Hallowed Horror

by Mark Tufo

  She closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the morning on her skin, even though it threatened sudden death for her lover.

  “Dear God, thank you for this blessed day and the chance to do great deeds,” she said.

  “You’re welcome,” He said.

  “And thank you for the many bounties and joys of this Earth, and give me the strength to honor You and all the things of Your creation.”

  He didn’t answer, so she went on. “About last night—you weren’t watching, were you?”

  God cleared his throat. “Umm.”

  “That’s what I thought. Well, I’ll give you a progress report. Luke’s not all that well-informed, or maybe he’s just not talking, but it seems the Gog and the Magog are still assembling forces of darkness. It looks to me like a lot more research is required.”

  “So you’re not yet ready to ascend?”

  I thought you were omniscient. “I’m very eager to master ‘Stairway to Heaven’ on the harp, but this is an important mission, and I promised to give it everything I’ve got. I wouldn’t dream of leaving Earth before my work here is done.”

  “Your sacrifice will not be forgotten, Sabrina Vickers.”

  “Thank you. Amen.”

  She finished getting dressed, choosing a floral tropicwear skort to get a little tan on her legs and a pair of open-heeled canvas deck shoes. All that alabaster and gossamer got old after a while, and she didn’t have to worry about skin cancer anymore. She closed the curtains nice and tight, although they didn’t completely keep out the sunlight.

  “Luke, why couldn’t you have chosen a creepy New England mansion with a basement?” she said to the coffin-boat.

  No response. But one thing you could say for him, he didn’t snore, unlike most men she’d known. He slept like the dead. Or as close as he could get.

  She put away the dishes—Luke only owned three—and headed into the sunshine, double-checking the door to make sure it was locked behind her.

  Beaufort was a mix of old and new, with rows of weather-beaten houses left over from the town’s days as a fishing village. Scattered here and there were new, opulent cottages designed to mimic those of the working class, but built on high piers and with little lookout watchtowers on top so everyone would know who was captain.

  The waterfront business district was full of tiny shops that sold postcards, driftwood door placards with sayings like “Happy To Sea You,” shellacked seashells, and the obligatory overpriced sunglasses. Business traffic was a little slow this morning, since it was September, the tail end of the season.

  The air carried a hint of salt, with the breeze coming in over the ocean, which suggested a late-afternoon thunderstorm. Occasionally the clouds became dark and thick enough that Luke was able to rise, so to speak, for a few hours even though it was still technically daylight.

  One can only pray for rain.

  Sabrina made her way to the Bean Scene, the little coffee shop where the locals still claimed the corner tables and the magazine rack had more graphic novels and music publications than copies of Senior Fitness. In other words, more Charlie Sheen than Martin Sheen.

  The shop smelled of burnt Folger’s in the style they liked to call “French roast.” She’d visited France a time or three, and they didn’t scorch the piss out of the beans there. But Americans loved to label things “French” so they seemed more exotic. Like “French kissing.” But people swapped tongue just as well in every other country she’d visited.

  Except Texas. Guys in Texas couldn’t kiss worth a damn. But Texas wasn’t a country. It just liked to think it was.

  “Hi, Sabrina!” Cherry was behind the counter, wiping out mugs and stacking them into a lopsided pyramid.

  “Hey, girlfriend,” Sabrina said. “How was the band?”

  “It was fine, until they went into the Jimmy Buffet medley and Roy started slamming down the rum-and-cokes. I wish you guys could have stayed.”

  “Well, Luke works the night shift, and we have to make the most of our time together. If you know what I mean.”

  Cherry glanced down at the counter, a little dejected. “Yeah. You get a Coast Guard hero and I get an alcoholic real-estate agent.”

  “Roy’s a good dude. You know, when he talks to a woman, he keeps his eyes above her neckline. That’s saying something.”

  “I suppose,” Cherry said, a little wistfully.

