Screaming to Get Out & Other Wailings of the Damned

by J. F. Gonzalez

  He could tell that Pastor Matthews didn't believe what he was saying. The way the pastor looked at him told him that much; he was being looked on in pity. The homeless drifter with a mental problem. He didn't care what the minister thought of his story. All that mattered was that he’d finally told somebody after over seven years of keeping it to himself. He had finally confided in somebody.

  "You don't believe me," he said.

  "I didn't say that," Pastor Matthews replied.

  "But I can tell by the look on your face. You think I'm crazy."

  Pastor Matthews shook his head and smiled. "Not at all." He leveled a serious, sympathetic gaze at Richard. "I understand that you went through a pretty rough time...I don't doubt your story at all. It's just that—"

  "It's unbelievable. I know."

  Pastor Matthews sighed. He ran his hand through his blonde hair. "Put yourself in my shoes, Richard. If you just heard the story you’ve just told, what would your reaction be?"

  "But you're a minister!" Richard exclaimed. "Didn't what I just say make sense to you? The Anti-Christ is on the earth! Armageddon is at hand! There is a secret, underground society of devil worshippers out there who are a threat to everything you believe in! They—"

  Pastor Matthews held up his hand. "Hold on a minute. I've heard a lot of theories regarding the rapture and the end times, and to be perfectly honest God Himself said that we will not know the day, nor the hour. To insinuate that a group of devil-worshippers actually conjured Satan up in earthly form in order to impregnate a woman to bear the Anti-Christ smacks right out of a horror movie like Rosemary's Baby." He looked at Richard with a gentle expression. "I am by no means demeaning your story, but you must think about this logically. If you are so afraid of this, why run? To be afraid must obviously mean you are a Christian, and if you are a Christian you must know that as long as you have faith in God, and that Jesus is your Personal Savior, He will protect you." He smiled, his calm blue eyes reflecting hope and compassion. "The Lord doesn't abandon those who come to him."

  "I know," Richard said, his head hung. Various emotions were boiling inside him. He looked up at Pastor Matthews. "And...well, when all this happened I wasn't a believer. I didn't believe in anything, really."

  "And now?"

  Richard shivered. "I don't know what to believe."

  Pastor Matthews seemed to think about this for a minute. "If you don't believe in the spiritual elements of your story, then you must realize that what you witnessed was a crime. This is why you are on the run: you are afraid that whoever killed that girl, whoever killed your friends and your girlfriend, Tiffany, will eventually find you. Correct?"

  Richard nodded.

  "I've heard stories from various pastors and ministers that there is a vast satanic conspiracy," Pastor Matthews continued. "Most of the stories are so sensationalistic they are ludicrous. Some Christians claim that ten thousand people are ritualistically slaughtered every year by generational Satanists, which is absurd. If there were such a conspiracy, the secular world would have known about it long ago. Remember that whole baby-breeding rumor from the late nineteen eighties? You may have heard about it."

  Richard shook his head.

  "It was a conspiracy theory of the grandest scheme. According to those who promoted it, Satanists were impregnating young girls and women and then ritualistically killing the infants as sacrifices to the devil. Depending on who you believed, the number of babies killed was either a few hundred or a few thousand a year. There were women that came on talk shows claiming they were once breeders for Satanists, that it was something that had been going on for generations. All one with any rationality had to deduce was that logistically it is impossible for such a thing. If the number of women being kept as breeders were as large as those promoting this crazy idea were true, it would require large facilities to accommodate the women. It would require a large staff to guard and maintain the facility, storage for food and other items, and the medical personnel required for deliveries and pre-natal checkups. Such buildings, even in remote areas, would eventually attract unwanted attention." Pastor Matthews smiled reassuringly. "So you see, that is just only one of their little fallacies taken apart. There are no such thing as generational Satanists who are hiding in the underground of society, masquerading as upstanding citizens. It's true that there are truly evil people who are probably inspired by the devil; I can even accept the possibility of a small group of Satanists who would be so overcome with evil as to perform a random act of senseless violence. But an organized, worldwide group to remain so hidden and undetected for so long? Never!"

