Henry Halfmoon

by Huck Warwicks

“I don’t know. But if I fail this time, and if Shipley is right about the ritual, then the end could be in the cards. I don’t know.”

  “What kind of ritual are we talking about here, bruh? That sounds creepy as hell!”

  “Well… the Nine, the Annunaki… after they’ve possessed nine women, they’ll gather and conduct some ancient rite. I’m sure it involves a sacrifice of some kind. The result is to summon some being who is supposed to impregnate one of the women.”

  Fritz just stares in horrified silence. Disapproval riddling his face. I wonder if I’ve gone too far off the rails for him and he’s slowly backing away from the commitment. But I continue to explain, pushing the boundaries of his tacit approval.

  “…and the baby that’s conceived is supposed to be… special, I’m guessing.”

  “Special? How?” His words are curt, and his previous tone of astonishment now rings with cynicism.

  “I’m not sure I believe any of this, Fritz. This is just what the books say. So, I didn’t come up with all this stuff. I’m just trying to figure things out.”

  “How is the baby special, bruh?” Fritz has an icy demanding timbre.

  “Well, it’s a… I don’t know how to…”

  “Just spit it out, Henry! It’s a what?!”

  “A beast.”

  “Beast? What kind of beast?”

  “The Beast.”

  Chapter 17

  Well, I’m completely on my own now. My best friend has bailed on me. When I told him what I was getting into, he drew the line. Fritz went farther down the rabbit hole with me than one could reasonably expect. As matter of fact, I asked too much of him. He believed everything I said. He never questioned my sanity, but he did worry about me. He has stuck by me through the paranormal, and was ready to cross over with me. But when I said, The Beast, he was done; done with the quest, done with crossing over, done with Shipley.

  And done with me, too.

  I should have known. He’s an Evangelical Christian. Their views of Antichrists, 666, the Beast… it’s beyond superstition. Nothing chills the modern Evangelical more than bringing up the Second Coming, and all the devils that come with it.

  They don’t want to talk about it. Their pastors don’t want to preach about it.

  It’s not a tolerant topic. People vanish, die of diseases and wars; unbelievers are cast into lakes of fire, angels battle dragons in the sky, stars fall from heaven and strike the earth, killing millions. And why? Because ‘unbelievers’ want to choose for themselves who they’ll worship, and what Holy book is the right one. That’s too much for the Evangelical God to handle. So he’s going to wipe the slate clean when the end comes, kill em all, save only the Evangelicals of course, and start all over.

  It’s not a tolerant message. It’s not a relevant message. And Evangelicals want to avoid the topic altogether.

  They like the world as it is and want to be accepted in it.

  I honestly didn’t think that Fritz would bail on our friendship over a topic of religion. He’s obviously a true believer. He had no fear of being ostracized by me. Quite the opposite. I was afraid, and rightly so apparently, that I would push him away.

  And I did. I asked him to participate in something so dreadfully validating of his faith’s darkest teachings. He just couldn’t go along with me. I think that failing our mission would have saddled him with the guilt of bringing the Beast into the world.

  I get it. No hard feelings either.

  But now I’m standing just outside one of the Seals that we drew together. It’s the one we drew in Times Square, between the railing of the steps and the wall of a corner skyscraper. It’s a cozy little nook. Why there wasn’t a crazy homeless addict sleeping here already, I’ll never know.

  The moon is full. I feel the aching nausea, the low humming, and the crawling of my skin. It’s time to cross over.

  And I’m alone.

  Good old Fritz.

  With a quick look around, I find no one staring. No one is paying the slightest bit of attention to me. And why would they? What could a dark-haired millennial be doing, hiding in some filthy corner, that could possibly warrant interest in the sea of thousands of mindless light-ogling tourists? Not a dang thing.

  I take one deep breath to steady my nerves and step into the Seal of Perseus.

  I honestly have no idea where the Annunaki will be, or what its name will be this time. I worry that I’ll miss my opportunity. What are the chances that I’ll stumble into a demon lord in the middle of Time Square on a Wednesday night?

