The Devil's Bed

by Doug Lamoreux

  Ray teetered on the undulating remains. “I pulled that out of my ass.”

  “Perfect. Because we're pulling this out too.” Brandy reached the crucifix, set down her candle, and took hold. She shook the icon. “Give me a hand.”

  Ray reached his fiancé. They steadied each other and together pulled the crucifix down. Slowly, awkwardly, to the sound of snapping bone, they carried it back to the foot of the stairs. On the way, Brandy paused repeatedly to swipe the little crucifixes dotting the chamber. As they neared the ladder, she pocketed what must have been her sixth one. Ray laughed. “What are you doing now?”

  “It can't hurt,” was all she said.

  Ray balanced their prize while she retrieved her candle. During her absence, he noticed another small crucifix near at hand and, though he didn't know why, and would deny it if asked, Ray stuck it in his pocket.

  Brandy was back quickly. She hurried up the stairs with the candle letting the ossuary fall back into gloom. From above, she told Ray to lift the crucifix to her. He did as instructed jockeying the icon through the trap in the floor.

  Eleven

  Consumed with Eve's care, Felix was oblivious to the activity in the chapel. Loup restlessly roamed the nave listening to the Templars hammer at the walls, windows, and doors. Aimee and Luis, waiting by the altar, cheered as Brandy and Ray raised the crucifix through the floor from below. Trevelyan watched frowning from the gallery rail.

  The Americans rested the religious icon, upright at Brandy's insistence, and brushed away the dust and spiders webs they'd carried up with them. Ray dropped the trap door closed, shuddered and declared, “Never, ever, ever, under any circumstances will I go down there again!”

  “Eh bien,” Loup said, watching from the dark ambulatory doorway. “At least not while you're alive, hein?”

  After a brief flirtation with mental illness, it seemed, the old Loup was back. Ray welcomed him with an extended middle finger.

  “An interesting paradox,” Loup said. “How often, M. Kramer, do you think that gesture has been made from there… by a man carrying the crucified Christ?”

  Ray didn't bother to answer. He and Brandy carried the crucifix down the sanctuary steps, past Loup and his big mouth, and out of the nave. Luis followed, in case they needed help, while Aimee stayed to check on Felix and Eve.

  Brandy and Ray climbed the ambulatory stairs, with Luis trailing, and Loup babbling in the ambulatory like a Greek chorus, “What is good, M. Kramer? What is evil? Who is good and who is evil? Shall we leave it up to you?”

  Trevelyan was unhappy with Brandy and Ray following their 'robbery' of the ossuary. But it was useless to hold a grudge and his duty to seek understanding. Once they'd raised the cruciform into the chapel, it would have been a poor Christian who'd let them wrestle it up the steps alone. He left his post at the balcony door to lend a hand.

  Together they got the crucifix to the gallery and prepared to put it in place. Luis listened at the door, heard nothing and, at a nod from Ray, opened it. The balcony was empty. Father Trevelyan backed out first holding the foot of the icon. Brandy and Ray followed with the head. Luis, as ordered, closed the door behind them.

  As the priest neared the rail, Brandy shouted, “Behind you!” Another of the Templar mummies was climbing onto the balcony.

  There was no time to raise the icon before the monster, red eyes glaring, came over and at the priest. Trevelyan yanked his cruciform from his pocket and jammed it in the Templar's face. The creature howled and dove over the rail.

  His hair-raising shrieks were nothing compared to those that erupted from the courtyard, a moment later, when the trio lifted the crucifix into place. They secured it to the middle roof support while the blood drinkers screamed, backed or rode away, and hissed their hatred. Ray climbed on the rail to tie off the top of the crucifix. He worked quickly and was nearly finished when a knight none of them saw reached for him from above. Ray ducked, lost his footing, and slipped off the rail. Brandy and Trevelyan screamed as Ray caught the rail in the notch of his elbow and stopped his fall. Then he screamed too.

  The monsters in the courtyard wanted Ray. Their bloodlust urged them forward. Their pain and fear of the big crucifix kept them back. The knight on the roof wanted Ray too. But the big man was below his reach and the same crucifix stood between them.

  Brandy reached for Ray. The Templar on the roof reached for her.

