The Messenger (2011 reformat)

by Edward Lee

  She was reaching forward, frowning at the atrocious smell, but she knew she wasn't doing so to close the box door. She meant to reach inside.

  But there's nothing else in there, she thought with the tiny sliver of reason remaining in her mind. I know it's empty. I put the package in the car. So what am I doing this for?

  A flap! startled her. Annabelle froze, then jerked around. It was five o'clock. The front service area was closed now, and someone on the other side had locked those doors and flapped the closed sign around. And the self-serve area remained empty.

  What...am...I...doing?

  She lowered herself to her knees, looked into the box. It remained empty; in fact nothing could be seen behind it, either, just darkness. Someone must've turned out the lights back there.

  She ground her teeth against that stench. She was right-it was coming from the box, flowing out in a disgusting gust. Nevertheless, she put her hand in ...

  She reached into the box.

  There's nothing there, there's nothing there! So why am I putting my hand in?

  Her hand was all the way in. Slowly, slowly. No, her arm was going in, an inch at a time, halfway up the forearm, then to the elbow. Then-

  She was touching something-something warm. It was slimy, too, like that time she'd found the pack of ground sirloin in the back of the refrigerator. She'd opened it, thinking it fresh, but then the smell had hit her just after she'd touched it. Viscid slime. As it turned out, the meat had been in there for weeks. That's what whatever she was touching felt like.

  Oh, God, she thought now. What was this?

  Thoughts more foul than the smell swarmed in her head. In her mind she saw things, bodies, reveling over her in some stinking grotto, figures hauling her down-into slime-to slake their lusts. She was molested and prodded and licked, she was mounted and humped, her own body mauled in every position. The figures doing this to her were enslimed as if the pores of their skin were sweating mucus. Every detail of these goings-on absolutely repulsed her, yet she felt more aroused than she had in...

  ...well...

  Ever.

  It couldn't be mouths that suckled every inch of her body-the orifices were too large to be mouths. Yet her nerves detected teeth in them, and great, fat, budded tongues. Not human mouths at any rate. One such mouth sucked her feet, another sucked her stomach, centering on her navel, yet the diameter of the lips were nearly that of a dinner plate. When the mouth slid down lower, the tongue like a flap of flank steak entering her, Annabelle climaxed spontaneously, orgasms detonating. The immense tongue remained within her, and then yet another mouth clamped all the way over her face, then her entire head. Her head was being sucked like a lollipop.

  This foul ecstacy never dwindled. The image or dream or hallucination ground on for what seemed hours, these things in rut, these creatures, lining up for her. Annabelle had no objection. She was stretched and pulled, splayed and spread, sat up, flipped over, turned upside-down, to be used over and over again...

  She couldn't see the things at all, there was no light. All she could do was feel them as she shuddered beneath each one, nipples gorged, back arched, legs open, begging, begging for more.

  When they were done, Annabelle sighed. Had she worn them all out? They were dragging themselves up, disinterested in her now, now that they'd spent themselves. She could hear them scuffling away through muck and then, for the merest moment, a light flickered-firelight, she guessed-and she saw them.

  Tall lean things. Ridged in muscles yet emaciated. Knobby joints, hands with fingers a foot long. Their skin did indeed shine with slime, the hue of old, old paraffin. One looked back at her with black orblike eyes; Annabelle shuddered at the long slack-mouthed face, slits for a nose, and horns sprouting from the warped forehead.

  Demons, she knew now.

  Then the light went out, and there she was, on her knees in the post office, with her arm halfway into the post office box.

  Her eyes felt pulled open by hooks. She knew what she was doing. She knew what the hot, organic thing was in her hand.

  Eventually, something wet and just as hot emptied into her palm. Did she hear a moan? The smell was still overpowering. She slowly retracted her arm.

  Hand to elbow was covered in slime. Pearl-like globs clung to her palm and fingers. Oh my God. What in God's name is behind there?

  She was about to fall over and vomit, when someone nudged her.

