They

by J. F. Gonzalez

  Vince had been riding high, on top of the world, and then it had all come crashing down when Laura lost control of her vehicle and flew off the 5, crashing into a stand of trees.

  Eight months after he’d buried her he still grieved. And he tried to get on with his life. Tracy Harris had proven to be a godsend. Brian Denison had been a saint. He’d given Vince all the time he’d needed, had helped him out on his accounts. Vince didn’t know how he’d managed to get through it, but somehow he did.

  He saw the gleam of light reflecting off the plate glass window of a home nestled on a jutting crag just as another thought spiked his brain. Tracy Harris…something about her was suddenly becoming déjà vu. He knew he’d never met her before that social mixer at the American Banking Association Convention this past winter, but all of a sudden she popped into his head with the uncanny feeling that they had met before. It was something about her speech, the way she spoke and carried herself that was creating those familiar feelings. Vince tried to focus on it as he made a right hand turn down Park Street, which would lead him up the hill to the neighborhood where Brian lived.

  Vince made another right down Fir Street. Tracy Harris wouldn’t get out of his mind, either. The taste of her lips, the comforting warmth of her body pressed against his, it was all coming back to him now, like an old friend, someone he hadn’t seen in years, someone he’d forgotten but his subconscious hadn’t.

  As he drew closer to the neighborhood, he felt a weight settle in his stomach. His fingers gripped the steering wheel and he dry swallowed. This was ridiculous. He would have known if he’d slept with Tracy Harris before. He’d only been with ten other women in his life, and Tracy Harris sure hadn’t been one of them. Christ, he could name all his past lovers by name. Susie, Brandy, Lori, Tonya, Susan, Vicki, Diana, Cathy—

  The names and faces rushed by and none matched, but oh there was one that was familiar. This realization settled in him as he pulled up in front of Brian’s home, a very large red brick sprawling place, and turned off the ignition. The driveway was full of vehicles. The house was at the end of a cul-de-sac; other cars were parked along the curbs of the neighboring homes, as if somebody were hosting a party. A strange sense of calmness flooded over him; he no longer felt afraid or nervous. He looked at Brian’s home, still trying to place where he might have possibly met up with Tracy Harris before, knowing he would make the connection soon. Then he got out of the car, closed the driver’s side door, and began walking up the driveway toward the house.

  As he walked up the driveway, Diana Roberts came to his mind. There was something uncanny about Diana, something about her eyes…those green eyes of hers that had been so alluring, so entrancing. That and the way she had walked, the way she’d kissed him, the way she’d made love to him…it was all coming back now. And the more he thought about Diana Roberts, the more he thought about Tracy Harris and how opposite they were to each other. True, both of them were built similarly, but there the resemblances ended. Tracy was cultured, refined, classy. Diana Roberts was—

  He mounted the concrete steps to the porch that led up to the large double oak doors and knocked.

  And when the door was opened, a tall elderly man dressed in an immaculate black suit looked out at him and nodded. “Master Vincent,” the man said, his voice crisp and commanding. “We’ve been expecting you. Please, come in.” The man stepped aside, allowing Vince full view of the entry hall.

  Vince blinked. Expecting him? He didn’t even know this old fuck. When did Brian get a butler? “Who…” be began.

  “We’ve been waiting a long time for you to come home,” the man said, the barest hint of a smile playing along his lips. “Please. Come in.”

  The man’s voice had a commanding tone. It propelled Vince up the step and through the threshold where he stood in the foyer, staring up at the vast high ceiling.

  “This way, please.” The elderly man with the black suit began walking down the entry hall toward the rear of the house. Vince followed him.

  Vince took everything in quickly; the polished mahogany of the woodwork, the stained glass windows, the furnishings; it was all the trappings of wealth and prestige. He’d been to Brian’s home numerous times in the past, but for some reason had never really paused to notice the details of Brian’s home. Had Vince taken Brian’s wealth for granted? Perhaps. But still—

  The elderly man stepped aside just as they crested the entrance to the lavish den. Vince stepped through the doorway into the room and his eyes flew open, a gasp escaped him.

