by Taylor Grand
On the third day, he woke up on top of the billiards table in the game room with a loaded gun in his hand. He’d found it the night before, hidden behind some bottles on the top shelf of his bar. He carried it around the house for several hours and had seriously considered using it on himself—then passed out.
Now, as he glanced around the game room, there was a growing sense of familiarity. And despite a horrendous hangover, that familiarity made him feel a little better. He glanced at a Star Wars pinball machine in the corner, and suddenly remembered the day he’d gotten the high score. A rack of CDs against the wall, including the entire Led Zeppelin collection, brought back pleasant memories, too. He could feel his identity returning, moment by precious moment. Carnal images flashed through his mind. There had been women, oh yes. He could see their faces in a twisted kaleidoscope of memories, each perversion more disturbing than the last.
What kind of person had he been? Curiosity ate at him, yet he was afraid to look too closely. Another flash of memory and he remembered hiding other weapons besides the gun. Yes…he was starting to remember! He could see an image…a dungeon of some kind.
He leapt to his feet and began to run—it was all coming back now. There was a hidden room built beneath the house, only accessible by a trap door. As soon as he reached the study in the northernmost room of the first floor, he knew exactly where to look. He knelt down, grabbed the edge of a massive Oriental rug and flipped it over.
He recognized a particular floorboard and yanked it loose. Underneath was a small, but sturdy wooden handle. Eagerly, he heaved the trap door open, revealing a set of dust-covered steps leading down into a pool of darkness.
Nothing good would come from going down there. Somehow he knew this. And yet, he also knew it was inevitable that he descend.
As he stepped down into the blackness, he remembered a light switch at the bottom of the stairs. He braced himself as he turned on the lights. It didn’t make a bit of difference; what he saw there shook him to his core. In that one moment of recognition, he knew that despite his new name, new face, and fabricated life, nothing could change what he was and always would be.
****
In a locked cabinet against the back wall of the secret room, Matt found the journal Wheeler had described. It didn’t take long to figure out the lock combination: 3-7-47.
Inside the cabinet were stacks upon stacks of journals—some going back hundreds of years. Some were written on tattered notepads while others sported fine leather covers. The oldest was written on parchment.
He spent all day and that night poring through them and the intimate details of nine different people’s lives, starting in the mid-1600s and ending ten years prior, the day he went into suspended animation.
He was all of them. Only the names and circumstances had changed.
James Dowle, his original name, a Puritan from East Anglia in England, had moved his family— his wife and two children—to Salem, Massachusetts in 1676. His unfortunate streak of luck began with the loss of his wife Abigail to smallpox in early ’77, followed by his 6-year-old son Isaac and 4-year-old daughter Mary. He soon contracted the sickness too, and in desperation, sought out a healer reputed to cure the incurable—for a price.
A secret meeting was planned, as this was not long before the Salem witch trials, and any unorthodox practices at that time were suspect. He paid the old woman his entire life savings for a powerful spell of healing.
To his amazement, it worked.
Having survived the smallpox scare, Dowle came up with a plan to reclaim the money he’d paid the old hag. He showed up at her home one evening a week later, demanding that she return his money—otherwise he threatened to accuse her of practicing witchcraft, a crime punishable by death. When she refused, he slit her throat and ransacked her home, stealing a small fortune, and an ancient book containing everything from love spells to good fortune hexes, to demonic curses.
It was at this point, while reading the first and oldest journal, that Matt finally remembered the significance of the numbers that had been haunting him. April 3rd, 1677 (4/3/77) was the date Dowle had used the book of spells to summon a powerful and nameless demon. It appeared to him as a formless entity, like living black smoke. The only discernible features were its nine glowing eyes, which glowed like burning embers. It promised him nine lives of wealth, power, and influence, as well as the retention of his memories from each previous life. Upon his ninth death, the demon would return to claim his soul.
To maintain the spell’s effects, Dowle was required to sacrifice a human being once a year on the anniversary of the pact. This pleased him greatly as it gave him the excuse he needed to unleash the bloodlust he’d suppressed his entire life. He far exceeded the amount of killing necessary to maintain his pact; his list of victims throughout his nine lives numbered in the thousands.
With great wealth came the ability to build secret torture chambers, constructed within the depths of his castles, châteaux, and colonial mansions over the next few centuries. His positions of power and influence generally kept him above suspicion. And on the rare occasion that he had come under scrutiny, he’d used his vast resources to pay off, discredit, or kill anyone whom he considered a threat.
Throughout all nine lives, he had searched for a loophole in the demon’s pact, and finally, in his life as multi-millionaire Frank Kingston, he had. A combination of technology and mystical knowledge was his salvation: a way to protect his soul—by releasing it into the limbo between life and death. The answer was suspended animation. It would cause all bodily functions to cease, and untether his soul from its human vessel. It would be out of reach of the demon, forcing it to return to its dimension empty-handed, unless it was ever summoned again.
