by Jerome Sitko
She sat for nearly an hour before picking up her bag and walking down the dingy, littered street. She found an all-night diner and spent another hour sipping coffee and nibbling on a doughnut trying to figure out her next move. When she’d decided to run away, it was in haste, and she didn’t have a plan. She was wrestling with her thoughts on whether she should return home and admit defeat or try to make this work. Her reason for running away was stupid; She snuck out of her house to meet her boyfriend and got caught, and her dad grounded her for a month. Lori’s home life was great; she got good grades and never missed school, didn’t smoke, drink, or do drugs, and her parents loved and cared for her. That’s why she was so mad. One, she turns eighteen in less than a week. Two, she never got in trouble, so to be grounded for a month for a first offense was too extreme for her.
She finally looked up from her coffee cup and asked the weathered-looking waitress, “Do you know where I can find a motel?” Rosie, the waitress, was numb to these young runaways. They came and went as often as the buses themselves. They all have the same sad story—parents don’t understand them, parents are too strict, boyfriend cheated on them. Rosie pointed west and said there was a cheap motel about a quarter of a mile down the road. This girl struck Rosie as different; she seemed sincere, well-behaved, and didn’t offer a sad story. The teenager sipped her coffee, asked for directions, paid, and left Rosie a decent tip. As Rosie watched her walk out the door, suitcase in hand, she hoped this girl would be okay out there alone.
Lori was walking past a dark construction zone, the sky was cloud-covered, threatening rain showers when he came to a screeching halt next to her in his car. Her heart was beating out of her chest, and for the umpteenth time, she regretted her decision to run away.
Charlie leaped out of the running car with the precision of a seasoned boxer, no wasted movement or energy, muscle memory taking over. He grabbed her from behind and placed her in a bear hug and forced his hand over her mouth, careful that none of his fingers were exposed. He wrapped his hand in a cloth, and the more she fought and tried to scream, the weaker she felt. Lori’s life flashed before her eyes before the chloroform did its job.
Under his control, she was tied spread eagle to a filthy bed in the corner of the room for days in the cabin. The abrasive rope slowly chafed her soft skin around her wrists and ankles. She felt hopeless and feared she would die there in the middle of nowhere from the vicious beatings and rapes. He was taking his time with this one since he thought he was safe. He didn’t talk to her, except when he was abusing her, and it was a flurry of cuss words and insults. A black latex mask covered her head with only nostril holes and a zippered mouth that he never unzipped except to let her eat or drink. She felt like she was constantly suffocating and could not draw enough air from the small holes. The mask muffled her hearing, and she was in a constant discombobulated state from fear, hunger, and loss of her senses. He liked her this way, unable to think clearly. He knew she would not try to escape.
Eventually, she had to go to the bathroom; and when she asked, this angered him. There was no bathroom in the cabin, so he would have to take her outside. He didn’t want her hysterical or screaming, so he feigned kindness and said it was no big deal. He led her out with her mask still on and let her do her business shrouded by the darkness of the sky and trees. He wiped her clean, and calmly led her back to the cabin. Once inside, though, everything changed. He was furious she’d risked them getting caught, but more than that, he was angry he had to clean her. He beat her senseless that night, nearly ending her life. He accidentally snapped the radius bone in her left arm and kept hitting her each time she screamed in pain until she eventually passed out.
Watching her defecate destroyed his fantasy of a decent, proper girl. That was the reason he chose her. She was new to the streets, not yet sullied by the runaway life. She was beautiful with long brown hair and blue eyes—she wore a yellow ribbon in her hair the night he snatched her. The ribbon amplified her innocence, and to Charlie was like a halo hovering above her head. That was too much for him; he needed to be satisfied, and he needed it now.
Charlie was in town buying supplies the day the new owners of the cabin arrived. He never had a clue his world was about to end. The couple had bought the cabin and the two acres that surrounded it with plans to renovate and use it as a new vacation home. They were a young couple, mid-thirties. He was a certified diesel mechanic, and she was a schoolteacher. When they arrived at the cabin, they did not know what horror awaited them inside. Laughing and talking about what they were going to do to fix up the outside of the cabin, the schoolteacher swung open the door.
