by A. L. Mengel
No one really knows if everyone experienced the blood rain from the sky that particular night. It wasn’t determined if the blood rained only for a select few; those who were open to the other worldy dimensions, the time and space that exist right alongside the time and space that we, as a human population, experience each and every day.
But it was the blood rain that opened everyone’s eyes to the existence of the astral plane. No longer would it would be a myth; nevermore would the urban legend of the doorway to the netherworld at One Andelusia Avenue be merely an urban legend. For there were those, the ones who felt the blood raining from the sky, those who would feel a droplet on their cheek, wipe it away, and be startled when they saw it was a droplet of blood.
The ones who were awake, the observers, ran inside their shops and houses. Doors slammed, all along Ponce de Leon, as blinds were drawn and closed signs were displayed in shop windows. As the droplets of blood slowly fell from the sky, the clouds grew darker; the sun faded.
The storm was coming.
*****
Antoine, Delia and Hector had found the portal beneath the Chateau in France, and were transported to The Astral in Miami, stood underneath the porte cochère outside the offices on Ponce de Leon. They huddled close together, watching the red rain fall from the sky, watching the pink puddles mix with water, run down the side of the street towards the storm drain, and funnel their way under the city.
Delia shook her head. “It has happened,” she said. Antoine and Ethan looked at her. She continued. “We must get inside. I have heard the rumors around the blood rain. The dead shall rise. The resurrection is about to happen…”
Antoine knocked on the door, and there was no answer. The winds increased in intensity, to such a degree that an entire tree blew down the street.
Delia’s faced shifted as she peered out from under the small awning. The clouds were swirling, black and angry; the sky had turned red. There was a moment, when she saw the drops raining from the sky, the drops of blood that looked like tiny red bulbs, falling down towards her, splattering on the street, bright cherry splatters against stark, grey concrete.
Antoine rapped on the door.
A light snapped on inside the offices, as the three turned towards the direction of the door. Delia stood directly in front of the door and straightened her posture as the lock clicked and the door swung open.
*****
Antoine’s eyes widened. “Anthony!”
“No time for pleasantries now, Antoine! We must get below. Follow me!”
Anthony led the three through the main offices to The Astral. The lobby was lined with several leather couches and small side chairs, a large coffee table with an assorted variety of periodicals, and a small water cooler off to the side. They walked past a large reception desk. The offices looked like they could be a hub of activity. But now, the offices were stark and empty.
Anthony led the way through the hallways to the interior offices. “Everyone’s gone,” he said. “They’ve either all gone down below, they’ve been transformed, or just…devoured.”
They reached a tiny, windowless office. Anthony started picking up side chairs and clearing the furniture from the area in front of the desk. Antoine and Ethan immediately jumped in to help, carrying a coffee table and placing it off to the side, as Delia stood next to the desk. “Does this have anything to do with the hooded man?”
Anthony stopped rolling the Persian carpet, stood, and placed his hands on his hips. He paused for a moment to catch his breath. “You notice the setting sun?”
They all nodded.
“This has been happening for years now apparently.” Anthony bent down and continued rolling the carpet away, revealing a large door in the floor. Antoine noticed the small, black handle – a square indentation with a small ring in the center of the square. The indentation of the edges of the door ran through the floor; a break in the flow of the woodwork indicated that the door was large, expansive, flush with the floor, and, when covered with the rug, completely hidden.
“When Sheldon was the Director here, you three would have never been welcome down below.” Anthony looked over at Antoine. “When he was interviewing you, were you aware of his true intentions?”
Antoine’s face shifted. “He had told me it was to write a book.”
Anthony scoffed, and reached down for the small ring in the floor. “You should read his files. Lots of info in there.”
Antoine paused for a moment. He certainly remembered Sheldon Wilkes. He could still see the portly man sitting in a chair, downing caviar and crackers, drinking whiskey on ice, and jotting notes on a large, yellow legal pad. But he thought the man was dead.
