by Sandy DeLuca
Jericho hands me a knife. “Go.”
“Why do I have to do it alone?”
“You know the answer to that. And your hands are what they’re after. I can only guide you so far. I can’t go with you.”
Again I doubt my reasons for coming here. “Why? I can’t do this. It’s insane. Just call the cops. Put him in prison or in an asylum. This makes us as crazy as he is—”
“This isn’t up to the authorities. This your battle, your redemption—”
“It’s lunacy.” I know there are supernatural things here, heinous and vile beings. I feel them, but do not want to face them, not now. Why did I come? I reach inside my bag, pull out my aunt’s crystal rosary beads and tie them to my belt.
“Devils were once conjured here, Sammy, his sister, Bob Stanni, they all met here once. Stanni and Sammy stole that book. They made claim to something that wasn’t theirs. Sammy killed Stanni for the book. He killed others for a power that always seemed to elude him.”
“Madness.”
“Is it, Julia?”
He backs away into the dark. Yet I feel his hands gently push me forward.
The stairs are slimy. There’s a light bulb hanging from a string at the top of the stairs. The air smells dank and of things dead.
I look down and Sammy’s eyes bore into me. He smiles that slow smile and for a moment he’s young. He shifts in his chair a bit and then he begins to say something—a soft lilting chant that rises to where I stand on the stairs.
I take my first step. A rat skitters in front of me.
I take another step. Sammy’s chants grow louder. The light goes out. I can no longer see him. I’m afraid that he’ll leap forward and flee up the stairs, grab the knife from me and slice me—like he did to the others.
Fear. This was what real fear tastes like. I’ve forgotten it.
I hear a voice. It’s my mother.
“You’ll never escape from here. He’s smarter than you. Everyone is smarter than you.”
“Stata zita, Elle. The girl has power in her hands.” Aunt Lil’s voice sounds as though it’s coming from deep inside the Earth.
I’m close, so close—only a few feet away.
It smells of female musk, of sex, of the way it smelled after Sammy hurt me in that room in Miami.
“Want to get down, Julia? I can satisfy you for all eternity.” Sammy’s voice is teasing, vile.
I continue my descent. I’m shaking.
I’m at the third step. I stop to wipe a tear away. I look right then left.
“I’m going to get your hands.”
I clutch the knife.
I lift my foot to take another step and I hear a sigh—soft, fleeting, then it melts into the darkness.
I clutch the knife tighter. I feel the rosaries dangling on my belt.
I hear a sound behind me.
I do not turn around.
I climb downward. Sammy’s voice is closer. I hear chains rattling. I do not want to imagine their origin.
It’s difficult to breathe now, and despite sweating my skin has broken out in goose bumps.
At the seventh step I stop to say a Hail Mary. I haven’t prayed like this since I was a kid shivering in the dark, fearing that any minute the boogey man was going to spring out from the closet, or grab my foot and drag me beneath the bed.
Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou—
I hear a hollow scream, feel air against my skin.
I’m suddenly aware that my bag is still slung over my shoulder. I didn’t put it down. I learned not to as I got older. I grasp it tighter as I take another step.
Now I can see Sammy’s outline in the dark. I continue downward. His image grows more vivid as I approach.
The cellar is flooded. The water makes eerie gurgling noises as I step into it.
I’ve finished my descent.
CHAPTER 65
I look into Sammy’s eyes. There is no fear in them.
“I didn’t fuck with you or your family for twenty-one years.” He smacks his lips, drool trickles down his chin. “I wanted to come after you, wanted to destroy you and everything that meant anything to you, but I had to wait, that was the bargain. Now you’re here. Now I get to fuck you up totally, just like I wanted to back in Miami.”
He’s holding a hammer in his hands. He laughs, lays it at his side and rubs his hand over the book in his lap, then he rubs his knee, blood spurts from it.
