"The baby," Johnny said, trembling. "Me."
So I tear away from Benjamin Conroy and race out of the barn, across the backyard, and into the house where the bloody trail is at its thickest. I find the basement door and pull the tiny ball chain in the foyer leading downstairs. It ignites the tight staircase and here I behold the sprawled body of Eddie Carlson lying at the bottom of the steps in a pool of blood. I race down, but immediately see that Eddie is dead. Not once do I assume him to be the victim of any supernatural afterlife; he is not of Conroy blood, and has not been crucified. Perhaps my assumptions are fraught with denial, but my sole purpose now, as it has been since stepping foot into the barn, is to save those under any threat of danger. Here in the basement there should be a baby, but the silence mocks me, and I consider for a moment that Benjamin has tricked me into entering some damp, dark trap. I stop in my tracks amid a maze of cardboard boxes. Listen, and nearly abandon my search. But then I hear something: it is a baby whimpering! And not far away! In a mad rush, I follow its timid call toward a crawlspace in the cement wall. Inside I see a bundle of burlap and rags. I reach for it, pull it out, and find Baby Bryan Conroy…
"Me," Johnny said.
I unwrap the baby boy. His face is swollen with tears, but he appears to be unharmed. Quickly, I race back through the basement, making certain to step over poor Eddie Carlson's body, who I can only assume had entered unwittingly into this massacre in process, and had consequently become a part of it himself, perhaps even giving his own life in a courageous effort to save the baby. Holding the baby close, I stagger up the stairs and follow the bloody trail back outside, realizing only now that Benjamin Conroy, devoted father and husband, revered minister of the 'Organization Of God', is guilty of perpetrating these brutal slayings upon his family and Eddie Carlson. And it is only upon reaching the bottom step of the porch that I wonder: who crucified Benjamin?
Henry paused, and Johnny asked pryingly, "Who was it, Henry? Who crucified Benjamin?"
Henry's eyes, glistening with wetness, sprouted their first tears.
No sooner do I ask myself this question, that it is answered for me. Benjamin appears at the doorway of the barn. He is on his knees, hands and feet shredded and gored red from his extricating of them from the crucifix; I can see a nail still planted firmly in his right hand. Clutching the baby tightly, I take a few steps forward, but Benjamin Conroy yells "STOP!", and I see no option but to heed his demand. I move my mouth to speak, but my misplaced questions are immediately countered: He yells, "It was not my doing. It was the darkness—the bird who carries its soul. I was tricked. It was not Osiris. It was the darkness…" At first I do not understand him—his somewhat nonsensical words are further obstructed by his impeding pain and anguish. But then, I see it, this darkness he speaks of. It grasps him…a shadow of a thing with black morphing appendages and withered feathers floating down from its roiling bulk. It appears from within the depths of the barn and swallows Benjamin as he attempts to crawl free. It saves his face for last…his face with its one eye bulging in terror and bleeding mouth that shouts, "Don't let it have Bryan, take him away!", and I make an attempt to step back, but there is something holding me, drawing me closer to the barn, and suddenly I see a bird perched upon the roof of the barn, and it is whispering to me, saying, "Henry. Save our dying souls. Bring us our blood, bring us our blood," and I watch as Benjamin Conroy disappears into the blackness, the blackness that fills the doorway to the barn and summons me with its strange dark power…
Johnny swallowed past the dry lump forming in his throat and said, "You saved my life, Henry. It was you."
Henry, finally pulling himself away from his memories, gazed at Johnny and shook his head. "It was the boy, Eddie Carlson, who'd saved your life."
Johnny needed a moment to soak it all in. It was here that images from the dream he had just two nights ago came back to him, where he was being carried by a young man, and he could see the young man with his keen features and blond hair and intense gray eyes, how he'd looked so terribly frightened, how he was running and crying and clutching Johnny close to his chest, how they were in a house, somewhere dark and musty, how the young man in all his panic had wrapped Johnny up in a shred of burlap and slid him into a cool dark space, then turned and disappeared into the shadows, where he screamed and screamed and screamed…
"I remember him Henry. I remember Eddie Carlson. I don't understand how, but it's as clear as day to me now."
"There is much more you won't be able to understand. I've spent the last seventeen years trying to understand, Johnny. And still many facts elude me." He paused, then added, "But I believe things are about to change."
Without hesitation, Johnny said, "I'm ready…but first, please tell me, what happened after Benjamin disappeared into the darkness?"
Henry took a deep breath; his eyes seemed to cloud over with the memory. "I can remember standing there for a very long time, maybe an hour or more. Who knew? I'd been traumatized, and whatever it was that'd had Benjamin in its grasp was trying to lure me in as well. There'd been a part of me that wanted to give in too, surrender the baby and explore the hidden mysteries within the barn. But there was another part of me that fought that irrational urge and prevented me from making such a fatal move. At the time I didn't understand what it was, but realized soon thereafter that it was the baby in my arms protecting me. Protecting itself."
Johnny nodded, somehow understanding, remembering.