“Oh he is dead, you are correct,” Anthony said. He pulled at the ring. Veins protruded from his neck and his face turned red. He grunted. Antoine kneeled down and helped Anthony with the door, as they hoisted the large door up and outwards. It leaned against the desk.
Anthony dusted his hands off and Hector, Delia and Antoine all stood above, looking downwards into an expansive, dark cavern. A set of steps, carved in stone, led downwards and around to darkness. “I’ve sat in this very office,” Antoine said. “And I had no idea that this was here!” He knelt down and peered downwards. But he saw nothing.
Delia shuffled towards the edge, leaning on her cane. Still standing, she peered down the stairs. “Smells musty,” she said, looking up and over at Anthony, who stood on the opposite side of the office. “It’s completely underground,” he said. “The fact that I am even showing you the existence of this place – with who you are and your organization – is unprecedented. But Monsignor Harrison visited here last week. He assured me that we would band together as one to combat this problem. This hooded figure affects us all. Not only because he is exterminating your kind, but because we at The Astral are required to document this event.”
Delia nodded. “You have the complete support of The Inspiriti. That I can assure you.”
“That is what Monsignor Harrison said. Now let’s get down there, and I will explain everything to you. But this blood rain that is falling – things can only get worse. We have to band together now. It’s the only hope for survival for either of our kinds.”
*****
The blood continued to fall from the sky as the night wore on.
In Ascension Cemetery, the blood droplets created a thin coat of crimson liquid on the grass; it clung to the blades of grass like tiny red dewdrops, and then, just as quickly as it had begun, the blood rain ceased falling. The thunder grew ever more distant, the lighting, while still occasional in brilliant striking, faded away.
But the blood remained.
And once the clouds parted, the sky remained red. The tiny droplets of blood started a methodical movement, and in a very strict, regimented fashion, moved down the blades of grass and reached the ground. The drops slithered across the ground, reaching towards a plot of land just in front of a tombstone, and pooled; banding together to form a tiny red sea. Slowly, the sea formed, until a puddle of blood soaked into the ground.
The earth rumbled and shook, as the winds increased. The leaves shuffled and branches swayed. A wolf called out in the distance.
And then it started.
On the sidewalks of Ponce de Leon, it started first, for the blood reached the bodies there first, before the white worms had a chance to devour them, for they were a new crop of bodies, that were there nightly.
As soon as the blood touched the bodies, eyes opened, stark white and sightless. Arms reached upwards towards the sky. And living corpses sat upwards, rose to their feet, and walked in search of blood.
And bodies clawed their way out of the earth in cemeteries. Rotted hands threw dirt aside as the rotted bodies experienced renewed life, rising out of their graves, and joining the earth above.
*****
Antoine lunged forward and locked in an embrace with Anthony. He reached up and mussed Anthony’s dirty blonde hair, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. �
��I haven’t heard from you for years! I thought you were dead?”
Anthony smiled and nodded. Delia introduced herself as they walked in the front lobby. Antoine turned to face Delia and Ethan, and placed his arm around Anthony, hugging him close. “It’s been years,” Antoine said. “Delia…Anthony here was once a researcher for The Astral.”
“Still am,” he said.
“Anyway,” Antoine said. “I was his subject. But when the green mist came…things got lost. I got lost.”
Anthony beamed a bright, white smile. “I’m glad you’re back.” He then looked over at Hector. “And who is this fine specimen?”
“I’m Hector, I was once known as Ethan, and I am twenty-two. Although I may look far older to you.”
Anthony nodded. “I have heard about the ‘Hooded Man’. He got to you too?”
Hector shook his head. “No. Claret. When I was young, she convinced me to follow her on a journey through time, and I lost my immortality. Yes, I drank from the decanter. But in a different way.”
“What do you mean?” Anthony asked.
“I mean, she told me what she was up to. She tried to get me to join her, but I refused. And she took my gift away.”
