The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller

by Richard Long

  “I’m your…” I started, but Rose cut me off.

  “I knew you were lying! I fucking knew it!” she yelled at me, then turning to Martin, “He told me he came here with you. But he’s with Paul. They’re partners!”

  “Oh we’re much more than that,” Paul chuckled, gleefully entering the increasingly volatile discussion. “We’re cut from the same cloth, me and Billy. Just like you, dear boy.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Martin asked, aiming his gun at me.

  I looked at Paul, hoping he would tell him. He gave me the nod instead. But now that I was finally free to spill the beans, I was extremely hesitant, especially with him pointing that gun at me. “Paul is my father. Our father,” I said, bracing myself for his reaction.

  Martin said nothing, did nothing, except look from me to Paul blankly.

  “Go on. Tell him the rest. Tell him about your dear sweet mum,” Paul goaded me.

  I took a deep breath. “I’m Norine’s son. Paul raped her the day he took you away, when she went in the house with him. She asked me to find you. To help you.”

  “Norine? Where is she?”

  I cursed Paul and said, “She’s dead,” coughing to hide an unexpected swell of emotion. “She died of cancer in Port Richey, Florida on September 23, 19…”

  “No need to get technical,” Paul cut in. “A simple ‘She’s dead’ will do. But you’re leaving out the best part Billy, the very best part!”

  “What’s he talking about?” Martin asked, his pistol aimed at my heart.

  “Tell him!” Paul yelled at me with a whoop. “Tell him!”

  I just stared at him. I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t do that to Martin.

  Paul could. “She was your mommy too, lad.”

  “That’s not possible,” Martin croaked, looking from Paul to me, and back again. Before he even saw my nod and Paul’s sadistic smile, his own heart told him it was true.

  Martin became completely still. He swallowed a fist-sized lump in his throat. A wave of old memories surged while he mouthed her name. Norine. He had left her alone with Paul. Yes, he was just a kid. But he didn’t protect her. And he never saw her again. It was all his fault.

  “You fucking fuck!” Martin screamed, pointing his gun at Paul’s forehead.

  “Do it!” Paul cried, leaning on the chair. “Do it and I’ll take your other bitch with me!”

  Martin looked at Paul’s hand—just one push and…

  He had to think. The remote! He reached his free hand into his pocket and pulled it out. “Back away from her,” he said, pointing it at Paul like another loaded weapon.

  “Oh goody!” Paul laughed, not moving a muscle. “Mission accomplished! I guess all you need to do now is figure out which numbers to press and disarm my little invention.”

  Martin looked at the face of the small rectangular device for the first time. There were ten buttons on it, numbered one through zero…and a big red button on the top. It was easy to guess what the red one was for, but even if the release code was only three digits long, the number of possible combinations was…fuck…a thousand!

  “What’s the matter, Martin? Cat got your calculator? Oh, I suppose I should warn you that punching in the wrong combination automatically springs the trap.”

  “What’s the code?” Martin demanded. “You’re not faster than a bullet.”

  “You’re welcome to test that theory. But what if I were to keel over on this little tart in me grisly death throes? I reckon that would spill the apple cart too, eh?”

  Martin looked helplessly at the remote and then at Rose.

  “Well, now that you’ve decided not to place a wager on the fast-bullet-versus-big-man-falling-over contest, I’m quite sure I don’t care for you pointing that gun at me any more. Drop the weapon, or I’ll give her a push right now and see how well this thing works.”

  Martin stared at Paul down his pistol sight.

  “Bullets have a tendency to miss me, as you well know. Last chance. Drop it now or brace yourself for the grand finale.”

  He dropped it. “Fuck,” muttered Martin and Rose at the same time.

  “Wise choice,” Paul said, coming from behind her, picking up the pistol, placing it on the table beside the Beretta, relaxing in the chair next to it.

  “I know I haven’t been as honest with you as you might have liked Martin, but I’m not alone in my heartless betrayals. Your brother here is a charming storyteller, but I do believe he left out another unwelcome surprise. He’s known your little slut here for quite some time. Did she ever tell you about their late, late nights together?”

  Martin looked from Rose to me and saw the look of shock and shame on our faces. We were tripping over each other’s words, trying to explain when Paul out-shouted us.

