It was a good cry, Megan decided. Tears of guilt could wash away the want for sinful pleasures. Tears of guilt proved she had a conscience; proved she was good at heart. When she felt the sorrow for her actions subsided, she rose from the bed and slowly began to pick up her clothes. No longer overfilled with remorse, but not in a good place either, she dressed herself, as if dressing for a funeral for a loved one. She had done that before, and would never forget what it was like. “Mom,” she said aloud when these thoughts entered her mind. “Mom, help me stay strong.”
She thought of Sonny again, knowing her mother would have approved of such a fine young man. “He’s a good person, Mom. You would have loved him. A good Catholic boy, just like you suggested.” True enough. She had no doubts about what her mother’s take on him would have been. “Thank God for Sonny,” she said to herself. Although she was disappointed in herself, she found herself even more convinced that he was a godsend. Perhaps even a gift from Mom. After all, he was strong enough to resist temptation… stronger than she was. She was not proud of this concept, but then again, lucky for her, if Sonny were a weaker man, she would have discarded her pact with Catholicism and would have no longer been pure. She knew in her heart he would love her, cherish her, and protect her… from corruption, from evil, even from herself should she ever stray.
Yes, thank God for Sonny.
“I wish I could talk to you about him,” she went on, addressing her mother’s memory. “I told Dad, but he didn’t even seem to listen. He’s so detached from everything. We don’t talk. Not the way you and I used to. Maybe I’ll go visit him soon. I would go more often, but… it’s hard. It’s draining, just trying to spend a day with him. It’s like he’s retreated inside himself or something. And that hurts me too because… when you died… it’s like I lost both parents. But I don’t feel alone because I have Sonny. So you see, there’s more than one reason why he’s good for me.”
When she was fully clothed, she moved to the front of her dresser, facing the mirror again. From the polyurethane coated top of her wooden bureau, she picked up her necklace with the crucifix attached and donned it around her neck. Entering the staring contest with herself again, she held fast to the crucifix against the top of her chest as if drawing some sort of power from its metal fibers. “I miss you, Mom,” she whispered. “I promise to make you proud. You raised me to be close to God. I won’t disgrace that. I won’t disgrace your memory again.” One final tear escaped the moist chamber of her eye, and trickled down her cheek. She found new resolve as she talked herself back on the path of faith. She would remain pure. She would not allow herself to be weak again. She would not succumb to human nature as Victor Frankenstein had. “I promise,” she assured her mother.
Moments later, Megan left her bedroom for the kitchen to heat up some soup. Her sudden lack of appetite wouldn’t care for more than that, but she hadn’t eaten since breakfast and knew she would have to put at least something in her stomach. As she quietly stirred the pot upon the stove and checking her watch, one whisper of a verbal claim escaped her lips:
“He’s the right one. He has to be.”
Still, she spent the entire time it took to finish her simple meal, wondering just who she was trying to convince of this. Her mother’s ghost, or herself.
Chapter XII
Wednesday was yet another emotionally trying day at Maybel’s Clothing Store. Megan had lost count on the number of times she silently prayed for patience. Mrs. Arenson, “Butch,” had been in such a mood, and as usual, Megan was the punching bag. Although she had diligently inventoried each article on every clothing rack before the store opened, and she had checked the price tags for any errors and found none, Butch still managed to find meaningless discrepancies with which to nitpick. A shirt wasn’t folded in congruence with others in its pile, and though Megan claimed a customer recently rummaged through it with interest in making a purchase, Butch would hear none of it.
“If you want to attract more customers,” she dictated, “you have to present a flawless image of your store. I expect you to attend to messes left by our patrons in a timelier manner. Can you handle that Megan, or do I need to micro-manage my own assistant manager?”
Megan had gritted her teeth behind her lips. “No Mrs. Arenson,” she conceded. “I’ll take care of it right now.”
