by Aaron French
“Cooool!” Archer cooed. “Let’s investigate.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t, I mean what if there are people in there?”
“Look at it, Dean. It’s practically a ruin.”
“You said we were heading for home, Arch. It’s late and our parents are going to wonder where we are. Maybe they’ve called the police.”
Dean traced the peaks and massive concrete crucifixes that poked from the roof of the building in staggered intervals. It exuded an air of evil, despite its religious connotations.
“Don’t be a wuss! Look, we’ll go in and investigate, and then we’ll head for home, ok? I promise. C’mon, what are you scared of, wild dogs?”
He frowned as Archer turned on his heel and made a beeline for the large, arched entrance of the chapel. When Archer was a few feet away, he muttered under his breath, “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” Then he followed, tentatively.
Damp rot had penetrated the wooden double doors and it took little more than a sturdy kick from Archer before they slowly yawned open, squeaking on oversized rusted hinges. Ahead lay a darkened corridor, dimly lit by wall-mounted candles evenly spaced along either side. At the end of the hall, another set of large double doors sat slightly ajar. A dim, ethereal glow emanated between them.
“It doesn’t look abandoned to me, Arch,” Dean groaned, motioning towards the flickering candles. His voice echoed along the sparse corridor. He flinched, wondering if the occupants who had lit the candles had heard him.
Archer ploughed on down the long vestibule, sauntering as though he owned the place, occasionally yanking on cupboards and room doors, but they were all locked. Dean followed at a safe distance, securing for himself a much needed head start.
In moments, they had reached the main double doors of the monastery. Archer shoved them open with little regard for whomever or whatever lay beyond.
“Archer, I don’t think we should be in here,” Dean whispered.
“Monasteries are open all the time, dumbo. You can go in whenever you like.”
“Shhh! Did you hear that?”
“Shadup, Dean!”
“No, really, listen.”
Archer stopped for a moment and listened. A large crumbling hole in the ceiling let in a pale, cold glow from the moon, silhouetting several large crucifixes set off kilter at the foot of the room.
“I don’t hear—” Archer began, and was immediately cut off by a dim, flaring light, which relayed around the surrounding area in seconds.
Dean scanned the room. A multitude of candles along the circumference of the circular room had inexplicably lit, casting a shadowy, orange glow. Rows of empty pews lined either side, and bizarre symbols adorned the walls.
Terrified, Dean and Archer made a dash for the doors, as they swung shut with a doom laden boom, sealing them in. Dean slapped the door with the palms of his hands, feebly shouting for help.
“Calm down, Deano,” Archer spoke, his voice tremulous.
A sound emanated from directly behind the boys; both turned in unison, facing the direction whence it came, in time to catch a glimpse of a small, scuttling form draped in dark cloth disappear behind the pulpit.
“What the hell was that, Arch?” Dean whined. He was close to tears.
The candles in the room flared, became brighter, burning with incandescent fury, illuminating a myriad of crucifixes fixed to the wall. Dean wailed and quickly slammed his shoulder against the doors, trying to break them open. But even pitted against his bulky form, they remained immovable.
The source of his sudden terror became apparent as the hall brightened. Cadavers hung on the large crucifixes fixed to the wall—eight total—each in a morbid, Christ-like pose. Charred flesh clung to bone beneath long tattered habits, and shrivelled lips pulled back to reveal terrible, static, rotting grins. The dark recesses of empty eye sockets peered down malevolently.
Archer stared in terrible awe at the burnt corpses, while Dean retched, trying desperately not to vomit. The stench of burning flesh and damp rot was overwhelming.
“Dean, there are dead people in here. We have to get out,” Archer said, his voice robotic, lacking emotion; sheer self-preservation had set in, and he knew they had to get out of there.
At the right-hand side of the pulpit, a small door stood slightly ajar. Archer grabbed the back of Dean’s shirt and dragged him to his feet, making a beeline for the exit. The weight of the situation broke Dean’s trance, and in a moment of clarity he dashed for the open door, overtaking his companion.