  I was going to start at Grand Central, but without Fritz coming along, there’s no plan to stick with. Better to not waste time covering old ground.

  The heavy fog covers the ground completely. Thousands upon thousands of white, hazy forms drift by, all hollow eyed. Immediately, I’m aware of the Algolim, most of which line the sides of the streets, hungrily staring at the white forms lumbering by them. The demons lick their thin, cracked lips and cackle as if a feast is being presented. Occasionally, a gargoyle demon will pounce from the shadows and clutch a white spirit from behind, sending its comrades into a wild, whooping cheer. Out in the middle of the street, more demons ride piggyback on human souls, tearing at their necks and shoulders with sadistic pleasure.

  I plunge into the middle of the street and hide behind a white ghostly figure. Then, I slip behind another, trying to keep myself from the view of the feasting devils as best I can. But it’s ridiculous to think I can hide from demons in their own realm.

  They see me. Their large, bulging eyes watch my every step. My skin crawls with sick fear as one tumbles into the street and hops sideways, chimp-like in my direction. Not good.

  With lightning speed, the demon leaps onto me, knocking me over. Its cackling has turned to growls and hisses. It claws at my face and tries to pull me close. The pale yellow of its eyes fill my vision, and the snapping of its short, pointed fangs, send a quaking fear through my body.

  Geez! It’s strong! Too strong for me to resist for much longer. And the ruckus of our wrestling match sends the other demons into a wild frenzy. I hear them getting closer, surrounding us in a closing circle. As the gargoyle continues to pull my face towards its mouth, I can see them in my periphery. Grey, hairless skin, clawed, sinewy arms, and pointed ears that sweep back over their decrepit scalps. All have glowing round eyes and slotted pupils, full of ravenous delight.

  “Help!” The scream is deep and wild, making my throat instantly raw. I notice that a white, hazy figure stops briefly and turns in my direction. As it drifts towards me, I call out again, “Help! Please!” My voice is already thin and hoarse from my panicked first attempt. The demons part and give the figure a cautious distance. Finally, the spirit stops as its vapor form passes over my fallen body.

  My attacker screeches and leaps off me. I hear the faint sounds of sizzling, like a steak on the grill, as the demon tears away from me and back to its perch in the shadows.

  Finally, the figure, whoever it may be, turns back and continues its original course. And as it walks away, I roll over onto my side and look up at it. The Seal of Perseus is emblazoned on the back to the spirit’s neck. It’s one of the ‘blues.’

  Gratitude floods my heart, and my body is reenergized. All at once, I remember why I’ve come. My mission.

  I scramble to my feet and with all the strength I can summon, I throw my head back and bellow.

  “Harpe!”

  Pain shoots up and down my raspy throat. I’ve no more voice. It’s shot. I try to call out again, and my suspicion is instantly validated.

  Something should happen soon. Unless the professor is full of crap, or mistaken. I turn in a slow circle, peering across the fog to both sides of the street. White, hazy spirits obscure most of the side street shadows. But I can hear them. Laughing, hissing. They’re waiting for the right moment, no doubt. And if something doesn’t happen soon, they’ll converge on me once again. I continue scanning, this time among the spirits. Sure enough,
one of the ‘blues’ is approaching, eyes blazing like electrified sapphires. That’s my guy. For now, at least.

  I sidle up to the ‘blue’ and stay close, regardless of where it will lead. The gargoyles, moaning and hissing like frightened cats, skip away from us as we move down the street, away from the glowing blue Seal that brought me here just moments before.

  Within a few minutes, we’re on the other side of Times Square, descending the steps into the subway. The ‘blue’ keeps the demons away, but the problem of being stranded in the demon’s realm and separated from my exit, let’s just say, greatly augments when it stops at the platform for the N-line.

  Crap. Wrong train.

  No other blues are in sight, and I’ll never make it without protection. I’m forced to stick with this one for now. But I don’t have limitless time. While the world certainly spins slower in this dimension, the moon will eventually wane. And if I can’t get to one of the Seals I’ve placed all over Midtown, I’ll be stuck here for a month.

  The predicament is quite unsettling. And as I think about it more, I realize that contingencies are worth formulating, on the front end.

