I turn one last time to the star blazing outside the church. A black slash is ripped from its top to the bottom, with the middle of the black opening growing wider. Like the widening pupil of a giant reptilian eye, the opening to another dimension manifests. Tartarus. The Abyss. And through that black gash in the glowing yellow star emerges a being unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
The being emanates a strange sheen, making it hard to see clearly from my death bed. It slithers through the air and into the church. When it passes through the doors, it erects itself with the torso of a beautifully formed, muscular, shirtless man. It has a thick-scaled tail in place of recognizable legs, that undulate behind him as he moves snakelike towards the altar.
“Come, Semjaza!” I hear from Shipley. And as the being ascends the dais steps, the eight women fall to the floor in quaking, lusty worship, all reaching desperately for the approval of this dark angel.
“Come and drink, My Lord! My God!” they all cry in unison.
Semjaza is massive and towers over me. He reaches across the altar and snatches the chalice from Shipley and in one long draw, drains the cup of my blood. When he places the empty chalice on the table, I get a good look at his face and realize that it would be the last face I ever see.
His hair is long and flowing, each strand a tiny finger’s width serpent with its own set of eyes. Thousands of them protrude from his head and glow like gold. Semjaza’s eyes burn red like a setting sun and deep within them, I sense the burning jealousy against humanity, for those God chose to mark with His own image, far inferior to the angels themselves in creation, but loved by the Creator more than the most dazzling of heavenly beings.
This is the hatred of the fallen, the Grigori. This was the envy that drove them to descend and create their own children with the daughters of men so long ago.
And Semjaza was their leader.
The serpentine angel glides around the foot of the altar, and Shipley escorts him to the fallen unconscious woman. I must have hit her pretty hard with that candlestick, as she hasn’t moved an inch and still lies motionless under a tangle of crimson cloth.
Semjaza orders the professor to pull her robe away, which he does with impish delight. And when this task is complete, she is naked as well, just like the eight inferior candidates, still groveling for the dark angel’s approval around the altar. I can see her blond hair, soaked in the blood of the wound I inflicted on the back of her scalp. The massive slithering angel picks the woman's body up from the floor and holds her across his arms. His forked tongue emerges from his mouth, and he licks at the blood in her hair as he holds her. It’s a vile and selfish pleasure, that one would assume only a demon capable of.
Shipley then bows to his lord and leads him back towards me. Semjaza follows, carrying the naked red woman in his arms, and they pass the altar and descend the steps into the crypt.
Shipley stands at the top of the steps, wringing his hands with delight as he watches the fallen angel carry his lover into the crypt, to copulate with the daughter of man.
The old ways have not died. The angels have not abandoned their lust for humanity’s daughters, nor have they learned that they will never achieve Godhood.
I’ve read of the fall of the angels in Genesis 6. Today, I was supposed to prevent it from happening again. But I’ve failed, and I have seen the unholy act once again perpetrated on God’s creation.
And it’s the last thing I see before I pass into the next life.
Chapter 26
I wake up in a hospital. The room I’m in is dark, and there’s a plastic translucent curtain half-pulled around my bed. It’s more of a gurney. The side rails have been lowered, and there’s a blanket draped over me. It’s thin like a sheet and does nothing to keep me warm. Not that I’m cold, it just seems like a cheap sheet meant to cover the horrid view of my body from eyes that have never seen death.
At least whoever brought me here had the decency to turn off the fluorescent lights in this room. I don’t care much for the cold buzz of fluorescents. And in a hospital, they could use some of that sweet insurance money they steal from their patients’ policies to create a warm and comfortable healing environment. Maybe they don’t want their customers to enjoy being here. Maybe they don’t want them to come back? No. That’s ridiculous. What am I saying? Keeping people sick but alive is what the system is all about.
But I’m not alive. They failed with me, just as I failed to keep the Beast from his conception in their world. If they knew what was coming, they’d have leveled St Patrick’s Cathedral with napalm and kept me on life support.