The plan had worked. Goddamn if it hadn’t! Now he was unfrozen and alive again, free of the demon and eager to enter a new pact—with a different entity. He glanced around at the dungeon he’d built and examined some of the torturous devices lined up against the bloodstained walls: thumbscrews, a Pear of Anguish, a Breast Ripper—even a custom-made Iron Maiden. Memories of the men, women and children he’d tortured mercilessly and slain floated through his mind. Recollections came slowly at first—like specters. He remembered the nigger who had managed to escape the dungeon in his colonial mansion that night in 1803. He’d quickly caught up to the man and blown his brains out on the private road leading to his plantation. This was the spectral reenactment he’d witnessed on the highway a few days ago. Not a hallucination. Not a ghost.
He recalled the woman he’d seen sliced open in Mary Beth’s bedroom. In a previous life as a brothel owner in Paris, he had choked the woman to death with her own intestines. She had dared to scratch his face when he’d tried to rape her and he’d made her pay for it dearly. He had loved that woman; or something as close to love as he could fathom.
He pushed those thoughts out of his mind. He was now more vulnerable than he’d been in centuries. Without the protection of a pact, if he somehow died, he wouldn’t be resurrected a tenth time. He needed to summon another demon quickly, and that would require a fresh kill. Perhaps that whore Mary Beth he’d met in the bar. She lived alone; she was an easy target. Then again, that bartender who had seen them together might remember his face if the police investigated—so perhaps that wasn’t the best idea.
A phone rang from upstairs, startling him. It was the first time he’d heard it. Who could be calling at this time of night?
He raced up the stairs to catch the caller before they hung up, excited at the prospect of someone from his past calling.
“Hello?” he said breathlessly into the receiver.
Silence.
Straining, he could hear breathing on the other end of the line.
“Who is this?” Matt demanded.
“Dr. Smythe,” a familiar voice answered.
Matt ground his teeth. “About goddamn time you returned my call.”
“Listen,” the doctor said. “I need to see you right
away. I have to talk to you in person. The phone isn’t safe.”
Matt said, “Isn’t safe? What are you—?”
“Tonight at the clinic. I’m the only one on duty.”
Matt grew more suspicious. “I want answers, Smythe.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll get them…I know things.”
The next thing Matt heard was a dial tone.
Matt struggled to remember any details about Dr. Smythe—certain parts of his memory still remained fuzzy. He vaguely remembered procuring the doctor’s services, and paying him a king’s ransom for his discretion.
He wondered how he’d found Smythe in the first place—possibly through Wheeler.
I know things. Those were his last words on the phone. Matt didn’t like the implication; if Smythe knew anything incriminating he would have to be disposed of.
Matt grabbed his gun before he left, realizing this new situation might work to his advantage. After all, he was in need of a fresh victim in order to summon a demon again.
****
Matt arrived at the clinic an hour later to find the front door unlocked and wide open.
He’d already been tense, but now he was getting downright jumpy. He didn’t like being exposed in this way; he liked more control over his victims. He reached into the large front pocket of his winter coat and wrapped his hands around the Glock .9mm hidden there.
“Hello,” he called out as he entered the tenebrous, empty lobby. His voice echoed back, cold and hollow. Matt felt the walls by the door for a light switch but found none.
In his left hand he carried a knapsack filled with the specific materials he would need to conjure another demon. The dungeon in his mansion had been filled with every conceivable herb, root, gemstone, aromatic, and occult ingredient imaginable. The sooner he could enter into a new pact the better. He wasn’t comfortable in his current unprotected state; for the first time in centuries, death would be permanent.
He locked the clinic door from the inside and pulled out his gun. There was an oddly familiar scent in the air, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Dr. Smythe!” he called out and ventured deeper into the shadows.
Despite the uncomfortably cold temperature, sweat slid down his temples. He started to think he’d made a mistake coming here in the first place, but realized he’d probably never get a better chance at the doctor alone.
He moved farther into the darkened hallway; it was dimly lit at the other end by what he guessed was a red light just beyond his view. It cast a faint, eerie glow across the walls. His throat felt more constricted with each step he took.
A moment later he nearly cried out in fear when he noticed a dark figure standing motionless at the end of hall.
It was a nude female with long, disheveled hair backlit in crimson.
“Hel…hello,” he croaked, his throat feeling bone dry.
The figure remained deathly still.
“Look, I don’t know who you are, but I’ve got a gun.” Where the hell was Smythe?
A hideous, unidentifiable sound erupted from the woman’s throat and she began to move toward him. When the light caught her just right, he could see that her face had been savagely carved off.
He had done that to many pretty girls.