  The N-line rolls in, a hazy version of its corporeal self, displacing the thick fog blanketing the tracks. The doors slide open, and a stream of white spirits spill out, colliding with those pushing and shoving their way onboard… including my ‘blue.’ The doors will slide shut again in a moment, and I frantically scan the spirits for any sight of another ‘blue’ that may be off-loading for Times Square.

  But there’s none.

  I have no choice. I must follow. As I step onto the train, a shadow passes over me. An enormous black shape stands in the doorway, blocking my way onto the train. I take a startled step back and look up at the black void filling the cowl of a cloaked figure. He’s at least eight feet tall, and covered in a dark grey garment. I’m completely overpowered by the chill rippling through the muscles in my legs and back. The air all around me is icy cold, and my breath becomes visible when I cry out in surprise. No sound comes from my mouth though. Only the weak, thin vapor of my breath. Trembling, I inhale as I back away from the Spectre. There’s a smell about him… something unusual to me but distinct. The faint hint of decay and putrefaction. The whiff of death.

  Black skeletal hands barely protrude from the grey, drooping sleeves, and the coal-colored finger bones are wrapped around the wooden shaft of a sickle. The blade is at least three feet long and is a solid slab of shining black metal, polished to a sickening shine, like obsidian.

  He moves off the train and onto the platform in my direction, looking like every depiction of the Grim Reaper I’ve ever seen, almost a caricature. The Algolim hiding in the shadows of the beams above and down the train tunnels, scream in fear. Even the rats milling about the tracks below shriek wildly and scamper into their holes.

  Oh. Okay then.

  I can’t take my eyes off the heavy black absence under the hood. It’s a palpable burning void, alive with the single desire to devour the quarry it's come to reap. The Spectre slides across the fog, floating like Charon’s boat, carrying souls to Hades. He covers the distance between us in less than a second, and without realizing it, I’ve backed myself up against the wall with nowhere to run. Bending over, he leans in, bringing the hood of his cloak close to my face and slowly raises the black sickle’s blade between our heads.

  This must be it, then. Fine. Do it and get it over with, you overgrown cloaked fart. Swing away.

  But he doesn’t swing. My eyes are drawn towards the blade, though. A self-animated spark of brilliant blue light traces lines across the sharpened edge of his blade, leaving glowing grooves in the strange metal. It scrawls out a name, in a jagged cursive. Antonio DeMarco.

  I’m puzzled. I don’t know that name. I never met an Antonio in my life, that I can remember. Also, I’m relieved. My name is obviously not scrawled onto the blade of a death angel. The Spectre now content that I’ve read the name, raises his arm and points a long, black, bony finger towards the steps ascending to the street. I nod and obediently follow the hulking grey figure. Moments later, we’re standing in the middle of the street, white, hazy figures slowly drifting around us in every direction. The Spectre stands still as cold marble, undetected by the white spirits rolling by. Suddenly, he takes his sickle in both hands, raising it above his head, lumberjack style, and drives the black blade straight down into the fog. He turns towards me, and with one bony hand on the sickle’s shaft, motions me to come closer with the other.

  Which I do, because he’s the Angel of Death, and following his instructions is probably the only thing keeping me alive right now.

  When I’m close enough for his approval, he pulls the sickle across the ground, drawing it towards him. The movement ploughs a rift in the fog and the ground. A black gash is rent open, six feet long. Darkness emanates from the trench and like a fissure of sound being ripped open, I hear groans and pain-induced screams rising into the air from the opening.

  Oh, splendid. He’s unzipped hell.

  With the gaping door finally opened, he turns quickly in a semicircle and slashes down diagonally into a passing white spirit. Before the blow falls, I notice that the spirit, whom I’m guessing is Antonio, is hollow-eyed, like all the rest. Not a ‘blue.’ The blade slides through the hazy white spirit, smoothly dispersing it into airy halves that collapse into the fog below. I hear a terrifying distant moan echoing off the sides of the buildings and watch as the remains of Antonio’s spirit are sucked into the black gash in the street. Spirits gather around the place Antonio was struck down, no doubt busying themselves calling emergency services and administering CPR in the other dimension. The Spectre moves away from the gathering and towards me again. Behind him, the gaping black hell hole Seals itself, satisfied with its offering. The sounds of eternal anguish are cut short, leaving only the echo of their misery in my brain.