“Fine,” Mrs. Arenson snapped. “And while we’re on the subject of image, you might try a nail polish that isn’t as loud a color as that,” she condescended, pointing to Megan’s fingers. “It looks trashy.” Not waiting for any type of response that Megan might give, not even so much as a “Yes Mrs. Arenson,” the unpleasant manager stormed into the back office with a box of pizza she purchased for lunch from the shop next door. She would most likely not emerge from the room until she had finished the entire medium-sized pie on her own.
Megan asked God for forgiveness when she had caught herself hoping that Butch’s unhealthy eating habits would soon lead to heart failure. Of course, there was always the chance that it could happen. The woman was already quite overweight, and her typical lunch breaks always consisted of exorbitant amounts of greasy, fattening foods. Her large figure was certainly a result of her lack of diet, and only augmented the aggressive and intimidating personality which she used to push everyone else around. Furthermore, she always took excessively long lunches, much longer than the allotted half hour as directed by the corporate office, and only if an employee (managers included) worked more than four hours in a shift. No, Butch did not by any means abide by this policy, and Megan could care less. The longer she was hidden away in the back room, the longer Megan was free of the large woman breathing down her neck. Though she did find it funny, that Butch would barge into the back room at the thirtieth minute of any of her employees’ breaks, simply to courteously inform them that their time was up and they were needed back on the floor.
Megan was quite sure, though knowing it didn’t excuse her from now having to go to confession on Saturday, that she wasn’t the only one who secretly fantasized that Butch would never emerge out of the back room, and that no one would think to go check on her. Just another one of Mrs. Arenson’s “extended” lunch breaks, they would think. Besides, she hated to be interrupted when she was in the back room, so the members of the sales team would go about their day, not thinking anything of it should she be back there for one, two, possibly even three hours. Finally, when someone had an issue that Megan as assistant manager could not handle herself, she would be forced to enter the back room for Butch’s expertise on the matter. And there they would find the lifeless fat woman. No one would move. No one would scream. They would all just stand there in disbelief and stare at her large corpse, keeled over in her leather chair, face down and buried into the half eaten pizza pie… Megan even pictured the side of her face in the pizza being stained with sauce, and some cheese and a pepperoni or two caught in her hair.
After an hour and a half, on this particular Wednesday, Butch did return from her lunch in the back room, in no better mood than she was before binging on the meat lover’s pizza. Fortunately, Maybel’s had become rather busy from a mild rush of customers that afternoon, so the majority of employees, Megan included, were too occupied with sales attempts to be caught appearing too idle for Butch’s normal tendencies of harassment. Megan did not mind any time in which the store became overwhelmed with patrons; it was the only time that Butch seemed to leave her alone, with the exception of those time-to-time moments that she felt compelled to personally involve herself with a few of Megan’s conversations with a potential buyer. She would use excellent sales tactics, but always seemed to use condescending remarks at her assistant manager’s expense in order to get a laugh out of the customer. It usually seemed to work as those particular customers would almost always make a purchase, which would be credited to Megan, and Butch would immediately claim that her involvement with the conversation was only to help Megan close the sale, but it still would leave her with feelings of insecurity a
bout her own skills.
After the rush had died down, Butch made a final comment on the matter: “Anyway, as an assistant manager, you shouldn’t be trying to get the sales anyway. Your success should depend on the totals of the employees under you. You should be helping them sell, not sell the items yourself.
“Yes, Mrs. Arenson,” Megan had submissively responded. “I usually do, but we had more customers than sales representatives on the floor. I didn’t want them to have to wait for service.”
“Teach your sales team to close their sales at a quicker rate then. They shouldn’t be chit-chatting longer than necessary with the patrons. If you would practice a little time management better, you’d be more prepared for the busy hours. How are you going to handle the Christmas Season if you can’t manage a little busy spurt in the spring?”
