Father Henry coughed roughly, grabbed a goblet from a nearby windowsill and spat into it. “Everything, my son. Everything. Now, I must rest. And you must return to those who rely upon your most excellent and revered judgment.”
* * *
Upon the long return journey, Samuel decided, once the papers were delivered, that he would begin to distance himself from Catherine, and, hopefully, from the unwanted gossip attached to their relationship. He decided he would not see her, or visit her, for two or three weeks at the least, hoping to assuage the rumour mill amongst his congregation and the members of his parish. He momentarily considered not giving her the confession at all, could not see the point of it. But she was brash, and he feared a wrathful reaction or worse, for him, a potentially damaging reaction. Besides, he thought, where was the harm?
Shortly after his arrival in Kingsbury, he went directly to her house, eager to be rid of the confession that weighed heavier and heavier within the satchel he carried.
When he handed the papers over to the delighted Catherine, she inquired if he’d bothered to read them at all, to which he confessed, without fully realising why, that he hadn’t looked at a single page.
Amidst her unusual excitement, he went on to inform her of his plan of taking “a break” from one another, until the gossip mills cooled down, at least. Catherine, to his surprise and slight chagrin, seemed not only to approve, but enthusiastically so. “My dearest, this is perfect! Can’t you see? Some time apart will do us both good, and you have so much work to do and the last thing either of us need is to be part of some dreadful gossip circle!”
She had taken the satchel from him and all but pushed him through her small home and toward the front door.
“But Catherine, it’s only temporary. And I’ll see you at church, I hope.”
“Of course, of course.”
As she hurried him through a small hallway, one he had rarely passed through before, he thought he heard a strange, oddly familiar sound from behind one thick wooden door.
“What was that?” he said, attempting to pause but guided steadily forward by her hand on his back.
“Nothing my sweet, a neighbour perhaps,” she said lightly. “Now, you go and take care of your business and I will see you at church for services, like any proper young lady would.”
“Very well,” he said, and bent to give her one last kiss on the lips. She turned and gave him her cheek instead, the satchel of pages clutched tightly to her bosom.
“Goodbye, Samuel,” she said quickly, and closed the door on him, the sound of the bolt being thrust home followed abruptly thereafter.
But it wasn’t goodbye, for the priest found, upon his return to his small room in the church annex, that he was fidgety and out of sorts. He paced and drank wine, and thought of all Father Henry had told him while his tortured mind ran along the naked curves of Catherine’s body, his lust overwhelming. I will see her soon, he thought stubbornly. Tomorrow perhaps, just to see how things are going with her study of Dyer’s confession. Or, at the least, the day after that.
Feeling angry, shamefully licentious and tormented, Samuel opened his Bible atop the small mahogany writing desk and tried desperately to read, to lose himself.
There was one item, however, that would not allow him peace, that would not flee his mind no matter how hard he sank his thoughts into the Word of God.
It was that sound.
The odd sound he’d heard while being thrust from Catherine’s house. He knew better, of course, because it was impossible. A neighbour’s, perhaps. Yes, it must have been. Anything else would be preposterous, he knew, because the sound he heard—had thought he’d heard—was the small, happy, hiccupping sound... of a baby.
He recalled the dread he’d felt when speaking with Father Henry, wondered again why she would be so interested in a killer’s confession.
Simply not possible, he thought.
Still, only three days passed before he decided to go to her uninvited, to discuss her strange interest in the pages, and to listen closely for whatever it was making sounds on the other side of that mysterious door.
The morning of his decided visit he said his prayers and heard confession for those few of the congregation who were not at work on a weekday. He took a light lunch, prayed feverishly for guidance and self-control, and set to leave.
It was raining outside. Light for now, but the skies were darkened to slate; rolling clouds ashen as a rotten corpse were sucking at the sky, preparing to release their burdens on the humanity far below.
Samuel made the brief walk under a hooded cloak, not minding the numerous puddles he stepped in, so deep was his concentration, his concern. The sky snapped distant thunder like a cracking boulder, the throaty echo carried on each drop of rain that struck him, whispering God’s wrath into his ears.
