The Wrath of Jeremy
Stephen Andrew Salamon
© 2000 by Stephen Andrew Salamon
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
Second printing
DEDICATION
This is for my love, ‘Samantha’. Through your fears and dreams, I’ll be with you every step of the way….
“The Unseen is there, waiting for you to see them.”
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
The sunlight smiled upon them, waving its rays in a perfect melody of warmth, while their middle-class, leather-covered feet still walked onwards, through the tall steel-like grass that gave a subtle, prickly kiss as it hit their ankles. Looking down at each blade of grass he hit, breaking the ice from them, due to the fresh dew that froze itself to their green, fragile lives, he started to become addicted to this ritual of sound, highly amused at its natural echo. Walking more, the boy, named Jeremy, noticed that the grass was becoming easier to glide through, only because the new birth of the morning sun was slowly melting, thawing the innocent icicles from the blades, turning them to a soggy substance that permeated his shoes with a smell like mildew. Yet, he and his parents still walked—he glided—toward a white church in the distant field, surrounded by golden yellow cornfields that dominated the land he saw, perceiving them to be that of golden blades that guarded the church of wood. Birds flew out of the fields sometimes, and Jeremy stared at them flying away: his brown eyes loved innocent creatures of the morning. He always wondered where the birds would fly to, what the sparrow would whistle its daily song for, and why the black crows would always hang out on the blackened, dirt-filled scarecrow that stood over the cornfields behind the church of white. He turned to his right, and saw the long, vast dirt road which led to their town, but looked in the opposite direction, always pondering where that direction led. Seeing the heat hovering closely over the road, a mirage of tremendous warmth that begged to the sun for more of its energy, Jeremy turned back, and focused his eyes on the church again, as the sun’s reflection off the white, pebbled road was too great, too much for his pupils to stand.
Still they walked, in a fast rhythm, toward this house of God, in their brand new church clothes, and fake smiles that put up a front to neighbors, believing that they were a perfect family with no secrets. Yet, Jeremy, with his brown eyes of beauty, would always allow his smile to vanish, not wanting to place this Sunday mask on himself, like his parents did in the yesterdays, the present, and the Sundays to come; he yearned to be real, genuine. Walking quickly, their rhythm showed that Jeremy and his family were late, and this caused young Jeremy to smile; he found it comical that his father wore this heavy mask so greatly. Crickets still chirped behind them, and the sparrow’s song became an echo to Jeremy’s ears, showing the family that they were closer to the church. Jeremy’s peripheral vision showed statues of saints, making it known that they were about to mount the steps of the holy house.
“Jeremy, hurry up! I don’t want to be late again on the count of you!” his father shouted. Jeremy rolled his eyes vividly toward his father’s suited back, and still followed them, his feet now gliding across the white, wood-chipped stairs of the church. Feeling small, old, rusty nails biting at his leather shoes, gripping their sharp beaks onto them and pulling their metal bodies out of the wood, Jeremy lifted his feet toward the next step. Once his father opened the doors, Jeremy paused from entering, not wanting to, being afraid to witness this holy house’s stomach, but knowing that he had to again, just like every Sunday. Songs started to be heard by the people, the sour smell of frankincense made its way to Jeremy’s stuffy nostrils, clearing them abruptly, and shooting straight to his brain, allowing a brief headache to be conceived. Very discreetly, he and his parents made their way up to the front of the church, and sat down inconspicuously in the front pew, having his parents smile to the other people as they sat, and hearing whispers all around, with the main subject that Jeremy knew; the whispers consisted about him and only him.
A cross, larger than life, stood on the altar, directly in front of the pew that Jeremy was sitting in, draped with the aroma of oil-filled holy water, that allowed the statue of the King to gleam, admit its outer beacon, and permit Jeremy to almost see his own reflection on it. He gawked at it, squinted toward it, and then shut them, being too afraid to stare at it for some reason or another. The mass still continued, and that’s when Jeremy fell into a deep sleep, while holding the holy book in front of him, acting as if he was reading it, while his mind could enjoy a bit of night dreams. Half an hour later, he was awoken by the loud sound of the priest, who stood at the altar, beginning his Sunday sermon that would normally scare the life out of anyone who listened. He knew he was awake: having the priest looking at Jeremy, seeing that his eyes were small, bloodshot, proving to his holy mind that this young man just had a nap, Jeremy knew the anger this man showed could only be shown in reality, not in dreams. Thus far, the priest still went on with his sermon, and Jeremy was forced to listen, due to the fact that he knew about his sleeping and he didn’t want him to tell his parents.
“Waste and void is what existed in the beginning,” the priest roared, showing a green vein through his forehead, and a red face, like his head was ready to blow up to an oblivion filled with past stories that held blood to their motives. Jeremy listened closely, perceiving this holy man’s exasperation with the church members and his plight to bring morality to the sinners. He had great storytelling skills of historical events that he honored to be the word of God.