  Trevelyan lifted his crucifix and scorched the knight; chasing him back out of sight while Brandy helped her fiancé. Confident the monster was gone the priest gave Brandy a hand. They tugged Ray over the rail and all three spilled onto the balcony floor.

  “Thank you,” Ray told Brandy, trying to catch his breath.

  “Thank you,” Brandy told Trevelyan, catching hers.

  “Thank God,” the priest said.

  Frightened by the tumult, Luis stole a look out and gaped at the sight of the American couple and the priest in a pile. He said nothing but stepped onto the balcony and peered into the courtyard. Brandy had been right. The big Jesus on the cross was too much for them. Unable to look at it or approach the balcony, the knights were abandoning the courtyard on the north side of the chapel. “Épatant,” Luis exclaimed.

  Trevelyan, back on his feet, agreed it was amazing. His smile matched Luis'. Brandy's matched his. Ray, despite his mounting aches, would have joined them – but for the scream.

  It scared the living hell out of Loup.

  No, not those things outside. Yes, they were unbelievable; their picking and scratching frightening, their groans and chants mind-numbing. But the place was secure and you got used to the noise. It was the scream. Felix's sick little red-head had, without warning, unleashed a heart-rending scream. It scared the living hell out of Loup.

  And here came the heroes… the tattooed American biker, the mean brunette and the convict, tripping over themselves from the gallery, down the stairs and into the nave with the priest following like a poodle. Amusing. Upon arrival, they found utter chaos.

  The clumsy reporter (with the nice ass) and the worthless fool were scrambling around the chapel making the devil's own racket. Aimee was searching the floor on her knees. Felix was on his feet struggling to use a candelabrum as a weapon. In the corner, Eve was up, leaning on an elbow, looking gray as a ghost and crying her eyes out.

  “What's going on?” Brandy demanded, only to get more yelling. “English,” she pleaded. “Tell us… in English.”

  “The hand!” Aimee yelled. “It has returned!”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Ray barked.

  “The Templar's hand,” Felix shouted, throwing the candelabrum down with a violent clatter. “The hand you chopped off. It is still here. It ran out of the dark… like a rat. It ran over top of Eve while she was resting. It is here - somewhere.”

  Great, Ray thought, shaking his head. Just great.

  Luis jumped to his knees and joined Aimee searching. Felix returned to comfort Eve. Brandy and Father Trevelyan looked a question at each other, shrugged and started searching too. They didn't have to look long.

  Luis and Aimee were in front of the sanctuary steps, young Socrates on one side, the reporter on the other. Aimee momentarily set down her candle and - the hand burst from the shadows. It scurried at her with two boney metacarpals raised like daggers. Aimee squealed.

  Brandy, standing nearby, pulled the butcher's knife from the small of her back, leaned and threw it – over Aimee's shoulder. The knife pinned the hand to the floor like a bug in a science project. The boney phalanges clicked and pushed trying to pull loose. A crowd gathered to watch it struggle.

  “That's fucking incredible,” Ray said.

  “It's an incredible story,” Aimee said. “If I write it, nobody will believe it.”

  The melancholy priest added, “I pray we will survive it.”

  “Look!” They followed Luis' gaze.

  The impaled hand spasmed violently and sank unmoving against the floor. Then, as the
y watched, the horrid thing was overtaken by decay. The parched skin disintegrated and fell to rot, leaving a moss-green pool of muck in its place – with the upright butcher's knife stabbing the floor at its center.

  The amputated hand had frightened Eve but, thankfully, hadn't hurt her. The young woman was desperately ill from the first Templar attack. She fell back, afire with fever, soaking in her own sweat.

  Father Trevelyan joined Felix at her side. The wounds on Eve's shoulder and throat had gone septic. The hellish monsters, parading as Crusading knights, were filthy and only God knew what bacteria they carried. They stood in silence for some time. Then the dam burst and the tears cascaded freely down Felix's cheeks. “Father, she's so sick. She's…”

  Trevelyan laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Pray for her. Please, pray for her.”

  Trevelyan removed his vestments from his satchel and pulled them on; the white linen alb and the bell-shaped chasuble. He dug out a pocket flask, a tin box, a crystal vial, and a small bottle (wine, the Host, holy water, and blessed oil). These he laid at the foot of the table.