He reached Catherine’s house and knocked heavily on the door. He heard her inside, coming to greet him, likely not surprised at his lack of resolve. His fingers curled into his palms and he knocked again out of shame and quickly rising fear. The bolt slid and the door opened, Catherine looked at him with a knowing smile and a face innocent as a babe’s.
“Father Ramsey, please come in,” she said, and stepped back from the threshold.
And here we are.
* * *
Tomorrow I hang. Is certain now although I suppose part of me thought maybe there would be some divine intervention as they say but now I think not, what is it Christ said on the Cross? THOU HAST FORSAKEN ME. But I blaspheme a there will be time for prayer a asking of forgiveness later when I lay my head on the mildewed blanket for the last time in this damned world but I done me duty a have no shame in that I did what needed to be done a there will be others after me who continue to do the good work of the Order who continue to defeat the creature of Hades keep him burning in his lake of fire for all eternity, or at the least delay the prophecy I suppose, it is all a wretch of a servant such as I can hope for. It can always be worse praise the Lord for I watched a woman die in front of me today a felt nothing. She starved to death, her jaw broken her cheek smashed by the swing of a jailer’s cudgel when she begged for mercy I guess she thought him a priest probably insane like the rest of us but she grabbed at his boot one too many times a clutched at him naked, her breasts scraped against the floor her eyes wild a he swung down at her once than again a once more after she stopped wiggling a when she died two days later a I watched her spirit pass I felt numb a I knew than that God hath forsaken me here on this earth a it was time for me to leave, a so it is I’ll hang tomorrow a say nothing of this except for what’s written here. I go to my Maker knowing that I done my part in killing all those children a was His grace that had me caught after I began to enjoy it more than I should so God bless the sinner I suppose because I am one just like you. As for the Order there are many more of us a there are surely as many against us I know that as well a one side must victor in the end as it is written in the Good Book one side will bathe in glory but I’ve done my part a God Bless the angels I send him for they will need to fight when the day comes the day of judgment. I’m tired now a I’m ready to die a I won’t say nothing more here about it in case these words become known outside my confession to keep the others safe to keep the other Angel Makers safe the ones who destroy life to preserve grace that is our calling us of the Order of the Light that is our calling a we heed it a we DO OUR DUTY a be we damned for it then so be it I’m ready to hang goddamn this world I’m ready to die for what I done a I’d do it again a again a again I’d kill a THOUSAND children to keep evil at bay gladly I would STRANGLE THE LIFE from every babe on earth if needed praise God beware of the return there are many there are many of us. Save us save us save us O Lord keep us safe O Lord for He comes a I am so very tired, I am so very wasted. Amen.
Samuel went straight to the door.
“What are you doing?” Catherine said, trailing after him. “Samuel!”
He spun on her, his anger kept at bay with greater
and greater effort. “Why did you want her journals? Why do you care about Amelia Dyer?”
Catherine stopped, looked downward, then lifted her eyes to his, lip curling. “What did that old fool tell you?”
“I’ve been blind!” he yelled, his voice vibrating off the walls. He stepped to the wooden door, tried the handle, found it locked. “Open this!”
“And why would I do that?” she said, her voice slipping from her lips like moist black silk, each word the flickering end of a snake’s tail.
He could hear the rain now, the rush of drops hammering the roof as the clouds opened. A rumble of thunder set his nerves on edge.
“What’s in this room?” he demanded.
“My children, of course,” she said, stepping closer to him. “They were asleep, but I’m sure by now you’ve woken them up.”
He stared at her, eyes wide, mouth open. “Children?” he sputtered. “What children?”
“My babes,” she said, putting her hands onto his chest. “My little angels.”
Samuel recoiled from her touch. What had he been thinking? What manner of dark seduction was this woman using against him? He shook his head, stared at her as if for the first time. Her eyes were not the perfectly knit icy azure he’d imagined, but a sickly, muddy blue the colour of a shallow creek bed. Her teeth, what he once thought of as pearly white, looked browned and slightly crooked. Her pale skin was sallow and dried to flaking in places around her lips and temples. Her gold-spun hair was merely a dirty blond, speckles of lice dotting the roots, shifting in and out of sight.