Megan said nothing in response to this, but she found it irritating that Butch intentionally failed to recognize that the latest bathing suit attires had recently come into stock in preparation for the upcoming summer. “Now,” the pushy manager continued, “some of the customers had dirty boots and left tracks all over the floor. I’m not sure why it hasn’t been vacuumed yet.” Then she stormed into the back room again.
Perhaps she was playing the martyr, perhaps she was being protective of her sales team from the irrational rampages of their irritable store manager, or perhaps she genuinely felt responsible for not taking notice of the dirt footprints. Megan was too mentally tired to analyze the reason, but she decided to vacuum the sales floor herself instead of delegating such a menial task to one of the newer employees. She really had no issues with doing the cleaning chores herself. It was better than having nothing to do, which would be too inviting for Butch to find something for her, and at this point in the day she wanted no more interactions with her. She would be clocking out in half an hour anyway… thank God.
At least Wednesday was Bible Study night; she did have that to look forward to. Megan would be attending at seven o’clock as usual. Having a mid-week activity that helped bring her peace was always welcoming. Sometimes, she wasn’t sure she’d get through the work week without having a nervous breakdown if not for the spiritual, as well as social gathering she would get to enjoy. For weeks now, she had been trying to persuade Sonny to go with her, but even though he did join her on a very rare occasion, he normally opted out, blaming his strenuous academic program. He did promise her that he would be there every Wednesday during the summer break. Just two more weeks, she thought. She smiled, in spite of her predicament at Maybel’s, remembering Sonny’s claim that, once classes were out for the summer, he would be spending a lot more time with her. The work-week would soon become much easier to get through.
Chapter XIII
Father Paul sat in his rectory office, quite pleased with how everything was transpiring so smoothly. He gently slid his fingers along the top of a small tin box at the center of his desk. After reading, To Father Paul: per your instructions, from a note, written in pencil and wrapped around it, he removed the paper and carefully opened the box to find the ashes he would need for the next sacrifice. The young man, whom the agency recruited when he was a troubled teen, had certainly come around after their meeting the day before, and was back on board, so to speak. He was quite certain that Diana’s involvement was key to the lad’s turn-around. Apparently, she had allowed him to spend the day with her on Monday and… watch her work. She promised she would regain his interest and obedience toward the Agency, and Father Paul was now convinced that whatever Diana’s tactics were, they worked. He personally saw the boy’s willingness to be an effective part of the team yesterday, when he assisted him in obtaining the elements for the Cursed Ashes.
****
“I trust your time spent with Diana yesterday has left you intrigued?” he had asked the young man yesterday evening during their meeting in a secluded and secret basement below an inoperative schoolhouse, built in the middle of a dark field in Lancaster County.
“That’s an understatement, Father,” the man had replied, scanning the contents of the room. Judging by the stone altar, and the placement of what seemed to be hundreds of menacing looking candles that provided the only light (there appeared to be no electricity down here), he supposed this was the secret room in which the Agents of Shadow performed their sacrifices during the Dark Years.
“And now you’ve been reminded of the power you can obtain, should you follow your orders?”
“Yes,” he had answered immediately, “I’ll play by the rules.”
“The Agency is unique. It’s a large scale organization, yet secret at the same time. It has its order; its members infiltrated carefully into their proper places like chess pieces, each in his or her rank according to experience and performance, and we work together like the many miniscule pieces of a clock, but each member has his own agenda and ambition. Every agent strives and even competes for higher rank… for more power and influence. Only a handful ever achieves the status of becoming an elite, a member of one of the Inner Circles. The fact that you are in the Outer Circle is remarkable, my friend. Only fifty agents, out of the several hundred, ever hold that title at one time. Most of them will never receive this privilege. Only five of you will be selected for the Secondary Circle at some point during your service. You understand this, don’t you?”
“Yes Father,” the young man had replied.
