The demon’s sadistic grin widened as it removed a loincloth to expose its massive phallus, two feet long, with dozens of fat serrated spikes jutted from its throbbing length. The creature thrust forward, sending the full measure of the torturous penis into Julie. Her screams filled the world. Evan smashed his hands to his ears in an effort to shut out the horrible shriek, but her agony wormed between his fingers and pierced deep into his mind. The demon roared as Julie alternated between inhuman screams and moans of pleasure, her expression one moment twisted in pain, the next awash in ecstasy.
Evan bellowed to a God absent from this world. He extended trembling hands toward Julie, but could do nothing to save her. Blood poured down her quivering legs, forming giant blisters that festered and suppurated, creamy pus joining the crimson flow to hiss on the stone floor. Julie’s mouth wavered like a fish out of water. Whether silent cries or struggles for breath, he could not know. The island sank into the sea, the demon still driving itself into Evan’s dead wife over and over.
“Daddy.”
Evan spun to the voice. On another mound to his left, Jenny hung suspended from the branch of a gnarled, monstrous tree. The demon who attended her stood no more than three feet tall, a long pointed nose protruding over a mouth perpetually ajar and dotted with hundreds of needle-like teeth. Grey and scaled, the little creature wriggled clawed hands in a welcoming gesture. With a nod, it scurried up the tree and onto the branch, dropping down to hang by a slender tail. Sharpened nails raked along Jenny’s tender naked flesh. Her body gyrated and writhed in an attempt to avoid the demon’s touch. Jenney’s eyes locked onto Evan, a helpless plea begging him to save her. All his strength drained into her tortured screams; he could only stare in horror as the demon ripped away ribbons of skin, exposing glistening muscle. With great care and attention, the monster flayed Jenny to bone, strip after strip of wet meat splatting to the ground.
Once the initial task was completed, the demon scampered onto her torso. A long sinuous tongue lapped at the blood dribbling down her body. Nauseating hisses and gurgles rose from wherever the tongue stroked against raw tissue, tentacles of acrid smoke coiling into the air. Unable to take anymore, Evan flung himself into the molten sea. The pain of his own flesh melting paled in comparison to the horrors he had witnessed—Julie and Jenny, forever trapped in torment.
When he fought to the surface, panting for air, Evan found himself no longer immersed in lava, but a pool of water the color of ice, its surface placid like glass. Not a ripple disturbed its stillness. A churning force swirled warm below the surface. He sat on the steps leading into the pool, leaned back with eyes closed, and allowed the roiling water to massage the aches and pains from his muscles. The memories of Julie and Jenny receded as relaxation took him, and he dozed off.
A presence tickled at his perception. He opened his eyes to find Jenny seated next to him. Clothed in an azure robe, no signs of torture marred her perfect skin. She glowed with a brilliant radiance, her long blonde hair flowing down onto supple shoulders. She looked at him with such innocent trust. Devotion and adoration danced in eyes born of jewels.
She leaned close, her head nestled against him. He welcomed her warmth and gently caressed her hair, combing fingers through lustrous locks. They did not speak, no words were necessary, but held each other, content with the simplicity of the moment.
Her head slumped forward into his lap. Drawing away his hand, he found strands of hair stuck to his palm, fragments of scalp hanging loose, smeared in gore. Bewilderment came now, and with it fear.
Her skin sloughed off in large jagged flakes. As if caught by some unseen wind, the flakes rose up like inverted snowfall. Beneath, muscle and bone dissolved and left behind a thick foulness—red, turning to crimson, turning to scarlet, nearly black. Dense and coarse, it spread out into the pool until its touch tainted every ounce of liquid.
Shapes darkened beneath the surface. The water boiled, foaming in waves, and brought them up before pulling them down again. An arm, a leg, a torso, a head. A face turned his way, wearing sober resignation. Its eyes were sad, but layered in anger. A silent blame cast on Evan from an unrepentant glare.