  "Mark never said anything about them being like that," Richard said.

  "Nevertheless, the story appears to stem from the same urban legend."

  "How do you explain what I saw then?" Richard asked, looking at Pastor Matthews. "I know what I saw; I wasn't under the influence, I wasn't...crazy like you're suggesting. How do you explain that?"

  Pastor Matthews looked grim. "It could be possible that the perpetrators cleared up any obvious evidence of murder quickly before the police arrived. I guess what you claimed to have happened very well could have."

  Richard felt a small sense of vindication. "So you believe me?"

  Pastor Matthews shrugged. "You surely sound sincere. I guess I would say I have to believe you."

  "What do you think I should do? I mean, they did kill somebody. Even if they were just a bunch of nuts who belonged to some wacky cult—even if all this underground Satanist stuff isn't real like you said—maybe there are truly evil people out there that could be capable of this. Maybe part of what Mark said was right; maybe there are a group of people out there who think they're bringing on Armageddon."

  Pastor Matthews was nodding to Richard's reasoning. "Yes, that's a very good point. And if that's the case, they sound dangerous."

  "Exactly! So what should I do?

  "What do you think you should do?"

  The question threw Richard for a loop. "I don't know," he said after a moment. "I've already gone to the police. They didn't believe me the first time. For all I know, the people that killed that girl could be looking for me."

  "Why not take the story to a journalist? Especially one who is already working on the theories I have just explained? A journalist might be able to expose your story to a public who would not be so quick to dismiss your story. In fact, there is one such journalist who has made a career of writing books about such conspiracies. Charles Manson, Son of Sam, the killings in Mexico and Florida, he's tied them all to this same vast Satanic conspiracy you're suggesting. His books have sold millions of copies in the secular world, I might add. He might be the perfect person to talk to. Just think of what he could do with your story if you tell it to him? Why, he would have the proof he needs! An actual witness to a satanic ritual! Actual proof of this vast, underground satanic movement working to 'bring about Armageddon' as you say. It might not only be the catalyst needed to convince a wide number of people, it might prompt the authorities to act on investigating and stopping the criminal activities this group is accused of taking part in: namely murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and probably a host of other crimes."

  Richard nodded. The idea sounded good to him. He wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. "It sounds good." He looked up at Pastor Matthews. "I'll think I'll do it."

  "Really?" Pastor Matthews looked surprised. "You'll contact this journalist and tell them exactly what you told me?"

  Richard nodded vigorously. "Yes, I will."

  "That's what we were afraid of." The voice came from behind him and Richard rose and spun around, his heart leaping in his chest. A man and a woman dressed in black had suddenly materialized behind him, and as Richard turned back to Pastor Matthews in confusion he noticed that the atmosphere had grown still. Pastor Matthews stood up behind his desk, the expression on his face wearing a new mask, this one dark, cunning, and evil. Richard stepped back, eyes darting to the two new figures in the room
(how the hell did they get in? I didn't hear the door open, how—) as they advanced upon him, their expressions dark and sinister.

  "We've been looking for you for a long time, Richard," Pastor Matthews said, stepping around his desk toward him. "We knew we'd find you. Nobody escapes the Dark Father's wrath."

  Pastor Matthews raised his hand, pointing his finger at Richard as he backed up against the wall. His mind was racing for a way to escape, something to say to keep them away from him. Pastor Matthews stepped closer. "Few know our secrets because it's better that way. We are only called to do our part. For no one will know when the final hour will be upon us. But even those of us who are Christians are sometimes called to do the Dark Lord's bidding in accordance with God’s plan.”

  Richard’s last thoughts as his body was suddenly engulfed in flames was that, in the grand scheme of things, even evil served its purpose.

