Nephilim Genesis of Evil

by Renee Pawlish

  He fought a sudden urge to vomit, bending down and sucking in deep breaths. “Crap,” he muttered, gripping the glass tightly. The nausea passed and he went back into the cabin. He put the glass in the kitchen sink, and was about to sit down when he heard it. Just like yesterday. Just like that day in New York.

  “What the…” his voice faded away. He looked around but saw no one.

  The voices can’t be real, he told himself. And yet they were.

  He stood near the table, head cocked to one side, straining in the silence to hear.

  “What?” he finally shouted, throwing a fist in the air. “I am not going crazy!”

  Nothing.

  He went into the living room and peered out the rear window. The cliff face glared brightly in the sunlight.

  It spoke again. And this time he understood. “It is time,” something faraway said.

  He went rigid for a moment while his mind raged a battle, one part saying he heard nothing, the other acknowledging the voice.

  “Time.” A hollow whisper. He did a three hundred and sixty degree turn, frantically scanning his surroundings for an explanation. He was utterly alone.

  “Time for what?” he asked the emptiness, his irrational side winning out.

  Nothing.

  An ominous chill crept over him. The air soured, and the room shrunk around him. His chest began to heave, and he couldn’t seem to breathe. He heard a cacophony of sounds, each clamoring over the other, louder and louder. He put his hands to his ears, pressing hard to drown out the noise.

  “Time for what?” he gasped. The room spun violently, and his vision blurred into a thousand colored dots.

  He sank to the floor, leaning against the couch. Oh man, was he dying again? He threw both hands to his chest. He felt his heart pounding. “No,” he groaned.

  Spots appeared in his vision and he began to lose consciousness.

  Another voice, different in tone and aura, spoke. “Beware.”

  Then blackness.

  CHAPTER 33

  The clearing reeked of stale, human smells, and burning flesh, but also of something from the depths of the earth, dark and sinister. The powers of hell had been gathered up and released into this small part of the mountains. Pamela Henderson and William Douglas – Douggie – moved away from the center of the clearing, their human bodies now inhabited. Pamela was a host for a spirit that would seek release, but Douggie was host to one with a necessary role in the ceremony. They would soon have all the necessary ones. The spirit inside Ed was satisfied. And as the energy in the forest grew, so did the power of the entities within their human hosts.

  “We must seek the others,” Ed said. “We must prepare the way.”

  Samuel Friedman nodded, his spirit’s awareness growing with the dark presence in the clearing.

  “Soon you will get others.”

  Samuel nodded again.

  Ed turned to the others. The two hikers, Mick, Pamela, and Douggie, stood in indifferent silence. Ed took a few deep breaths. The late afternoon sky directly above them darkened as the nether power descended. Ed channeled the energy into those before him.

  Then just as quickly the force left. The western sky faded into a deep purple and faded to black.

  Ed stalked out of the clearing, followed by the others. The light would bring a new day, and they would have more to do. They had more to gather. And they must prepare the way.

  • • •

  Travis Velario stepped out of the antique store and locked the door. He took a moment to survey Main Street. It was more dead than normal, he suspected, because the café was closed. This time of the evening a lot of folks were usually coming and going from the café, but not now.

  He shook his head sadly. Too bad about Samuel Friedman. He was a good man, a decent sort. Treated Travis better than most of the locals. He had a hard time believing that Samuel’s disappearance had anything to do with the missing boy. He sniffed at the air, detecting pine and burned wood. He scanned the horizon where most of the cabins were, but didn’t see any smoke from chimneys. He circled and looked all around but didn’t see any smoke at all.

  “Huh,” he muttered.

  He was standing in front of the art gallery, and he noticed that the ‘Closed’ sign was not in the window. Not that unusual, but Pamela and Douggie were usually gone by now. The lights weren’t on inside either. He started to head up the walk to the gallery to check things out. But then he stopped. What if Pamela and Douggie were in there, doing who knows what, and he interrupted them? He knew about their little trysts at the cemetery, had dang near stumbled over them one time, he remembered with a wicked grin. Pamela had the nerve to be mad at him, even though she was the one caught with her pants down. Literally.

  He stopped just short of the porch steps. Nah, they were probably inside. And he was making a big deal of nothing.

  “Screw ’em.” He laughed harshly and went on up the road, looking forward to a bite to eat and a cold brew.

  He didn’t notice the smoky smell anymore, nor was he aware of the intense lack of sound in the woods.

  • • •

  As the evening passed, the night sky above Taylor Crossing twinkled with a myriad of stars. Soon the moon crept up over the horizon like a frightened child, scared of something threatening in the heavens, something that would change the community forever.

  • • •

  In a sparsely furnished cabin not far from the town, Old Man Brewster paced across the wood floor of the kitchen, his white hair askew. His Bible lay open on a rickety table. As he paced, he periodically stopped, flipped through pages, and mumbled to himself. Then the pacing would resume.

  The trouble was upon them, he mused. The blood of the hosts had been spilled into the ground a long time ago, when his granddaddy lived here, and the blood was what had brought them back now. Those in town think it started with the disappearance of the boys, but it was before that. He knew that, could’ve told them something was going to happen. But no one wanted to listen to him. And now look at things.