The woman screamed when she saw Lori tied to the bed and dropped the box that was in her arms. Startled, the man ran back to their Jeep Cherokee, and he grabbed his .30-.30 rifle. He chambered a round, and all of his senses were now on high alert. He rushed back into the cabin as if he had the force of an army squad behind him. The cabin was clear except for Lori, sobbing, dazed, and confused. The couple freed her, and the man carried her to the Jeep and gently placed her in the backseat.
As they drove away, his wife removed Lori’s latex muzzle, holding her breath from the pungent smell of the blood, sweat, and fear trapped under her mask. The Jeep came to a screeching stop at a gas station, and the man leaped from the vehicle and ran to a phone booth, where he dialed the police.
Charlie had no idea when he walked into the cabin with his arms full of supplies what was waiting for him. He’d been grappling with the options of trying to keep her alive a couple more days or get rid of her. She did have a broken wing, and if all she was going to do was cry, Charlie couldn’t take that. If he weren’t so complacent and had been paying attention to his surroundings, he would have noticed the tire tracks from the Jeep and also from the police cars that were there earlier. The police were waiting for him inside and had backup in the trees surrounding the cabin. He had no chance of escape and taken into custody without incident. Lori was able to identify Charlie from her hospital bed with her parents by her side.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
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CHARLIE, IN A SMALL cramped jail cell with a slit for a window, was awaiting his day in court when his cellmate, a huge man with a shaved head, found out who he was and what he had done. The cellmate, a convicted felon, was waiting to go back to prison, he despised child molesters and rapists—yes, he was a criminal, but even he had standards.
The cellmate continually tried to provoke Charlie into a fight, so he’d have a reason to beat him to within an inch of his life. After several failed attempts, his cellmate was growing more and more frustrated. He even pissed on Charlie’s pillow… nothing… Charlie threw it under the bed without saying a word. Charlie liked to dominate with fear, ridicule, and dish out the pain, not the other way around. The sight of Charlie moving around the cell without consequence was frustrating for the felon. His cellmate’s anger was growing and deepening until he decided he was already going back to prison, so what the hell.
It was a little after 10:30 p.m., and lights had only been out for about thirty minutes when Charlie decided he needed to take one last piss before bed. The fact that Charlie waited until after lights out to get up angered his cellmate, who’d reached his boiling point. Charlie was standing in front of the toilet/sink, moaning to himself as he pissed, when his cellmate jumped down off the top bunk. For a big man, he was fast and agile. Before Charlie could figure out what was happening, the felon grabbed him by his head with both hands. The cellmate crushed Charlie’s skull against the stainless-steel sink and shattered his glabella and nasal bones. After he was dead, his cellmate pulled off his blood-soaked t-shirt, tossed it in the corner of the cell, and climbed back up onto his top bunk. He afforded himself one last look at his handiwork, and, satisfied, he slept until the guards made their rounds and discovered Charlie’s body. It was a grotesque scene. Charlie’s head viciously smashed against the sink, blood was splattered on the walls and ceiling and pooled
around his crushed head on the floor. His pants and underwear still gathered down around his ankles.
It was evil that brought Charlie back to life—sinister, demonic beings that are not a part of heaven or hell. Undescribable, they have no form and can’t be associated with anything our minds can understand. Charlie referred to them as Erebus. Charlie had to bring the three boys into Sheol to make the journey, but they don’t know it yet—not yet. They’ll figure it out soon enough—how night became day, how Charlie and Joey can communicate without words, and how vultures can grow to the size of a compact sedan.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
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I TURN TO CHARLIE and ask, “Where are we going? What makes you think we will follow you?”
Charlie stops walking, stops humming to himself, turns, and looks at me. His face is sweating, and I can smell the evil on him. I can visualize it protruding out of his pores on his face as he looks into my eyes—it makes me sick and scared at the same time.
He says, “If you ever want to see Ryan again, you’ll follow me. If not, he’s already dead, and so are all of you.”
“Well, where are we going? Why do you need us?”