“Your boyfriend fucked me up that night, but I healed fast thanks to the powers.” He cringes with pain as he moves. His hand returns to his knee. “Bothers me when it’s humid and thanks to that fucking prick I’ve walked with a limp for over twenty years.”
Mist rises from the water. I think of my aunt giving birth in a basement.
* * *
Sammy’s eyes are moist with tears. He’s young again. Handsome. “I’ve always loved you. Knew you’d be back. Put that knife down—do what I say, girl. Let’s work this out.”
The mist grows thicker, rising and curling.
“There’s nothing to work out. You ruined my life, you ruined my—”
“You don’t know what being ruined means. You still have your mother. The deaths of your father and aunt didn’t happen because of me. I didn’t ruin nothing. You were already a fucking loser, always will be.”
Anger wells in me. There is no room for fear, rage overcomes all. “You killed all those people, made me do things I’d never do on my own. The things you taught me gave me guts, make it easy to stick this fucking knife in you.”
“Lover, you haven’t got the guts—you were never worth a shit—” The mist swirls around Sammy. He changes again. He’s old, wrinkled and his hands are shaking.
He smiles cool and slow. “Foolish bitch. You helped me to kill and denied it all these years. The Journal of the Macabre taught me well, taught me to disguise myself all these years, taught me to be the cat in the doorway or the neighbor lady so that I could be near you, so that I could watch you. But I couldn’t take your hands, not for twenty-one years. That was the fucking deal.”
“This is a charade. It’s not real.”
“I’m as real as it gets, baby. I’ve been the same murderous Sammy DeSouza. I was always there and you didn’t know it, not really. I watched others fuck you and then sacrificed chosen ones when you slept. I bathed in their blood each morning. Blood and semen are so powerful together.” He licks his lips. “I haven’t killed anyone today. I need my strength. Come closer, babe.” He’s a young man once more and the eyes that once made me wet lure me closer.
CHAPTER 66
“Surprise. I win, now fucking give me the knife.” Sammy lights a cigarette, pats the leather-bound book in his lap. “It’s all in here. I stole this from DePesto’s gym in 1971. I killed Bob Stanni for it; fucker wouldn’t give it up. I had to wait all these years to take those hands. They wouldn’t let me do it my way. I was young then. I made mistakes. Sometimes the dark and the light make bargains. It’s business. I had to make a deal for those magical hands. All those paintings. They just had to be created. That was part of the deal, to keep me bound, while you created that shit. They call it balance, a correction made on some mystical chalkboard. Fucking mish mash if you ask me, but I ain’t no art critic. Those hands have so much more within them. They’re wanted in Hell, my dear.”
I look at my hands. How many people during this life have told me about the magic within them?
“This is an illusion, a trick.”
“Think back over the years. How much really went down? How much didn’t? You’re a fucking lunatic, a fucking junkie. For all you know you’re sitting in a padded cell right now and everything was just a dream. Even your fucking lover man waiting at the top of those stairs.”
I hear my mother’s voice.
You’ll never be like me. You’re not so smart, young lady.
What has that Jericho gotten you into?
Aunt Lil whispers softy, An angel has brought you
here.
“It’s not real. Jericho, why did you bring me here?”
“Pretty Julia. You still sleep with the lights on? You don’t have the guts to kill anything. You were always afraid. I had to pump you full of dope and liquor to keep from shitting your pants. Now I can sense you’re going to cave. Your knees will buckle any minute. You’ll crumble. And I’ll simply take that knife away from you. Even without my daily dose of precious blood I can chop those hands off.”
My knees begin to shake. He’s right. I can’t do this. It’s no use.
“Julia, keep your head.” Jericho’s voice echoes from above.
“Oh, how pathetic. Lover boy up there. No use, Jericho. She’ll be passing out from fright in exactly ten seconds. One. Two. Three—you never do anything right. I’ve always had power over you. You can’t win. You’re too stupid.”
