The Demonists

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “No, no,” the Teacher said. “You, my noisy cherub, have a job to do . . . an assignment to perform.”

  The Teacher went to the shopping wagon and carefully bent forward to retrieve something from the bottom of the cart.

  “Your tool,” he said, holding up what he had found and extending the rusty blade.

  Christopher recognized it as an old box cutter.

  “Take it,” the Teacher ordered.

  Christopher recoiled from the offer.

  “Take it!” the Teacher exclaimed, his swollen belly moving and expanding all the faster in his excitement.

  Reaching out with a trembling hand, Christopher took the box cutter. He was shocked at how cold it was to his touch. Staring at the cutter, he was suddenly aware that it had the potential to be so much more.

  Can this be how it all happens? Christopher thought. How he was able to kill his captor and escape from the filthy classroom? Staring at the pointy tip of the blade, he wondered if he could do it . . . would it be possible for him to use this object to harm?

  “I can practically hear your thoughts,” the Teacher said. “The question of whether or not I have just handed you your freedom.”

  The Teacher smiled, and Christopher’s skin crawled.

  “I offer you so much more than freedom,” the Teacher growled, rubbing one hand across the taut, veined flesh of his growth.

  The Teacher stepped menacingly toward him.

  “Cut me,” he demanded, offering his stomach to the youth. Christopher stepped back, gripping the box cutter all the tighter.

  “Go on,” the Teacher said, thrusting his protruding belly at him. “You know that this is your desire. Run the blade across my flesh . . . do it and learn the reason that you are here.”

  Christopher continued to back away, untrusting of the situation.

  “Do it and learn the reason why your father had to die.”

  His father. Christopher saw the man he loved inside his mind, the image then shifting to how the Teacher had left him, broken in the hallway of his Chicago home.

  “Do what I tell you and learn why it was all worth it.”

  Something let go within the boy, something that reminded him that even if he were to get away, his life would never be the same again, that his father was gone, and now he was alone.

  “Do it!” the Teacher screamed, providing him with the most perfect of targets.

  Christopher lunged with his arm raised, and brought it down in a quick slash across the bulbous flesh. “Gahhh!” was all that he could manage, the ability for human speech impossible at that moment. It was all about anger, and rage, and violence.

  The Teacher cried out, both hands going to his protruding stomach, the gash the boy had cut in the skin bleeding heavily.

  “Oh, you wonderfully, wicked, child,” the Teacher cried. “Your father would be so proud!”

  The mention of his father was all the fuel he needed, and Christopher again rushed toward the Teacher, cutting at the exposed flesh.

  “Oh yes!” the Teacher wailed, his hands now covered in gore. The wooden floor of the classroom was spattered with blood as he stepped back away from the boy, hauling his swollen and bleeding midsection over to where the fish tank sat.

  Christopher stood ready, his body tensed to fight some more—to inflict more harm, but it appeared that this wasn’t going to happen. That it was no longer necessary.

  The Teacher stood before the tank, his fingers moving across his lacerated stomach. It was suddenly apparent that he wasn’t trying to stem the flow of blood, but instead was pulling the cuts in his skin apart, opening the flesh to get his fingers—his hands—inside the gaping wounds What is he doing? Christopher wondered, his brain completely numb as he bore witness to the nightmarish sight unfolding before him.

  “What had been forgotten is remembered again,” the Teacher said, his hands disappearing into the wounds in his body. “Given life through the belief of the innocent.”

  The Teacher withdrew his hands and they were not empty. Something had been extracted from inside his person, something that squirmed and splashed in the blood of birth.

  Something alive.

  Something that had not existed until he . . . they had been taught of it.

  The newborn nightmare squealed and writhed as it was brought to the edge of the fish tank and released over the side to splash down into the filthy water.

  And as Christopher watched the newly birthed life swim within the fluids of the tank, he understood what it was they had been responsible for. An old god had been reborn this day, and it was the students who had given it life.

  He let the blood-covered box cutter drop from his hand with a clatter as he stared at the tank and its new inhabitant.

  “Praise Him, He has returned,” the Teacher said, swaying from side to side inside a circle of his own blood.

  “Damakus,” Christopher said, understanding then why he and the others had been brought to this place.

  And with that understanding, the god within the tank started to grow.

  “Damakus,” the students said in unison. “Damakus.”

  John Fogg stood in the doorway of their bedroom watching his wife. Theo had been out of it for three days and had barely moved since the last time he checked in on her. Squinting in the darkness, he looked for signs that she was indeed breathing.

  Franklin had given her a quick checkup once Elijah and his people left. He said that she was actually good, better than good really. There was a calmness to her now that hadn’t been present since . . . John grabbed hold of the doorknob and was about to pull it closed when he heard his name softly spoken.

  “John?”

  Damn it, he thought. He hadn’t wanted to wake her.

  “Yeah,” he answered, leaning into the darkness of the room. “Just checking to see if you were all right. Go back to sleep.”