  "Miss? Miss?"

  Annabelle dragged her eyes upward. A postal clerk was standing behind her, a concerned look on his face.

  "Are you all right?"

  Annabelle's head was spinning. She looked at her arm. It was clean, normal.

  "Here, let me help you up."

  She struggled off her knees, wobbled a bit once she was back on her feet, then leaned against the wall of post office boxes and sighed. "I'm sorry. I don't know what happened to me. Dizzy spell, I guess."

  "Happens a lot this time of year." The clerk smiled. "Hot and sunny all day, you get dehydrated."

  "I'm sure that's it," Annabelle agreed, because there was nothing else she could believe. "And I'm fine now." She told herself, too, that she felt perfectly fine but her hand shook when she closed her box door and withdrew the key.

  The clerk raised a brow.

  "I'm just a little jittery", she said. "If you want to know the truth, my husband and I sat up late last night and watched a horror movie that wound up giving me terrible nightmares." Demons, she remembered. She'd just had some sort of waking dream about demons having sex with her, the day after seeing that movie about demons. That's all this is. "Then, I guess, something triggered the memory when I got here. Flashback or something."

  A long hand the color of old wax opened on her chest. It stank. And it landed against her skin with a wet slap. It was humid, slimy. Annabelle was paralyzed. She wouldn't look up at the thing's face because she'd already seen what their faces looked like. All she would do was convulse as the hand slid down her top, rubbing infernal slime over her breasts.

  "You like that, don't you?" the corroded voice bubbled. "I know you do, I feel your precious little tits getting hard, like they did a few minutes ago in the grotto. My brothers and I enjoyed you very much, and later, when you're with us forever, we'll enjoy you every night for the rest of eternity."

  Annabelle's teeth chattered.

  "I'm one of the Messenger's sons," the voice from Hell burbled on. "He has many, many bastard sons. We help him spread the word in the domain of our lord. My father needs you to spread the word here. You will do it."

  The hand was lathering her breasts in slime, the grub-like fingertips twisting her nipples. Annabelle couldn't breathe.

  "The arrival of the Messenger is at hand."

  She broke from her paralysis, shrieked in a breath, and ran out of the post office.

  "Miss? Miss?" The perfectly normal clerk trotted after her. "Are you sure you're all right? Want me to call a doctor?"

  The Mercedes whipped out of the lot and squealed away.

  The clerk shook his head. "There's sure as hell a lot of screwy people in this town," he muttered and went back inside.

  Chapter Eight

  I

  "It's nothing serious," Jane heard a voice saying. The voice seemed to be directed at someone else, though, not her. Tall dark shapes surrounded her. She felt like the time she'd had an impacted tooth removed, that imperceptible moment right before the general anesthetic had put her out, only this time it was in reverse. Her consciousness was slowly trickling back, her eyes fluttering open as her vision went from dark to grainy to sharp.

  "Hello, Jane."

  The kind face smiled down on her from beneath spectacles and short blond hair. It was Dr. Mitchell, the family physician. Behind him stood Steve, Kevin, and Jennifer, all looking hopefully down at her. She was lying on the couch in the living room.

  "It's nothing serious, Jane," the doctor said again.

  "You fainted and fell down. You smacked your head
on the way, I'm afraid, but there's no sign of concussion. You'll be fine."

  Her thoughts ticked backward as she remembered in blocks. The mass slayings at the Seaton School, Carlton committing suicide. It had been too much for her to handle all at once. She winced when she recalled the state of all those bodies, all those poor girls.

  Nevertheless, she felt foolish, especially in front of her children. I have to be strong for my kids, but look at me. "Thank you, Dr. Mitchell. I'm sorry you had to go to this trouble."

  "No trouble, it's my job."

  Steve stepped up next to him. "We're just glad you're okay. You gave us a little scare."

  When Jane leaned up, she winced again.