  The den was large, with a cathedral ceiling. The rear of the room, which made up the rear wing of the home, was composed of plate glass that stretched to the ceiling. He was very familiar with this section of the home. These windows looked out onto the back deck, which, in turn, held a commanding view of south Orange County. The room was furnished with plush sofas and chairs, a cherry coffee table. A large marble hearth occupied a good portion of the south wall. Two large oil paintings hung in gold frames, flanking the hearth, their subjects dark and strange. Vince frowned; he’d never seen these paintings before.

  The people gathered in the den turned to greet his entry.

  The room was filled with two-dozen people dressed elegantly in suits, sport coats, blazers, vests, dresses, skirts, patent leather shoes and high heels, silk shirts and blouses. Most of them appeared to be older than Vince, in their forties and fifties, but there were a few elderly people as well. They were all looking at Vince, most of them smiling, as if watching a long lost loved one step off an airplane.

  There were a couple of people in the room around Vince’s age. One of them was smiling at him, his eyes warm, friendly. He was easily recognizable. “Brian?” Vince asked.

  Vince Walter’s best friend Brian Dennison smiled, his face alive with pride. “Vince, my man! So good to see you come home!”

  “What’s this all about?” Vince said, his heart pounding. Brian’s wife, Kimberly, was standing beside her husband and for the first time Vince noticed something different about them. He’d known Brian and Kimberly for over ten years, had been to their home, had shared laughter and good times with them. He’d become tight with them, and as familiar as they were to him the moment he walked in, there was something subtly different about his friends. It was as if he’d just discovered they’d been wearing masks the whole time he’d known them, and that this mask had slipped over their countenance, ever so slightly, revealing their true faces.

  “It’s all about welcoming you home, Andrew,” Brian said.

  Vince started, blinking. Andrew? How could Brian know that the name his mother had given him when he was born was—

  He was suddenly able to recognize other people in the room. A middle-aged couple, the woman demure and proper, the man resembling a line-backer; seeing him brought back memories of a California childhood when Vince used to play with his daughter, Nellie. Now he looked older, wiser, more confident. Another middle-aged couple stood near them, the man tall, powerfully built, with brown hair that was turning silver; the woman looked like she might be a power broker for a large corporation. She was dressed in a conservative business suit and her black hair was speckled with flecks of gray. He recognized those eyes as he looked into them and he saw Frank Black in her facial features. He blinked, their younger images molding perfectly with the older couple now staring back at him, faint smiles on their faces. “Gladys and Tom,” he whispered.

  “Hello, Andrew.”

  Vince turned toward the source of the voice. It came from an old man who was sitting in a red velvet chair with a large ornate back; more like a throne than an actual chair. The man looked to be well over eighty. He was dressed in a black suit, black slacks, a white shirt, a black tie knotted snuggly at his wrinkled neck. Two large gold rings sat on the ring fingers of both hands. His thinning white hair was combed back over his liver-spotted scalp. Despite his age, there was nothing about his demeanor or the sound of his voice to suggest he was frail. If anything he looked s
trong, powerful.

  Vince recognized the old man immediately. “Samuel Garrison,” he said.

  “Welcome home, Andrew,” the old man said. His features beamed a radiance that could only be described as pride.

  Vince looked around at the sea of faces again. He recognized another face in the crowd, this one standing with the middle-aged couple. She was about his age, with blonde hair, wearing a black dress. She reminded Vince of a suburban housewife and the minute he saw her he was transported instantly back to his childhood, when he was eight years old, playing with his childhood friends as his parents visited with the parents of his friends. “Nellie,” he whispered.

  Another woman stepped forward and when Vince cast his eyes on her his heart leaped in his chest. He stepped back in shock, unable to believe what he was seeing. “Tracy!”

