Ten Thousand Gods Season 1 Episode 1

by Jim Hodgson

  Though he'd been unable to find a definitive step-by-step how-to for contacting Satan, there had been those recurring themes: pentagrams, blood, candles, chanting, and nudity. He'd have to forego the nudity. First of all, there was modesty to consider, if not journalistic ethics. He was planning to set up a decent photo opportunity here, after all, not a porno. If he was bare ass naked in his photo, it wouldn't play nearly as well on social media.

  After kicking a few broken pieces of brick aside to clear a mostly smooth section of the dirt floor, Phineas drew a rough pentagram with his heel, then, when he was happy with the placement, he went over his drawing with the goat blood.

  Then he stuck a few candles around the circle and lit them. It looked pretty demonic, but it lacked something. Phineas walked the perimeter of the circle, feeling the heat of the candles on his face. Eventually, he decided it didn't look right because the candles were all brand new. After they'd burned down some and he'd dripped some candle wax here and there, it looked absolutely perfect. He snapped a couple of photos with his phone then sat cross-legged inside the pentagram and took a few photos with a timed shutter, propping the phone atop the furnace. They looked great too.

  All right, he thought. I'm here. I've got my pentagram. I've got the blood. I've got the candles...

  He prayed to Satan. His heart pounded a bit. What if it worked?

  But that was ridiculous. None of this mystical mumbo jumbo worked. Not for mortals, anyway. But he intended to tell people he was trying to contact Satan, and that meant he had to at least give it a good faith effort. Otherwise, he'd be sensationalizing, or in other words, no better than Barton Densworth.

  He prayed for a few minutes more, but one of the candles sputtered out, then another. Not a peep from Satan. Oh well. He'd tried. And he'd gotten his photos, which looked absolutely fantastic. They were smudgy and a bit hard to make out, which lent them a decidedly demonic air.

  He couldn't wait to get upstairs and post them.

  Chapter Eleven

  The photos worked better than he'd hoped. By morning, his social media and email had gone crazy with messages and shares and likes. He'd covered all manner of celebrity doings in his career, but nothing with this kind of traction. He supposed Satan was the ultimate boogeyman, and, having been absent this long, represented a deep well of people's interest.

  Geoff called. "Wow," he said. "You intrepid bastard. You're actually doing it, aren't you?"

  "I'm trying," Phineas said, giving himself full marks for modesty. His phone chimed to indicate there was an incoming call. He looked at the number but didn't recognize it. Geoff rambled on about how many people he'd seen reposting the pentagram and candles photos. Phineas' phone chimed again to indicate a voicemail had been left, and once more to indicate a text message had come in.

  "Listen, Geoff," he said, interrupting. "I gotta go. Lots happening here."

  "Okay, okay. Good. That's good! Go get 'em tiger."

  Phineas laughed then thumbed the button. He had a voicemail to listen to, but even better, he had a text from Miss Karlyn Mailie Losscraft herself. Inside his body, from his throat down to his intestines, there came a great uplifting gust of something. A mixture of pride, of hope, of happiness. He wanted to bellow. Beat his chest. Click his heels. He wanted to hold a cigar and ruminate at length on the pleasure of a plan coming together.

  The text read, "Hey."

  His first instinct was to reply immediately and at length. To tell her everything he'd been doing and how it was going. To continue to share his life with her. But he hesitated. In his research of Satanism, Phineas had wandered into all manner of tangential philosophies. Much of it seemed to deal with sexuality, and, to give the Satanists their due, Phineas was impressed with how readily and openly the Satanists appeared to embrace any and all forms of consensual human sexuality. He'd also found a lot of literature and how-to instruction on seduction. He'd read it with disgust. The posts talked about love and courting with all the grace of a used car salesman's training manual.

  But, here in his own apartment and inside his own mind, he had to admit that some of it made a tiny bit of sense, particularly the parts about being too needy. When he thought about himself running alongside Karlyn's car -- begging, pleading, simpering -- it made him feel embarrassed and sick, like a cheap reproduction of a man. He wouldn't make that mistake again. He was ahead of the game here. Well, no, that wasn't right. But he did appear to be clawing his way back. It was no time to celebrate. It was time to double down.

