The Devils & Demons MEGAPACK ®: 25 Modern and Classic Tales

by Mack Reynolds

  He paused in his reflections to count the strokes of a bell whose sound crept softly across the wastelands.

  “Little of my last night remains; however, let me waste it well.”

  So saying, he gathered his cape about him, and swiftly strode to the entrance of the tower.

  “Halt!” snapped a voice from the gateway.

  The ray of an electric torch bit the darkness and fell full upon the stranger’s face.

  “Halt, and give the sign.”

  “Who am I to give, or you to receive?” answered the stranger, as if intoning an incantation or reciting a fixed formula.

  “Pass on.”

  And thus the stranger passed the outer guard of the shrine of demonaltry, the holy of holies where Satan received the homage of his vassals. Past the outer guard was the stranger, but far from the sanctuary wherein the Black Mass was celebrated, wherein the Lord of the World was worshipped with blasphemous rites.

  A thousand steps of icy granite, winding in endless succession like the coils of a vast earthworm, led to the foundations of the tower. And at intervals, sheeted and hooded warders halted the stranger and demanded sign and password; and each in turn, as he received a sign, shrank and dropped his gaze before the hard, inscrutable eye of the stranger.

  Down, down to the very basements of the earth; and then he found himself before a door guarded by two masked figures garbed in vermilion. Again there was an exchange of signs, after which the two vermilion figures bowed low as the door opened to admit him to the vaulted sanctuary where the Devil was that night to be invoked.

  The stranger doffed his high hat, then, after a courtly bow to the assemblage strode up the aisle and seated himself on one of the brazen stools that were placed, row after row, like the pews of a chapel. Once seated, he gazed about him, taking stock of his surroundings.

  The black altar before him, with its crucifix bearing a hideously caricatured Christ, received but a passing glance; nor was any more attention accorded to the walls and vaulted ceiling whose grotesquely obscene carvings leered at him through the acrid, smoke-laden air like the distorted fancies of a perverted brain. Nor yet, apparently, did he note the acolyte who was trimming the black candles at the altar, nor did he seem to wonder that the floor beneath his feet was sprinkled with powdered saffron. It was the company itself that he studied, observing with interest the old roués and young sybarites, male and female, the seventy-seven who had assembled to adore Satan, their lord and master.

  In the main, the seventy-seven were persons of wealth and distinction, who, having tried and found wanting every field of human endeavor and achievement, had sought thrills in the foulness and degradation of the medieval rites of devil-worship; rakes whose jaded appetites sought satiation in the orgies that followed the celebration of the Black Mass; atheists who, deeming passive atheism an inadequate form of rebellion, found expression in a ritual whose sacrilege satisfied their iconoclastic desires.

  Attendants bearing trays made their way among the seventy-seven, offering them glasses of wine and small amber-colored pastils. These last the worshipers either swallowed or else dissolved in their wine and drank.

  The stranger turned to the initiate who occupied the stool at his side.

  “Tell me, brother, the nature of the rites to be celebrated here tonight.”

  The initiate eyed him narrowly as he sipped his wine.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why,” began the stranger blandly, “I am a foreigner, and I fancied that the ritual here may be different than it is in my native land. I must confess,” he continued, “that I am puzzled to see an altar and a crucifix in this shrine devoted to the worship of the Evil One.”

  The initiate stared at him in amazement.

  “It must be a curious rite that you witnessed. Do you not know that we have a priest who celebrates the mass, and then…

  “A priest?” interrupted the stranger. “The mass? Why…

  “Surely; if not a priest, if not a mass, how could the arch-enemy become incarnate in the bread which we, the worshipers of Satan, defile and pollute as a tribute to our lord and master? Surely you must be a foreigner from some heathen land not to know that only an ordained priest of the church can cause the miracle of transubstantiation to take place. But tell me, who are you?”

  “You would be amazed,” replied the stranger, smiling enigmatically, “if you knew who I am.”

