The smell of pot roast drifted from the kitchen and tickled the tip of her nose. She smiled and thought of Kyle, the new man in her life, a co-worker who’d just joined the company a month ago. They’d been out once and it was fun, but when Kyle found out about her two kids, he seemed to back off some. She’d set up tonight to reassure him that she wasn’t looking for a new daddy for her kids, but just to have some fun, no strings attached. What she was really looking for was to get fucked, good and hard.
She giggled. She didn’t ever use that kind of language, even at her most pissed-off moments, but she thought them sometimes, and they always made her feel naughty. Peggy knew it was stupid, but she couldn’t help the way she felt.
“Take me upstairs and fuck my brains out,” she’d say to him after dinner, after the coffee. She could see his surprised look and eager eyes in her mind and she smiled. Yes, that seemed like the right approach.
It was time to get up and get the salad together. She had an hour before Kyle was supposed to show, but she wanted to get made-up just right for him because tonight was going to be special. It had to be. She hadn’t gotten laid in over a year and she was afraid that special spot between her legs was going to rust over if she didn’t get do something about it.
Poor Kyle had no idea what he was in for tonight.
Of course, he could cancel, or stand her up. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities. Maybe he was just being nice to her, agreeing to the dinner but backing out at the last second.
She pushed those thoughts from her mind, shoving off from the couch and heading to the kitchen. She searched through the refrigerator, pulling out all the ingredients for the salad, setting the head of lettuce on the counter next to the carrots and radishes. She was going to make the best damn salad Kyle had ever had. She broke out the knife to chop up the radishes when someone knocked on the front door.
Peggy set the knife on the counter and washed her hands in the sink. The doorbell rang.
“Hold your horses,” she said. Could it be the kids? She hoped not. She wasn’t trying to be mean—she loved her kids more than anything else in the world—but she needed a break, for God’s sake.
The door rattled as someone knocked on it again. Then the doorbell chimed again. They were going back and forth, from knocking to ringing, and it was pissing Peggy off. She dried her hands with a dish towel and stormed to the front door.
She flung the door opened and leaned out. “What?” she said, her face twisted with anger.
“Excuse us,” came a tiny voice.
Peggy looked down and saw three kids, all under seven years old, standing on her front porch. They were pale, with black stringy hair and dark, murky circles under their eyes. They were dressed in clothing that should have been left behind in the seventies. One wore an orange shirt with brown horizontal stripes and a pair of red and blue checkered plaid pants. He didn’t have any shoes. The little girl next to him wore a pair of faded blue bell-bottoms and a flowing shirt with a tiny flower pattern. She had on a pair of sandals and her hair was long, almost down to her waist, oily and plastered to the sides of her emaciated face. The third kid was another boy and he wore a red shirt with a zipper that ran from the chest up to his chin, a pair of blue jeans with holes in the knees, and cowboy boots.
They looked up at Peggy, their pupils black. Dread and uneasiness stirred in her stomach like spoiled spinach. She shivered.
“Have you seen our mother?” the Hippy Girl said.
“What?” Peggy said.
“Have you seen our mother?” Red Shirt said.
“Have you seen our mother?” Shoeless asked, right on top of Red Shirt saying the same thing.
“I’m sorry,” Peggy said. “I don’t understand.”
The kids stared at her and didn’t blink. What was wrong with them? They were so skinny she wondered if they were malnourished. Their clothes hung off them, making them into raggedy scarecrows come to life. And they stunk of spoiled cabbage.
“We lost our mother,” Red Shirt said. He cocked his head to the side and his tongue lolled from his mouth.
Peggy shivered again. These kids were off, somehow, and they were creeping her out.
“Do you want me to call the police for you?” Peggy asked.
The Hippy Girl tilted her head just like Red Shirt did. She went silent, too, and her tongue lolled out. It was purple and thick.
“Okay,” Peggy said. “I’ll go in and call the police.”
“Never mind,” Shoeless said. He reached out and took the hands of the girl and the other boy and they walked off together, down the driveway and to the sidewalk. They never looked back.
Peggy shut the door. That was maybe the strangest thing she’d ever experienced. She went back into the kitchen and hovered over the lettuce, shuddering. She couldn’t get the way they looked out of her mind. Finally, pushing thoughts of them away, she reached down to grab the knife from the counter and chop up the lettuce.
It was gone.
The faint smell of rotting cabbage filled the air.
Peggy turned around, sure that she was going to see all three of the little kids standing behind her and one of them holding the knife. There was nobody there; the kitchen was empty.
She giggled, more out of relief than finding something funny, and opened the drawer next to her. She took out another knife and set to work on the lettuce.
The doorbell rang.
She set down her knife and crossed to the door. She reached out to open it and hesitated, afraid. What if those little kids returned? What was she going to do?
The doorbell rang again.
She’d call the cops, that’s what she’d do. In fact, she’d be best to do it now, without even opening the door.
The doorbell rang again.
