by A. L. Mengel
Antoine clapped his hands in front of Delia’s face. “Wake up, Delia! Let’s get going!” he said. “They’re climbing the drainpipes!”
Delia’s trance lifted. Her eyes widened as she leaned over the side. She look down at the bushes below. They were thrashing around violently as twigs snapped and leaves rained on the ground.
And then there was a scratching.
Like nails on wood.
She turned to Tramos. “They’re climbing the side of the house. We have to get inside. Fast.”
Tramos stood next to Antoine as they faced the side of the house. Antoine grasped a small, square ventilation shutter and pulled. “Dammit!” he cried. “I didn’t think it would be jammed like this!”
Tramos stepped forward as Delia turned to keep an eye on the approaching hounds. The monstrous dogs tore up the side of the house. They would approach, full force, tearing into the side of the house, growling and howling, and then fall to the ground.
And then start climbing the house all over again, tirelessly.
Delia looked back at Antoine, who had stood aside as Tramos eased his fingers around the sides of the shutter and pulled. “They’re making headway!” she said.
“I’ve almost got it!” Tramos said.
He turned his head around and looked directly at Delia. “You just let me know what they’re doing.”
Antoine reached up and eased his fingers under the edge of the shutter, and pulled with all of his might, they both grunted, as it popped off, sending both of them spilling down towards the side of the roof.
Delia gasped and lunged forward. She leaped on both of them and grasped the gutter on the edge of the roof. Antoine spilled over the side as Tramos grabbed his arm. He hung over the side. “Pull me up!” he said, eyes wide. “I can feel their teeth! They’re getting my feet!”
Delia pulled herself downwards as Tramos hooked his feet on a vent. He reached his other arm down. “Reach for my hand! Reach for my hand, Antoine!”
They pulled him up back to the roof, as Delia spilled backwards and lay on her back, trying to catch her breath. Tramos pulled Antoine up and laid him down, and then he lay down next to him. Delia sat up. “Let’s get inside, Antoine. I’m getting too old for this.”
Tramos looked at Delia and cracked a grin, as Antoine got up, still panting, and headed back to the shutter. The dogs resumed their attempt to climb the house, as their nails scratched on the walls and the twigs and branches snapped as they fell back down on the shrubbery.
Delia leaned over the side and looked at the Hell Hounds. As she craned her neck, their assault hit a crescendo. The growling was deep, throaty and demonic. Their harried and repetitive attempt to climb the house suddenly became more urgent, like dogs barking louder and more insistently when an intruder nears the master’s house. She leaned back. “Let’s get inside. Now.”
Antoine climbed through the small opening, and Tramos, far larger and more muscular, had a bit of difficulty, but managed to squeeze through. As Delia eased herself though, she reached out and picked up the shutter which Antoine had left leaning against the side of the house. She pulled it back into place and snapped it in position.
Antoine looked at her, his face shifted a bit. “Um…locking us in here?”
Delia shook her head. “No, but where we are going, we won’t need to come back here.” Antoine sighed as Tramos moved boxes out of the way with his feet. He bent down and scattered some books off to the side. “There’s a lot of old things in here,” he said.
“Just keep clearing the path towards that way,” Antoine said. He pointed to the far end of the attic.
The power no longer worked, but several other ventilation shutters which surrounded the area cast pale rectangles of moonlight and highlighted the boxes, books and old furniture.
“It looks like the place was ransacked,” Delia said, standing in the center, under the sloping ceiling. She reached up and held on to one of the wooden beams to steady herself on the unfinished wooden floor.
Antoine shook his head. He stood, his hands on his hips, and looked around at the old, dusty boxes and piles of books. “I don’t know what happened here.” He bent down and picked up a book, held it up close to his face, and examined it. He reached out and ran his fingers across it. His fingers scraped away a dark film, dust. “Soot,” he said, tossing the book back with the others.
“I’m surprised the attic wasn’t burned,” Delia said.
Antoine shook his head. “I can understand the soot. But I have no idea why everything is such as mess.” He tossed a few boxes aside. “If I’m right,” he said, “it should still be here.” He carved a path through some of the boxes. “Ah ha!”
Delia looked over at Antoine, tossing boxes aside. She watched as he revealed a dark, rectangular box – or something that looked like a box – against the far wall of the attic. She saw Antoine reach down and let out a chuckle.
“It’s an old kerosene lamp. Anyone got a match?”
Antoine dug through his pockets and produced a lighter. He flicked it and held it to the small wick in the base. After a few moments, a small flame rose from the enclosed clear chamber, and he held it over the mysterious dark, long box.
Delia gasped.
She saw the reflection of silver on the sides. Which looked like handles. “That’s a casket!”
Antoine chuckled. “Of course it’s a casket! I had this placed up here years ago!”
Tramos returned. “I found the door to the house!”
Antoine scoffed. “I lived here. You could have just asked me where it was.”
Tramos shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, but you and Delia were busy. So what is it you guys found?”
Delia looked at Tramos. “We found a casket. Back against the wall. Behind those boxes over there.” Delia nodded over towards Antoine, who was rummaging through some of the boxes.
“Hey Antoine!” Delia said. “Are you going to open that?”