  The priest kissed his stole. “Grant me, Our Father, I beg you, on the last day, the garment of immortality forfeited by our sinful first parents.” He draped the scarf around his neck and bent to Eve.

  Trevelyan crossed himself and laid his hands on her head. “At sunset, all who had people sick brought them to him. He laid his hands on each and cured them.” Trevelyan prayed over the oil then poured the sign of the Cross on Eve's forehead. “Through this holy anointing may the Lord, in his love and mercy, help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” He anointed her palms. “May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up. Amen.”

  Eve was asleep and, for the moment, her agonized moaning silenced. Trevelyan replaced the bottle of oil. “Have faith, Felix. Have hope.”

  “She is so very sick, Father.”

  “In Hebrew,” the priest said, gripping his shoulder. “Eve's name would be Chavah. It means to breathe; to live. Surely, her name demands you have hope.”

  Watching the accelerated decay of the Templar's amputated hand had been too much for the group. One by one, they turned pale and turned away; only to face Eve's crisis. The sole exception was the reporter. To give Felix and Eve some privacy, and in an odd moment of practicality, Aimee approached the putrid mess that was the demon claw, took a deep breath, and yanked the blade from the floor. Unwilling to walk away from a perfectly good knife, Aimee headed for the kitchen.

  Loup watched her. The others had gone; Felix back to Eve, Brandy and Ray back to the gallery, the priest and the convict about their business. No one was paying the slightest attention to him. Loup slipped into the hall - and followed the reporter.

  Twelve

  Using the kitchen's well hydrant was getting easier as the night progressed. Aimee worked the pump for nearly ten minutes to get clear water for Eve. Now, the rust and debris vanished in under five. In no time at all Brandy's knife was clean and ready for the next Templar. She jacked the pump handle again, rinsing the tub, when she heard:

  “You have many talents.”

  Aimee recognized the leering voice and looked up with loathing to see Loup posed in the kitchen door. He'd have been more impressive without the black eye, but not much. “What does that mean?”

  He rubbed his chest. “I like the way you pump that.”

  Aimee released the handle and yawned. “Tell me, monsieur, assuming this were the time for such nonsense, which it clearly is not, does such a pathetic and impotent line work on the women you know?”

  “You would be surprised what works, mon cher.”

  “You will be surprised how fast the other men come to my assistance.”

  Loup made a sound of derision and waved the idea away as if it were a gnat. “They are playing with the dead; while I am playing with you.”

  Aimee pointed the business end of the dripping butcher's knife at Loup's eyes.

  “C'est comme ça,” he said with a laugh. “The little stenographer barks.”

  “You are confused, monsieur. I bite. And I am no stenographer. I am a reporter.”

  Loup raised his hands, in mock surrender, studying the girl and noting again her awkwardness. He smiled, inched forward - and then lunged. She managed a shout as Loup seized her, grabbed the knife, and covered her mouth. “Forgive me!” he whispered. “I cannot resist a lady reporter… who bites.”

  A guttural cry, a peripheral flash, and a thunderous bang interrupted Loup as a tool box flew through the door and slammed against the wall disgorging its contents. Tools, hardware, dust and debris rained down like an exploded firework. Luis followed after, airborne from the door, hurtling at Loup. He landed on his back and the would-be rapist had no option but to let the reporter go.

  Though he'd lost hold of Aimee, Loup outweighed Luis and failed to go down. Luis held on riding him like the Duke of Gloucester's hump. Loup tried to pull him off and Luis sank his teeth into the knife wielder's hand. The blade clattered to the floor. Loup howled. Then he swore, threw Luis off, and turned on him with murder in his eyes.

  From the floor, Luis kicked with both feet, caught Loup in the gut and drove him back against the shuddered window. The shaken Loup shouted, “You little bastard.” It was all he had time to shout.

  With a bang, the shatter of glass, and the crack of breaking wood, a spiked iron ball exploded from outside through the window. Wood shards, glass and splinters flew. Before anyone could react, the flail disappeared back outside and a razor sharp halberd shot through the broken slats - and into Loup's back. The would-be rapist, wide-eyed with disbelief, raised his hands – pleading. He groaned as the spear pierced his right lung from behind and grunted as it burst from his chest (above his pocket) with a spurt of blood.