  “And that’s not all…he’s in love with her, Martin! In love!”

  I didn’t know a single eye was capable of conveying that much hatred. Or sadness.

  “He’s lying,” I lied. “I don’t love her. We’re not even friends anymore!”

  “No, they’re certainly not friends. Alas, she dumped the poor lad. Broke his little heart. Yet still he loves her. You can see it in his face—that tormented grimace worn only by those who have loved and lost. That’s why he’s here. He can’t bear to see her in the arms of another man, especially his handsome, muscular brother with that big pile-driver between his legs. Jealousy seethes like a pestilence inside him. He wants her to die, so you can’t have her!”

  “He’s lying! You know how he lies…all he ever does is lie!”

  Martin did know. It was the only thing that kept him from shooting me.

  “Oh sure, I’ve been known to tell a fib or two. But I can tell from this poor girl’s expression that you’ve been spinning some fancy yarns of your own, eh Billy?”

  Rose nodded to Martin. Then she gave me that look again. Bitch!

  “Tell them the truth!” I shouted to Paul. “

  “The truth? Well if you insist, I’ll tell the whole sordid tale, but it may take a minute or two and I’m not fond of being interrupted once I have a full head of steam.”

  Bang! Paul shot me in the chest. The impact was thunderous. My shirt was soaked red. Was it blood? My body began to stiffen. Fuck. This is it. But I didn’t die. I just became more stiff and numb until I was frozen like a slab of meat in a butcher’s freezer.

  “Ah, that’s better…” Paul sighed, keeping his pistol trained on Martin as he kicked my shoulder, positioning my body so I had a perfect view of them out of my unblinking eyes.

  “Billy’s a bit of a Chatty Cathy,” Paul said to Martin with a wink. “It’s hard to get a word in edgewise. Isn’t that right, lassie? I’ll bet he’s been chewing your ear off.”

  Rose was trembling with abject terror. Martin seemed completely unfazed, his single eye tracing Paul’s every move like a sniper scope as Paul settled into the chair across from Rose.

  “I know you’re not much of a talker, Martin, so I’d appreciate it if you stay in character until I’ve had my say. I’m sure you’re not anxious for another Rip Van Winkle session. And Rosy, you won’t be needing this gag shoved down your throat again, will you?”

  She shook her head, cringing at the sight of the dildo gag on the table.

  “Good, good. Now Martin, I’ll need your word of honor as a warrior and a gentleman that you won’t snap Billy’s neck while he’s dozing. You might not enjoy my account of his nefarious deeds, but it wouldn’t be a proper sibling duel with him handicapped like this, eh?”

  “I won’t kill him,” Martin said tersely, thinking of Norine to keep his bile down.

  “Well then,” he began, giving my corpse-like face a little wave as he spoke to Martin. “Rosy and Billy met when she etched his morbid and quite disturbing tattoos. Billy got all hot for her, and read her tealeaves in his dingy abode. He had one glass of wine too many, and made the fatal mistake of showing her the body parts he likes to collect. I think these serial killer types call them t
rophies. Not that he’s a serial killer. Too big a wuss. At any rate, she didn’t call the police so I assume she came to the same conclusion, or else she’s extremely derelict in her civic responsibilities.

  Billy came to me after she left him in the lurch, seeking dear ole Da’s burly shoulder to cry on. ‘What’s her name?’ I ask, me dander rising. ‘Rose Turner,’ he says. Johnny’s girl? Oh my. Well, that put another light on the matter entirely. When I told Billy how her clan betrayed us, he was livid. She had to die. In the worst way possible. Thinkin’ I might have some experience in the area, he asked me what was the slowest, cruelest, most gruesome, horrible method of execution I could contemplate. Something really…evil.”

  “Please stop…” Rose blurted out.

  “Tsk-tsk…it seems that no one in your family can keep their promises…or their mouths shut. Martin, would you be so kind as to gag her for me?”

  “Not a chance,” Martin said, his knuckles white.

  Blam! Paul blasted him too. “Looks like I’ll have to do all the work around here,” he groaned. He picked up Martin’s body and then mine, plopping us down in two chairs across from him and Rose, arranging our stiff limbs neatly like we were stuffed animals. We watched mutely as he shoved the penis gag back in Rose’s sobbing mouth, set the gel cap gun on the table with the other two, and sat down again facing us.