  Tracy Harris stood in front of the throng of people that had gathered in the immaculate den to greet him. She’d changed into a revealing outfit designed for evening wear; a one-piece black dress with a short skirt, plunging neckline, black stockings, high heels. Her auburn hair fell on her shoulders, and as she stepped toward Vince he saw the remarkable resemblance between Tracy and Diana Roberts, the girl he’d dated over ten years ago. “Tracy,” Vince said, taking a step back.

  “It’s okay, Andrew,” Tracy said, her voice soothing, calm. “There’s no reason to be afraid.”

  Vince was taking rapid steps back and he stopped when he heard the door behind him close. He glanced back quickly; the double doors to the den had been shut and now he heard the click of a lock. He whirled around to Tracy, who’d stopped her advancement. She was looking at him with a mixture of wonder, awe, and love. Vince’s hands were shaking; he was too scared to do anything except stand there, numb with fright. “What’s going on here?” he said, his voice taking on a squealing pitch.

  “It’s okay, Andrew,” Tracy said, her voice soothing, musical. “These are your friends. Your family. We’ve waited so long for this.”

  Vince looked around, his eyes darting around the room. Despite the fact that the room they were in was so huge, he was beginning to feel claustrophobic. He felt a tightness in his chest, a burning in his throat that could only be fear. As he tried to take everything in, the people that were gathered in the den rose to their feet. Vince jumped back, deathly afraid. “What’s going on?” he shouted, panicked.

  The old man stepped forward, his stride steady with a sense of purpose. “There’s no reason to be fearful, Andrew. Relax. You’re home now.”

  “Home?” Vince cried, feeling the tightness constrict his chest. “What are you talking about?”

  “You haven’t guessed already?” The man that Vince had known as Uncle Sammy regarded him with an amused glint in his eye and Vince whirled around, searching for a way out. As his wandering gaze searched for an exit, they rested upon the paintings he’d glimpsed upon entering the den.

  He stopped, transfixed by them. A sharp gasp commanded his speech, the shock rooted his feet to the floor. “I see you’ve noticed my Bosch,” Samuel Garrison said, taking a step toward Vince. “It’s an original. Dates back to 1505. I paid half a million dollars for it back in ’64. Remarkable, isn’t it?”

  Remarkable wasn’t the word Vince would have used. Ghastly would have been more appropriate. The painting Vince was looking at depicted a Madonna and child, the infant suckling at her breasts. In the background, demons cavorted, performing vile rituals and tortures amid the flames of hell. The Madonna was done in a style typical of that period, but the infant….oh, the infant…

  Vince couldn’t help himself. He took a step forward to inspect the painting closer.

  The infant had been captured as it paused from suckling its mother’s breast. Its face was turned ever so slightly toward the painter, giving the viewer a half-view of its features. The baby was normal in every way except for the faint nubs of horns underneath the skin of its head, just waiting to sprout.

  But it wasn’t the horns that made Vince Walters want to scream. It was its face.

  It had Vince Walters face.

  “The piece is titled appropriately enough,” Samuel Garrison said. Vince could feel the old man take a step behind him, admiring the painting. “It’s called ‘The Coming of the Red Opener.’ ”

  Vince glanced quickly at the second painting. It wasn’t the same artist—he was no art aficionado, but he could tell the styles were different—but the subject matter was similar. In this painting, something was coming out of the demon-child…something with tentacles, its suckers ringed with sharp teeth…and just beyond, deep in the center of the demon-child, something else. Something that looked like it had wings.

  As he whirled around to inspect the rest of the room he noticed other subtle differences in the sculptures and woodwork that graced it, his panic rising because Brian’s house had never borne such decorations. Chandeliers laced with grinning, leering demonic creatures. Balustrades woven with Pan-like creatures cavorting lustfully. Across the room hung another painting, this one enormous, and even though he was too far away to get a good look at it, its dark colors suggested a similar ominous tone. Another wall was lined with dark cherry wood bookshelves crammed with volumes large and small. Then he noticed the floor and this time he almost jumped back.