He shook his head. “It’s locked. No key.”
Tramos went to the casket and looked up at Antoine. He nodded. Tramos raised his right arms and slammed the casket lid with the side of his hand, splintering the lid. He tore the wood away, as it splintered and cracked against the otherwise quiet attic. He tossed the pieces aside.
Delia joined them. “Look inside there Antoine. Look in there. It’s full of stuff.”
Antoine dropped the boxes he was rummaging through and diverted his attention to the coffin. He grabbed a piece of the splintered wood from the lid and pried it away with a snap. As he did, the interior was revealed.
There were piles of papers and composition notebooks. Antoine rummaged through the papers. He picked up a black and white composition notebook and examined it. Tramos knelt next to Antoine, also looking at the book, as Delia moved closer.
“What is it?” Delia asked.
Antoine smiled. “It says The Quest for Immortality on the front.”
Delia’s mouth dropped open as Tramos snapped his head around and looked at her. She nodded.
Antoine’s face fell as he opened the notebook and paged through it. “But it’s just notes. Most of it doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“But it means that we are getting close,” Delia said. She rose to her feet and placed each of her palms on Tramos and Antoine’s backs. They both looked up at her. “I think it’s time we moved on. It’s time to go inside and get what we came here for. This was a great find, but we have to stay on our mission.”
Antoine and Darius nodded and slowly got up.
As they got up, Delia continued, looking at Antoine. “I think this was an amazing find. Make sure to take that notebook with you.
“What about the rest? There’s a lot of other papers here. Charts and diagrams. Bunch of stuff.”
“Whatever you think you can carry,” Delia said. “Do you have a bag or backpack somewhere that you can put all this in?”
Antoine shrugged. “I haven’t been here for years. I don’t know how Darius changed things around.”<
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Delia nodded as Tramos passed by them, moving through the attic and clearing more boxes to the side. He held up a small bag. “Look here!” He handed it to Antoine, who stuffed in the small composition notebook and the piles of papers. “I’m going to take as much as I can fit in here,” Antoine said. “Who knows what it could mean, I just need to find the manuscript. I have to read it. Have to.”
“And it’s time to go, we shall look for it, Antoine,” Delia said as she followed Tramos to the darker side of the attic. “Tramos! Are you still up there?”
She heard rustling and the sound of cardboard boxes sliding against a wooden floor. After a few minutes, they heard his voice. “Yes!” Tramos appeared, slightly out of breath. “Sorry!” he said. “There was a large angel statue blocking the way. Almost as tall as you, Delia. It must weigh a ton!”
They made their way to the entrance to the house below.
It was small, square opening in the floor, with a set of retractable wooden stairs that would be stored in the attic when the homeowner did not need attic access. Tramos led the way, as Antoine assisted Delia down the steps.
They looked around the second floor as Antoine’s mouth dropped open.
The upstairs hallway looking nothing like it had in the past. What was once opulent and well-appointed, with a gold railing that spun around a rounded cathedral foyer, lined with a marble staircase, and Greek statues at each pedestal, was now a shell of its former self. The once impeccably clean white carpeting was now stained with black soot; water stained walls, with dark patches, burned away, filled with holes. There was a large, burned out area in the ceiling. Electrical wires hung down towards the floor like tentacles.
Antoine paused at the top of the stairs, hung his head, and closed his eyes. Delia approached him and placed her hand on his shoulder, leaning in close to his ear. “We must keep moving,” she said. “Take us there.”
Antoine sighed and nodded, wiped his eyes with his fingers, and started down the stairs. The debris crunched under their feet and as they entered the foyer below, Antoine paused and looked back at Delia and Tramos. They stood in the rounded foyer; the marble floor was filled with debris; the walls were burned black, and more wires hung down from holes in the ceiling.
Above them, the chandelier still hung.
What was once elegant, with many spires, with candle light fixtures in circles in several layers, was now partially melted. It still hung above them; but haphazardly. Wires fingered their way out of the hole in the ceiling.
The foyer was rounded, and the round table still sat in the center, although it was burned and had fallen into two pieces, crashing in on itself. Broken glass littered the floor around the table.
“The basement is just beyond the kitchen over there.” Antoine pointed towards the back of the house.
They all turned as there was a crash against the front door followed by a deep, demonic growl. Tramos rushed to the door and placed his weight against it. “It’s the hounds!”
Delia quickly ushered Antoine towards the kitchen. “Let’s go. We have to go inside. Tramos! We will back up towards the kitchen! Antoine! Are we almost there?”
They entered the kitchen and where the basement door once stood now was a large, gaping hole. The wooden stairs were still there, but quickly vanished into darkness. “There!” Antoine said.
Delia craned her neck to see in the foyer. Tramos held the door closed as the dogs scratched, jumped and howled. The hounds flung themselves against the doors, shaking the frame.
Delia called out to Tramos. “Can you come now?”
Tramos looked up towards the top of the door as the hounds catapulted their bodies against the wood. The door shook again. His massive body kept the door closed. His face was red, veins popped out of his arms and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. “Go! Just go! If I move they will break through!”