  It was all Luke’s fault. That mesmerizing stare of his always penetrated women to the depths of their souls, and once shaken and stirred inside, mere mortal men became somehow diminished in those women’s eyes. Sabrina didn’t suspect Luke had done any flirting with Cherry, but women had a way of hoping for the best. It was about the only way they could make it in this realm of strife and sorrow and mutant testosterone.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Sabrina said. “Tonight, we’re going to take Luke’s boat across the sound. Stop off at Portsmouth Island and have a little bonfire. Roy can bring his acoustic guitar and I’ll bring the wine.”

  Cherry brightened, flipping back her fine, blonde hair. Her friend looked a lot more like the stereotypical angel than Sabrina did. She had the big blue eyes, the pert but not overly noticeable breasts, the lithe form, and a certain airy and ethereal radiance about her, although she was as flesh-and-blood as they came.

  Sabrina, on the other hand, was a little stacked, and no matter how she tried, her hair always ended up in loose, dark tangles that were dead sexy. And she wasn’t a waif by any means. Sure, she couldn’t lift coffin lids with two fingers, but she was solid, and wouldn’t dent when the Gog shot their stupid little arrows at her.

  Strong armor for strong work, God had said when fitting her with wings.

  “Okay,” Cherry said. “It’s a double date. Speaking of doubles, I assume you want the mocha latte?”

  “Hook me up.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Suitably caffeinated, Sabrina went to the maritime museum, where she worked as a part-time desk clerk and tour guide. The museum was only three rooms, so she didn’t have to do much guiding, but God had insisted she take a “square job” in order to blend in. Plus, God had a hunch that the Gog were plotting a sea invasion as the opening salvo, and He wanted to establish a beachhead.

  Maribel, the wizened little woman from the Yucatan Peninsula, was on duty today. A volunteer, she looked as if she could pass for sunken treasure herself, with deep creases on her forehead and pitted skin, though her eyes were as dark and clear as obsidian. Sabrina had only worked with Maribel a few times, but she often caught the woman staring with intense interest that made Sabrina uncomfortable.

  “Looks slow today,” Sabrina said to her. “I guess I’ll be dusting ropes and anchors again.”

  “And sweeping,” Maribel said, with a slight lisping accent. “Always the sweeping with so much sand.”

  That was an understatement. Luckily, the museum had a little open-topped exhibit designed to mimic the beach, with models of crabs, seashells, and plastic terns, pipers, and gulls. It was a simple matter to tip the dustpan into the exhibit, always taking the time to fish out the gum wrappers.

  “Hey, as long as we keep Blackbeard’s Ghost happy,” Sabrina said.

  Blackbeard the Pirate had prowled the Outer Banks three centuries before, and his flagship Queen Anne’s Revenge had run aground off Beaufort in the early 1700’s. According to the information posted with the exhibit, the remains had been found in 1996, and now a few pieces of blackened wood and corroded steel fixtures were spread along one end of the museum.

  Because Edward Teach, the historical figure, was a little too obscure for modern audiences, a cardboard cut-out of Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow had been employed to advertise the attraction.

  “Here there be Pyrates,” the banner proclaimed, and the exhibit had been a summer hit.

  “Do you know anything about Blackbeard besides what you read in the materials?” Maribel asked, giving that inquisitive squint that made Sabrina so uneasy.

/>   “Only that he was hung,” Sabrina said.

  The old woman gave a little half smile. “Oh, yes, he was well hung.”

  Creepy. She’s a little too old to be risqué.

  “Uh, yeah,” Sabrina said. “I think I need to go water the seaweed or something.”

  “But Edward Thatch offers an interesting moral dilemma,” Maribel said before Sabrina could scurry off.

  “‘Teach,’” Sabrina said, knowing it was rude to correct her elders but glad to be right about something. “His name was ‘Edward Teach.’”

  The dark Hispanic eyes took on a sparkle. “I knew him as Thatch. And he never killed anyone except in battle, despite the depictions of your popular culture.”

  “Fine. As long as I’m not around on International Talk Like A Pirate Day, I hope the exhibit is a smash.”