  Story Notes

  I have a sneaking suspicion the bones of this story were laid down when I was still living in California and was initially written between 1997 and 2000. The reason I say maybe is because I tend to riff on the same theme when working on a novel and I would have written the early draft of They during this period. I suppose I could verify this by checking old floppy diskettes (remember those?), but that would require hooking up an older computer that still has a floppy disk drive in it.

  Anyway, I'm almost positive I wrote an original draft of this story during that time period. I probably sent it out to the various markets of the day and never sold it. Eventually it was redrafted and sold in 2005 to Astounding Tales, an online pulp magazine (no relation to the 1930's pulp which later morphed into Analog); it was subsequently sold to Dark Discoveries magazine where it made its debut on actual paper in their Spring 1996 issue.

  Astute readers will recognize the unnamed devil-worship cult in "Witness" is the same one in my novel They. At the time I wrote this story (and the novel), I had no idea they were the same cult. Around 2008 as I was writing my novella Do Unto Others, I realized the devil-worship cult in that story was the same group. This shadowy organization now lurks in the background of a number of my stories and novels, so I guess you could say these works represent a shared world.

  Balance

  IT ALL STARTED when I woke up one morning to find myself in a bed that was not my own, in a room I’d never been in before, with a woman I did not initially recognize, looking down at me.

  Recognition set in a moment later when she said my name. “Doug!”

  “Lucy?”

  “The one and only!” She kissed me on the forehead.

  The feel of her lips on my skin was real. It told me I wasn’t dreaming.

  I sat up. The covers slipped down my body and I quickly took in my surroundings. The room was small, the walls a grayish white. The bed I was lying in was large, the mattress worn, the sheets rumpled. There was a large unfinished oak bureau on the other side of the room, one of those stationary bikes that, by the thick layer of dust that covered it, only got sporadic use, and a laundry basket stacked with clothes.

  “It worked!” Lucy squealed happily. Her hands were clasped in front of her as if in prayer. Then, with another sudden squeal, she launched herself at me and enveloped me in a hug.

  I moved away from her, tried to escape her affections, and stumbled off the bed and onto the floor. I was confused. The last thing I remembered was reclining on the sofa downstairs in my home, vaguely aware that I was falling asleep. I’d put the kids to bed a few hours before that. It had been a long day, and I’d sat downstairs in the great room watching boring reality shows while Andrea worked on PTA stuff in her office upstairs. She’d given me a kiss before she went upstairs to bed. I remember staying downstairs because I wasn’t tired; sometimes I just can’t sleep. I must have fallen asleep on my living room sofa. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d done that.

  So how the hell did I wind up in the bed of an old girlfriend? Lucy Murphy?

  Who I hadn’t seen in fifteen years?

  I pinched my thigh. The pain resonated sharply. Beneath my bare feet I felt the shag carpet. I took a step back and my butt hit the cold glass of the sliding glass door that probably opened out onto a tiny balcony. I had the distinct feeling I was in an apartment.

  This was not a dream.

  This was a real.

  “What’s going on?” Even the cracking of my voice was obvious. Lucy moved more gracefully this time, more carefully, as if she realized she’d scared me that first time and was taking pains to avoid a repeat occurrence. She took my hands. The sensation of her hands in mine was real. So was her smile, so full of warmth. Of happiness.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “It worked and everything’s going to be fine, Doug. We’re together now. We’re together.”

  “But—”

  “Shhh.” She put a finger to my lips, stepped closer. I could sense her body heat. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  And then she was in my arms and I was holding her, my mind whirling in a thousand directions, too stunned to react, too shocked to push her away. How could I? What was happening was impossible.

  Somehow, in the middle of the night, I’d gone to sleep in my house with my wife, Andrea, upstairs working in our home office, our kids asleep in their rooms down the hall from our bedroom, and I’d woken up in the bedroom of my old college girlfriend, Lucy Murphy, who I’d broken up with fifteen years ago.