Peggy, suddenly furious at having her perfect evening on the verge of being ruined, twisted the knob and threw the door open.
No one was there. A gentle breeze kissed Peggy’s face. The world outside was quiet. She shut the door, shivered, and went back to the kitchen. She needed to finish her salad and start setting the table.
The knife she’d left on the counter was gone.
She froze, the faint smell of spoiled cabbage scratching her nose. Had the kids gotten in somehow? Were they hidden somewhere, playing tricks on her?
She opened the drawer and pulled out another knife, this one a big butcher knife, and stomped around the kitchen, leaving the drawer open.
“Where are you?” she yelled. “I know you’re in here somewhere. You think it’s funny, scaring me like this?”
The doorbell rang again. She turned, knife clutched to her chest, and strode into the living room. Those kids were going to get it if they were outside. She ran to the door and flung it open, thrusting the knife before her to ward off any attacker.
No one was there. Another gentle breeze caressed her face as Peggy looked around. It was as quiet as a Buddhist Temple. A few birds chirped in the distance, and a snake slithered across the pavement. The snake, long and skinny and black as coal, lifted its head and looked at her, paused, and crept across the road.
She shut the door, relief rushing through her veins. The faint smell of putrefying cabbage whispered over her face.
The doorbell rang.
Peggy spun, furious, and threw the door open again.
Hippy Girl, Red Shirt, and Shoeless stood next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, their skin pasty and their eyes black and hollow. Hippy Girl had the first knife Peggy used in her hand, Red Shirt had the other, and Shoeless had a steak knife in each hand.
“Have you seen our mother?” Red Shirt said.
Peggy screamed and staggered back from them. Her head buzzed and she felt faint.
“Have you seen our mother?” Shoeless asked.
Peggy tripped over the tricycle she’d set to the side, falling and sprawling out like a rag doll, dropping the butcher knife. She rolled onto her stomach and tried to crawl away.
Steak knives flashed
in the light and slashed the back of her ankles. Hippy Girl stabbed Peggy through her left hamstring, burying the knife so deep it tore through her leg and almost pinned it to the floor beneath. Peggy screamed and rolled over as Hippy Girl pulled the knife out.
“Have you seen our mother?” Red Shirt said. He jabbed Peggy in the stomach with his knife. It went in two inches before he pulled it back out and did it again.
Peggy punched Red Shirt in the face, her knuckles sliding off as her blow grazed him. He was cold to the touch, like he’d just walked out of a snowstorm, and his skin was greasy and slick. The punch knocked him to the side but he popped right back up, glaring at her with his black eyes.
“Have you seen our mother?” Hippy Girl said. She stepped forward and stabbed Peggy in her shoulder, shoving the knife through the skin and muscle.
Peggy screamed again, her voice raw and her throat ragged, and used her left hand to dig at the knife. She grabbed the handle and tried to pull it out but she couldn’t; it was stuck fast.
“Have you seen our mother?” Shoeless said. He jammed one steak knife into Peggy’s left breast and twisted it. She howled as Shoeless slashed her right cheek with the other knife.
She punched the air, trying to push them away, but to no avail. They descended on her, knives biting and ripping.
In all, she was stabbed seventy-eight times before giving up the fight. She slumped against the door and looked up at the kids through blood-blurred vision. Hippy Girl stared at Peggy, her head tilting to the side and her purple tongue lolling from her mouth.
“Have you seen our mother?” Red Shirt said.
All three kids dropped their knives and wrapped their tiny, freezing hands around Peggy’s neck.
They squeezed until her head popped like a pimple, brains and blood squirting from her ears.
When they finished, the three kids turned, walked back out the front door, and disappeared.
III
Bowling Green, Kentucky
“And that’s why Jesus died,” Dr. Horace Bramlett said. He folded up his notes before him on the lectern and smiled at the stunned freshman World Religions class. It was always like this when he got to the Christianity portion of the syllabus, a bunch of shocked students ready to either lose their faith or crucify Horace just like their lord.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
One timid hand raised in the back of the class. It was Tim Hanson, freshman, overall pain in the ass. Horace pointed to him.
“You can’t be serious,” Tim said.
Horace looked over the rest of the class as the bell rang. “Make sure you prepare pages forty through sixty for next week’s class, okay? We’re going to move on to Hinduism after we finish Christianity, and I think studying the Essenes will provide us with a good bridge between the two.”
The students got up as one and shuffled from the class, their bright and shining, eager faces a little duller now that Horace had finished his most famous lecture. He knew the Christians hated him for it but he didn’t care much. All religions were a sham for the most part, but the most bothersome was Christianity.
Tim hung at the back of the class and waited for everyone to leave. Horace knew he was going to want to challenge him and if it was any day but today, Horace wouldn’t have minded. But there was something nagging at him, something to do with the scroll he was translating from ancient Aramaic. It had pestered him all night, keeping him from getting a good sleep, and since he’d gotten to his office late this morning—because when he’d finally fallen asleep, he’d overslept—he hadn’t had time to address it yet. Now, with this class done, he had his afternoon free.