Delia shook her head. “I knew it was her. I knew it was her all along. I just needed the proof. And Hector, thank you for giving it to me.”
THE CRUCIFIXION
Claret stood on a stone pulpit overlooking the Catacomb Enclave. She looked downwards in front of the crowd as the Monsignor placed a heavy, purple robe around her as she closed her eyes. The pulpit was raised well above the square, surrounded by statues of significant Immortals. Claret opened her eyes and looked out at the crowd.
“She is not Christ!” Someone screamed from the crowd. “She must be put to death!”
Antoine stood in the crowd and looked up at Claret, as she was led to the edge. Her usually kempt red hair was dry and matted, dirty and untended. But she did not sway her presence. Her eyes scanned the crowds, and her face was locked and lips pursed.
The crowd silenced.
For a few minutes, she stood on the pulpit, as the crowd waited patiently. Antoine took a deep breath. He raised his voice above the clatter of the crowd. “Why have you done this?” His voice echoed across the large, stone walls, as the chatter immediately silenced. “Why are you murdering our kind?”
Claret shot a glance towards him, as Antoine took a cautious step back into the crowd.
“I still have a score to settle with you,” she hissed and glared at him. “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten about your time in Cairo!”
Antoine folded his arms, raised his eyebrows, continued looking at her, but said nothing. And he thought of the time in Cairo. The hours after the excavation at Luxor, in the time with Darius and Azra, when he was walking through the dusty marketplace, as Claret trailed his every move. “I think that matters very little now, if at all.”
Antoine pushed his way through the crowed, towards the front, and looked up at the pulpit. “All that matters now are your crimes against the immortals.”
Claret looked down at him and hissed. “You will never rise to my spot, Antoine!”
The soldiers tightened the chain around her waist and Claret was silenced.
Monsignor Harrison stepped forward and raised his arms as Claret looked over at him. “To my fellow immortals, we have Claret here, Empress of the Immortals. You all know of her. Many of you descend from her. Others have been running from her. Now you are here to judge her.”
Large, heavy red drapes were pulled apart behind the pulpit with golden cords, and Claret was ushered behind them, as the drapes fell shut, and the chatter from the crowd swelled.
*****
Before the trial, Delia sat outside the holding chamber, on the floor and up against an earthen wall, and drew her knees up close to her bosom. She listened for any sound that might come from the chamber.
Claret was silent.
Delia closed her eyes and leaned her head back.
She remembered visiting Domrémy-la-Pucelle, very close to her domicile. She saw the same soaring roof, the roof with one side reaching upwards towards the left as she faced the small, wooden door. The roof reached towards a point, and dominated her view.
But there was the night that she sat, sitting cross legged in the sparse grass across the stone path, feeling the cool dirt under her skin, and she waited. She waited for her to come out – the one who they said would take her on a journey through time and space.
And then the door opened.
She was wearing a long, dark robe. Claret smiled, and walked to where Delia had been sitting. Claret sat down next to her. “Do you understand now? Why I took you there? Back to Jerusalem?”
Delia looked down at her knees. She sat in the grass, amongst green blades taller than her legs, she picked at some of the wildflowers. “I don’t see why you brought me there, Claret. To prove a point? To make a statement?
Claret remembered the purple robe; the same velvety, heavy drape that was placed on the back of Jesus Christ after he was whipped and questioned. She knew exactly where it lay. Back beyond the trees, at the threshold of Golgotha, there was a small cave.
The chains were heavy on her back, much heavier than the robe had ever been. “Release me!” She hissed, her eyes wide. She lunged forward but her captors did not move.
There was a certain heaviness to the air; dampness penetrated the ground, as water ran across stones. Each time she moved her legs, the water splashed and echoed against the stone walls.
*****
The sun started to set over the horizon on Golgotha.
Claret was in chains inside a dungeon that did not see the sun; she was shackled to the wall in the same fashion that Antoine had been years earlier, but this time, she was powerless and weak.