A figure came into view at the far end of the pool and strode into the water. The Killer trudged through effervescing caps toward him, red filth dragging in his wake. He approached in no hurry, seeming to enjoy Evan’s discomfort. The Killer was at home in this nightmare. Thin strings of hair hung from a desiccated scalp. Patches of skin and skull were missing, revealing a pulsating brain beneath. Worms and maggots made a home of the places where the absence of bone provided tunnels into the cranium’s interior. Long ragged wounds ran down his cheeks and chest, wounds inflicted by those the Killer had vanquished, those surrounding him now in lifeless pieces. Blood caked to his form did not wash away even in the presence of the pool’s crashing waters, but stuck fast like barnacles to a rotting ship’s hull. Eyes, sea-blue, bright and knowing, seemed wrong within such a horrible guise. The Killer smiled, displaying decaying brown teeth dripping mucus and blood-tinged saliva.
Evan knew this Killer. Horror appropriate to a monster faded in the light of righteousness. Holy judgment could not wear such a mask. Brilliant illumination chased away the truth Evan had beheld and transmuted the lie. The god he worshipped with all his fealty, industry, and passion…transformed. Gone the horrible visage of a fiend and replaced with flowing white hair and beard, a white robe billowing in the water. He spoke without words, and Evan understood this language, a lexicon they shared.
The bodies floating about him, these faces looking to him for salvation, for release, his god’s hands knew their blood and wore it now. It fell in droplets of selfish desire and miniscule faith from His blade’s edge. Death and damnation, weeds cast into the fire.
His god now faced him, only a few feet separating the two. Evan thrust out his hands. He would take this cruel god by the throat, squeeze until those sea-blue eyes popped from his smug face. At the same instant his god too, reached forward, perhaps with the same intent. Their hands met against a solid force. Each stood staring at the other, expressions reflected back in perfect unison. Evan reached forward again, cautious, testing. His god also stretched forth a hand, probing for him. Again their hands met, yet did not touch, the wall between still present…a mirror.
Revulsion of the revelation brought bile into his mouth, stinging with the tears welled in his eyes. The god’s head spun on its neck, round and round at blinding speed like the optical illusion of the bird and the cage. Evan’s face glared back at sporadic intervals. He shared in the murders. Blind devotion to a cruel god pushed them away. He was complicit. The knowledge hammered into his heart as he looked on these people floating in the pool’s vile waters. He knew them now. Ones he loved; a wife and daughter he’d promised to care for and protect. Ones who loved him and gave him so much; he’d led them to a god who took from them everything. Agony filled his screams. His god dissolved, leaving him alone with unbearable suffering.
Alone.
* * *
Evan regained consciousness with his head rested on the hearth at a painful angle, his neck stiff and crooked. Only smoldering embers remained in the fireplace, flecks of glowing ash drifting toward the flue. The sounds and images of the vision remained, seared into his memory for all time. He quivered and shoved the lingering horrors into a dark corner of his mind where they banged incessantly to get out. Vomit caked his bare chest and spread out on the hearth’s stone. Evan pushed to his feet and stumbled to the kitchen. After wetting a rag in the sink and wiping himself down, he grabbed a handful of ice from the freezer, wrapped it in the rag, and pressed it to his brow. Photos of Jenny with her teddy bear and Julie in a playful pose stuck to the fridge with tiny multi-colored magnets stared back at him. Bright eyes and joyful smiles could not hide the condemnation accusing him from those pictures.
Evan retrieved his Bible, sat on the floor, and pored over the verses. The words scurried around the page like ants darting to get awa
y. After a moment they coalesced and stilled, but none of the passages he always read for reassurance eased his turmoil: The Lord is nigh unto them that are broken hearted; And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; So do not fear, for I am with you, do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.
On his knees, the rough dried scabs breaking and fresh blood leaking from the sores, he prayed. “Oh God, please hear me. I have loved you, worshiped you, and kept your commandments all my life. I have never asked for personal gain, but only that you guide me in your ways and protect my family. I don’t understand why you have allowed these things to happen. I want to trust in your plan and believe that even now, in the midst of tragedy, you are in control, but my faith is weak. Please dear Lord, speak to me, help me understand.”