Several paces from freedom, a short distance from their escape, the door slammed shut, sealing the boys in the cavernous chapel. Dean collapsed to his knees and began to sob uncontrollably, while Archer scanned his surroundings in search of a crumbling wall or a loose board through which they might escape. Instead, his gaze rested upon the diminutive figure which had suddenly stepped out from behind the stone pulpit.
The creature was humanoid in appearance, clad in a black hooded robe that covered its features from head to toe. It lifted an arm and the robe slid back, revealing a withered, charred hand, which trembled slightly as it pointed its bony finger at Archer, then beyond, past the pews, to the twisted crucifixes, one at a time. Slowly with its free hand the dwarf creature pulled back its hood, revealing a tiny blackened skull, like the scorched cranium of a child.
For an eternal moment, Archer stood, gazing in horror, trying to take everything in, trying to understand and make sense of it. He felt somehow detached from his body, as though nothing was real, and he was watching the events unfold in a movie. He heard nothing but the echo of his own heart thundering in the cavern of his chest. He was vaguely aware of his body swaying and someone repeating his name, but that was in another world.
“Archer.”
“ARCHER.”
“ARCHER!”
Somewhere in the real world, Archer’s head rocked as he was struck in the face. He snapped out of it.
“Come ON, we have to get out of here,” Dean insisted. A slight tremble remained in his voice and his eyes were puffy and red, yet still alert with fear.
“Try and kick the door down, Dean,” Archer ordered, his eyes flitting between the dead monks and the corpse-child by the pulpit.
A crackling noise, like the sound of brittle wood breaking, echoed in the chapel. Archer turned in time to catch sight of the charred remains of the crucified monks releasing themselves from their crosses and falling to the ground, landing with surprising agility in spite of their decomposed state. The dwarf creature on the stage raised its arms toward the crumbling ceiling, then to the monks who had been unfettered. The walking corpses began to slowly make their way between the pews towards the boys.
Dean screamed in terror and panic, dashing at the door and slamming his shoulder against it with all his might. At last, the door splintered and shards of rotting wood littered the air. Dean cannon-balled through the doorway and out into the open expanse of darkened forest, hitting the ground with a heavy thump that knocked the wind out of him. Archer, close behind, slipped on damp mulch and almost vaulted over Dean. He caught his balance, crouching and pulling Dean to his feet.
Slapping echoes from behind signalled the approach of the horrifying entities. The boys ran as fast as their legs could carry them, diving into the gloomy forest in full flight, bounding over shrubs, and leaping streams. Neck and neck, neither boy would let the other fall behind. Both understood the grim consequences of such an action. Neither Archer nor Dean knew which way was out, nor did they care, they just wanted to be as far away from the horrifying tomb as possible.
Archer leaped a narrow ravine in a single bound, scrabbling at the dense tufts of pondweed at the other side to keep his balance.
But Dean’s exertion was extreme; his heart battered an erratic tattoo against his ribcage and his legs were ready to give way. He felt sick as he took a few steps back in order to clear the crevice. He ran, arms pumping at his sides. His foot caught a solitary root from a nearby
tree and he fell.
The last thing Dean saw was Archer thrusting his hands out. Everything that followed happened in slow motion. He was vaguely aware of an immense blunt pain which shot through the left side of his head. The pain only lasted a split second before freezing cold water embraced his body and he blanked out.
***
Dean slept a deep, dreamless sleep. Once or twice he woke, briefly. The first time he was staring up at the twilight sky, gazing at bright stars which shone through a break in the forest canopy. He felt numb, impervious to the cold, damp air. But he could not retain his hold on consciousness and he drifted back into nothingness. The second time he woke, he recognised his surroundings. The familiarity of his bedroom reassured him, relaxed him, and he let unconsciousness slide over his addled mind once again.
When he finally awoke, sunlight was streaming into his bedroom through the gaps between the blinds.