I was found by a homeless man who, passing by the cathedral around four in the morning, noticed the doors of the church flung wide open. When he peeked inside, hoping to find a snug corner to get out of the cold night, he instead found the aisles and pews littered with debris. The entire place was in disarray, which seemed an opportunity to scrounge for a little sustenance. With nobody yet in sight, he shuffled through the church, until he found the tabernacle door pried open, and devoured the Communion wafers for breakfast. Lucky for him, the priest had not yet said the magic Catholic incantations that turn Wheat Thins into Jesus’ actual flesh. It wasn’t until after the man filled his belly with the church’s wafers that he noticed the dark-haired boy lying dead on the altar in the center of the dais.
Fortunately, the man had the good sense to find a cop, who in turn, quickly had emergency services swarming the entrance of the cathedral. From what I understand, the church was closed for half the day. God forbid St. Patrick’s open its doors to tourists with the body of a young man, lying on its altar, blood being poured out for the public to view.
Oh wait. That’s basically a Mass, right?
But I’m not Jesus. Far from it. Maybe I should have tried a little harder to be like Him. Maybe I should have just listened to my mother and blindly followed along in her faith. But I’ve never been able to swallow someone else’s blue pill. I’ve lived my brief life chasing my own ideas, or rather, not blindly accepting anyone else’s. I wouldn’t call that faith.
Not that I have any faith; I’ve never allowed it to grow beyond my cynicism. I question whether that was wise on my part, but on this side of death, it may be too late to change course.
I rise from the bed and step onto the grimy tile floor. It’s covered with a foot-deep layer of fog and instantly, I’m aware that I’m back in the other dimension. I look at the bed I just sprang from and see the outline of my lifeless body under the sheet. I reach nervously for the edge of the sheet over my body’s head, with an interest in seeing my own face as countless others have seen it over the span of my life. As my fingers touch the fabric, a voice from the shadows behind the curtain startles me.
“I wouldn’t do that, bruh…”
Fritz!
I pass my head through the curtain as if it’s not even there and before me towers the dark-grey figure of my death angel guardian.
“Am I… dead?” is all I can think to ask.
“Yep. Shipley stuck you, bruh. Pretty deep wound. You choked to death on your own blood. The dagger punctured both sides of your left lung. How he missed your heart, I don’t know.”
“That bastard tricked me. This whole time he’s been playing me, manipulating me like a pawn in his little game.” I stew in silence for a moment, thinking about the professor’s deceit. He knew I’d show up and try to stop the ceremony. And he orchestrated his victim’s actions and feelings masterfully, putting me on the scene of the ritual at the critical moment.
Perhaps I’m a little off-base, filling my first thoughts after death with the misdeeds of others, instead of my own. It seems more apropos to be a tad more self-reflective when facing eternity, and in my case, questioning if I’m on Santa’s naughty list, or if I’ve been a good boy. I did fail after all. And the consequence for my failure will echo through eternity.
“Yeah. He’s a special kind of evil. I look forward to the day I see his mane on my blade.” Fritz’s voic
e bounces, just as I remember him in the physical realm. And though the terrifying visage of the Grim Reaper stands before me in the dark, foggy hospital room, it’s clearly my best friend’s voice that now welcomes me to whatever my next life will hold.
I glance back at the curtain shielding my dead body from view and ask Fritz, “So… what happens now?”
Fritz motions me to follow him, and we pass through the doorway into the hall. White, hazy forms drift up and down the corridors, most of them have the Seal on their necks, burning brightly as they drift from room to room. Nurses. God bless em’.
“Correct,” Fritz confirms my thoughts as he turns and leads me away from my body. It’s painful to walk away from my shell, twenty years living in the physical realm, and dang if I wasn’t good looking. I grieve a little bit for my body, who I will no longer be joined to. I wonder if I look the same as a spirit? Time will tell, I guess.