Evan waited. He did not move a muscle for over an hour, his heart yearning for God’s compassion and mercy to fill him with strength and fortitude. The pain began as a dull thump between his eyes and grew to encompass his entire skull with resounding thunder. The pulpy tissue of his brain seemed to swell and grow hard, shoving against bone, scratching and clawing. His mind screamed with static, and the voices, thousands of them all demanding he bow to their demands. Evan pressed hands to his head, but could not shut them out. Underneath angry shouts and cries of suffering, the clear, cold laughter of God drilled into his psyche. Evan clung to sanity as his mind shattered.
CHAPTER
5
Winding country roads outside the city soothed Marlowe with shades of green and gold. Tall pines and oaks shadowed his forty-five-minute trip home, the roadsides carpeted in daisies and daffodils. Horses viewed his passage with disinterest, while cows ignored him entirely, from pastures sprawling out to rolling hills in the distance. He loved the area. Marlowe had given momentary thought to moving after Katy died. Their place harbored so many bad memories, but the good ones outnumbered them and remained stronger. Paige, once she spoke again, assured him she wanted to stay. She liked feeling close to Mommy. He agreed. Katy’s scent and presence still lingered in every piece of furniture, on every item and knick-knack.
Sometimes, Katy’s brutal murder at the hands of Frank Brumbeloe felt like yesterday. At other times, it all seemed so long ago, and the two years Paige remained mute and near catatonic was only a distant horrible nightmare. Becca had been what he needed to heal and find the man he lost with Katy’s death. Paige returning to life allowed him to know real joy again, and with both of them at his side, hope. Still, it was unfair to expect Becca’s integration into the family to be without its bumps. Even though she did not attempt to replace Katy in their lives, moving beyond those memories proved difficult for everyone.
The high-pitched shrill of Paige’s shouts carried to Marlowe in the driveway. Home two seconds, goddammit. After suffering McCann in a foul mood, even for him, a stack of paperwork, and the A/C out for two hours turning Metro into an oven, Marlowe had left work with his mind set on a cold beer, feet propped up, and a half-hour with Jon Stewart and The Daily Show from the DVR. Jon’s retirement would ruin his brief snatches of television soon. Luckily, he had several dozen shows backlogged still yet to watch. For now, he longed for a few glorious moments to unwind and relax before being called in to negotiate peace between the warring city-states of Paige and Becca.
In recent months, things had progressively gotten worse. At eleven years old, growing toward adolescent and dealing with the lingering effects of her past, Paige resented Becca, or didn’t like her on principle. Becca, bless her heart, tried. She used every trick she knew. She took time to study child psychology books, searching for some way to connect, but nothing worked. Paige remained a stone wall, or in many cases, a screaming banshee, when it came to interacting with Becca.
“You did it on purpose! I know you did!” Paige clutched a blue plastic mug in her hands. Tinkerbell glittered in flight on the sides, a squiggly straw jutting from the top. Paige’s long blonde hair, a bit disheveled, fell past her shoulders and framed a usually angelic face with big, blue eyes. Those eyes, fiery with anger, peered up at him coated in tears. She wore the same pink pajamas spotted with Tweety Bird she had on when he departed that morning.
“Paige, it was an accident. I didn’t mean to.” Becca appeared ready to break down, her shoulders slumped, defeat etched into her expression.
“What happened?” Marlowe could not hide the exasperation in his voice.
Paige ran to him and wrapped one arm around his leg, the other embracing the mug close to her chest. “She broke my Tinkerbell. Mommy gave it to me.”
Marlowe glanced at Becca for an explanation. She averted her eyes and busied her trembling hands, twisting a washrag back and forth.
“Mable needed to run an errand and asked if I could come by to watch Paige until you got home. I noticed the dishes in the sink and thought I’d help out. I loaded the mug into the dishwasher with the other plates and glasses. I didn’t think the washer would hurt it.”
“It shouldn’t have,” said Marlowe. “We’ve cleaned the thing in the washer a hundred times.”
Becca reddened. “Well…I accidently used the heavy setting. You know, for pots and pans. The straw and lid melted a little.”
Oh, shit. Wonderful.