A familiar voice which belonged to his grandfather called, “Jean, the lad’s awake.”
Seconds later Dean’s mother hurried into the room and began fussing over him, plumping his pillows and hugging him tight, taking care not to touch the throbbing wound on his head.
She chattered excitedly the whole time, repeating over and over, “Thank God you’re ok,” and, “We were so worried.”
Dean’s grandfather took hold of her arm and gently guided her away from Dean, muttering something in her ear. She nodded and left the room.
“I asked your mother to leave us for a while. We need to talk. Y’know your friend Archie?”
“Archer,” Dean corrected. His head was swimming, but as his grandfather spoke, sleep withdrew, allowing room for more clarity.
“Archer,” he paused, “probably saved your life. He pulled you from the water when the current was quickly taking you. He used his melon and followed the flow of the stream in search of help. He’s a good lad, and a good friend. I should thank him if I were you.”
Dean nodded. The movement sent deep penetrating pains through his head. He winced.
“Lie back. Rest your head on the pillow,” his grandfather ordered. “I want you to tell me a little of what happened in the forest, why was your friend so scared, why was he rambling like a madman?”
“Wild dogs were chasing us,” Dean replied.
“Wild dogs, eh?” His grandfather eyed him suspiciously.
Dean blushed; he had been caught in a lie.
“It’s ok,” Grandfather reassured him. “It’s my fault; I should have kept the legend circulating.” He paused thoughtfully. “Now, I’m going to tell you a story which was passed down to me from my father, and passed down to him by his father, and so on.
“Many years ago, probably hundreds, no one knows for sure, there was a small community of holy people who lived in the forest. They enjoyed solitude; they valued their privacy, only visiting the village once a month for supplies of food and wine. The villagers respected their beliefs, and their space, never wandering beyond Derness’ copse. The villagers thought the sect was harmless at first, that is until people started disappearing.
“One day, a young man who had been walking in the woods returned to the village, his clothes torn and bloody. He gave an account of how he was captured by the religious people and brought into their monastery, where they tried to crucify him.
“The child-monk, their leader, told the young man that they believed their deity was a messenger from the pits of the inferno, one of the fallen. They believed this deity was born and reborn of fire. They also believed that the devout among them could proffer themselves as sacrifices to be burned on a cross, in order to be reborn of fire in hell as a follower of the demon.
“The child-priest had been elected by the followers after his parents had offered him as a sacrifice. He was strapped to a cross and set alight. It is said he burned for ten hours nailed to that cross, writhing and screaming in agony. But when the flames were extinguished, although he was badly burned, he still lived. The followers believed it was a miracle, that the child had been reborn of fire, and they made him their spiritual leader.
“When the community began wearing thin and running out of sacrifices, the child-leader ordered his monks to visit the surrounding villages and kidnap young men. When the villagers heard this, they gathered a mob and armed them with what little weapons they had. They had no use for tools of war, being peaceful villagers, and so they arrived with pitchforks, machetes, knives and torches of fire.
“With detailed directions from the young man who had survived his ordeal, the mob descended upon the monastery, setting it alight and killing anyone who attempted to escape.
“For a day and a night the huge edifice burned, sending a pillar of black smoke into the sky by day and glowing ashes by night, until nothing remained but a charred ruin of rubble. No attempts were made to recover the bodies of the dead, so the villagers assumed there were no survivors.”
Grandfather shifted from the crouched position he had occupied during the entire story, utilising the backrest of the chair.
“Every year, on the eve of the anniversary of the incident, it is said that a pillar of black smog can be seen rising from the middle of the forest. The brethren of fire are released from their constraints of death and free to walk among the trees.”
When he’d finished, Dean was in shocked silence. A thousand questions swirled around in his head, but instead of asking them, he raised a hand to his bandage.
“The doctor said you will be fine in a day or two and after plenty of rest.”