  I REALIZE THAT to those of you reading this—prosecutors, detectives, social workers and psychiatrists —this admission will seem to you like a confirmation of whatever diagnosis you've come up with. After all, my actions the past six months have supported your diagnosis, at least according to what you’ve witnessed. Andrea’s statement to you, the phone records that were pulled telling a very clear story that, in your mind, makes me guilty of a long and continuous campaign of terror and harassment against her.

  All I ask is that you read this statement in its entirety and when you’re finished go to Lucy’s apartment. Go outside and around the back, near the trash dumpster. Behind that dumpster, in the little space between our apartment building and the fence, about ten paces in, I’ve buried something. Dig it up. You’ll find a steel box with no lock. What’s inside that box will contain all the proof I have.

  Let me finish my story. But first, some background.

  I WAS NINETEEN when I met Lucy Murphy. We were in college.

  We dated for two years. For a while things got pretty heavy between us. We never officially moved in together, but I was at her place so much that I practically lived there.

  Lucy was fun, lively, pretty, and the life of every party. She could walk into a room of morose wallflowers and in thirty minutes have them completely out of their shells and trading jokes and imbibing in drinking games.

  She was also a heavy drinker. I didn’t see it at first. I was a weekend partier myself and I just figured Lucy was simply a girl who liked to have a good time. It wasn’t until she started missing classes due to all the late night partying that her grades started slipping. I was easing out of the heavy college partying and getting more into my studies, which was business management. I wanted to get my BS and then go for my MBA. Lucy was an English major, but I think all she really wanted to do in college was party.

  Due to my focus on my studies, and Lucy’s lack thereof, we began to drift apart. We still saw each other, but we were arguing more. I was concerned about her drinking. I was also becoming jealous of her flirting with other guys, which always happened when she’d had one too many. Most of the fights we had were about this. She never stepped out on me (at least as far as I know), but that wasn’t the point. She was advertising when she shouldn’t have been. And that’s about as bad as doing the actual deed, in my book.

  So we broke up. Or, rather, I broke up with her.

  She didn’t take it well.

  IN THE DAYS following my waking up in Lucy’s bedroom I came to learn the following:

  Somehow, through m
eans only understood by her, Lucy was able to bring me back into her life as if we’d never been apart.

  And everything I’d accomplished in our time apart had been obliterated.

  Somehow the clothes I’d worn the night before when I fell asleep on the sofa, when I was home with Andrea and the kids, had been transferred to Lucy’s sphere of reality. Then, with Lucy pleading with me to stay with her, to please don’t do anything stupid, I ran out of the apartment into a street I didn’t recognize. Lucy yelled at me to come back. I ran down the street, a lower middle class suburb. Once I reached the main drag, I recognized a few vague landmarks. I was roughly ten miles from where we’d gone to school. My home and life with Andrea was fifty miles south. I slapped at my pockets, found my wallet, and slipped it out. There was cash and something else...

  I pulled out my driver’s license and the photo that glared at me was unrecognizable at first. It was the eyes that gave him away. Cynical. Beaten down. Depressed.

  Me.

  I was looking at a photo of me as I would have looked had I stayed with Lucy.

  I started running down the street until I found a phone booth. I called 911, told them what was going on.

  The police brought me back to Lucy’s after verifying with her that, yes, I did live at 18 Lincoln Avenue, in Apartment 33, with her, Lucy Murphy. They also verified that I had a job as a warehouseman for some insurance company and when I heard that I had to hold my breath to keep from screaming. During the years we were dating and going to school, I'd held down a part-time job at a warehouse at Free State Insurance.

  Despite my protests, the police left me at Lucy’s apartment. One of the officers suggested to her that she get me help. In fact, he almost took me into custody for my own protection but something in me gained some sense of sanity. I didn’t want to be in a mental ward. I realized how this was looking to them. If I was going to help myself, I would have to do it by unraveling how I’d gotten here. And the only way to do that was to break through to Lucy and somehow convince her to send me back.