  “Well?”

  The door was halfway closed again, and he pushed it back. “Well what?”

  “Am I?” she asked sleepily.

  “I think you’re good.”

  “I feel . . . different,” she said.

  “It’s to be expected,” he said. “You need to rest. Then you’ll feel better.” He started to close the door again. “Now go back to sleep.”

  “Hey, John,” Theo called out.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “I wanted to tell you . . . I wanted to say that I love you. I think it’s been a long time since I’ve told you that.”

  He found himself genuinely smiling for the first time in months.

  It was taking everything he had not to go to her, to take her in his arms and . . .

  “I love you, too, babe,” he said. “Now get some rest.” The door finally closed, and he allowed himself to feel something that he had not experienced since the events involving his wife began. Hope. Elijah and the Coalition had seemingly given it back to him. It was time that he began repayment on his debt to them.

  Brenna had been staring at the pictures for hours, similar in nature to the single symbols found at all the kidnapping scenes.

  Strange, jagged shapes in succession, primitive writing long forgotten even by scientists who proclaimed themselves to be experts of such things.

  Written on the extracted teeth of a six-year-old.

  They had noticed the gouges when the teeth were collected from the parents, scratches in the yellowish enamel. At first they had believed them to be some natural defect.

  But then Grinnal had looked closer.

  The markings were intentional, put there for a reason.

  But why?

  To send the child’s parents even further down the rabbit hole to insanity? That was at least one sure bet, but there was something else to it as well. Something that the agent couldn’t quite put her finger on—yet.

  Brenna remembered her coffee and picked it up for a sip. Ice cold. She made a face, disgusted, and set it back down on her desktop. She guessed that more time had passed than she
would have expected.

  She was considering heading out to get another cup when there came a knock at her door. A secretary—she believed her name was Nadine—stuck her head quickly inside the office.

  “Agent Isabel?” the woman asked. “There’s somebody here to see you about your missing children case. He said that he’s expected.” Brenna wasn’t expecting anybody. “Did they give a name?” The woman shook her head. “No.”

  Brenna got up from her chair, going to the door and peering out. “Where—” she had started to say just as Nadine pointed him out.

  John Fogg stood in front of Nadine’s desk, hands clasped in front of him, head bowed. He looked as though he might be praying.

  “Should I tell him you’re busy, or . . .”

  “No, I’ll see him,” Brenna said. “Just give me a second.”

  She went back to her desk, placed the pictures of the teeth back in their folder, and put them away inside her drawer. Returning to the door, she leaned out, motioning for John to come down.

  He smiled pleasantly when he saw her and headed down the aisle between workstations to her office.

  “Mr. Fogg,” she said, holding out her hand. “Nice to see you again.”

  He took her hand and squeezed lightly.

  “Agent Isabel,” he said. “I’m sorry that it’s taken me this long to get back to you.”

  “Come in,” she said, ushering him into her office. Brenna closed the door, then walked behind her desk, gesturing for him to take the chair opposite her as she sat. “Please,” she said.

  “Thanks,” he replied, sitting down.

  She was trying to be polite, but it was hard for her not to show her annoyance. She’d been trying to communicate with this guy for nearly two months and hadn’t heard a peep.

  “So,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “To what do I owe this visit?”

  Fogg leaned forward. “I doubt that I’m your favorite person right now,” he said with what appeared to be genuine sincerity. “But you did ask me for my help, and I’m here to offer it to you.”

  “Really?” she asked, unable to contain her annoyance with the television celebrity any longer. She seriously doubted that he had anything to offer and was about to blow him off. “How nice of you to offer, but right now we’ve got a pretty good handle on the case and—”

  “That’s not what I was led to understand,” he said, his delivery quite serious.

  “Oh, really?” she said, leaning forward in her chair. “And should I perhaps be asking the source of your information?”

  “Let’s just say there are people paying attention to certain . . . things going on in the world at large,” he said. “Things that I believe pertain to the case that you’re working on.”

  She wanted to rake him over the coals, to dig for specifics, but the way he was staring at her, the intensity in his demeanor, she came to the conclusion that maybe she’d be better off if she didn’t know.

  “Please, let me help,” he then said, and she knew that she couldn’t send him away, that maybe—maybe there was a chance he really could assist in some way.

  She pulled open the desk drawer and removed the file that she’d been looking at. Laying it down upon the desk, she opened the folder to reveal the photos within and slid them toward him. “What do you make of this?”

  John Fogg delicately picked up the tiny incisor with a hand encased in rubber.

  He held it beneath the high-intensity magnifying glass and looked at the markings that had been etched there. Studying the strange configurations, his eyes tracing each and every shape, he felt an icy chill run up and down his spine.

  This was something very bad.

  “Well?” Isabel asked from the corner of the room. “Can you read it? Does it look like anything you’ve seen before?”