Tim stopped in front of Horace and stared at him. He was an alright kid, just a little too stuck in his religion for Horace’s taste. Tim was like a lot of the young adults that came to the University to major in Religious Studies: they were predominantly Christian and each with the idea to use this degree as a springboard to graduate to whatever seminary waited for them in their future and then the missions field or church work or, worst of all, teaching.
Horace was glad for them; the world needed more good people to do good work, but it also need more people with open minds. Most of the students that came through his doors already had their minds made up about how the universe worked and who God was and Jesus and all of that mess. Which was exactly why his World Religions class was mandatory for a degree in Religious Studies—they all needed to have the opportunity to expand their minds to see that there was a world beyond their Bible Belt conceptions. And at the start of every fall semester, there was always a student like Tim, bright and caring, full of energy and the righteousness of their beliefs, who came along and got bent out of shape because of the words that came out of Horace’s mouth.
“Excuse me, Professor?” Tim said. He was a skinny guy, six feet tall, but rangy, a beanpole. Tim was the opposite of Horace, who was short, squat, wore glasses, had long, thinning hair that he wore in a ponytail, and no matter how much he shaved, Horace always had a five o’clock shadow.
“What is it, Tim?” Horace said. He really didn’t want to get into this, but he knew there was no other way around it. Tim would badger him until Horace gave him the attention he needed.
“What you said, about Jesus? I mean, how could you?” Tim said. “Jesus was the Messiah.”
“According to some beliefs, yes,” Horace said. He reached over and grabbed the stack of texts he’d used in class that day and slid them into the canvas shopping bag he’d gotten for his groceries.
“But you said he was an agent of evil,” Tim said. His voice almost reached a whine. Horace looked over the tops of his glasses and smiled.
“I said that Jesus was an antonym wrapped in a synonym,” he said. “A true sheep in wolves clothing; which is ironic when you consider that Jesus himself used such words to describe his enemies.”
“But the Sadducees and the Pharisees were corrupt,” Tim said. “Everyone knows that.”
“Ah!” Horace said, his eyes brightening behind his glasses. He held up his pointer finger and wiggled it in the air. “But they saw through his disguise. And although they were just as evil as the Catholics or the Baptists today, they were on the right track. Their only mistake was to crucify Jesus, just as he wanted them to.”
“Baptists aren’t evil,” Tim said, hurt.
“Not as a whole,” Horace said. “Of course not.” He walked to the door and Tim trailed along. “Is that all you have for today, Tim?”
“No,” Tim said. “I just don’t understand why you hate God so much.”
Horace entered the bustling hallway. Students walked up and down the corridors between classes, chatting and weaving through the crowds. Their hubbub filled the air with youthful vigor.
“You can’t hate what doesn’t exist,” Horace said.
“You don’t mean that!” Tim said, exasperated. His long legs allowed him to catch up to Horace in no time at all. “You don’t believe in God?”
Horace smiled and said nothing. There was really nothing to say to the boy that wouldn’t cause him to climb to the rooftop of the building and cast his body down to the cruel concrete below. Horace had been in Tim’s shoes once and when the truth was finally revealed to him, when he opened his eyes and, most importantly, his heart and mind, he’d nearly made the climb himself.
Only the most cynical wanted to recognize there was nothing good that lay out beyond the realm of human perceptions. For indeed, what truly lay beyond was evil and terrifying.
Horace reached his office, put in the key, turned the lock, and went inside; his home away from home. The room itself was pretty small considering his tenure at the University. He’d been teaching here for nearly twenty years now, his only job since receiving his doctorate. That put Horace at forty-five years old. He’d been here long enough that he could retire soon and reap his full benefits—and there were some in the department who would love to see that day—but he felt too young still to give up what he loved.
He slid into his inner sanctum, set his book bag down, and sat behind his desk. Tim followed.
“I just don’t understand,” Tim said.
Horace sighed. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses and shook his head slowly.
“How much more can I explain this to you, Tim? Jesus was a creature from outside our reality, sent to create violence and destruction, to weaken the human race.”
“But how so? His is a message of peace,” Tim said.
“Exactly. Which is where we come to the whole antonym wrapped in a synonym,” Horace said. “He pretended to be about peace and then riled up the establishment around him, convincing them he was so dangerous that he needed to be killed. Once dead, his followers rallied around his cause, making him a martyr. There is nothing more dangerous than a martyr.”
“But they preached peace!”
“Ah, but that’s the genius of the plan,” Horace said. “Each successive generation lost that peace, bit by bit, until the religion was adopted by people like Charlemagne. You’re well aware that Charlemagne was no Prince of Peace, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but…”
“But nothing. After Charlemagne you had the organizing of the religion and the power that accrued around that, which eventually led to the Crusades and the Inquisition and…Do I need to go on?”
Men of Perdition Page 2