  They think I did it, he thought, his pace quickening. I know those looks on their faces. I can tell by the way the newspaper guy was acting, he thought. They think I could do harm to those boys. But they don’t understand. They think I’m a fool.

  A pang hit him full in the chest, bringing with it something akin to sadness. He growled at himself. He should’ve tried to save the ones from being taken, but how? He knew he would have to stop them from performing their ceremony.

  He wished he could summon up his granddaddy. Nah, he shook his head, scowling. His granddaddy didn’t do anything but run. And he wasn’t going to do that. No, he would fight.

  You’re just like your granddaddy.

  The words of his father haunted Brewster, a whisper in the stale air that kept pace with him.

  He rubbed at that familiar place on his chest. No, he wasn’t like Granddaddy.

  But if he was going to leave, now was the time. He knew that just like he knew that gnawing in his chest. But I’m not running like Granddaddy. He threw a fist up at the ceiling.

  You hear that? he thought, as if he was talking to his father. I’m different!

  • • •

  In his dark bedroom, Nicholas D’Angelo huddled under the covers, blankets clutched up over his head. He was baking, sweating profusely, but he wanted what little protection the paltry fabric offered. If his father came in, he would think Nicholas was asleep. And the other thing lurking out there in the night might think the same thing.

  He had spent the day in his room, banished there by his father. His stomach growled noisily, letting him know that he hadn’t eaten since sometime the day before. He trembled, fighting back tears. He lived in a state of eternal fear, fear of the spirit who had inhabited Mick, fear of whatever dark forces had invaded the clearing, and fear of his father, who didn’t believe a word Nicholas had said. It was hopeless to think that his father ever would. He never believed Nicholas, was too worried about t
he family reputation to care anyway. The jerk didn’t even care that he’d been found. Nicholas snorted. More tears came as he thought about his mom. Her apathy to him was worse than his father’s abuse. Nicholas didn’t care if she was scared, too. She was his mom – didn’t that mean she was supposed to try and protect him?

  He wiped away tears, wincing at the pain from his cheek. Then he threw a silent torrent of curse words at his father. He wished that his father were missing, not his friend. Why couldn’t whatever it was in the forest come and take his father away?

  • • •

  By the time Lillian had gone to bed, she had already watched a bit of television, cleaned up her already tidy cabin, made a batch of scones for breakfast, and finished the book she’d been reading. This had kept her sufficiently preoccupied, and thoughts of the unsettling events in town were far from her mind.

  As the night wore on, even the heat didn’t bother her. A small fan directed the air right onto the bed, cooling her. But as the moon slid behind a dark cloud, she sighed heavily, a pleasant dream interrupted by a vague sense of some trouble in the Crossing. She stirred and babbled something in her sleep. She sighed again, rolled over, and drifted into a heavier slumber. She never woke to notice that the gloomy sky was different than usual, tainted ominously with dread.

  • • •

  Myrtle, sitting in her living room, noticed. Concern for her friend Joan had her up, fretting as she drank a cup of coffee. She knew the caffeine would keep her awake even longer, but the smell was comforting. Boo stirred at her feet, drug himself up, and sniffed noisily at the front door.

  “Boo, stop it,” she chided him, but an uneasy feeling grew inside her. She went to the window and looked out. She couldn’t find the moon. She squinted into the murkiness, but nothing moved.

  “It sure is black out there,” she muttered. Apprehension washed over her, that childhood fear of the dark. She shuddered. All these strange things happening in town. Samuel disappearing was bad enough, but then that poor Mick lost out in the woods, Nicholas mumbling nonsense about his disappearance. It was all too much, too fast. And too eerie.

  Boo growled and startled her.

  “What is the matter with you?” she asked him. He stared back at her with plaintive eyes.

  She went over to him and lovingly scratched his ears. “I know. I’m sad, too.”

  She went into the kitchen for another cup of coffee. Alarm gripped her, like something awful was about to happen, and it deeply worried her. She wondered how much rumors and old stories had a basis in fact, and that concerned her even more.

  • • •

  In her living room, Joan sat in a wing-backed chair with an open Bible on her lap, hoping the words would calm her. Yet she kept reading the same passage over and over, the words not sinking in.

  She’d been hoping all day that Samuel would turn up with some explanation. At this point she’d believe almost anything, so long as he was back safe. A brief discussion with the sheriff earlier in the day had done little to help her, because he had little to tell her. But she also gleaned from the conversation that Samuel was still a suspect in Mick’s disappearance. He had to be, since no one had seen him since the boys had gone missing, but it still upset her. Clinton may not know Samuel that well, but she did. Most of the time her husband was like a big Santa Claus, kind and jovial.

  As Joan tried to focus on reading, her mind came to a jarring conclusion: Samuel wasn’t just out somewhere with Ed Miller. Something bad had happened, something that prevented Samuel from coming home. She wouldn’t allow herself to think words like “accident” or “death”. It was too early for that. At least that’s what she told herself as she tried to focus on the Scriptures.