Father Paul had taken an awkwardly long time eyeing the young man. “You are an ambitious young man, like any other potential agent, but many are reluctant to allow someone of your character to advance past a certain level. Your work has been considered ruthless and unorthodox. You’ve never shown restraint when carrying out your orders, taking an excessive amount of pleasure in the vicious actions you perform on others. You’re considered dangerous… even too dangerous for the Agency. Others have marked you as uncontrollable… you make many of them nervous just being around you.” Then he had smiled maliciously. “I can see why the Master favors you.”
“I thought it was just my good looks,” the boy had jested.
“You have wonderful potential, despite what others may think,” the priest had continued, ignoring the young agent’s comment. “I wouldn’t be surprised if one day, you will be standing in my place, as head of the Primary Circle. Trust me, my boy, if you continue to serve us as well as you have, you will go far. There will be no limit to what you can do.”
“Yes Father,” the young man had repeated.
“Now,” Father Paul had spoken in a business-like manner, “I would like to piggy-back Diana’s efforts to demonstrate our power, so that you may see first-hand some of our methods that might interest you. I’ve asked you to meet me here because I would like you to partake in a little ritual, in which I require your assistance. Will you be willing to participate?”
“Of course,” the man had nodded.
The priest had then immediately explained the upcoming ritual to his young agent, and how he would perform his particular role. It had been shortly after, that another young man, dressed in a long, black, silk robe, entered the secluded room. He had looked around as if not expecting the surroundings that were before him. “Come in, Brian,” Father Paul had addressed him. “We’ve been expecting you.”
The young man named Brian had approached the two agents slowly, as if processing down an aisle at a wedding. He had stepped before the priest and had knelt at his feet. “Why have you come here tonight, my son?” Father Paul had asked ceremoniously.
“To receive my privilege of entering the Outer Circle, sir,” the man had replied in the same tone.
“Rise, fortunate one,” the priest had commanded. Brian had done as he was instructed, having stood before his superior, staring straight at nothing like a soldier being addressed by an officer. “You have been chosen to receive this honor,” the priest had continued. “Are you prepared to take the oath?”
“I am,” the man had responded immediately.
Father Paul had turned aroun
d and retrieved a silver dagger from the altar behind him, the same type that the agents used in many of their sadistic rituals. He had held the point against his left hand; the flames of the nearby candles had danced against the reflection of the dagger. He had slowly slid the point in a diagonal line along his hand very gently, drawing only a few droplets of blood, which he smeared along the blade. He had then spoken in accordance with the ritual: “We call upon the power of the dark lord, that He may unify our blood and accept the life force of Agent Brian Wells, the initiate who has willingly accept his calling, and will serve his purpose for our cause.”
The candles’ flames had seemed to grow significantly larger, as if fueled by a propane tank that someone turned the knob to “high.” The priest had then held the dagger out to Brian, who had bowed his head and had taken the weapon into his own hands. He had also sliced a skin-deep, diagonal line into his left palm. “I, Brian Wells,” he had recited in a rehearsed manner, “do hereby pledge my life to the dark lord, and fully accept his bidding. May he use me as an instrument of his limitless power, however he sees fit, as I now bind myself to him and all his servants, from this moment forth.”
The priest had nodded in approval of Brian’s perfectly recited pledge. He had then motioned his right hand to the young agent next to him. “Now my son, hand the dagger to your sponsor, who has borne witness to your oath. As he is a representative of the Outer Circle, and therefore your new brother, he will perform the final rite of your passage.”
The initiate had done as he was told; he had bowed his head again and had held the dagger out horizontally in both hands, palms facing upward.
The young, ambitious agent had accepted it in a similar manner, then had tightly gripped the silver hilt of skulls with his right hand. “Open your robe, brother,” he had instructed. Brian had raised his head and had resumed his military-like position of attention as he complied, having exposed his bare chest. His fellow agent had held the point of the blade against his chest, where his heart had been beating beneath it, and had slowly carved the shape of a pentagram into his flesh. Blood had begun seeping down his left set of ribs; the hot piercing of skin had made him wince slightly, but he did not break his bearing as he had proudly accepted his initiation.
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