Delia turned to Antoine. “Go down. I will meet you at the base of the stairs. I need to help Tramos.” But when she said those words, there was a thunderous crash and splintering of wood from the foyer. Nails on marble as she heard growling and a demonic throated chorus of barks. “Tramos!” she cried.
Tramos stood in the center of the foyer, his wings extended upwards, reaching towards the ceiling. He raised his arms upwards as the hounds tore at his clothing; the shreds came down as they tore at his skin. Bright red blood splattered up on his wings, which remained open and outstretched, crashing against the ceiling, against the walls, and continued to reach upwards, reaching towards the sky. His arms remained outstretched, as the dogs tore at his body, tearing it apart.
Delia’s eyes were wide and she gasped. “Tramos!”
He looked over at her as the dogs ripped him apart. One ripped his arm off as his screamed. He shut his eyes tight and craned his neck upwards, as a solitary tear cut through the bright red blood on his cheek. “Go! Go now!” he said.
Antoine appeared in the doorway, a look of horror on his face. “But he’s an angel!” Tears streamed down his face as the dogs ripped him down to the floor. A lake of blood formed around Tramos, the wings, now torn, tattered, bloodstained and ripped now lay on the floor, as Tramos took his final breath as the front doors slammed themselves shut with a deafening boom.
She turned and rushed back to the kitchen. “Antoine!” she cried. Tears flowed down her face. “We must go! Head downstairs. Go quickly! We must leave! Just go, Antoine! Go!” She pushed him forward, looking back several times, as the hounds tore apart Tramos’ body. Her face fell as she saw the wings in a desperate, final attempt to reach up towards the sky.
But in the end, the bloodstains remained.
V
BLOODY MARY
It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell.
– Buddha
THE STORY OF THE ANGEL, the War Angel, continued.
And as the story was told throughout the generations, told over years, and decades and centuries, the rumors circulated, still, throughout communities. The talking and the whispers remained. The wonder endured. There were still those who experienced the spiritual event of the appearance of an angel – and there were others who experienced but did not see. Both mortal…and immortal.
And those who saw, and not only experienced, were thought to be the gifted ones. And those were the ones who had a mission – whether they were mortal or immortal. Some for a greater purpose. A means to live, for certain. But also a means to live…for others.
And those chosen people, whether mortal or immortal, were the special ones.
For the angels were sent to protect.
To interfere when necessary, but never to intrude, or encroach on one’s free will. The people would have a different mission.
One of proactivity.
One of protection.
And of purpose for existence…and prevention. The idea that: Could the actions of evil be prevented? Would the actions of evil be prevented with a small, otherworldly interference, causing events to progress differently?
The analysis continued.
The questions remained.
And still, there were others who had the approach of skepticism.
There were those in the human population that not only chose not to believe in the presence of angels, but also chose not to recognize the existence of evil.
Antoine’s estate, which sat on Andelusia in the heart of Coral Gables, had once been the home of a wealthy investment banker from the International Bank of Venezuela. And the owner’s son, Roberto, became quite enamored, at one point, with a certain Antoine Nagevesh, who had come to Miami, in those days, as a spiritual healer and, later, a nightclub promoter.
Antoine had met Roberto late one evening on Washington Avenue in the heart of boisterous Miami Beach, and the two started a torrid affair.
Antoine’s origin was little known, and how close Roberto had gotten to Antoine was unknown entirely.
But there were people – and immortals as well – who would talk about Antoine and Roberto’s infatuation with one another. For it was a thought-provoking topic to discuss.
Because Roberto disappeared one day.
When it first happened, it was all over the Miami news stations. As Antoine had become a local celebrity of sorts (his local fame catapulted after he was discovered by Sheldon Wilkes and The Astral; Mr. Wilkes made it very publicly known that he had been writing a book on ‘The Integration of Immortals into Everyday Society’). But when Roberto disappeared, Antoine was cast into a negative spotlight.
Some say Roberto was observed entering a secret side door to the nightclub Antoine owned and operated called Sacrafice, built in an old, repurposed cathedral. And the same people who claimed to have seen Roberto disappear through the door also said they never saw him again. So the news stories became somewhat less infatuating and more fear-inducing: Who was this Antoine? And why did evil always seem to surround him and his life?
After Roberto’s disappearance, the Andelusia residence remained quiet, but also after some time, the owner at the time, Hernan Perez, was brutally murdered in the upstairs Master Bedroom. The local news stations were not permitted in the residence, but some locals who claimed to have accessed the mansion insisted that the bed was stained red as if Hernan had lost all of his blood.
And then a mysterious new resident started to appear, but not often.
One Antoine Nagevesh.
And with the disappearances of Roberto and the mysterious death of Hernan Perez, the locals started to think the house was cursed. And, perhaps, that Antoine was as well.
The activity, though, remained.
Cars lined the streets at all hours of the day and night. Some were reporters investigating Antoine, others were paranormal researchers, mostly from The Astral which held offices just a few blocks away from the Andelusia estate. Residents who lived directly on Andelusia noted one particular small, silver sedan was regularly parked outside the gates. People started talking…wondering who the sedan belonged to, what the purpose of their repeated visits was, and where the previous owners had gone.