  “No,” he said, setting the tooth down with the others. He wanted to pick them all up, each and every one, and examine them, but was sure that the outcome would be the same. “It’s definitely a language, but nothing I’ve ever encountered. I can tell you that it’s very old.”

  John moved on to the other items left at the homes of the missing children in the last few weeks. He felt the familiar chill again with the sight of the tiny figurine. It had been carved from the finger bone of one of the children. It was a simple carving, the major details being on the figurine’s face—its eyes and mouth open wide as if in surprise.

  “And all of these objects . . .” He ran his hand over the tabletop with even more evidence laid out, printed numbers beneath each. “. . . were found after the children’s disappearances?”

  “Yes,” Isabel said, moving closer to the table. “Every home has received some strange piece of paraphernalia in connection to their missing child.” She leaned her hip against the table’s edge, her eyes moving over each of the familiar items. He wondered how many times she had already done that very same thing. “Almost as if the son of a bitch responsible was rubbing it in, reminding these poor people that their children were gone.”

  “And that he has them,” John said.

  She looked at him hard.

  “There haven’t been any bodies found, or remains,” he explained. “I’d guess that whoever is responsible still has them. Whether or not they’re still alive . . .” He shrugged, turning his attention back to the table of gruesome oddities.

  “Would it be possible for me to have copies of the case files?” he asked. He could see that she was about to object, but he was persistent.

  “I have an extensive library at home, as well as contacts that run the gamut of just about every strange topic imaginable. There might be answers readily available. We’ll just need to sift through tons of bullshit to find them.”

  She appeared to be considering his question, arms crossed defensively across her chest. “Let me check with my director,” she said, striding toward the door. “Give me a moment.”

  Agent Isabel stepped out and he made his move.

  John reached down, taking one of the teeth and slipping it into the pocket of his navy blue blazer. Pictures were all well and good, but to have one of the actual teeth, with the markings made by the kidnapper. He wanted to touch it—to feel it beneath his fingers without the gloves. He wanted to possess it.

  It could make all the difference in the world.

  Certainly he could go through all the proper channels, the Coalition capable of pulling some strings, but he believed time was of the essence. If the children taken were still alive, they would need to move as quickly as possible.

  Agent Isabel stepped back into the room and he turned toward her.

  “Yes,” she said. “I can have copies made up of all the pertinent information for you to continue your review.”

  “Excellent,” John said, removing his rubber gloves. “As soon as I receive the files, I’ll go through them with a fine-tooth comb and hopefully find something that will help us to crack this case.”

  There was a small barrel in the corner of the room and he tossed the used gloves inside.

  “Thanks so much for agreeing to speak with me,” he said as he stood beside the agent in the doorway to her office.

  “And thank you for finally responding to my requests,” she said sarcastically.

  “I deserved that.” He extended his hand again. She took his hand in hers. The grip was firm, powerful. This was a woman to be reckoned with, but he wasn’t sure if even she had the strength to handle the darkness that might be approaching.

  “These people you mentioned earlier,” she said as she squeezed his hand, looking him hard in the eye. “Will they be offering you assistance with this?”

  “I’m sure they will,” John said.

  She stared at him harder as she loosened her grip.

  “So they’re aware,” Agent Isabel began.

  “Aware?”

  “Aware of how things are now,” she said.

  He knew exactly what she was talking about.

  “Very much so,” he said.
<
br />   “That’s good.”

  He started through the doorway, his business there done. “I’ll be in touch, Agent Isabel.”

  And she nodded at him as he left, the last look that he saw in her eyes changing his opinion.

  Maybe she was indeed strong enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The demons believed that they would soon be free, their frail prison of flesh, blood, and bone brought to death.

  They imagined their escape out into the earthly realm. So much life, so much frailty, so much goodness to corrupt; it would be a most glorious thing to be free.

  They were all ready, waiting, deep down in the darkness. They could feel their host dying by inches, her life functions gradually shutting down one at a time, and as this occurred they rose.

  Closer to the surface.

  Ready to leave the fleshy trap that had ensnared them when they were freed from the jar.

  The jar. Thoughts of their original imprisonment brought a wave of confusion and anger. They had no memories of how they had come to be within the jar, awaiting their prey.

  But that was a mystery for another time . . . for when they were truly free.

  And they were ready. The life of the woman that held them inside her was coming to a close.

  An end for her.

  A beginning for a multitude of evil.

  The demons swarmed closer, digging their claws and talons into her fading soul as they ascended.

  The demons were of a common mind, a hive mind so to speak, each of them sharing with one another their twisted and awful desires for themselves, as well as the world of man.

  But suddenly something was wrong.

  The flesh had died, but something kept them there . . . something of a magical nature.

  The demons were enraged, throwing themselves against the confines of their fleshy prison . . . which appeared to be exactly what someone had intended.

  They had been corralled, trapped, damned up within an area of the human woman’s body, the magicks being used ancient and so very powerful.

  So powerful that their human host would not have survived if they were used upon her.