment, leaving her the first chance he got. I never went back. Not once. Not even to just check on her. Chet wondered just how much his aunt really knew about what happened that night, about her brother’s role in this madness. “Joshua, did you know my grandpa?”
“Yes, sir. Well, I never spoke with him or nothing, but my mama, she cooked for Mr. Gavin and Mrs. Lamia.”
“What did she think of him?”
“She told me to steer well clear of the man, to steer well clear of all the Morans. Said there were some unsavory goings-on in that house.”
“Was she there? That night he lost his mind?”
“No, she weren’t, but I was.”
“You?”
“Yes, sir. That was a bad night. That was the night Mr. Gavin killed me.”
Chet couldn’t hide his shock. “Joshua. Why—?”
“I got burned up right along with his boys, Davy and Billy. I was out back when I heard all the shouting and screaming, then the gunshots. I ran and hid in the play fort. Well, Davy and Billy did too. Mr. Gavin came after them. Set the fort to fire. It weren’t a good way to die, Mr. Chet.”
Chet stared at the boy, trying to make sense of what he was hearing.
“It’s my own fault,” Joshua said. “I liked to sneak up there sometimes after the boys were called in and play for a while. Mama warned me . . . told me to stay away. But I had a bad habit of not listening. Well . . . I sure picked the wrong evening that time.”
Chet shook his head, looked down the hole. Bastard’s down there. Somewhere. Waiting.
CHAPTER 9
Chet stood in the small chamber, the silence bearing down upon him. He was alone, Joshua having returned to the above.
“What now?” he asked the walls, his words dying the minute they left his mouth, not even an echo. Where am I even going? He realized the angel had given him nothing, no hints, no details. No . . . not nothing. He tugged the pouch around, untied it, and turned it up. Dozens of pennies spilled out. He picked one up, examined it. It was old, they were all old, most with Indian heads, the copper turning green. “Pennies?” he said, feeling certain now that he’d been sent on an errand by a madman.
There was something else in the pouch. He withdrew a knife in a simple but elegant sheath. The knife was nearly a foot long overall, the bronze hilt covered in scales and a round white stone set in the pommel. He slid the blade from the sheath and found the ore was bright gold, almost white, without the slightest scratch or sign of wear.
He ran his hand around the inside of the pouch hoping to find a note, something, anything to give him some guidance, or at least a clue to what he was supposed to do. He found nothing. “That’s it? Pennies and a knife? I’m supposed to brave the horrors of Hell with pennies and a knife?” He tried to laugh, but the sound came out more like a groan.
He gathered up the knife and coins, putting them back in the pouch, and crouched next to the hole, staring into the blackness. The blackness stared back, cold and empty, not a sound, not a glimmer, nothing, and it was that utter nothingness that most unnerved him. He slid first one leg into the hole, then the other, but that was as far as he got. “I can’t,” he whispered. “Can’t.” It was his own face that came to him, staring at him with dead eyes while Lamia—hunched over him like a beast, like a vampire—slurped up his blood. The weight of it hit him and a sob racked his body. “I’m dead. I’m fucking dead!” The words tore from his throat. He held out his palm, looked at the mark. “Dead and damned.” Fear clutched his heart. But it was an accident. I never . . . never meant to kill him. Only he knew that wasn’t true. He had, in that one moment of rage, meant to kill Coach. Eternal damnation for a moment’s rage? God, how can that be fair? How can any of this be fair? He closed his hand and looked upward. Trish and his child were up there alone, with them. He’d promised her, swore he’d always be there. He clenched his hand into a fist. “I’m sorry, Trish. So fucking sorry.” He wiped angrily at his eyes. “I am coming back. I swear it.” He faced the hole again, gritted his teeth, clenching them so hard his jaw hurt, slung the pouch over his shoulder, and slipped into the hole.
Chet slid, clawing at the blackness, finding nothing to grab hold of, nothing to slow his descent; it was as though the darkness was dragging him down. Finally the shaft began to level and he drifted to a stop. He groped about, realized he was in a tunnel, and began to crawl, almost swim, feeling his way forward as the blackness gathered weight around him, pressing in on him, threatening to smother him. He shoved his fist against his teeth. “Keep it together,” he whispered. “Just keep it together.” He heard it then, or felt it—a distant thumping, moving toward him. He fumbled for the pouch, snatching the knife out and yanking it from its sheath. To his surprise the blade gave off a faint glow, just enough to see he was in a tiny cavern with smoky black walls. He glanced wildly about, saw no one, nothing, only a chamber honeycombed with passages, some leading upward, some down. He had no idea which one he’d come from. How am I ever gonna find my way back? He forced the thought away. Keep moving, he told himself, glancing from tunnel to tunnel. Which way? Which one? Down, he thought, and it was the only thing he felt sure of.
The tunnel split, branched off again and again. Chet took any path that headed downward or appeared larger than the one he was currently in. Down, down he went, sliding, drifting, and again that swimming feeling, as though he were liquid seeping into the earth. Time meant nothing and after what could’ve been a few hours, a few days, even a week, the tunnel began to broaden and he could walk upright.
He didn’t hear the thumping again, but as time crept along he almost wished he would, would hear something, someone, so that he’d kn
ow he wasn’t trapped in some endless maze within his own crazed mind.
Pockets of gray fog began to pool here and there, giving off a slight glow. Soon the trail became less of a tunnel and more of a series of large caverns, the walls trembling, wobbling, forming and reforming like drifting smoke. Boulders and stones floated in clumps, melting into one another and shifting to and fro in an ever changing maze of walls and alleys. On and on he walked, only not really, as he was all but weightless, pushing more with his mind than his feet.
Chet heard sobbing. He stopped, peered into the shadows, and saw a man.
The man, maybe in his sixties, was dressed in an old forties-style suit. He sat on the ground, hugging his legs, weeping, his head nodding up and down.
“Hey,” Chet called. “Hey there.”
The man didn’t appear to hear him.
Chet took a step closer, realized the man was barely there, just a wispy form.
“Mister. You okay?”
The man’s head jerked up. He set terrified eyes on Chet. “Stay away from me!” he cried. “Stay away!” The man was obviously shouting, screaming, yet his voice sounded muffled and far away, his lips out of synch with the words. “All of you stay away from me!”
“Okay,” Chet said, stepping back.
The man struggled to his feet and pointed a long bony finger at Chet. “I’m not going!” he shouted, then turned and ran, disappearing down the dark corridor.
When the man didn’t return, Chet continued on. The fog grew denser, and brighter, and Chet put away the knife. He was still trying to make sense of the man when a woman walked out from the shadows, startling him.
She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, her simple knee-length dress disheveled, her hair in disarray. There was no color to her, not her dress, hair, or flesh. “Have you seen my baby?” she asked, her desperate eyes searching his. Chet fell back a step and she grabbed his arm. “Have you? Have you seen her?” Her voice, like that of the man, was distant and full of echoes.