  Luis, rising, lurched back as the crimson arc splashed his face. Aimee screamed.

  Behind Loup, through the window, both saw flashes of grinning skeletal faces, clawed hands, the rotted mantles and red crosses of two of the Templar knights. One held the other end of the halberd shaft. He pulled on it, yanking Loup backward like a speared fish. The second Templar wrapped the flail's chain around his neck, jerked him off his feet, and dragged Loup out the window.

  It took only a second. Luis almost laughed. Not that he'd seen anything funny but because it was surreal. Loup was there, ready to kill. Then there was only the barely scuffed bottoms of his new shoes. Then he was gone. The Templars dragged him, screaming, into the dark. Luis knew, as sure as he knew his own name, he would never forget the sight of the bottoms of Loup's shoes.

  “Again with the kitchen!” Ray shouted as he ran through the doorway. He pulled up panting to see tools spread from one end of the room to the other, and Aimee and Luis hurriedly boarding the window back up. Something had broken in. Brandy and Father Trevelyan arrived on Ray's heels. All three gaped while Luis and Aimee hammered away.

  “Well?” Ray asked. “What in the hell is going on in here?”

  Only when Aimee turned did the others see how frightened she was. “The Templars,” she said breathlessly, “they grabbed Loup!” Luis confirmed it with a nod.

  “Loup?”

  All three realized there was no Loup. Suddenly, the broken window held a whole new reality.

  Luis said something to Aimee, apparently amusing himself, and finished with a laugh. Aimee frowned and shook her head.

  “Luis!” Trevelyan snapped. Appalled, the priest walked out.

  “What's that about?” Ray asked.

  Aimee twisted her lips; less than eager to repeat the comment. “He said the Templars did for us a favor. They took out the rubbish.”

  In the days of old, the Gendarmerie were the mounted divisions of the French military; their cavalry. It was fitting then their modern counterpart should arrive over the hill in the nick of time. Colonel Blanc's car led the procession, followed by the van carrying their Tactical Team, with Lieutenant Colonel Petit's car bringing up the rear. They extinguis
hed their headlights as they crossed the drawbridge and, beneath the full moon, curved around to the courtyard. Blanc's driver parked beside Fournier's dilapidated bus. The van fell in beside and Petit's vehicle beside it. All three vehicles were shut off and fell into silence.

  Blanc stared, expressionless, through the windshield. His driver, Maurice Delvit, whispered under his breath in disbelief, “What the hell is going on?”

  Men, four that Blanc saw, milled about the courtyard. They were dressed in the cloaks, tunics and armor of Templar knights or, more accurately, what Templars might look like following a fire and several centuries moldering in the grave. Though details were elusive in the blue-white moonlight, they appeared to have weapons and several rode armored horses.

  “Have you ever seen the like?” Blanc's question was rhetorical. Delvit had never ventured thirty miles from Paradis. He'd seen nothing, anywhere, until now. “I knew Marcel Fournier was crazy but I would never have credited him with an imagination.”

  “I do not understand, Colonel,” Delvit said. “What has this to do with drugs?”

  “Idiot! What do you think? Do you believe in ghosts? This is a show to scare away interlopers. These are, how would our American friends put it, scarecrows.”

  Screams, a demonic shriek and human shouts of pain and terror split the night.

  “Mon Dieu!” Delvit started in his seat. Blanc remained expressionless but dissected the gloom with his eyes.

  Around the distant side of the chapel two more figures emerged from the darkness and entered the courtyard. They too were dressed as knights. They walked abreast carrying weapons in their outside hands and dragging a man on his knees between them.

  Blanc ordered Delvit to turn the car's exterior light on and, over his radio, ordered the others to do the same. Three spots illuminated the ruined castle's entrance, the chapel, and the courtyard in a white glow. Blanc squinted, straining to see, and nodded as he identified the man on his knees. “I knew it. That is Loup Wimund.” The front of Loup's shirt had a gaping hole and was stained by blood; black in the moonlight.