She needed to drink from the decanter.
She looked upwards towards the door, as the metal bar braced open.
Antoine and Darius walked in, and Delia followed shortly thereafter. She spoke immediately, and stopped just short of where Claret was lying. “You shall be crucified.”
Claret looked up at Delia, who did not make eye contact with her.
Delia continued. “You shall be nailed to a cross and left to hang on Golgotha. You may stay there for all of eternity, for you will never lose your immortality. But you will not be given the gift of death.”
Claret’s mouth dropped open, but she was smiling. She laughed a bit, more to herself. “You think death is a gift?”
Delia paused, closed her eyes for a moment, and smoothed her hair. She opened her eyes and looked back at Claret, who was looking directly back at her and patiently waiting for an answer. Delia took a deep breath, and sighed, and looked downwards as she spoke. “Death would be a gift, for you, Claret. For you.”
*****
There were times when Delia had remembered the first time Claret came to visit her; those sunny, cold French mornings, when the breath was cold and stagnant. The air lifted her chest – its viscosity penetrated her lungs, opening them up; a cool vice which helped her breathe so much easier. But in those days, far gone, there was a moment, when standing on the front porch in the sunlight in France, she heard the clanking of chains. The shackles that she wore. That she remembered.
And then there was a moment, in the darkness, that she saw Claret, hanging on the wall in chains, her hair hanging long down her naked torso; the dirt that caked on her shoulders and back stood out in contrast to her pale skin. She opened her eyes, and looked up at Delia. “Do you know why I came to you? All those years ago? Do you know why I chose you?”
Delia shook her head and looked down. “I don’t understand how you can be so powerless right now.”
Claret laughed and threw her head back, and rested it on the stone that jutted from the wall. She laughed for some time; it reverberated against the walls, and Delia watched her as tears started to well in her eyes. Claret then snapped her head in Delia’s direction. “You will reali
ze that I am still your Mother. You will respect me.”
Delia took a step towards Claret, raised her arm, and caressed Claret’s chin with her finger, ever so lightly. “Yes. Oh my, dear. My sweet dear Claret. You are my mother. You may be. Yes. But you are still an ancient whore. Your travel through time has given you so much wisdom. But there is a time when one’s reign must end.”
Claret glared at Delia. “Do you remember what I said to you? Not when I met you in Domrémy-la-Pucelle but in Paris. Do you remember what I told you backstage?”
Delia could not forget.
She could still feel the sweat that had gathered in the small of her back from the heat of the lights. She could still smell that sawdust and taste the lipstick that had been so heavily applied. “Yes, I remember, Claret.”
“Mother. I am your mother.”
Delia’s face fell. Her frown gave way to new lines running from the corner of her mouth to her chin. And she leaned forward, bringing her face right next to Claret’s. “You are not my mother, Claret. You are simply Claret. My true mother died well before I met you. I watched her casket being buried. And I remember when you visited me in that cemetery. You are not my mother.”
Claret smiled. The saliva on her teeth caught the light. “Don’t you see though? How I am your mother now?” Her chains rattled as she reached her arms outwards. Her arms could not reach Delia, and although she looked down at Claret’s bloodied wrists, she took a few steps back.
Delia looked down at Claret. “Where were you when I was in Paris?” The door swung open as rattling chains resounded against the stone walls. Claret’s eyes widened. “Where was I? I was with you. Stupid ungrateful bitch! Such a fucking cunt.”
Delia approached Claret, and knelt down in front of her. “You were not with me, Claret. You were never a mother to me. You tried to take me under your wing. But all you were trying to do was gain power over me.” Claret opened her eyes, squinting against the light. “It’s time, Claret,” Delia said, reaching for her wrist. She held her arm up to the light. The gashes were bleeding again. She unlocked the cuffs and Claret fell back against the wall, wincing. Delia turned her attention to the soldiers and nodded.