  He didn't text back. He just read the one word over and over again. "Hey." It had Karlyn's name next to it too. Three words represented by photons shooting out of his phone's screen and into his eyes. He wanted to get her name tattooed on himself, so that others could see how much he loved each and every letter. But he couldn't think that way.

  The phone vibrated again. He couldn't believe his luck. It was as if the universe had heard him talking himself into not texting Karlyn and had elected to immediately reward him. It was a second text from her.

  "Just wanted to tell u to b careful," it said.

  Now the urge to reply was even more powerful. He reviewed a couple of possible responses in his head. What would sound the most Indiana Jones-ish? "Don't worry about me, babe" or maybe "Hah, I'm good."

  Maybe he shouldn't reply to this one either. If current results were any judge, silence appeared to be his best tactic. He decided to think it over for a few minutes anyway, so he played the incoming voicemail.

  It was Barry, the god of Atheism. A deity. Calling him, Phineas Sealby. On the phone. And he wanted to meet for lunch. Phineas knew the place. Pizzano's on Peachtree Street, just a few blocks north of his old office. They agreed via text -- texting with a deity! -- that they'd meet up in a few minutes.

  The imaginary cigar was back, and Phineas again loved it even more when a plan came together.

  Chapter Twelve

  Barry was apparently a fan of Italian food. They waited in line at a cafe permeated by the smell of cooking marinara.

  "Have you thought about living there? Rome maybe? Or Florence?" Phineas asked, making conversation.

  "I have, but, off the record?"

  Phineas nodded.

  "Well... Sometimes stereotypes are stereotypes because there's a little truth in them. The Italians are a very Catholic people, even now. As much as I love their country, their food, their wine, and their people, there's just not much call for the personification of Atheism there."

  "Makes sense," Phineas said. "But Georgia's religious too, no?"

  "It is, but not like Italy. When you get right down to it, everywhere is religious. I like the weather here. Good airport. Big but not too big."

  Phineas thought he sensed some big-city disdain. "And it's not New York or L.A.?"

  "And it's neither New York nor L.A.," Barry said, giving a huff of a laugh.

  They both ordered salads and bottled water then chose a sidewalk table. Phineas ate and waited. One interviewing tactic he'd learned: sometimes waiting for someone else to speak was the right question. It tied in nicely with his current philosophy vis a vis texting with Karlyn too. So, he waited. Eventually, Barry spoke.

  "Listen, Phineas, as I said before, I have respect for your work," he said, pausing to wipe his mouth then take a drink of water.

  "Thanks very much, Barry,"

  Barry waved this off as if Phineas was being too modest. "But listen, I want you to know I saw your posts from last night, and, I think you should..." He paused here, clearly searching for the right words. His eyes roved back and forth over the sidewalk. A passerby took their photo. "I think you should maybe let this one be."

  Phineas considered. He felt a bit cold inside. Fear? Couldn't be. He was sitting at a sidewalk cafe eating an overpriced salad. "Why do you say that?" he asked.

  "Well," Barry began. "Those guys... the good guy and the other guy, you know, they're two sides of a coin, but also a little bit like brothers. Getting in between them, for a
mortal could be ... not good."

  Phineas couldn't believe his ears. Had Barry just confirmed the existence of Satan? Phineas looked at him, watched him sitting primly with his left hand in his lap, forking a mouthful of salad toward himself with his right.

  Barry set his fork down. "Not that I'm confirming or denying the existence or intentions of either, mind you," he said. A schoolteacher's smirk for a mischievous but promising student appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  Phineas laughed. "You read my mind."

  Barry shook his head. "No, no. I just read your facial expression."

  Phineas sighed. "I appreciate your advice very much. But I'm committed here. I mean, I got fired—"

  "Yes, I heard about that."

  "And dumped as well."

  Barry nodded. "Heard about that too."