“All three of you have something I need for my journey. Think of yourselves as tools, tools I need.”
“Are we going to die?” I ask. He looks at me again and with a smirk says, “Define ‘die.’”
We arrive at a red Camaro with a single white stripe down the middle, and he motions for us to get in. This car has seen better days; it’s filthy. You can barely see through the windows and the rust has burrowed itself so far into the metal that if you touch it where it has cancer, it crumbles. I crawl into the backseat with Jeremy. Charlie sits shotgun, and Joey jumps behind the wheel. The smell immediately assaults my nose, singes my nose hairs, and turns my stomach. I wish someone would open a window, I think. Charlie grabs the window crank and slowly turns until the window is half-open.
“You don’t know how to drive, Joey, get the fuck out of there,” I’m able to spurt out between my labored breathing. Joey ignores me and turns the key to the car. It rumbles to life, and black smoke shoots out of the tailpipes. He grabs the shifter and accelerates. Wow, maybe he does know how to drive. I glance at Jeremy, and he has his shirt pulled up over his nose, and water is coming out of his eyes. As we travel down the road, I notice something odd—there are no other cars. I start to look around and we’re not in Boise, Idaho, anymore, at least not the Boise I know. The buildings are here, the roads are here, but that’s it. There’s no one in the stores, no one walking down the streets, and there’s a strange hue to the landscape. Blue skies and white clouds are traded for an orange horizon extending to the heavens. It’s like I’m wearing a pair of shooting glasses: everything is hued, but all the landscape features are crisp so you can see every detail. Where the hell are we?
CHAPTER TWENTY
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CHARLIE IS STARTLED AND frantically looks around with panic and, yes, even fear. The last thing he remembers is getting up to take a piss. But he’s not in his cell anymore. This room looks ancient, with crude, large gray bricks and stones set into the walls and on the floor. He thinks to himself that he must be dreaming he’s in a castle dungeon. There’s little light illuminating the room, and he can’t figure out its source. As he’s making his way against the damp, cold stone wall looking for an exit, he feels more than he sees a sudden bright light so intense it obstructs his thoughts.
Voices shrilling the most demonic, agonizing sound he has ever heard fill his ears and mind. The voices crescendo and pierce the back of his eyeballs; the pressure in his head feels like it is going to explode. He collapses onto the ground, scratching at his skull and starts screaming himself, wishing he were dead. The problem is—he already is.
When Erebus brought Charlie back, they gave him a single mission: go to the epicenter and unlock the portal that will merge Adamah and Sheol. If Charlie can unlock the realm for Erebus, they can rule both worlds, and the world, as we know it in 1984, will cease to exist. They tell Charlie that one of the boys is the navigator. He’s been crossing between worlds his entire life; only he thought he was dreaming. The other two boys are needed to unlock the portal; they’re the chosen ones. Picked because of their lineage that has been lost and forgotten for hundreds of years, they will be the sacrifice, and their blood amalgamated will be the key to the lock.
CHAPTER TWENTY- ONE
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THE LEGACY LANCE AND Jeremy’s ancestors left? It was death on a scale so massive and grotesque they’re considered the vilest humans to ever walk the earth—so evil that all records of them abolished and no stories or songs made of them for memorialization. Centuries ago, their ancestors ruled through fear, torture, and death. After violent land battles, they forced the living soldiers to collect and harvest all of the dead regardless of side and ordered the flesh stripped off the bones before leaving the battlefield. Mounds of skin, muscle, fat, and innards were piled so high they were thought to touch the sky. The decay, stench, and gore drove many mad, and they took their own lives only to join the mounds. Better to be dead and in peace than living this horror. They ordered the captured slaves to build ceremonial walls and décor out of the bones around their newly conquered kingdoms. It was often family members of the conquered building with bones of their loved ones. Thousands upon thousands, sometimes tens of thousands, of dead were used for landscaping. This technique was very effective for keeping the commoners in a state of fear and ensured their rule was safe from uprisings. Their ancestors’ favorite feast to dine on during special occasions was so grotesque that after their defeat by the prince of the north during the great battle of Kari-Kar, he ordered all evidence of the cannibals destroyed. Any historical document declaring their name or kingdoms burned to join the ashes in hell for eternity.