  Then, before the initiate could continue his queries, a gong sounded, thinly, rather as the hiss of a serpent than as the clang of bronze; a panel of the vault opened, admitting the vermilion-robed, misshapen bulk of the priest. Following him were nine acolytes, likewise robed in vermilion, and bearing censers fuming with an overpoweringly heavy incense. As they marched slowly down the aisle, they raised their voices in a shrill chant. The seventy-seven sank to their knees, heads bowed.

  The high priest halted before the altar, bowed solemnly, then, with the customary gestures and phrases, went through the ritual of the mass, the kneeling acolytes making the responses in Latin. He then descended to the bottom step of the altar and began his invocation of Satan.

  “Oriflamme of Iniquity, thou who guidest our steps and givest us strength to endure and courage to resist, receive our petitions and accept our praise; Lord of the World, hear the prayers of thy servants; Father of Pride, defend us against the hypocrisies of the favorites of God! Master, thy faithful servants implore thee to bless their iniquities which destroy soul and conscience alike; power, glory and riches they beg of thee, King of the Disinherited, Son who battles with the inexorable Father: all this we ask of thee, and more, Master of Deceptions; Rewarder of Crime, Lord of Luxurious Vice and Monumental Sin, Satan, thee whom we adore, just and logical god!”

  The high priest rose, faced the altar and crucifix bearing its life-sized mockery of a caricatured Christ, and in shrill, malignant accents cried out his blasphemies: “And thou, thou in my office as priest I compel to descend into this host, to become incarnate in this bread, Jesus, filcher of homage, thief of affection! Harken! From the day that the virgin gave thee birth thou hast failed in thy promises; the ages have wept in awaiting thee, mute and fugitive god! Thou wert to redeem mankind, and thou hast failed; thou wert to appear in glory, and thou liest asleep; thou who wert to intercede for us with the Father, hast failed in thy mission, lest thy eternal slumber be disturbed! Thou hast forgotten the poor to whom thou hast preached! Thou who hast dared punish by virtue of unheard-of laws, we would hammer upon thy nails, bear down upon thy crown of thorns, draw blood anew from thy dry wounds! And this we can do, and this we will do, in violating the repose of thy body, profaner of magnificent vice, accursed Nazarene, idle king, sluggish god!”

  “Amen,” came the hoarse response of the seventy-seven through the stifling, incense-laden air.

  The priest, having once more ascended the altar steps, turned and with his left hand blessed the worshipers of Satan. Then, facing the Crucified One, in a solemn but mocking tone he pronounced, “Hoc est enim corpus meum.”

  At these words the seventy-seven, crazed as much by the drugged wine and amber-hued pastils as by the sacrilegious madness of the ceremony, groveled upon the saffron-sprinkled floor, howling and moaning, overcome by a demoniac frenzy. The priest seized the consecrated bread, spat upon it, subjected it to unmentionable indignities, tore it to pieces which he offered to the worshipers of Satan, who crept forward to receive this mockery of a communion.

  The first of that mad group of devil-worshipers rose to his knees and was about to receive his portion when there came a startling interruption.

  “Fools, cease this mockery!”

  It was the stranger’s voice, a voice whose arrogant note of command, ringing through that vaulted chapel like the clear, cold peal of destruction, silenced the frenzied devotees, so that not a breath was au
dible. The acolytes stood transfixed at the altar. The high priest alone retained command of himself; but even he was momentarily abashed, shrinking before the flaming, fierce eye of the stranger.

  Yet the priest quickly recovered himself.

  “Who are you,” he snarled, “to interrupt the sacrifice?”

  The seventy-seven, though still speechless, had recovered from the complete paralysis that their faculties had suffered. They saw the stranger confronting the high priest on the altar steps; they heard his voice, in reply, rich, sonorous, majestic:

  “You, the high priest of Satan, and ask me who I am? I am Ahriman, whom the Persians feared; I am Malik Taus, the white peacock whom men worship in far-off Kurdistan; I am Lucifer, the morning star; I am that Satan whom you invoked. Behold, I have returned in mortal form to meet and defy my adversary.”