My right hand is growing numb. I’ll drop the knife if I don’t stop shaking.
“Four, oh this is good. Look at you shaking. You’re going to drop the knife. Do you still know you’re holding the fucking thing?”
“Shut up. I’m stronger than you think.” I can’t feel my legs now.
“Five. I’m afraid you won’t make it to six—”
Sammy rises, leaps towards me, grabs my arms and pulls the knife away. He begins to saw at my wrists, laughing. Blood spurts onto my clothes, blends with my aunt’s embroidered stitches.
“There’s no magic in her stitchery. There never was.” Sammy steps back. Blood trickles from the tip of the knife. He lights another cigarette, laughs with glee as I grow weak, watching blood pump from my flesh. Where the hell is Jericho? My aunt floats above me.
I remember something my aunt taught me long ago. I whisper, “Banish this unholy one from this place.”
Sammy drops the knife, drops to the floor. “Fucker, you fucker.”
He grabs his knee, blood gushes from it.
I crawl to the knife, pick it up.
Sammy straightens up, laughs. “Oh, this is good. Your fucking slut aunt’s words trying to foil the likes of me. I’ll call all the demons of Hell up. Your pathetic aunt’s teachings can’t keep them away.” He raises his arms. “Powers of Hell open your gates and grant my soldiers reentry into this world—”
I see something in the shadows. Sammy moves slowly forward, his hand extended, reaching for the knife.
“Sweet God, save me.”
“Too late, you’re fucked. Look at the blood pouring from your wrists. We gotcha.”
My entire body burns with rage. I think of my aunt, of chanting with her beneath a full moon. I remember the warmth, the magic that flowed through me on such nights. It blends with my fury, makes me feel alive once more. “Fuck you Sammy, or whatever the hell your name is.” My knees are still shaking. The warmth pulses throughout me. My purse slips from my shoulders. I manage to leap forward. I plunge the knife into his chest.
His face seems to melt. He’s an old man again.
“Surprise, Sammy.”
I fall backwards. Jericho catches me.
I hear growling, screaming, and all is quiet.
* * *
We watch the blood spill from Sammy. The man who caused so much death and destruction slowly dies.
Jericho tears his shirt, bandages my wrists. “It’s not too bad. The cuts aren’t that deep. All that blood was an illusion.”
“Is this an illusion?” I want to kiss him, but something holds me back.
Jericho looks sad. Perhaps he regrets all the years he’s missed.
We clean the blood. It blends with the old stains on the floor. Nobody will know any different. We wrap the body in heavy burlap. We go out through the back door. Jericho lifts the body into the back of his van. We drive in silence.
The book is tucked safely in my bag.
The ghosts of years ago greet me one by one as we drive the long trek on Connecticut’s interstate 95. Through Mystic, New London, New Haven, and Greenwich they speak to me.
This is truly insane. I’ve taken a life. I’ve killed a demon that’s haunted me for decades. Good and evil—light and dark blended and screamed with my memories, with the voices of the dead.
Jericho breaks the silence. “Did you ever read King’s ‘Salem’s Lot?”
“Yeah, three times,” I said.
“The main guy—what was his name? Barlow, I think. He comes to town and begins an epidemic— infects countless people with vampirism.”
“Like Sammy going on a rampage. He stole that book—one by one he seduced people and killed—sometimes he even got them to kill in the Devil’s name.”
“Yeah, King’s book was a fairy tale—this is real—a battle against people like Sammy.”
“God cast the Devil out of Heaven, but He loved him. He created him. Not everything is black and white,” I say just as we enter Harlem
“Ever hear of The Guardians?”
“Yeah, fallen angels. My aunt taught me. Most people don’t know about them—only families who practice La Vecchia—Strega—Italian witchcraft—Different names for basically the same thing.”
He turns to look at me—doesn’t say a word—and his eyes are the deepest blue.