They were flesh eaters and would have humans cooked over an open flame on a spit turning slowly in the corners of the great dining hall. The younger the meat, the better—they often used the children of the newly captured slaves. The elitists had concubines, whose sole purpose was the production of food. For the royals, their delicacy was human fetus. They had a large wooden table with holes for the blood to drain; bowls set under the table captured the gruesome elixir. The females believed the blood of a pregnant woman held magical properties that would make them look and feel younger. The chef would masterfully extract the fetus of a living woman in the great hall for all to watch. He would quarter it, and the head served to the guest of honor. Watching the chef work was part of the dining experience and part of their dark arts ritual. After their defeat, their lineage was scattered across the four corners of the earth for centuries, only to one day converge in a small Western town during the 1900s. Lance and Jeremy are oblivious of their dark heritage and, unlike their forefathers, have kind souls. That is why Emma was charged with protecting Lance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
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I LOOK OUTSIDE THE side window of the car and see the landscape, flat and bare, no green, no trees, no bushes, no defining landmarks at all for as far as the eye can see. The only presence is the orange hue of the sky and the red dirt of Sheol. I think, We must be in the desert, but how did we get here? Did I fall asleep? The familiar horizon of distant mountains that surround Boise is now gone. I elbow Jeremy and, in the same instant, realize I don’t smell that putrid smell anymore. Did I get used to it? “Dude, did I fall asleep?” I ask.
Jeremy is staring out his window and slowly turns to me, groggy, crust forming around the corners of his tired eyes. “I don’t know, man; I must’ve fallen asleep, too,” he says as he straightens his arms and legs at the same time to stretch in the backseat. I look to the front of the car, and Joey looks perky and happy, with both hands on the steering wheel, his knuckles white from gripping so hard. I notice that none of the gauges on the dashboard are working. Are they all out, or is this car even on? I listen and can hear the sticky tires as they meet the hot asph
alt, so I know the tires are moving. Now I can hear the engine; I must’ve gotten used to the sound while I was asleep.
I can see the back of Charlie’s head. His head looks perfect, not a hair out of place. I look at the rearview mirror on Charlie’s side and for a brief moment, as brief as the flicker of a candle flame, I see a demonic face instead of Charlie’s. I quickly look away and then back at the mirror. The face has disappeared, and I can see the defining cheekbones and dimple in his chin. Well, I’m wide awake now, my heart is racing, and I suddenly feel very thirsty, and I have to pee.
“Joey, how long have we been driving?”
“I don’t know; three days, I think.”
What the hell; there’s no way I have been sleeping for that long. But then again, nothing has made sense since we left the rooftop of the Thriftway.
“We’re almost there, boys—how much longer do you think, Joey?” says Charlie as he pinches one of the cords on his corduroy pants.
“Couple more hours, I think.”
“Well, does anyone have any water, or can we stop for some water?” I ask.
No one answers, so I slump down into my seat where I can barely see this strange world pass me by through the window. Fuck, I have to pee, I think.
And Charlie says, “Pull over, Joey, and let Lance drain his main vein.”
Damn, he is reading my mind again. I stuff my hands into my pant pockets, and my right hand wraps around a silver-dollar-size rock. It’s cool against my sweaty palm. Where the hell did the rock come from? I don’t remember putting a rock in my pocket. My thoughts turn back to the scary fact that Charlie is in my head. Dread consumes my mind and overcomes any other thoughts, and with it: panic. I know I must stop trying to think, because of Charlie. My eyes flicker toward his head again and then back to the mirror—nothing—good. My thumb is caressing the rock, and my index finger finds the familiar groove it settled in on top of the rooftop, but I don’t realize it’s the same rock. I think back to when tonight was normal—Bear wrestling with Jeremy on my couch, getting high in the cabana, the rooftop of the Thriftway Building Center playing soldier, and it helps me settle down. The car suddenly jerks to the right, sending all of us sliding to the left on the vinyl seats, and comes to a premature stop, engulfed in a plume of red desert dust.