  I thought I was in hell already. I guess things can always get worse.

  The grim Spectre floats up to me again. And with a slow deliberate motion, raises his sickle with both hands. The shaft is held horizontally, both bony hands clasping each end, palms down. He extends it towards me, reaching out his arms. But I dare not accept. I only watch, confused and terrified of who may be next for the ‘reaping.’ Suddenly, he thrusts the shaft down and over his cloaked knee, snapping the shaft of the sickle in even halves. The sky above flickers with lightning, and thunder cracks around me. The peeling of the thunder continues to roll on and on, like a ripple in a pond. His right hand holds the bladed end and lowers it to his side, while extending the other end towards me with his left, gesturing that I should take it. The fog rolls between us for what seems like an eternity.

  Why the hell would I take a token of death from the reaper? What am I going to do with it?

  “Thanks, but why don’t you hold onto your stick. I’m good.”

  The Spectre briefly pulls its head back in surprise and tilts it sideways, confused.

  “Yeah. Hard pass.” I double down on my answer.

  “You summoned meeee…” The Spectre’s voice is like an angry whisper.

  “Did I?” My mind recounts the events leading up to our meeting in the subway. I thought I only summoned the Harpe, and I don’t even know if I did that the right way. That must be what he’s talking about.

  “Oh. Sorry. I guess I did.” I reach for the broken end of the sickle’s shaft, still extended. “I just thought it would be a sword.”

  “We don’t always get what we ask forrrrrr.” The Spectre whips back at me. “Take it.”

  I gently grab the offering, another crack of thunder sarcastically applauding my compliance. Instantly, the shaft lengthens in my hand to match my own height. At the tip, a black blade appears, just as shiny and jagged as the reapers.

  Nifty.

  “How do I do the blue name thingy?” I ask with more snark than is warranted. I can’t help it. The fear of the death angel has flittered away, and I’m armed now, armed w
ith death itself.

  “The Harpe will choose. You must reap.”

  I bring my shiny new blade close to my face and whisper to the blade. “Harpe, who gets to have a bad day, today?” I pull the blade back and watch as a bright blue spark traces out the name of my prey, my first kill.

  Algolim.

  “Hell yeah.” I turn to the shadows, my eyes betraying my ravenous thirst for vengeance. The gargoyles are there, cackling and hissing at the white, hazy victims passing by. They’ve been keeping their distance from the reaper, and thus I’ve been unmolested, keeping close to him.

  But now the little birdie is leaving the nest. Here comes little birdie. I hope you put your big boy demon panties on today. Cuz I’m going to unleash a new kind of hell.

  The demons bark and laugh in surprise when they see me approach. A delightful chorus of demonic voices, like a crowd of jeering thugs welcoming the next innocent into their midst for abuse. One demon leaps forward. Eyes bulging and glowing, tongue licking jagged teeth and cracked lips in a hungry expression. He has wings, and fog blows up from either side as he jumps into the air and hovers, head level. He wrings his hands as he laughs at my scrawny approaching form.

  Head level. Hmmm. Convenient. I swing the sickle in a long, diagonal arch, sweeping the blade up like an epic golf swing. The black blade slices so smoothly through the left wing of the demon that I feel no resistance. It tumbles to the ground in a panicked shriek. The loud jeering from its horde of comrades turns to silence. Rather abruptly, too. The demon scrambles to its feet, dazed but furious as it inspects its surprise wound. It turns to me and hisses the most hateful sound I’ve ever heard. Like a spoiled demonic toddler. But the scream is cut short by my blade, that snips its head clean off in a single stroke. I played a little baseball as a kid. I was horrible. Struck out almost every time I stepped up to the plate, hit a couple of singles and several fly balls. But this was like hitting the game-winning grand slam every boy fantasizes about. The gratification is… well, profoundly empowering.