Yet this hallucination didn’t vanish quickly like the previous ones had. As she drew closer with outstretched arms, he could smell her rotting corpse. He fired his gun and a bullet blew a hole through her neck, exposing the cartilage and muscle underneath. The faceless woman staggered from the impact, and then reached for him again—her fingers curled like claws.
Matt took a step back, about to fire at her again when he felt a terrible pain in his right calf. A boy drenched in blood—no more than 5 years old—was biting into his leg like a wild animal.
He shot several bullets into the child’s head until it resembled the remains of a smashed bowl that had been filled with jelly. He took note that the lower half of the young boy was missing. The little bastard was one of countless children he’d torn in two on the rack over the centuries. It was one of his great delights. But the sight of it now—rotted flesh and all—was turning his stomach.
At the end of the hall, more silhouettes appeared. Four…then eight…then so many he lost count. A handful of them were headless.
He emptied his rounds into the growing horde, watched some of them jerk back as the bullets slammed into them. The sound of gunfire in the confined space stung his ears.
Silently, they kept coming.
He felt his knapsack slip from his fingers…heard the contents spill onto the ground. But he ignored it, his thoughts only on survival now.
He ran the other way, wincing at the bleeding wound in his calf. How could a hallucination bite him like that? It wasn’t possible!
As he raced for the lobby, he noticed more lumbering figures blocking his path—trying to cut him off.
He veered toward the right and into another dark hallway, panic rising in him. Goddammit, there has to be an emergency exit!
Just ahead was a glass door; Authorized Personnel Only was emblazoned on it.
He hit the door running and it swung open wide. He recognized where he was immediately: the main chamber for body storage. He spun and closed the door, locking it from the inside. The chilly temperature in the room was almost painful; he huddled into his jacket for warmth. The rows of cryo-units reminded him of shiny, metal coffins. A wave of claustrophobia swept over him; he had spent a decade inside one of those loathsome things.
The mob of animated corpses reached the thick glass door and began to claw at it, smearing it with blood and other bodily fluids. The face of a young girl in front was smashed against the glass; there were two jagged holes where her eyes used to be.
The door wouldn’t hold them for long.
A strange, unearthly sound emanated from behind him. He spun around to see thick black smoke swirling around him as if alive. He recognized it immediately and started to scream—but it caught in his throat, his vocal chords paralyzed. In fact, he couldn’t move any muscles at all.
Smoke continued to gather like the clouds of a terrible storm and formed into a human shape—that of Dr. Smythe. His hardened face twitched and his lips gave way to the faintest hint of satisfaction.
“Don’t you think it’s time to end this charade?” Smythe said, and the voice was as cold as his narrowed eyes. He appeared to float toward Matt, stopping barely an inch from his face. The stench caused him to choke—a smell he now recognized as sulfur. It was exuding from the demon’s mouth.
“Your double-cross was well-thought out,” it said. “I’ll give you that. But you didn’t read our contract, did you? It binds us in every way—we are symbiotic. I was aware of your deceitful plans the moment you thought of them.
“In fact, I’m not here. I’m in your mind. Everything you’ve experienced is by design, an intricate drama starring you as the lead, while everyone you’ve encountered were extras and supporting players. I gave you the worst thing imaginable…the hope of happiness and freedom…just so I could strip it all away and reveal the truth of what you really are.”
Tears began to spill from Matt’s eyes. For he knew that everything the nameless demon said was true.
“I can read your thoughts now. You’re terrified of going back into that cryo-unit for all of eternity.” A grin spread across the demon’s face. “But that’s the best part.”
Matt struggled to understand.
“Don’t you see?” the demon laughed. “You never left it to begin with.”
It was then that Matt noticed the silver nameplate above the nearest cryo-unit. It read:
Cryo-Unit 7734
Matthew Jackson
Status: In Stasis
Matt was no longer a tangible form. He felt his consciousness still inside the cryo-unit. He struggled against it, desperate to maintain the illusion, to keep his physical form outside the metal coffin.
The cold fear of what was coming rose in him; trapped forever insi
de his body, unable to move, yet conscious of every moment. There would be no end. No death. No light at the end of any tunnel.
There would only be the dark.
The hallucinations had never existed. He was the hallucination.
As the last of his consciousness returned to the blackness within the stasis chamber, his vision inverted. From this new perspective, he saw the engraved numbers on his nameplate, and finally understood their true meaning.
His mind began to scream.
7734 upside down spelled hƐLL.
About the Author
Taylor Grant is a Bram Stoker Award Nominated author, award-winning filmmaker, professional screenwriter, award-winning copywriter, and part-time actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and son.
Find out more at www.taylorgrant.com
Cemetery Dance Publications
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Introduction
Masks
The Silent Ones
The Vood
Gods and Devils
Dead Pull
Show and Tell
Infected
Whispers in the Trees Screams in the Dark
Intruders
The Dark at the End of the Tunnel
About the Author
Cemetery Dance Publications