  He pointed to the crucifix, then continued, “And a worthy adversary he is. Nor think that yonder simulacrum is the Christ I have sworn to overthrow. Fools! Besotted beasts, think you that it is serving me to deride a foe who has held me at bay these countless ages? Think you to serve me by this mummery? This very mass which you have celebrated, though in derision and in defiance of him, acknowledges his divinity; and though in mockery, you have nevertheless accepted him in taking this bread as his body. Is this serving me, your lord and master?”

  “Impostor!” shrieked the high priest, his face distorted with rage; “impostor, you claim to be Satan?” That high-pitched scream stirred the seventy-seven from their inertia, aroused them again to their frenzy. Gibbering and howling, they leapt to their feet and closed in on the stranger.

  But at that instant a cloak of elemental fire, the red, blinding flame of a thousand suns, enshrouded Satan’s form, and from it rang that same clear, cold voice, “Fools! Madmen! I disown and utterly deny you!”

  * * * *

  Once again in the ruins at the foot of the Tower of Semaxii was the dark stranger, Satan as he had revealed himself to his followers. He seemed to be alone, yet he was speaking, as if with someone facing him.

  “Nazarene,” he said, “on that day wherein I challenged you to meet me with weapons and on ground of your own choosing to do battle for the empery of the world, I was foolish and knew not whereof I spoke.”

  He paused, lowered his eyes for a moment, as if to rest them from the strain of gazing at an awful and intolerable radiance, then continued: “You they crucified; me they would have torn in pieces, their lord and master; both of us they have denied. I wonder whose folly is the greater, yours in seeking to redeem mankind, or mine in striving to make it my own.”

  And with these words Satan turned, his haughty head bowed, and turning, disappeared among the ruins.

  HEREAFTER, INC., by Lester del Rey

  Originally published in Unknown Worlds, Dec. 1941.

  Phineas Theophilus Potts, who would have been the last to admit and the first to believe he was a godly man, creaked over in bed and stuck out one scrawny arm wrathfully. The raucous jangling of the alarm was an unusually painful cancer in his soul that morning. Then his waking mind took over and he checked his hand, bringing it down on the alarm button with precise, but gentle, firmness. Would he never learn to control these little angers? In this world one should bear all troubles with uncomplaining meekness, not rebel against them; otherwise—But it was too early in the morning to think of that.

  He wriggled out of bed and gave his thoughts over to the ritual of remembering yesterday’s sins, checking to make sure all had been covered and wiped out the night before. That’s when he got his first shock; he couldn’t remember anything about the day before—bad, very bad. Well, no doubt it was another trap of the forces conspiring to secure Potts’ soul. Tch, tch. Terrible, but he could circumvent even that snare.

  There was no mere mumbling by habit to his confession; word after word rolled off his tongue carefully with full knowledge and unctuous shame until he reached the concluding lines. “For the manifold sins which I have committed and for this greater sin which now afflicts me, forgive and guide me to sin no more, but preserve me in righteousness all the days of my life. Amen.” Thus having avoided the pitfall and saved himself again from eternal combustion, he scrubbed hands with himself and began climbing into his scratchy underclothes and cheap black suit. Then he indulged in a breakfast of dry toast and buttermilk flavored with self-denial and was ready to fare forth into the world of temptation around him.

  The telephone jangled against his nerves and he jumped, grabbing for it impatiently before he remembered; he addressed the mouthpiece contritely. “Phineas Potts speaking.”

  It was Mr. Sloane, his lusty animal voice barking out from the receiver. “’Lo, Phin, they told me you’re ready to come down to work today. Business is booming and we can use you. How about it?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Sloane. I’m not one to shirk my duty.” There was no reason for the call that Potts could see; he hadn’t missed a day in twelve years. “You know—”

  “Sure, okay. That’s fine. Just wanted to warn you that we’ve moved. You’ll see the name plate right across the street when you come out—swell place, too. Sure you can make it all right?”

  “I shall be there in ten minutes, Mr. Sloane,” Phineas assured him, and remembered in time to hang up without displaying distaste. Tch, poor Sloane, wallowing in sin and ignorant of the doom that awaited him. Why, the last time Phineas had chided his employer—mildly, too—Sloane had actually laughed at him! Dear. Well, no doubt he incurred grace by trying to save the poor lost soul, even though his efforts seemed futile. Of course, there was danger in consorting with such people, but no doubt his sacrifices would be duly recorded.