  “Now where was I? Oh yes, cruel, horrible deaths. Crucifixion is a good candidate. Slow…agonizing…plenty of time to think about your approaching doom while your body cries out in anguish. And for any loved ones unlucky enough to be watching nearby, the pain and suffering is absolutely excruciating. Not only do you experience the gut-wrenching loss when the sad end finally comes, but the anticipation of death is even more unbearable, especially if your hands are tied, and there’s nothing in the world you can do to prevent it. Do you boys understand the essence of what I’m saying?”

  Silent, frozen, unblinking stares. Waxy, flat expressions.

  “Hhmmph! Well, I suppose you do. But wait! It gets even worse. After she draws her last ragged breath and you’re left completely and utterly alone in your grief—suddenly you’re assaulted with an even more painful torrent of guilt. Oh the shame of it all! She was right there in front of me, terrified and totally helpless and I did nothing! I just sat there like a gutless, nutless puppet and watched her die! How can I ever sleep again without seeing her terrified face begging for help in my nightmares? How can I get through day after day after day, replaying that terrible scene over and over and over in my head like an endless tape loop until I finally find sweet release in death? It must be intolerable…don’t you think?”

  He savored our mute attentiveness for a few moments before proceeding.

  “Crucifixion. Billy liked the idea. It seemed fitting, ironic even, turning the tables on Sophia’s spawn—those cursed O’Neils. Now we’ll finally have our revenge for what they did to poor Ceallach when he came back from the Maelstrom at his sniveling slut’s insistence. She came back whole, of course. Traitors never suffer at their own hands. But the merging had already begun…and Ceallach…he came back so crippled. Monstrous. An angel of flesh and blood is not a sight a father can bear with any grace.

  The Master was already manacled when Ceallach returned. They had been waiting: her father Lonán; Eoghan of Hy-Many and his vile son, Tormac, the cruel, heartless lad her cuckold da sold her off to. And to make matters worse, there was an interloper—Bishop Patrick—determined to exact his own vengeance against the sons of Apollonius, served four centuries cold.

  The Master struggled against his chains while his beloved son writhed in agony, the lad’s grotesque, almost reptilian wings flopping limply on the altar. But he was helpless to protect the boy, his power drained dry by the strain of staying in the Maelstrom so long, watching what should have been Ceallach’s ascension into glory.

  “‘What is this demon? This abomination?’ Patrick cried, fueling their rage. His prodding was all it took to complete the travesty.

  “Tormac hoisted up Ceallach’s twisted body and nailed him to the bare cross in that cursed chapel, pounding in spike after spike. There were so many. The Master felt each one as if it pierced his own flesh. It took so long for Ceallach to die. Even with all that blood pouring out. The Master tried to rescue the boy’s soul, to draw his luminous essence back into his own heart, but they were both too weak. When the final nail was pounded in, when his poor heart finally stopped beating, The Master swore his everlasting vengeance against those cursed cunts.”

  Paul stood in front of Rose, slowly lowered his face, and shouted so loudly I thought the windows would break:

  “YOU KILLED MY BEAUTIFUL ANGEL!”

  Then, as if he’d never raised his pulse, he smiled and began circling the room again.

  “Alas and alack, such a sad, sad tale. But it put me back on track with Billy’s request. Crucifixion? Not on her life! She doesn’t deserve the honor of dying like noble Ceallach. Impaling! That’s an excellent alternative. Efficient and dependable, with centuries of tradition behind it. When the Persian emperor Darius the Great conquered Babylon, he impaled three thousand citizens. The Romans enjoyed impaling almost as much as crucifixion. They’d often showcase their stylish merits side by side, one victim hung on a cross, another one writhing six feet off the ground with a wooden stake up his arse. Quite a sight, I can tell you. Kept the crime rate looowww. I’m sure you wouldn’t think it such a slow death like crucifixion, but you’d be surprised. A properly orchestrated impalement can keep the condemned alive even longer! Executioners are a very inventive breed and take great pride in their work. They would gain enormous satisfaction in staging the most lengthy and agonizing methods of impalement, almost like it was a contest. For example, to reaaaaalllllly drag things out, they would use a blunted stake, so when it was rammed up your arse—or your cunt with whores like yourself, Rosy—the stake would push many of the vital organs out of the way as it was thrust inside. And then, once you were fully impaled, the stake would act like a plug, you see, to keep your blood from draining out too quickly. Voila! There you are, stuck on a pole for days. But as much as William and I would savor that spectacle more than front row seats at the Coliseum, we’ll have to make due with watching you squirm in agony for a few hours instead of a few days. But that’s still a good chunk of time for us to enjoy the spectacle, before you bleed out.”