Dean nodded, smiling at his grandfather reassuringly. The concerned expression on the old man’s face waned.
“Now, you obey the doc’s orders and catch some zeds, young man. I’ll send your mother up in an hour or two when you feel a little more like yourself.”
Grandfather drew the curtains, dousing the little room in a gloomy semi-darkness, and left, closing the door gently.
Dean lay awake in bed, listening to the pattering of his grandfather’s slippered feet descending on the stairs, followed by the deep monotones of muffled voices from the living room.
Strange thoughts surfaced and receded in his exhausted brain. Memories of lying flat on his back in the damp grass of the Mill Chapel forest. The blunt jab of a root or plant burrowed between the rolls of fat in his back, causing discomfort. Watching the stars in the twilight sky fade away with each blink of his sleep laden eyelids, like the strobe-effect of a stop-motion film. The black rotting face of the child-priest, with those terrifying empty eye sockets, gazing down at him, and the musty mildew odour of cinders filling his nostrils. The prickling sensation as a charred claw pressed against his chest, followed by an agonising pain as flesh and bone yielded under extreme heat. The creature’s hand penetrating into his ribcage, clutching at his thundering heart. Then... nothing.
He felt no fear when he remembered these things; in fact he felt perfectly calm, even though he knew the creature had planted something inside him (something which he could see no evidence of as he lifted his shirt). But he knew it was there. He felt it smouldering inside, a dark beckoning of pure evil, corrupting his innocent soul, rising within. A torrent of horrific scenes flashed through his mind. Scenes of burning bodies, of screaming, pleading, fear-filled voices. And with them, the almost uncontrollable desire to carry out those morbid fantasies. He knew he could. He knew he had the power now to obey the creature’s demonic bidding.
His hand began to tingle; the sensation travelled, creeping down to his wrist. He held it up for inspection. In the darkness of his bedroom, it began to glow. The tingling intensified as it burst into blazing orange flames.
Although he felt heat radiating from the fire, Dean felt no pain, nor did his hand blister or shrink. He felt no alarm. He was not moved in the slightest as his burning hand cast a myriad of bright dancing shadows and silhouettes on the walls.
He stared directly into the flame, feeling the heat build behind his eyes. He smiled a knowing smile.
About the
author: Zach Black is a writer of horror and dark fantasy fiction. Zach has written over thirty short stories, many of which have appeared in various horror and short story magazines, websites, anthologies and an eBook, The Echo of a Lost Virtue, released by Hellfire Publishing. His work has been described as a mix of classic and contemporary horror fiction reminiscent of 70's and 80's pulp horror. Born and bred in Scotland, he is a native of the seaside town of Saltcoats, where he lives with his wife Kim, in the county of North Ayrshire—a land steeped in history and legend, by which he is constantly inspired. zachblack.co.uk/
The Second Coming
Joe Jablonski
In 1120 A.D., ten members of the Knights Templar returned to France following a quest to the holy land. They were said to have discovered a treasure of great importance. Many speculated on the contents of that treasure. Some said Holy Grail. Some said Ark of the Covenant. Some said Shroud of Turin. All were wrong.
In truth, what those ten knights found buried beneath the Temple of Solomon was a document written by the hand of God. This document contained instructions on how to bring about the second coming of Christ.
Until the time was right, these ten men would pass the secret on only to their first born sons, and they to their first born sons—on and on until the Prophecy was ready to be fulfilled. This Templar sub-sect was named the Order of the Rebirth. Warrior monks sworn to keep their heavenly secret to the death.
Friday, October 13, 1307 – Southern France
Deep within the shelter of a secret underground monastery, Septum was preparing himself for the ritual. With his head shaven clean and his body purified in oil, he took these last moments to reflect on the holy miracle his sacrifice would bring.
With every second that passed his heart raced faster, but it wasn’t the fear of death that had him on the verge of panic, just everything leading up to it. Although he had prepared himself for this his entire life, the reality of it had never truly sunk in until now.