  Exhaustion finally seized her, and her chin dipped down until it rested on her chest.

  • • •

  Anna tossed around in her sleep, her mind’s eye filled with visions of a tired and frightened boy walking down Main Street. Then she would wake up, vaguely upset, but not quite remembering the dream. She wished that Paul were here and that he could wrap his big arms around her. She was worried about her father, how old and frail he seemed lately, but also about something else, a bad omen that she couldn’t quite bring to consciousness.

  In his own bed across the hall, Jimmy stared outside, watching the night deepen. He couldn’t shake a premonition that his time with Anna was growing short. He hated the chasm that was between them, filled with the pain from that awful day so long ago. But his worst fear was being realized. When his bones started aching in that peculiar way he knew the time had come. And with everything happening today, it was all the confirmation he needed.

  Something from that dark day had come home to roost. Whatever was out there that day when Paul died, that had wanted him to go across the lake, had returned. Jimmy knew it. And it scared the hell out of him.

  • • •

  Rory lay sprawled on the old oak bed, staring up at the rustic beams in the ceiling. With each creak of the old wood cabin, he felt his stomach churn. He reasoned with himself, explaining each noise away with the simple fact that it was a very old structure that groaned its long existence with each change in the elements. But the logic didn’t help.

  He was drained, but was too scared to close his eyes and let sleep come. Scared because of the voices. Since he’d awoken from his faint, he had been unable to think of anything else. The rest of the day had been quiet, too quiet, and he had not been able to dismiss the voices. Just like that thing in New York, the way it seemed to speak to him.

  Except for that last voice. It was different, with its single word of warning: beware. He didn’t know what to make of it.

  And why had Nicholas heard the same thing? Or had he? None of this made any sense. But not much had since that terrible day when the car had taken his life, only to have it returned by the EMT.

  A creaking sound split the night. He sat up, staring out the window. The sky was murky and forbidding. He could see nothing, but had the strange feeling that he was being watched. He finally settled his head back on the pillow, dry eyes again focused on the ceiling. It was going to be a long night.

  PART II

  To defeat them, first we must understand them.

  — Elie Wiesel

  Battle not with monsters

  lest ye become a monster

  and if you gaze into the abyss

  the abyss gazes into you.

  — Friedrich Nietzsche

  CHAPTER 34

  The clan of spirits waited like silent ghosts in the confines of Ed Miller’s dilapidated cabin. The eastern sky became pale, burnished with blue, and with it, Ed awakened as if from a deep hypnotic state. The others were aware as well, knowing, just as the spirit in Ed did, that the time was coming. They had to prepare.

  Ed stood up and addressed the group before him – Douggie, the one of the earth, and Pamela, his companion; the hikers – the one who prepares the dead and his companion; Mick, the one with fire; and Samuel, the one with water. Each had his established place, except for the companion ones – not necessary ones for the ceremony, but useful as host bodies.

  The one with water, the one with fire, the one of the earth, and the one who prepares the dead would know their roles. Their way had been set before. They knew of their calling. And now they would help prepare the way for the others.

  Ed, the gatherer, would oversee the preparations. He would have the others assembled and ready. When the time was right, they would all come together at the ceremony, and then they would gain enlightenment.

  “Our time is near.” Ed spoke to them. “The others wait.”

  The group nodded solemnly. The hot confines of the cabin enveloped them.

  “We must prepare the way.”

  Silent agreement.

  “You,” he pointed to Samuel. “Get your companion one. She will be a host.” Samuel stared at him. “When the sun is high you shall return.”

  Ed began to breathe heavily, his lifeless eye
s fixated on Samuel. Soon a rush of energy crackled through the room, and the being in Samuel captured what was in the air. Ed began to chant, louder and louder. A stale smell permeated the room.

  When Ed finished, Samuel turned on his heels and quietly left.

  “You,” Ed addressed one of the hikers. He focused his power into the man. “Get the one with air.”

  “You.” To Douggie and Pamela. “Others await release. Bring more hosts.”

  They all nodded, slowly, disembodied. And they left.

  They would succeed. The spirit knew this. Because they had been here before. They would reclaim what had been left for them; their essence was waiting, blood in the earth, calling to them now.

  CHAPTER 35

  Rory sat at the oak table in the kitchen, staring out at Taylor Lake. He nursed a cup of strong coffee, feeling like a fog had settled over him. He was dead tired, emotionally drained from worrying about the voices and what they meant. But he also worried because last night, when he’d finally been able to sleep a little, he’d had the same dream again. He was inside a mine, searching for something.

  He was using the pickaxe furiously, digging at a spot on the cavern floor. His pace was frenzied because he had to find the object before they came to get him. He didn’t know who ‘they’ were, but regardless he knew he was in danger of them. As he dug he heard noises, like the wind howling on a stormy night. He ignored it and continued to work.

  Then the ax clunked on something. He threw the tool aside and dug at the loosened dirt with his hands. He touched the object. He threw more dirt until he uncovered a box. Inside it was a book, its brown leather cover tattered and worn. Just as he reached to pull it out of the box, he heard another sound close by. He sat back and stared, horrified.