Fritz takes me to the roof of the hospital. The light shining from the city hides the splendor of the heavens, and the newly risen sun lights the tips of the skyscrapers ablaze. A hundred golden-tipped spears reach towards the sky and point to the One who stays His hand day after day, allowing humanity to build their prideful edifices. We watch the sunrise together in silence, and I get the feeling that the angel of death, whose job is to kill humans when their time has come, is breaking protocol and killing time instead. He’s stalling. Finally, the awkward quiet is broken.
“You know what my vocation entails, Henry,” he says.
Yes. I know that death angels reap souls and escort them to either heaven or hell. And by the somber tone in his voice, I’m certain this will not be good news for me, so I stall for time as well and play dumb.
“I shouldn’t assume. Who am I to understand the ways of angels, Fritz? Like Shipley told me, I don’t know what I don’t know.”
“My commission is to reap those whose time on Earth is over. Also… to help them into the next world.”
“And you’re a master at it, my friend.” I hope he feels my fondness for him… and that it may possibly give him pause.
“You’ve seen me strike people down. And you’ve seen me open the Pit. Those who don’t have the Seal go into the Pit.”
The memory of Fritz unzipping hell with his scythe is as fresh and disturbing as if it happened yesterday. I quickly try to change the course of the conversation.
“Yeah, but you know what, buddy? I never got to see you reap someone with the Seal! I’d love to see what that’s like. I’d love to see how you escort them to… heaven, I guess? Wherever it is they go, it must be amazing.”
“Yes, Henry. It is. Amazing. But that’s for those who die with the Seal; those who believe in…”
“Perseus. Yeah, I know.”
“You don’t know anything, bruh!” Fritz grunts with mournful irritation. Clearly, the angel of death is wrestling with his feelings for me as a friend. And that is causing conflict within him, making it difficult to do his job.
And I’m going to lean on that conflict with all I have right now.
“Some of us don’t have enough time to learn all the rules, Fritz. Those who die young don’t often have enough evidence of the Truth to fully understand and believe whatever the Truth is.”
“Whoever.”
“What?”
“Not whatever the Truth is, Henry. Whoever! And time is no excuse, bruh. Ever heard the phrase, child-like faith? Kids get it. They know the Truth when they hear it. I’ve reaped many of them. But adults like you think you’re too smart to accept the simple childish Truth for who He really is. You get so wrapped up in your own very flawed reasoning that you eventually abandon your natural belief.”
“But the Seal! I don’t understand, Fritz.” I turn to him and place my hand on his death-grey sleeve, “How do people with the Seal of Perseus get a pass if they believe in someone other than Perseus?” I’m getting angry. The rules of the afterlife seem convoluted. “I’ve given my life to fight for Perseus’ cause, bruh. No one believes more than I do!”
“It’s not the Seal of Perseus, Henry.” The death angel places his bony skeletal hand on my shoulder and turns the black void under his cowl towards my face. “That isn’t His name. Perseus was only a foreshadowing constructed by the Greeks. They knew that the Son of Zeus, as they called Him, would come and defeat the Serpent. But it was only a story, seeded in their minds, so that the world would one day be ready for His arrival… And ever since He came, He’s gone by a different name. His true name.”
I know who he’s talking about. I’ve always known if I’m being honest. My thoughts turn to my parents, and especially my mom’s relentless prayers over me, and her imperishable hope that one day, I’d get it, and realize who He actually is.
“I know. I know who He is, Fritz. It’s obvious now. I do believe.”
The big, dark cowl droops as my best friend sorrowfully hangs his head. “It’s too late, Henry. You must bear the Seal of Trinity before you die. That’s the rule.”
The Seal of Trinity.
Crap. My mom was right all along.
Yeshua. That was His name from the beginning. Jesus, the modern iteration. Suddenly, it dawns on me why Shipley was so set against me using that name when we first talked in his apartment. I had brushed up against his evil schemes and named the Beast’s worst nightmare.