  "You'll probably have a devil of a headache for a few hours," the doctor said, "but aspirin will take care of that. By morning you'll be as good as new and I don't see any reason why you shouldn't be able to go to work. Just call me if there are any complications."

  The doctor closed up his bag and left. Kevin and Jennifer rushed over to Jane's side and knelt beside her. Kevin was holding his fat horned toad, Mel, in his hands.

  "Okay, kids, you heard the doctor," Steve said. "Your mom's going to be fine."

  "I actually don't feel that bad now," she said, not altogether honestly. "Just a little headachy."

  "You sure you're okay, Mom?" Jennifer asked.

  "Yeah, Mom. You don't look okay," Kevin added.

  I probably look like death warmed over, she feared. Her eyes felt puffy, her hair astray. "Really, I'm perfectly fine, just like Dr. Mitchell said." She stifled another wince when she sat up on the couch and put her arms around Kevin and Jennifer. "What time is it?"

  "A little after eight," Steve said.

  At first she wondered through the fading dizziness if he meant eight at night or eight in the morning, but then she looked to the bay window and saw the yard darkening. "That late? You kids haven't eaten yet. Let me get up and fix you something."

  "Chief Steve got us blue-cheese and bacon burgers at the Food Island," Jennifer said.

  "Yeah, Chief Steve's cool," Kevin said.

  The name confused her at first but then she thought, Chief Higgins. That's right, he said his first name was Steve. She looked at him. "Thanks, Chief Higgins. That was very thoughtful. I hope they weren't too wild for you."

  "It was my pleasure, and they were no trouble at all" he said. "We got you one to go for when you're feeling hungry."

  "Thank you." She turned to the kids. "Why don't you go watch TV now, okay? Chief Higgins and I need to talk for a few minutes."

  "Great!" Kevin said. "Croc Hunter's on!"

  Jane kissed her children and watched them scurry off, Kevin cradling the pet toad.

  Steve looked down at Jane. "Are you really feeling better or are you just saying that?"

  "I'm sort of just saying that," she admitted. "But I really appreciate your taking care of my kids while I was out. You've much more important things to be worrying about right now."

  "Forget it." He took off his jacket and sat down on the couch. At first the sight of his gun and shoulder holster alarmed her-she'd never really seen a firearm up close like that-but she shrugged it off. He's the chief of police, for God's sake. It's his job to be armed. "I was worried. You really did take a spill."

  She brought a hand to the back of her head. "Was I bleeding?"

  "No, just a good conk."

  Jane spared a smile. "It's a good thing I didn't land on my face. I can see the looks on customers' faces when they see the branch station manager with a broken nose." But the smile broke, when she thought again about what had happened.

  "What's wrong?"

  She paused. "I just... I can't get those images out of my head-you know-about Carlton. You were right about him, but I still can't believe it."

  "If we'd only gotten there a little sooner," Steve muttered.

  "How could he do that to those poor girls, and that nun? And then to do that to himself. How could anybody do that?"

  "He went out of his mind," Steve said simply. "He was crazy."

  "And a few days ago? Marlene Troy went out of her mind too. That's too much of a coincidence."

  "It's abnormal psychology, Ms. Ryan. Shared delusions, multiple hysterics-"

  "I don't buy any of that," Jane insisted. "It's just too much of a coincidence."

  "Not really. We've touched on this before, haven't we? Carlton and Marlene knew each other well."

  "Of course they did!" she replied, louder. "They worked together for years."

  "What I mean is, they knew each other very closely, and very discreetly, in some ways that no one else would've guessed. I already told you-we've known beyond a doubt that they had sexual contact the morning that Marlene murdered her family and then shot all those people at the main branch."

  Jane closed her eyes in frustration. She found the sex part impossible to believe, too, but how could she deny it? The autopsy tests and DNA profiles didn't lie. But she still couldn't see the connection that Steve was implying. "All right, so they had sex. They were having an affair. What does that have to do with the rest of it? What, they had sex and that's why they both went crazy at the same time?"

  "No."

  "They were secret lovers and they made some insane murder-suicide pact?"