  "You did? Wait. Who is filling you in on my love life?"

  A shrug. "This is a big small town. People talk. But listen, let's not get bogged down here. I just want to make it clear to you that even though you may feel stuck, you're not. You are a brilliant journalist."

  "Thank you."

  "No thanks necessary. I recognize when people in the media are passionate about journalism rather than sensationalism. That passion is very much in line with my way of thinking."

  "Thank you again. But my life..." he trailed off. His old life? No, his life. "My life is here. In Atlanta, the Record is pretty much it for serious print journalism. Trust me, I have reviewed my employment options. They are nil. And nothing I've ever worked on has had anything like the traction this story does. It's insane. I have to follow it and see where it goes."

  Barry dabbed at his mouth again. "I was afraid of that."

  "Of what?"

  "That it had already gotten under your skin,"

  That gave Phineas pause. Had it? Gotten under his skin? What if he got everything he wanted right now? What if Dr. Losscraft drove up in a limousine, hopped out, and begged him to come back to the Record. What if Karlyn parachuted down from the sky, already wearing a magnificent wedding dress, and they were married on the spot. If all that happened, would he be willing to let the story go?

  "See what I mean?" Barry said.

  "No...?"

  "Yes you do. You were turning it over in your mind just then and realizing I'm right. It has gotten under your skin."

  Phineas blustered. "Well, I hardly think. I... um, you know, that's..."

  "Aw save it," Barry said. "Don't bullshit a bullshitter."

  Phineas felt as though he'd let Barry down somehow. If Barry could be considered a powerful ally, he was Phineas' only one. "Sorry, it's just a bit startling to have your facial expressions read accurately that easily."

  "I don't have a lot of fancy powers, but I do study mortals. Anyway, I just wanted to warn you if possible. But it sounds like you might already be a lost cause."

  Phineas didn't like the sound of those words. "Wait, Barry. I mean, I'm not going to die or anything like that, am I?"

  "You're mortal, so, yes..."

  Phineas could hear his blood rushing in his ear for a few split seconds.

  "...but as for whether the current path you're on will bring you to some grisly end? I can't tell the future. There could be complications, though, certainly."

  "Complications?"

  "Complications. I can't say anything more."

  "Come on, Barry. Don't leave me hanging on 'complications.' Elaborate, won't you?"

  Barry considered. His eyes roved a bit again. Then he shook his head. "No. I can't. I think you'll be fine. Probably. Or not. But look, if you get stuck, let me know. I either will or will not be able to help."

  "Well, uh, thanks very much. I'll do that."

  "For now, there's this. Don't ask me any questions about it. I can't do anything more than hand it to you and let you process it as you will." Barry reached into the inside pocket of his sport coat and withdrew a black card. At first glance it was just black on both sides, but as Phineas turned it over and over he saw that it was printed in glossy black over matte black. It was an address.

  What could it be? Surely this wasn't Satan's address. Was it? Could it be? Was Barry walking around with Satan's home address in his pocket? It was a street number and the words "Ponce de Leon," a road Phineas knew well. But what was on Ponce that was part of his quest?

  "Whats—" Phineas began. Barry held up a hand. Phineas felt like an idiot. "Oh yeah, you just said not to ask you didn't you."

  Barry smiled. "I like you, Phineas."

  "Well, thanks." The card was printed on heavy card stock. It felt firm in his hand, more like a thin piece of hardwood than a piece of paper.

  "Be careful," Barry said, then he went back to eating his salad.

  Phineas nodded and put the card into his wallet. Be careful. Barry said it in an almost offhand way, but it also sounded like the warning of someone who had been some pretty awful places. He'd have to be careful. Wow. Such an ominous command, "be careful," yet Phineas found it thrilling too. Nothing he'd worked on as a deity beat reporter had ever made him feel he was part of the workings of the deities. Only that he was a gadfly, watching and recording their doings. Now he was taking lunch with Barry and being handed cryptic cards and told to be careful.

  Scary. Thrilling. Careful. Yes. But effective. He felt so damned effective. Tonight he'd take things up yet another notch, then maybe see about this card.