Rain is splattering the windshield. Wind picks up leaves from the walks and sends them swirling in the road ahead.
“Why’d you leave me? Why?”
“Back then I left ‘cause I didn’t want to hold you back. I had to straighten some things out too.”
“Over twenty years worth of straightening out?”
“I knew what you could do with those hands. If you’d been lost in love you never would have accomplished what you have.”
“You saved my hands.”
“I loved you—even after all these—”
My heart pounds as we cruise through New York. The city looks so beautiful, welcoming us, bringing us to where we are supposed to be.
We drive to a brownstone in Harlem. We walk up five flights of stairs. Jericho knocks at a door with a tarnished bronze cross hanging on it, palms wrapped around the figure of Christ.
A priest opens the door. He’s wearing the traditional black with white collar. In his mid-fifties, he has a ruddy complexion and white hair that curls around his neck.
“Jericho, welcome back. Is it done?”
“Yes.”
The priest looks at me, puts his finger to my forehead and makes the sign of the cross.
I know what I must do. I reach into my bag.
“Here’s the book.”
The priest takes it in both hands. “We’ll lock it away.”
He casts his eyes downward. “The body.”
“The body is in the van, father.”
“Very well. Blood for blood. He’ll be buried beside the others…” He leaves us standing at the door for a moment, returns with a set of keys and hands them to Jericho. “Go with God.”
* * *
We’re on the road again. I turn to Jericho. “What did the priest mean—blood for blood—why are they all buried together—who—where?”
“The church has land where there are unmarked graves—cemeteries where those tainted by evil are buried—unhallowed ground if you must. There rests the bones of those who have used the book of the Devil—those who have taken blood in his name. They say that angels—fallen angels—who have to do penance on Earth, guard the graveyard—”
“Freaky.”
“The church—faith has many mysteries—”
“Will it be goodbye again once you get me back home?”
“Yes, I can’t stay. Wish I could—wish I could—”
“Where will you go now?”
“Let’s just say I’ve got some penance to do.”
I want to sleep now. Jericho will wake me when it’s time.
CHAPTER 67
I awaken to the sound of rain.
A nurse takes my pulse as my mother stands over me.
Her leg must be healed. How much time has gone by?
“Julia, you stupid girl,�
�� she says, tears in her eyes. “You would have bled to death if it wasn’t for that bum. Lucky he followed you. Mojo Man, or whatever he called himself. He said he had to protect you. He called the rescue after you cut yourself.”
“I had to save us, Ma.”
“Always causing me sorrow, always doing something stupid.”
The nurse changes my bandages. There will be scars on my wrists.
My mother clicks her tongue, fades into shadows.
“She’ll be fine in a few weeks. She needs therapy, needs to kick the drugs and alcohol. We’ll take care of her.” A doctor stares at me with red-rimmed eyes.
Something is burning.
“I’m going to be fine. I’ve worked some things out. I want to sit up. Raise the bed for me please?”
“Sure, Julia.” The doctor smells of sulfur, of death.
Slowly the outside world comes into view. It’s a rainy day. I’m glad my bed is by a window.
“That’s good. Thank you.”
The doctor isn’t there anymore.
I close my eyes and think of Jericho as the rain trickles down glass.
He’s alone out there watching the gates to that hellish graveyard, my guardian doing his final penance.
Have I truly done mine?
I hold up my hands. Blood leaks through the bandages, and I wonder where the knife is. It doesn’t matter.
There will be more knives, more mystical sessions with rag-tag demons and more dates with a devil man.
I gaze outside again. The ground is soaked. It’s coming down hard now.
The Impala cruises by.
It’s waiting in the lot below. I’ll run away when they shut the lights off. I’ve got to get back on the road.
These hands are capable of so much more.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sandy DeLuca’s work has appeared in a variety of magazines and anthologies. She is also a painter who feels as comfortable in the New York City art world as she does in the realm of horror fiction. She lives in Rhode Island.