“What manner of evil are you?” he said under his breath, bile burning his constricted throat.
“Oh,” she cooed, and laughed, “are we not friends anymore, Father?”
“Open this door,” he said through numb lips.
She smiled at him, then spun herself in a circle, speaking gaily as she did so. “I’ve read the pages, there are some missing but that’s all right. Likely the old bastard was holding back. But we’ve taken care of him now so that’s no longer a problem, no longer a problem and now part of the greater solution. We have the books and our sacrifice now.”
“What are you talking about?” Samuel spat, his mind reeling.
Outside the rain hardened, thunder rolled like empty barrels across the sky, wind shook the windowpanes and doors as the sound of a marching army tramped across the rooftop.
She stopped her spinning, stumbled, looked at him dazedly, her eyes absent. “Three circles we made with his blood, right there on the oaken floor of the empty stable. Three circles intertwined, to open the door. We let him bleed into the roots of the trees, hung his body so the blood flowed down,” she mumbled, pulled at his robes, at his belt. She reached up and put her cold, callous hands on his cheeks. “We had to be sure, Samuel. We had to be sure they didn’t know, don’t you see? That any secrets died with her. Oh, you don’t understand how they’ve been hunting, always hunting.”
Samuel was stunned, speechless. The woman was insane, clearly, but if she was insane and murderous then he must see that any children were removed from the house, from her demented clutches. He could not begin to fathom the horror... he nearly moaned aloud. A killer of babies in his parish! An orphanage, by God! The very thought of his collusion in the prospect sent his mind stumbling. He clutched one of her hands, plucked it from his robe and squeezed it fiercely in his own. Outside, just above them, thunder shattered the sky with a deafening bellow, the force of it vibrating the walls of the small house, and the rain fell harder.
“Open this door,” he ordered, speaking up over the growing sounds of the storm. “Or I will break the damned thing down.”
“No,” she said, fear flooding her eyes. “You can’t! You must not!”
He grunted a reply, pushed her away and, gritting his teeth, threw his massive bulk at the door. It held once.
“NO!” she screamed, and flew at him, but his shoulder was already moving toward the door a second time.
The door burst from its hinges and collapsed to the floor. The priest stumbled into the room, nearly fell but caught his balance at the last moment. Catherine pushed past him, screaming hysterics, lunging toward a baby’s crib in the corner of the room. Samuel gained his feet and looked around, eyes wide. A large lumpy sack, spotted with stains, lay heaved into one corner, and he could smell it now, could smell the rot and decay. God help me, he thought as he saw the other cribs—barren, strewn against the walls. He spun on her, saw her reach into the one distant crib.
“Do not harm that child!” he screamed in fury, meaning to take it from her by force if necessary. To hurt her if necessary.
She pulled a wrapped blanket from the crib.
Another baby, he thought, remembering the weeks he was pleasuring himself with her in this very house, that smell now so evident, the decay all around him so plain, now that his eyes were open. My Lord my God, what have I done?
She held the swaddled baby in her arms, her eyes white and spotted by roving black orbs, her teeth slick splinters of burnt ivory. She held the bundle toward him, and a fold fell away exposing the head of the infant. Its eyes were miraculously closed as it lay in her shaking hands, peacefully asleep as hell broke loose around him.
“Harm? Never!” she said and laughed, the baby swaying as she spasmed in wrought ecstasy. “Don’t you see, Samuel? It’s over! It’s over now and we have won! See his glory, he’s come, Father! Look upon the new king!”
Blood ran from her eyes. He looked away only a moment and noticed the etchings covering the walls, the floors, the shapes all writhing as the raging storm attacked the house. The shutters tore clear from the lone window and a blast of wind shattered the panes like a fist. Glass and rain howled through the room, soaking the madwoman and the baby she held.