  There was a new elevator boy, apparently, when he came out of his room. He sniffed pointedly at the smoke from the boy’s cigarette; the boy twitched his lips, but did not throw it away.

  “Okay, bub,” he grunted as the doors clanked shut, grating across Phineas’ nerves, “I don’t like it no better’n you will, but here we are.”

  Bub! Phineas glared at the shoulders turned to him and shuddered. He’d see Mrs. Biddle about this later.

  Suppressing his feelings with some effort, he headed across the lobby, scarcely noting it, and stepped out onto the street. Then he stopped. That was the second jolt. He swallowed twice, opened his eyes and lifted them for the first time in weeks, and looked again. It hadn’t changed. Where there should have been a little twisted side street near the tenements, he saw instead a broad gleaming thoroughfare, busy with people and bright in warm golden sunshine. Opposite, the ugly stores were replaced with bright, new office buildings, and the elevated tracks were completely missing. He swung slowly about, clutching his umbrella for support as he faced the hotel; it was still a hotel—but not his—definitely not his. Nor was the lobby the same. He fumbled back into it, shaken and bewildered.

  The girl at the desk smiled up at him out of dancing eyes, and she certainly wasn’t the manager. Nor would prim Mrs. Biddle, who went to his church, have hired this brazen little thing; both her lips and fingernails were bright crimson, to begin with, and beyond that he preferred not to go.

  The brazen little thing smiled again, as if glorying in her obvious idolatry. “Forget something, Mr. Potts?”

  “I…uh…no. That is…you know who I am?”

  She nodded brightly. “Yes indeed, Mr. Potts. You moved in yesterday. Room 408. Is everything satisfactory?”

  Phineas half nodded, gulped, and stumbled out again. Moved in? He couldn’t recall it. Why should he leave Mrs. Biddle’s? And 408 was his old room number; the room was identical with the one he had lived in, even to the gray streak on the wallpaper that had bothered his eyes for years. Something was horribly wrong—first the lack of memory, then Sloane’s peculiar call, now this. He was too upset even to realize that this was probably another temptation set before him.

 
; Mechanically, Phineas spied Sloane’s name plate on one of the new buildings and crossed over into it. “Morning, Mr. Potts,” said the elevator boy, and Phineas jumped. He’d never seen this person before, either. “Fourth floor, Mr. Potts. Mr. Sloane’s office is just two doors down.”

  Phineas followed the directions automatically, found the door marked G. R. SLOANE—ARCHITECT, and pushed into a huge room filled with the almost unbearable clatter of typewriters and Comptometers, the buzz of voices, and the jarring thump of an addressing machine. But this morning the familiarity of the sound seemed like a haven out of the wilderness until he looked around. Not only had Sloane moved, but he’d apparently also expanded and changed most of his office force. Only old Callahan was left, and Callahan—Strange, he felt sure Callahan had retired or something the year before. Oh, well, that was the least of his puzzles.

  Callahan seemed to sense his stare, for he jumped up and brought a hamlike fist down on Phineas’ back, almost knocking out the ill-fitting false teeth. “Phin Potts, you old doom-monger! Welcome back!” He thumped again and Potts coughed, trying to reach the spot and rub out the sting. Not only did Callahan have to be an atheist—an argumentative one—but he had to indulge in this gross horseplay. Why hadn’t the man stayed properly retired?

  “Mr. Sloane?” he managed to gurgle.

  Sloane himself answered, his rugged face split in a grin. “Hi, Phin. Let him alone, Callahan. Another thump like that and I’ll have to hire a new draftsman. Come on, Phin, there’s the devil’s own amount of work piled up for you now that you’re back from your little illness.” He led him around a bunch of tables where bright-painted hussies were busily typing, down a hall, and into the drafting room, exchanging words with others that made Phineas wince. Really, his language seemed to grow worse each day.