"A couple hours later, I was awakened by my deputy, Carl Davies, who after receiving a frantic call from Mrs. D., had followed my usual path home and found my car in the Conroy driveway. I'd come to in a panic and told him about the bodies in the barn, and Eddie Carlson, and that I'd found the baby in the house and had tried to get away. I can remember carrying the baby to my car while Carl investigated the barn. He'd come back a moment later choking and nodding in a frantic panic.
"The ensuing investigation had lasted for a couple of weeks. After an autopsy proved that I hadn't killed the Conroy's, the bodies were cremated at the request of Mary Petrie, the family's only known relative, who had immediately taken custody of you. Soon thereafter, the rear of the barn beneath the loft where the crimes took place was boarded over, mainly to discourage curiosity seekers. Of course, I couldn't truthfully explain why I'd shot all the 'dead bodies', so I remained silent in my defense. It'd been presumed that I'd suffered some form of post-traumatic-stress-syndrome, and it was recommended that I relinquish my post as sheriff, which I agreeably consented to. Carl had assumed my position, and was extremely cooperative in allowing me to investigate Benjamin Conroy's past by retaining all his papers, journals, and studies."
"And what did you find?" Johnny asked curiously.
"I found the workings of a man who was on to something incredible."
Chapter 36
September 9th, 2005
2:24 AM
Mary Petrie drove on a Maine back road, the full moon she followed tossing its ethereal glow across the expanse of hissing wheat fields surrounding her. Her newfound consciousness had won the battle against her old powerless ways, and was once again in full control of the situation.
She peered at Ed in the rearview mirror. The pea-cap on his head had shifted down and was now covering his sunglassed eyes. The wheelchair, still anchored to the floor, squeaked with every turn, cautioning Mary to take the sharp bends slowly.
She made a right turn onto Flower King Road, which in a few miles would escape the sea of wheat fields and cross over onto Farland Avenue, the lifeblood of Wellfield's business district. In her right hand she still gripped the feather, its silky surface coated with sweat. Johnny needs me, she thought, gazing at the feather. Ed needs me too. And I will do what it takes to help them, to save them.
Save their dying souls.
She continued traveling at a reduced speed, taking in all the featureless sights that had made up her life's surroundings prior to seventeen years ago: the wheat, the cracked road, the fade
d-arrow street posts jutting crookedly at every back road intersection.
Again she peered in the rearview mirror.
Ed was no longer there.
With a sudden, violent bang, the wheelchair slammed back against the rear of the van. Mary screamed with immediate horror, her newfound consciousness instantly gone, not even a trace or a whisper of it left to do battle against the now uncloaked vulnerable weakness that had previously dominated her life.
And possessed no skills of how to drive.
In a panic, Mary slammed her foot down on the accelerator. The van lunged forward. She screamed again, then jerked her foot to the left and slammed down on the brake. The van's tires squealed. Clouds of dust sprung up, blocking her view. The wheelchair rolled forward and thumped into the back of her seat. She fought with the wheel but couldn't gain control. The van fishtailed, then careened off the road and crashed into the six-foot wheat stalks where it came to a rubber-burning standstill ten feet deep.
Here she remained, panting, shivering with shock. She counted out the seconds in silence, noticing something gripped in her sweating hand: a feather. Unknowing as to how it got there, she shook it away with disgust and revulsion, as though it were a large spider, or a cockroach.
Her harried mind prayed for this to be some kind of wild nightmare, one she would soon wake up from, shivering in sweat. But the incessant song of Wellfield's crickets seeping deep into her wounded consciousness kept the prospect of such a possibility unthinkable. Where am I, and how did I get here?
A thump in the back of the van shocked her into a low level of awareness. She heard a loud wheezing gasp, the sound a person might make while caught in the throes of a heart-attack. She shot a glance into the rearview mirror.
A set of hands—bloated, black, and bloody—reached up over the back of the seat.
She broke her inaction and clawed at the door handle. It popped, but the door wouldn't budge against the confining wall of wheat. She peered over her shoulder, saw the horribly mottled death-hands, their groping fingers creaking like soil-caked hinges as they attempted to grip the headrest of the seat behind her.
She screamed again, her heart thumping not just with anxiety, but for the first time in her life, authentic fear. She sprawled across the seat toward the passenger door, again peering up at the hands which were advancing over the seat, now visible to the forearms. They too were spongy and black with death, covered with dense brown hair that stood out like bristles.
Mary looked up at the passenger-side window. Here the swaying wheat was partially crushed, affording her some room to open the door. She seized the door's handle, yanked it, but it was locked. She shot an arm up and latched two fingers onto the release. Pulled it.
The demented wheeze behind her grew, and for a moment it seemed as if there was an attempt to speak in it. She gazed up at the gripping, flexing death-hands, the words save my dying soul filling her head. Something shifted, and then a head surfaced over the back of the seat.
My-dear-Mary-Jesus-mother-of-God!