As Jeremy sat, trying to concentrate on this holy man’s story, while ignoring the fear he was trying to instill in his parishioners, he noticed that a statue to his right might have moved to his peripheral vision.
The priest quoted Proverbs 9:10, saying, “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom: and the knowledge of the holy is understanding.” Jeremy looked to his right, and saw nothing but a statue of a saint, lined up with about twelve other marble statues standing still just like they did every Sunday. So he gazed back at the priest, and paid attention to the rest of his sermon, trying to get at least some good out of it, being that it was a daunting story.
“God is in all of us, and so is Lucifer.” The priest paused, took in a breath of the hot summer air, looked
intently toward the sunlight of the stained glass windows, and then continued. “God tried to destroy the earth, but after the great flood, he made a promise never to destroy it again. Many people say the rainbow meant he will never try to flood the earth a second time, but I believe it meant one thing—that destruction of our home shall never come from his hand again.”
Suddenly, Jeremy noticed the holy cross of titanic size standing in front of him on the altar, and the eyes of Jesus were beginning to show a bit of red. Blood, one single teardrop, started to fall slowly down Jesus’s left eye, and Jeremy tried wiping his own, not believing what he was seeing, not wanting to comprehend it. Heavy breathing took over Jeremy’s lungs, panic choked at his nerves, and the feeling of numbness crawling its claws up Jeremy’s flesh was the only thing he felt. Summarily, rapidly the statue of Jesus opened up its eyes, and placed them in the direction where Jeremy was sitting, its pupils piercing toward him, forcing Jeremy’s eyes to close shut in fear. His heart beat faster, with Jeremy striving to calm it down, feeling the pump of it growing to a vociferous echo, a shrill sound as he discerned, and knew that behind his closed eyes were the eyes of Jesus, open wide and facing him only.
“Repent, you sinners, for God shall find a way to deliver his great wrath!” the priest yelled, striking his fists against the podium which he stood behind.
Jeremy then pried his eyes open with his shaking fingers, and turned away from the holy cross, and saw one of the statues of saints lifting its marble-made eyelids and gawking at him like it hated him with a tremendous passion.
Jeremy’s eyes started to water, trying to hold in his frightful tears, feeling as if he was suffocating, gasping for air in a hot and stuffy room, yearning to try and understand what was happening. He whispered to himself, “No more, not again. It’s not real, it can’t be real; it’s just my imagination. It’s just my ima—”
His mother noticed him talking in fright, turned toward his petrified eyes, and said in a motherly approach, “Jeremy, are you alright?”
Jeremy couldn’t answer, not even one sound came out of his neurotic, fretful mouth. He could feel his tongue wanting to scream out for help, yet it was like it turned to solid stone. He felt heavy and frozen in fear, worried to make a sound. His exhales manifested gasps of breath, currents of fear that flushed out from his teary soul, not knowing how to control this revolting shock and terror within him. Jeremy then turned to all the other statues, and saw them opening up their sculpted eyes, gawking at him, allowing thick, heavy humidity to fill the room, birthing sweat and a feeling of choking hit him, stabbing him like a ton of icicles, burning his body from their masked heat. As the dust-covered sweat dripped from his forehead, like they were in a race, his father saw that he was acting strangely, so he questioned his wife, “What’s wrong? Is it Jeremy again?”
“I think so.”
Whispering, the father spoke with anger: “Damnit, he does this every time. Did you bring his medicine?”
Frantically, and with nerves almost paralyzing her hands, the mother looked in her white, leather purse, searching for that one bottle for her son which would cause healing to his mind and not be embarrassing to theirs. Searching and searching, moving quickly past her make-up, old, sticky, used tissues, combs and brushes, the mother still couldn’t find his medicine, and Jeremy now was in a straight trance, just staring at these statues of life, showing him they have some form of a soul, of a reason to exit their dormant, lifeless shells, and enter a state of reality.
The statues, all of them, lined up on their pedestals, began to lift their marbled feet up and step off their homes that they were made on, making loud clatter as they stepped, crashing sounds which only Jeremy could hear, yet couldn’t understand. Jolting panic triggered Jeremy’s hands to tremble even more and to grip the Bible he was holding so tight that some of his fingernails broke down the middle of his tips, bleeding out down the back cover of the book without Jeremy even noticing the stinging, throbbing pain. The statues started to walk toward him, slowly, very slowly, lingering, allowing Jeremy’s tears to shoot out in a faster race for escape, while he just stared at this sight of horror, not knowing what to do, where to go, or how to get up and leave. His feet were like weights, legs like rubber, and his hips were frozen like ice, paralyzing his wanting to run, damaging his craving to escape.