  Funny how you never noticed things like floors in houses. Especially when one’s mind was on other things, like trying to get to the bottom of two weeks of murder, torture and other dark crimes related to his upbringing. In the past, a very large throw rug had always occupied the center of the den. This time, the rug was gone, revealing pure marble. It was a creamy off-white color and had felt slick beneath his shoes. And it was festooned with two large, graphically rendered designs that took up a large portion of the den floor space. The first design was baphomet symbol; the five pointed inverted pentagram with the devil’s goat in the star. But the second…oh the second…

  His mind flashed back to that day at his mother’s home when he’d seen that strange symbol scrawled on the wall. Similar to a pentagram but different, with weird circular shapes that twisted and turned within it. This one was markedly different. The words etched into the marble—M’gwli acht K’tluth K’ryon Hanbi e ’ghorallth liber daemonorum—rocked his brainpan, but the difference was the thing that had been etched into the design, seemingly a part of it. It was leering, winged, somewhat demonic in nature but also very alien looking, as if it had come from an entirely different world.

  Vince looked up at the sea of faces, his panic rising beyond hysteria now. “What in the name of God is going on here?”

  “What He’s planned!” This from one of the nameless men. He looked solemn, serious. “No more, no less.”

  Vince’s eyes darted along the sea of faces, still not believing what was happening. How could this have gone on for so long and he not know anything? Brian and Kimberly Denison…Tracy Harris….he saw her now for who she really was; he saw that long ago lover he’d had in Diana Roberts perfectly in her. A change in hairstyle, a slight gain in weight, a change of clothing and make-up style.

  “Of course, God doesn’t remember,” the old man continued. “He might as well not even exist. In fact, he hasn’t existed in many trillions of years. He was rendered old and blind and a babbling, senile idiot long before the creation of the universe set things in motion.”

  “I…I don’t understand,” Vince said. “How…” He looked at Tracy, trying to comprehend what was happening.

  As if reading his thoughts, Samuel Garrison said, “Diana was the test. We’d been looking for you for a long time, and when the Dark Father gave us Diana, we sent her out in the world to find you. And she did.”

  Vince looked at the old man, his eyes widening in horror. “What?”

  Samuel Garrison smiled, his face beaming with pride and satisfaction. “Obviously you thought she was a real woman. The Dark Father granted us a Succubus that He knew would draw you out, and it did. And once it found you we called her back…then sent her back o
ut under a slightly different persona. You know this second version as Tracy Harris.”

  Succubus? Wasn’t that a female demon? A demonic seducer of men? Vince looked at Tracy, his face contorted in dawning shock and horror as she smiled seductively at him. “The hardest part was walking away from you and having to give you up for ten years.” She laughed. While her voice still contained the timbre of a normal laugh, there was something behind it that sounded inhuman, like the throaty laugh of a creature from the depths of hell.

  “You can’t be serious,” Vince said, tearing his eyes away from Tracy and turned back to Samuel Garrison. His brain commanded his feet to move! Run! But they wouldn’t budge; they were rooted to the floor.

  “All the memories you have been reliving are real, Andrew,” Samuel Garrison said. “Everything that feels like it was a dream really happened. It’s your subconscious bringing them back to the surface; it’s your memory being allowed free reign again.”

  “I don’t understand,” Vince said, his voice cracking as he looked at Brian Dennison, tried to see the friend he’d known and loved for eleven years. The man that Vince knew as Brian Dennison was long gone; either that, or the man he was now looking at, the man that now smiled at him with a look of malevolence, had been there the whole time, lying to him.

  “Your mother took you from us years ago, Andrew,” Samuel Garrison resumed. “But we knew you would come back to reclaim what’s yours.”