  “He once seized a ship that carried three dozen slaves. He could have sold them or killed them, but he set them on a Caribbean Island and gave them freedom. Several even joined his crew. Does that sound like an evil man?”

  Moral dilemma? Slavery? Creepy little references to a past life?

  “Holy hell, you’re my guardian angel!” Sabrina said, realizing too late that a family with three kids was just around the corner.

  Maribel smiled and gave a little bow. With the wisdom of experience, she lowered her voice. “God doesn’t turn anyone loose without an ally,” she said. “No flying solo on this mission.”

  “Okay, enough about Blackbeard,” Sabrina said, moving closer. “What do you know about the Gog and why we’re here?”

  “Don’t confuse age with knowledge,” Maribel said. “Some angels have been floating around Earth for hundreds of years and they are still mastering the alphabet. We each must pursue our personal spiritual journey at our own pace.”

  Great. I finally get a guardian angel and she’s a cross between Yoda and Buddha with a little Dr. Phil tossed in for good measure. Why me, God?

  Thunder rumbled far out to sea, which Sabrina took as a “Because I said so.”

  “Okay, fine,” Sabrina said. “Here’s my theory, since nobody’s offering up any doubloons and gibbets or whatever. More than a thousand ships have sunk off the coast here, which is why they call it the ‘Graveyard of the Atlantic,’ and all that negative energy has created a vortex that’s opened a route for the Gog.”

  “The Gog?”

  “You just hinted that you slept with Blackbeard, and now you go all coy?”

  “Ah. The Gog. They have been known by many names in my time.”

  “Well, that’s what God calls them, and that’s good enough for me.”

  Maribel leaned conspiratorially close and whispered, “Have you ever noticed how close those two words are? ‘Gog’ and ‘God’? Makes one wonder, yes?”

  Sabrina held up her hands and backed away. “Oh, no. I’m not playing that game. I know a test when I see one.”

  Maribel smiled again. “The devil’s been known to employ double agents. Speaking of which, I hear you’re shacking up with a vampire.”

  Sabrina glanced up at the ceiling, hoping her stare would burn right through the clouds. I thought you said you weren’t watching, God.

  “He’s a neutral entity,” Sabrina said to Maribel.

  “But he’s tempted, no?”

  “No.”

  Maribel pointed at Sabrina’s neck. “Then why the hickey?”

  Sabrina touched her neck. She hadn’t even noticed. Man, that Luke was good. “Uh, I was flying around the house and bumped into a chandelier. It was a little embarrassing. You know, ‘Go toward the light’ and all that.”

  “An angel disguised as a moth,” Maribel said.

  Guardian angel or not, Sabrina wasn’t all that interested in being grilled about her sex life. “Okay, where are your wings, then?”

  “I’m grounded. I had a very mortal weakness—”

  “Ah, the Blackbeard affair.”

  The old woman sighed. “One of many.”

  “So you have the job of watching over me and making sure I don’t screw this up. Because God probably thinks I’m headed down the same path as you.”

  The family had completed its tour of the museum and the youngest child, a sneering boy with strawberry ice cream all over his chin, came bolting to the counter. “I want a toy ship! I want a toy ship!”

  “Models of Queen Anne’s Revenge are $19.95 plus tax, and all proceeds fund the salvaging and restoration of the real ship,” Maribel said sweetly.

  “I only got a dollar.” The kid then screamed. “Daddy! I want a ship.”

  A harried-looking man in a Hawaiian shirt entered the room, a camera on a strap bouncing against his ample belly. “Sure, son. Whatever you want.”

  Maribel rolled her eyes toward Sabrina. It was well known that the road to hell started with getting what you wanted. Desire was the cause of all suffering, and one of God’s most difficult jobs was to let most prayers go unanswered.

  Which is why Sabrina had tried to keep Luke a secret. Earthly love was understandable and holy, but the dead and the undead were supposed to rise above the petty pleasures of the flesh. They were supposed to aspire to a higher love.

  It was a little hard to aspire when Luke ran his cool lips over her throat and let his hands work their own brand of magic.