“Give him to me!” he bellowed over the crashing thunder, the shrieking wind a hundred screaming souls.
She lifted the baby toward him.
“Look upon him!” she screeched, her dress soaked through and clinging to her nakedness, her wet hair streaked across her face, soaking in the blood that caressed her cheeks. “Look upon the mark!”
Samuel took a few steps closer, raising his arm against the stinging rain, then stopped, knowing he could go no further. A shape hunched in the corner, black as death and twice the height of a man, twice the width, its head bowed and watching. Samuel did not look upon it but kept his eyes on the baby, the tiny skull. He saw now the smudge beneath the fine dark hairs that were wet and matted to the babe’s head. The child’s eyes opened, craning its neck to gaze upon him with wide eyes. Samuel felt his heart burst and fell back, yelling to God as his spirit left him and with an arm stretched out to heaven he crumpled.
“We’ve done it!” she screamed. “We beat her, we beat the murderous, crazy bitch! That wicked old jade! Outsmarted them all and brought him forth!” She stood over the priest as the ceiling of the nursery darkened and swirled, ripped away into the abyss of the great storm as she put a naked wet foot into the priest’s mouth and turned his empty gaze upward toward the world’s imminent annihilation. She shoved the thing toward his face, and the lurking shadow moved and the room burst open to a spinning pitch sky.
“We’ve won, damn them!” she cried. “See the mark, Father, see it now. For He is risen! See the great angel the world hath made!”
Surfer Girl
Adolf’s father melted the day after he became a man.
In life, Frank Politzcki had been a good person and didn’t deserve to die, although he courted it regularly with too much fried food and too much alcohol. He drank every day, usually all day, and never exercised or worked to better himself. But Frank was a content man. He loved his wife and his young—albeit a trifle slow—son, liked his job just fine and the guys, well hell, they loved Frankie. There wasn’t much not to like. There wasn’t much there at all.
But when Frankie went to work at the San Ramos Steel Mill, where “Steel is the Deal,” on the early duotone morning of Februa
ry 27th, death found a way.
That same afternoon, the day after his 13th birthday, Adolf was building a wide, knee-high mud fortress in the backyard of the Politzckis’ tiny, rundown home just outside San Ramos, California. Frankie liked to call it “Politzcki’s Palace,” but the glorifying moniker didn’t keep the city from passing code violations due to the sagging roof and the ’73 Chevy Nova junker Frankie kept half-built in the front yard, its innards rusted through and the engine parts he had so meticulously removed one aspiring day strewn about the weed-speckled dirt like meteorite remnants, half-planted in the earth as if driven there from space by the force of the earth’s gravity.
When Adolf heard his mother, Agnes, scream from inside the house, he left his fort and the small animal traps set up to capture the fort’s future inhabitants—squirrels with snapped necks, perhaps a paw-trapped raccoon king—and ran inside, his over-taxed heart beating a staccato rhythm behind his flabby boy-tits.
“Mama!” he screamed, bursting through the screen door, his bare knees caked in mud beneath grimy cargo shorts, his red t-shirt stuck to him by the sweat of his exertions with the fort. “Mama, Mama!” he yelled as he ran, huffing his way through the kitchen and into the living room where he saw his mama standing with her back to him, talking on the phone. She turned, her eyes glazed with shock and grief. One hand held the phone receiver, the other lifted toward him palm-up—a halt signal—warning him to stay back. As if to say, “No, son, don’t come a step closer. Death has arrived.”
His mother sat with him in those first hours, holding his large head, stroking his greasy, dandruff-speckled hair, blowing hot, cigarette-scented breaths over his cheek. “He’s dead, baby,” she said. “Your daddy is dead.” Her wet lips tickled his ear, the words buzzed his eardrum. She whispered, like a secret, “He’s dead forever.”
Adolf didn’t know much, but he knew what “dead” meant, and he knew what “forever” meant. He had slaughtered enough vermin to know that dead meant bloody and without breath, empty, motionless. He knew that forever meant as long a time as there ever was, more than a thousand days put together.
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