  Rose had been making horrible gurgling noises throughout Paul’s gruesome description, her eyes streaming tears, her nose running, her throat swallowing frantically. When Paul stopped talking and leaned down in front of her again, she closed her eyes and turned her head, as if an ostrich-like evasion could protect her from what was coming next.

  “Oh, dear. I haven’t upset you with all this talk, have I? Look at your face, sweetie, you’re a feckin’ mess!” Then he raised his hands to the ceiling and cried out, “Hey, Johnny! Are you nice and cozy in that padded cell? Got plenty of crackerjacks and goobers? What about you, Martin? And Billy?” he asked, moving in front of us. He rapped on the top of my skull with his knuckles. “Knock, knock! Anybody home?” Then bending down next to Martin’s ear he yodeled, “Hellllooo! Can Martin come out to play?”

  “My word, these lads are thick. Hey Rosy, have you ever felt like you might as well be talking to yourself with these two? I sure hope all is well in their noggins. They have such great seats for the show. It’d be a cryin’ shame if they missed a single second, especially Billy, since he put so much care and planning into this. Let me tell you, Rose, I’ve never seen the boy so excited! When I described the whole impalement procedure, I could see those gears turning right away. ‘We can make a deathtrap!’ he shouts. ‘Even put a timer on it so the exact moment of her death will coincide with the crucifixion! Both crucifixions!’

  “See how revenge becomes a dreadful cycle you can never escape from? Christ gets himself killed, Patty nails Ceallach, and now we have Sophia’s last living female descendent ready to bite the dust on Good Ole
Good Friday! Ahhh, tradition! Oh, but my, look at the time. And me, running off at the mouth again. You’d think I was in the fourth quarter of the Super Bowl, ahead by a field goal, trying to eat up the clock ‘til the two-minute warning. Here, let me get that cock out of your mouth, so you can give me both barrels before the boys wake up and start barkin’.” Paul removed her gag. “Go ahead, sweetie, let me have it…take your best shot, one last blast of hate, some cream for my coffee.”

  She stared at him. Said nothing. Paul seemed incredulous. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna get all lovey-dovey like your mum before she died? You’re not going to forgive me?”

  She remained silent. Martin was still a block of ice. But sensation was beginning to return to my hands and feet when Rose finally said, “You are so pathetic.”

  Paul’s face went completely blank. His skin flushed red as a furnace. I knew he was about to blow, but he began howling with laughter. It was terrifying, but it gave me the chance I was hoping for. Somehow, miraculously, I sprang out of my chair and grabbed a gun off the table. Paul wheeled around so quickly he was a blur.

  “Oh, it’s only you. First one down, first one up. I was actually worried there for a second. I thought it might be someone who knows how to use that thing.”

  I pointed the gun at his face, unsure of what type of ammunition it held. I didn’t much care at that point. “Tell her you were lying about me,” I said, surprised at how threatening my voice sounded. “Tell her all this shit was your idea and you were blackmailing me.”

  “Why should I tell her? You just did,” he said, strolling behind Rose’s chair again, gripping it. “I don’t think either of us have a great deal of credibility with her right now.”

  Rose was about to speak when suddenly Martin sprang up and grabbed the twin pistol. The Beretta still sat there, all alone, far from Paul’s reach, but he still held the best weapon.

  “Let her go!” Martin demanded. Paul said nothing. Did nothing. Complete silence.

  But then, from out of nowhere, came Rose’s voice, “I am so sick of this shit!” she yelled, shocking everyone. “Would one of you fuckers just shoot him?”