It was Ed. More mysterious than waking up in the driver's seat of some van amidst an alien field of wheat, was being confronted by this death-mockery of her husband. His face was a bloated mess, as bloodlessly white as his hands were black. His cheeks were hollow and gaunt, caked with blood and mold. His eyes, a clouded gray-blue, were loaded with dreadful intellect, dreadful consciousness. His lips split open and produced a Velcro-like tearing sound. Black blood oozed from the corners of his mouth in twin rivulets. A pair of plastic sunglasses dangled from his right ear like a wind-torn branch.
Mary yanked on the door's handle, terribly aware now of Ed's black and spongy, rotting-squash stench. Levering her feet on the steering wheel, she drove her weight against the door. It swung outward into the wheat, granting her perhaps twelve inches of fleeing space. She wriggled forward, grabbed onto the edge of the door and pulled her body forward, wondering if it would be worth all the effort just to live the rest of her life out in some cold insane asylum. The bitter smell of wheat and soil swam over her.
Ed wheezed again, and when Mary glanced around, she saw a thick gouge in his neck widening like a mouth. With alarming speed, he clambered over the seat, laid hold of her legs, and yanked her backwards. Mary fought vainly against him, hands grasping blindly at the glove compartment which flipped open and vomited its papery contents on the floor. He yanked her again. Her lean body rolled over the seat, slammed against the ceiling, then, down against the hard flooring. There was a loud cracking sound somewhere inside her. White hot pain lanced across her torso.
Through blurred vision, Mary gazed up at her monster of a husband, his coated milky-white eyes rolling obscenely toward her. The horrible gouge in his throat flapped open and wheezed again. Spatters of coagulated blood flew out from it and sprayed Mary's face. Black clots of snot exploded from his nose as he regarded Mary with no prior familiarity, only purposeful anger and intent.
Mary sputtered, " E-Ed…what…is…this…?"
Ed wheezed. Again it sounded as if he were trying to speak. Mary heard, "Dying souls…"
He then sprung at Mary, incredibly fast, and incredibly powerful.
Chapter 37
September 9th, 2005
2:48 AM
Johnny held a bible in his hands. It had seen better days, tattered and torn and frayed at every corner. On nearly every page, a vast array of fanatical lines crisscrossed back and forth between circles of letters and words.
"If you'll notice," Henry said instructively, "In the spaces made between the bisecting lines are bold black letters, which, if written down alongside one another, spell out a phrase. It's in the same pattern on every page. It's a code."
"A code…" A sense of wonder washed over Johnny, and despite feeling tired and achy and scared, he wanted to hear more of Benjamin Conroy's—his father's—mysterious past.
Appearing fidgety and nervous, Henry leaned forward and began telling Johnny about the rituals that Benjamin had performed on himself, and his family. "It was Benjamin's assumption, based on the code he found in the bible, that Jesus's rise from the dead had occurred because Jesus himself had explored the magical rituals as demonstrated in the Egyptian Book of the Dead." Henry reached over and retrieved a notebook on his desk. He opened it and showed it to Johnny; it was filled with scrawled text. "This phrase repeats itself in the same pattern in seventeen different places in the New Testament:
I Jesus Christ, son of God, beseech thee, O Spirit Osiris from the underworld, by the supreme majesty of God, so that I may benefit from your empowering gift.
Henry turned the page. "And then here, this phrase is present in fifteen places:
Grant thyself with everlasting afterlife by sacrificing thy skin with life's symbol.
At once, upon hearing the second phrase, Johnny's scar began to itch and burn. He unbuttoned his shirt and displayed it to Henry. "An ankh," Johnny said. "Life's symbol."
Henry stared at the gnarled piece of skin, and Johnny could see him shuddering with even more apprehension. "I saw it, when I came out to get you from Carl's car. You were out cold and twitching, having a bad dream perhaps…
…five makeshift crucifixes jutting crookedly from the hard ground. Nailed upon them were the bodies of a man, a woman, a young girl, a boy…
…and your shirt was torn, it was rolled up around your neck, and I saw the scar, and I knew it was you."
Johnny buttoned his shirt back up, thinking of his mother and how she'd always told him that the scar on his chest was a birthmark, a will of God. And I believed her, he thought incredulously. He felt sick to his stomach.
"Henry…are these code phrases for real?"
Henry nodded methodically, his gaze seemingly trying to penetrate Johnny's scar through his shirt. He leaned back in his chair and hurriedly returned the notebook to his desk. "Benjamin Conroy was wholly convinced that Jesus had known all along he would be crucified, and had performed a spell from the Book of the Dead prior to his death, with t
he intention of returning as a savior..." Henry grabbed another tattered notebook, opened it, and flipped to a page somewhere in the middle. In a tone deeper than his own, he read Benjamin's words: "I have proof of this…I have cracked a code in the bible that reveals Jesus's use of Osiris's name in the New Testament. It is proof that Jesus himself had studied portions of the Egyptian Book of the Dead prior to his fall! Jesus rose from the dead because he evoked the spirit of Osiris! It is my opinion that these rituals can be utilized to allow me to repent for my sins in life, and allow me to bring my family with me into the afterlife, where we may remain together for an eternity, in peace."
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