“Maybe you should let Mable handle the chores from now on.” As soon as he said it, Marlowe’s spidey-sense tingled, warning he had made a major verbal fuck up.
The embarrassed red blush on Becca’s face shifted to a furious crimson. She threw the rag onto the table and stormed from the kitchen, disappearing into the hallway bathroom. The door slammed shut and quaked the photos on the mantle.
Oh, shit. Way to go, Dumbass.
Paige bawled. “She did it on purpose, ‘cause Mommy gave it to me. I don’t like her. I want her to leave. It’s our house, not hers.”
“Becca’s our guest. You have to be nice to guests when they visit. And she didn’t mean to hurt your mug, Sweetie. It was an accident. I’ll get a new lid and straw.” He pried the mug from her hands and examined it. “It’ll be fine. Promise.”
“I don’t want another one. I want this one. The one Mommy gave me.” Paige released his leg and dashed up the stairs. The thud from her bedroom door rattled the mantle again, toppling two framed pictures onto their faces.
Jesus Christ. A little fucking peace, just for an hour.
Marlowe stepped to the bathroom door, hesitant, as if luring a frightened cat from a cage—its back arched, claws extended. He rapped lightly on the door. “You coming out?”
“In a minute.” Becca’s anger seeped under and around the door, a black ooze pushing him back.
“Fine. Whatever…” The last retort in a futile argument.
Marlowe took a beer from the fridge and sat back in his recliner. He twisted off the cap and took a long, deep swig. The icy fizz hit his mouth and danced over a parched tongue. Bang. Becca slammed something that sounded like the medicine cabinet. Marlowe’s beer went bitter in the back of his throat. He pulled the handle on the side of the chair and popped out the footrest. A couple of clicks on the remote brought The Daily Show onto the screen. Bang.
Goddammit.
Becca’s knocking around stole all the humor from Jon’s bits. Even Dick Cheney jokes lost their hilarity, which Marlowe would have thought impossible. He switched the television off and tossed the remote onto the coffee table in disgust. When the house fell silent, the quiet unnerved him more than the shouts and thumping—the eye of the storm with the backside about to hit with full force. Twenty minutes later, Becca stomped out of the bathroom, plopped down on the sofa, and stared straight ahead. Marlowe tried to wait her out, but the constant huffs and slight leans forward only to rock back hard against the cushions broke his war of attrition strategy.
“Are we going to talk about this?” he asked with the same timidity as if sneaking u
p on a badger.
“I don’t know what’s left to talk about. Things aren’t getting any better.” Becca still did not look at him, but dropped her gaze to her lap, stiff fingers kneading at her thighs.
“It’s only been a year since she snapped out of her funk and you two were introduced. You’ve got to give it some time. Maybe slow down a little, visit less often.” Marlowe tiptoed through the discussion, never certain what word or phrase might blow up in his face.
“We tried that. I was rarely around her until the last few months.” Becca flung her hands up in surrender, the flush dimming from her cheeks.
“Let’s spend more time together with her then. She doesn’t know you well enough yet.” The needle on Marlowe’s stress level eased out of the red. Becca seemed calmer and willing to speak reasonably, but that could change in a split-second.
“In cases like what Paige went through, there’re two scenarios. One, the child latches on to the first new person as a substitute for the parent they’ve lost. Two, they resent the person, and never get beyond viewing them as an intruder who’s trying to replace their loved one. Paige may not accept anyone new in your life for a long time. Each woman will diminish the painful resemblance to her mother, but it will take time and patience.”
The drone of her voice mimicked a bland recitation of notes from one of her medical charts. Becca became Dr. Drenning before his eyes, an effort at emotional detachment clear in her tone. Not completely successful, as a hint of sadness laced her every word, but Marlowe heard resignation too, and feared her mind made up.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said. Marlowe eased onto the sofa beside her and took her hand. Even in her ire, he still found her beautiful. Long, dark hair pulled into a ponytail, green eyes containing a world of passion, his breath caught whenever he looked at her. He ached to hold her, but feared rejection. Becca teetered on the edge and any wrong move on his part might topple her over.
The Dark Age_A Marlowe Gentry Thriller Page 5