  "Not that either, we don't think. Things like that do happen, but there aren't any characteristics for that scenario here."

  "So what's the connection?"

  "That design. That bell-shaped symbol that keeps popping up."

  Jane nodded, still not buying that one, either. She remembered his earlier insinuations. "Oh, yes-that business. You believe that Carlton and Marlene were in some sort of satanic cult."

  "Or if not a cult, they were involved in some ritual thing together."

  Some ritual thing together. Murder rituals. Sacrifice. Jane shook her head. "Have you talked to anyone- anyone-any witness at all, any family member or relative, who believes that either of them were capable of that? Have you talked to anyone who said that they were anything but upstanding, level headed, and perfectly sane individuals?"

  "No. All I know is what I see," Steve answered. "And all I know is this: They both were involved in discreet sexual activity and-"

  "Yeah? And what?"

  "And they both committed mass murder in the same vicinity. I don't know anyone who'd call mass murder the act of perfectly sane people."

  Jane had no response to that one. What could she say? There's no way to deny that.

  "And they both left the same design at their crime scenes," Steve continued. "I'm sorry MS. Ryan, but you can't deny it. That bell-shaped symbol with the star at the bottom looks pretty creepy, doesn't it?"

  "Well, yes," she admitted, all too easily remembering its outline in blood at the Seaton school.

  "It looks like something with occult significance."

  "All right, I agree. I can't argue with anything you've said," she gave him. "I'm just having trouble with all of it."

  "That's understandable, because you knew both of them very well. Denial isn't uncommon in situations like this. I'd want to deny it, too, if they'd been friends of mine. But from my point of view, I can only look at the subject based on the evidence and the facts. Discreet relationship. Occult symbols. Mass murder. That's what I have to base my investigation on. That, and nothing more."

  Again, Jane couldn't argue. He's right. I guess I am in denial. "It's time for me to start seeing the light here. So...okay...say they were in a cult. I don't know the exact definition but I assume that a cult is made up of more than two people."

  "Right, and that's my biggest fear right now," Steve let on. "Who else out there is in the cult too?"

  The question made Jane feel as though a shroud had been pulled over her. There could be other people, out there right now, she realized. Ready to do the same thing.

  II

  The campanulation.

  The bell. With a single star as its striker.

  The Morning S
tar.

  Cymbellum Eosphorus, he thought.

  Even through the polycarbonate sheets, each a quarter-inch thick, he thought he could smell the paper that the plate had been printed on: something like wood long gone to rot but something organic as well.

  Something just traceably awful.

  Dhevic knew that the observation was impossible, at least technically. It was simply one page of a very old book. God knew how many hundreds of years ago it had been printed. The page was an intaglio print, and it had been sealed against time and air and human fingers in the polycarb sheets that had been expertly melted along all four edges. Along the bottom, in English and in Italian, were the words property of the ARCHIVES OF THE HOLY OFFICE.

  A monk defrocked from the St. Gall monastery in Maijvo, Hungary, had sold the plate to Dhevic decades ago, insisting that it had been pilfered from the Sixtus V Wing of Vatican Apostolic Library when the current structure was being built in 1590. From there, Dhevic was told, the plate had been preserved by private collectors handed down through the following decades and finally inherited by the Maijvo monk for successfully exorcising the last owner's son of a multiple demonic possession. The monk was eventually excommunicated for, he said, "unholy indiscretions," which Dhevic suspected were sexual in nature. It didn't matter. Dhevic couldn't absolutely verify the print's certification.

  He simply knew it was authentic.

  Dhevic knew a lot of things.

  The engraving was said to have been torn from a nine-hundred-year-old book entitled Das Grimoire de Praelata, said to be written by prelates-or antipriests-who were known as satanic visionaries. They'd put themselves into trances to achieve psychic contact with the hierarchs of hell and then transcribed their epistles for worshipers on Earth. The engraving itself was supposedly crafted by an artist with the same interworldly talent.