  “I want that! And that. And that. And that,” the boy said, pointing to four souvenirs in rapid succession.

  The man dug a wallet out of his back pocket as his wife and teen daughter entered. The daughter wore ear buds and her eyes were glazed, finding My Chemical Romance on her iPod far more interesting than natural history. The mom had brassy-orange hair and appeared to have undergone a good bit of enhancement surgery. Her skin was stretched so tight it looked like one more cheese puff would cause an explosion.

  “Blackbeard key chains are $4.95,” Maribel said cheerfully.

  “You don’t need no key chains,” the wife said to the boy.

  He picked up a book on pirates which, predictably, had Johnny Depp on the cover. “I want this!”

  “You don’t need no old books,” the wife said.

  The man in the Hawaiian shirt stood with his wallet thumbed open, looking back and forth at the various products as if watching a tennis match.

  “I want the ship, Daddy. Pleeeeez.”

  Apparently “please” was the magic word, even if it was whined, so the man took one of the model kits and placed it on the counter.

  “You don’t need no ship,” the wife said, already heading for the exit. The teen popped her gum and followed.

  “All proceeds fund the restoration and salvaging of the real ship,” Sabrina said, giving her Hostess Ho-Ho smile. The man glanced at her breasts.

  Sale.

  After they were gone, Maribel said, “I can’t be everywhere at once, so I’m just going to have to trust you.”

  “Trust an angel? I thought you were supposed to be wise.”

  “Don’t confuse experience with wisdom, Sabrina.”

  “Great. I get the only guardian angel in the universe who is still trying to get her act together.”

  “You save the world from the Gog and I get brownie points, so it’s all good,” Maribel said, wiping the boy’s grubby ice-cream fingerprints from the countertop.

  “Silly me, expecting easy answers.”

  “Your head is in the clouds, but it’s because of Luke, not your holy work.”

  Sabrina frowned. “Excuse me. I’ve got some sand to sweep.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sabrina barely beat the thunderstorm home after her shift. It was one of those fronts that rolled in from the coast, storm clouds collecting over the Outer Banks before pushing the last miles to the mainland. It was the kind of storm that would wreck a pirate’s galleon—the sky was boiling black, jagged whips of lightning stabbing down into the sea.

  “Fly away home,” she said, as she closed the door against the tumult.

  Magically, her white wings sprouted from her back, so
mehow growing through the cotton blouse. She’d learned fast that natural fiber was the only way to go if she wanted to avoid embarrassing rips.

  She flexed her wings a little, careful not to tip over Luke’s chess pieces on the coffee table. The wings came down just below her buns, and when she was naked, the tips felt kind of good when they swished against her skin. The feathers were softer than those of a bird, and God had explained they were mostly ornamental, not functional.

  The whole image was designed to suggest flight and transcendence, an ethereal connection between heaven and earth. It wasn’t like you could have angels shuffling around in combat boots and hard hats.

  She gave the wings a gentle twitch and lifted off the floor, then flapped softly about the living room, drawing all the curtains tight. She had few chances to test the wings and she still hadn’t mastered the subtle art of aerial navigation.

  The storm burst. Rain pelted the windows and thunder shook the cottage. It was too loud for anyone to sleep through, even the undead.

  She half-floated into the bedroom and alighted next to the shallow-bottomed skiff. It was propped up on four old wooden crab cages and Sabrina always wondered why the contraption hadn’t collapsed, especially given their exuberant romps, but Luke said the rocking was part of the cruise.

  She couldn’t argue with that.

  Luke had apparently sensed the darkness through an instinct older than time, for the skiff’s canvas cover was already cracked about an inch. She tapped lightly. “Honey?”

  His muffled, drowsy voice spilled from the crack. “It’s early.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a hurricane. Darker than a politician’s heart outside.”

  Four strong, pale fingers protruded from the skiff and curled around the edge of the canvas. Just the sight of his skin sent a little shiver up Sabrina’s spine. There was something about being denied your lover’s touch that made the yearning all the sweeter.