Fritz turns from me and motions that I follow. He leads me out of the hospital into the middle of the street below. Like a criminal from the old world being led to the gallows, I walk with sullen dignity, trying to convince myself that I don’t deserve death or hell. But knowing deep inside that I’m just lying to myself like I’ve always done.
Fritz raises his scythe and strikes into the fog-covered pavement. With his head still lowered in shame and sadness, he pulls back, ripping open a black gash. He’s unzipped hell again… for me this time. The Pit.
I feel sucking at my feet, a reverse wind tugging at my legs, drawing me closer to the rent in the dimensional ground. I can hear the screams and moans from the countless spirits trapped deep in the menacing void. I can smell dead things, that aren’t quite dead yet. I can feel the anguish of lost hope and the despair of eternal emptiness, cut off from God’s countenance. My mind turns to my mom, and I’m instantly grateful for all her prayers, and angry with myself for not giving her a more open ear. As I’m pulled closer to the gate of hell, I think of Shipley, and my mind bursts with hateful intentions for him, should we one day meet again in the Abyss. One last thought gives me hope, and only a few feet from the hellhole, I blurt out, “Wait! I’m not done with my fight! I still have a plan to stop the Beast!”
Fritz lifts his hood slightly at this, and the sucking force ceases, my toes dangling over the edge of everlasting torment.
“The Harpe, Fritz! Give me the Harpe, And I’ll reap the Beast. Remember? You suggested it, after all. We were playing chess in my apartment. You said I could reap the child. I turned you down, but I thought it would never come to that. Please. Please, Fritz! Let me reap the child!”
The following seconds are excruciating. The foul stench of hell wafting up from the hole, and the screams of the damned ringing in my ears, I close my eyes and pray.
That’s right. I pray now. And I pray to Yeshua specifically, begging for just one last chance to clean up my own mess, and stop the Beast… for Him.
When I open my eyes again, Fritz stands before me, holding out the Harpe towards me. The hellhole has vanished, though the screams and moans still echo in my mind.
“I could get fired for this,” Fritz grunts.
Chapter 27
The city crawls with Algolim. It always has. And every three days, another falls from the heavens, from Beta Persei. But now, at the arrival of Semjaza, the demons no longer cower in shadows along the sides of the streets. They no longer lurk in dark subway tunnels, nor hide in maintenance closets. Now is the time of their great awakening, a revival of sorts, and the advent of the Beast has emboldened them to increase their att
acks on the empty spirits that live their lives in rejection of Yeshua’s Seal.
It’s been two weeks since the failure at St Patrick’s Cathedral, and the first full moon of my new life will soon rise. Fritz suggests I keep track of the moon cycle. Only nine more until the birth of the Beast.
Our Plan A is to find the Red Woman before she delivers that baby. Fritz will have to do the reaping, of course. She’s human. And it’s been made clear to me that I’m not to reap any human souls. Only the Algolim, the Annunaki, and hopefully Semjaza, if I’m able.
That is, of course, unless we fail to find the Red Woman in time, in which case reaping her will be pointless.
I’ll have to reap the child. That’s our plan B.
The Demon Star has winked five times since I was killed if you count tonight. That’s an additional five Algolim infesting the city. But it’s an irrelevant increase. I’ve slaughtered that number each day since me and Good Ole Fritz set out on this last-ditch quest.
You’d think it would get old after a while. I’ve killed dozens of the little gargoyle demons in the past day or two. But every time I hear their shriek, I get a warm, mischievous satisfaction. There’s something so gratifying about inflicting death on a deserving foe. But they have increased in number, in boldness, and in cunning, oddly enough.
I could have killed more by now. But some of them, not so recently fallen from the Demon Star, have learned to move about the city, hide in the best spots, and cling to the unreachable heights when I approach. Some of them have learned that their wings are an advantage, flapping up and out of the Harpe’s range.
Henry Halfmoon Page 16