  Carefully.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tonight. Tonight was no time to be careful. Tonight was the time to throw caution and propriety to the wind and really push this goat's-blood-pentagram Satan-contacting business to the utmost. He would head outside.

  In addition to posting his photos on his social media, he'd posted them to the demonic message boards. He hoped they'd win him some contacts, possibly some advice. There had been comments of all kinds. As usual, most of the replies were insulting to his sexual orientation and his parentage. One or two praised his attention to detail with the pentagram and candles. One user even sent him a cryptic private message, visible only to Phineas. It said "Under the moon in your skin if you're serious. But heed: you know not what you do."

  Back at his apartment after the meeting with Barry, Phineas clicked on the user's name, "C2lu," to read his or her comment history, hoping to use that information to determine whether the person was serious or just blowing smoke. When he did, he found that the private message was apparently the only thing the user had ever posted. It looked like the account was a "throwaway."

  In message board parlance, a throwaway account was an account specifically created to say whatever it wanted to say without reflecting on a user's normal account. It seemed peculiar to Phineas that such a thing should exist, given that everyone's accounts were ostensibly anonymous, but he guessed politics were politics even on message boards.

  Of course, this C2lu person could just be a troll, meaning he or she was just posting whatever he or she thought might get a rise out of Phineas, but there was another peculiar thing. The account's creation date was the day after the message board itself had been created, over ten years ago. Whoever controlled this account had been sitting on it for a long time, never saying a word until last night. Usually throwaways were created on the spot, used, then, as the name implies, thrown away. This one was an antique by Internet standards.

  Phineas typed a reply. "What do you mean? I should make my pentagram outside? And what does 'in my skin' mean? I should be nude? You're not just yanking my chain are you?" He clicked send. Then busied himself checking on his candles and camera gear. He knew the perfect spot, off the beaten path in the park. He could get there without anyone seeing him, set up his stuff, snap a few photos, and be on his way without anyone the wiser. He had just enough blood to make one more good sized pentagram, and he figured he could always go back to the butcher shop. This time he'd be ready with a better transportation method. Something with a spout that made it easier to pour the blood accurately. A milk jug maybe.
>
  He put the weird card Barry had given him on his desk and checked for a reply from C2lu. There was no reply. He checked his sent messages to see if he'd actually sent the message. It was there, but something weird was there too. Where the message recipient's name C2lu should be was the word "deleted" in square brackets. So it really was a throwaway. Oh well.

  He was going to be up later than usual trying to contact Satan, so he flipped on some soft music and settled down for a nap.

  When he opened his eyes again, the light filtering through trees and blinds was reddish. By the time he'd made himself a sandwich, read through his email, and replied to a few people who had contacted him on social media about his demonic pentagrams, it was dark out. He realized he'd never replied to Karlyn. Surely he'd waited long enough now that he could send one message.

  But what should he say? "Every second I miss the smell of your hair." "Let's elope and have a dozen kids." "Please come hug me."

  He was disgusted with himself for these. What was he? A man, or a simpering wilted cabbage leaf? He didn't know. Probably the leaf. But damn it he was doing things. He was effective now. Unemployed, but effective. Speaking as a professional journalist, he felt better today than he ever had.

  In the end he decided simplicity was best. He sent, "Hey! I'm fine. Lunch next week?" He typically eschewed exclamation points, but in this case it signified a certain jaunty tone he needed in order to mask his simpering-cabbage desire to see her. He willed himself to forget that he'd sent the text so he wouldn't be constantly checking his phone to see if she'd replied.

  After loading his car with the accoutrements of demonic summoning, he drove across town, being careful to avoid potholes. The parking lot was deserted. Technically he was trespassing, given that the park's hours were dawn to dusk, but he didn't think anyone would care. The candles were a worry. Who knew what sort of person wandered the park at night? Someone might see the candles and come to investigate. He'd just have to be fast. Gods help those who help themselves, right? Or was that just Jesus? Surely there were some policies shared by all deities.