Then, as he turned his head away very timidly, and faced the front of the church, there in front of him, standing tall, was Jesus himself, so close that Jeremy could feel his body heat, his sweat, and his blood that dripped off his crown of thorns, and onto this horrified boy’s lap. The priest yelled louder, the people listened closer, their bodies sweated harder, and Jeremy’s thoughts of torment grew grander, filling his infinite aura, turning green in sickly fright.
“Mom, don’t you see him?” Jeremy questioned, pulling his mother toward him, trying not to make a scene.
“It’s alright, baby, I know your medicine’s in here somewhere.” The mother still searched, avoiding upsetting Jeremy in any way. She never saw him this bad: not comprehending how bad he would get, she started to move her hands faster, frantically building up her motion, because she didn’t want to see how far Jeremy’s mind’s eye would take him.
He didn’t want to look forward, but he did, and, as he turned his head, his Savior, the man he loved and worshiped, still stood in front of him, and now he was reaching his nailed hand toward Jeremy’s head. Heat and a gradually building momentum of some form of fear wrapped around his mind; Jeremy was now on the brink of going insane.
In slow motion, Jeremy saw this great man’s hand coming toward him. He freaked to this rhythm, literally busted out of the pew at the first form of feeling his legs gave, and began running down the red-carpeted aisle, past the life-showing saints, past the people who gawked at his supposed rudeness, and shot for the doors of the church. The doors seemed so far now, like every time he ran, they would get farther, like they were running away from him, not wanting him to exit, to leave and vanish. But Jeremy still ran, wanting to vanish from this place, and craving to exit through those doors, like it became his mission. The priest kept up his sermon, ignoring Jeremy’s scene of eccentricity, being too embarrassed to stop his words, and Jeremy kept up his run, ignoring the priest’s words of fright, being too afraid to stop his motion, blocking out all that was around him, and only seeing those doors that would lead to freedom from this nightmare.
Once he reached the doors, he began pushing, pulling, and hitting them, trying to find a way to open their wooden bodies, but nothing happened: they were sealed shut. He pounded on them, hitting them, wanting them to open, not wanting to look at this scene anymore, and his hands started to bleed, showing his bloody fingerprints everywhere he hit the door of splintered wood. Feeling the supposed zombies of stone, their gaze pressing on his terrified back, he heard their heavy footsteps becoming louder. He recognized that they were walking closer to him, did not know what they would do once they reached him.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, all the sounds stopped: the loud roar of the priest, the faint whispers of the people’s sinister gossip, all the way to titanic-force footsteps that the statues presented to his ears. Silence. All Jeremy could hear was the sweat dripping still from his head, his heart pounding out of rhythm, the blood from his hands dripping to the floor, and a light song of a single sparrow that flew about outside, on the other side of this door’s old frame. Yet, there was another sound, a noise of heated breath, that flew toward his back and neck, as if someone was standing right behind him, conversing with his fears, subliminally catering to his terror’s heart, and building up to a stronger sensation of nerve-breaking power.
Pump…pump…pump….
His heartbeat grew larger, creating noises as if it was frolicking around trees of wonder and delight, dancing in the wind of torment, and potentially ready to die out from this exercise of mass quantities. He knew he had to turn around, not wanting to, but having to. In slow motion, turning his head, lingering in the
action, Jeremy saw, abruptly, the sight of all the statues, lined up as if they were ready for battle, and facing him, right behind him. Jesus stood in the middle of these statues, gawking at Jeremy’s brown eyes, reaching out his nailed hand toward his brownish hair, which stood up in fright. Jeremy screamed, no sound at first, but then a horrible moaning took over this silence, and he sprinted toward the door before Jesus could touch him. He was able to break them open, and having the sun to stare over his head while running down the steps of the church. He knelt down and began to cry tears of relief that he had escaped this nightmare, and tears of agony that this fear burned into his eyes. Each drop that fell from his brown eyes fell to the dusty, receded, grassy ground, and all he could do was gawk at them as they ran from his mind, like they were trying to escape his lurid nightmare.
As he stared, Jeremy saw a man’s shadow on the ground below, and his heart began to pound fast again. When he looked up slowly, he saw his father out of breath, hovering over him, showing that he had run out of the church toward Jeremy’s aid. He knelt down beside Jeremy, and gave him a hug while feeling his shaking body, crying on his shoulders of stubbornness.
“Come on, Jeremy, let’s go to the doctor. It’s gonna be okay, son.” His father helped him up, and walked with him away from the church, while the mother ran toward them and gave Jeremy a tight hug as well. Not knowing what adventure Jeremy was about to take on, he just gazed at the cornfields in a straight trance and wondered what tomorrow would bring. What he didn’t know, but soon would, was not only that this would be the greatest adventure ever, but also that it would become a mission that only God could give.
I
The Evil Opens Its Soul To Reveal What It Will Behold
The Wrath of Jeremy Page 1