The built up tension released from his body once they were finally gone. He reached out with both hands bumping into things and feeling the walls. That was when he bumped into the extension cord with his face.
Elliott wasn’t here. That was obvious, but Greg couldn’t help but look around. Maybe there was something around that could help. The entire underground space was the same diameter of the restaurant above. Large beams ran down from the building above to the underground floor. The walls were lined with sheets of plywood. From the looks of it this place was at one time a storage cellar of some kind; which would explain how Elliott got all of this stuff down there. There had to be another entrance to the place. A cellar door maybe.
For a homeless man, this Elliott guy had it made. There was a lazy-boy chair, a coffee table, a bookshelf lined with books, and a sleeping bag on the floor next to a small refrigerator. More than anything, Greg was impressed that this bum had electricity running down here. The restaurant owners had to know about this. There was just no way they couldn’t.
Greg scanned the dank, poorly lit space in hope that he would find something that might help. Might tell him more about what the hell was going on. Just when he was about to give up and climb back out from under the patio, he decided to skim the books on the moldy bookshelf. There was a large stack of adult magazines. Hustler, Playboy, and a few others that Greg had never heard of. Some of which were even a bit too raunchy for his tastes. The stack of books on the top shelf was mostly, from what Greg could tell, modern folklore from the 13th century and because of that they seemed rather out of place. Skimming the books, he couldn’t help but relate the age of these books to a lot of the Victorian homes of Grayson.
Grayson Tales of Terror. If the book’s title had been a snake, it would have bitten him.
Greg pulled the book from the shelf, patting the dirt and dust from its hardbound cover. He opened the book to the contents page and read out loud to himself.
“The running River of troll…The witches of the east…” Greg rolled his eyes. This book couldn’t be serious, but then he saw it. “Obos the Great and Powerful Prince.” That was the name they were chanting in his church dream. The vision he had at the clinic.
Noting the page, he flipped to it. His heart raced with the anticipation.
Obos the Great Prince was a young lord. His life was dated back to Anno Domini, Latin for, In the Year of Our Lord. During the years, that Christ was alive and walking the earth, Obos the Great Prince was a young and very powerful man having anything his heart desired. Having heard of Christ’s powers and miracles, Obos desired these divine gifts for himself. He sought after Christ, but was unsuccessful. Christ was captured by the Romans before Obos was given the opportunity to receive favor and divinity from the known God among men. Still desiring divinity like that of the Christ, Obos reverted to witchcraft and the black arts of sorcery. Things went wrong and his choice in trust had been his downfall. His younger brother had been there to take his place in power and had used Obos’ interest in the black arts to send him deep into the eternal abyss.
Later, Obos the Great Prince would be referred to as a God in his own right. Having full dominion of the dark realm that he’d been cast into so long ago. The book suggested that he eventually sided with the Dark Star of the North to gain even more power. A power that he would use to bring down wrath and revenge on his brothers bloodline.
Greg thought about it for a moment and remembered the Christian devil known as Satan had also been referred to as the North Star. With the North Star at his side, Obos now had the divinity he sought out so long ago through Christ. Only now, his heart was seeded with the blood of revenge. The desire to break through the dark realm and back to his fleshly form. With dominion over the darkness and legions of demons in his control, he would be unstoppable if released. If only he could be released.
At the bottom of the page, there was an image of a half-moon with the same three stars that Greg recognized. It was the same image that he had seen in his vision at the clinic. The image that was carved into the dagger that Teddy used to kill Peggy Ann.
The book explained that Obos was now known as a prince of hell in some circles. He was faithful to only the conjurer and offered many things to those who would set him free. Among many things, the few that were listed along with eternal life were prosperity, the knowledge of things past, present and to come, and nobility.
“Why the hell would anyone try to set this guy free?” He turned the page, intrigue causing him to find a seat in the filthy recliner.
The next page told of a fallen village.
In late 1621, the month of May, the entire village of an early English settlement disappeared without a trace. The settlers had settled in that area now known as Grayson a few months before. Befriending the local tribe of Coushatta Indians, the English settlers and the local tribe traded various traditions. Over time, the two became one. The English brought with them the technologies of a new age, while the Indians helped culture the new settlers in what today is known by pagans as spiritual warfare, true sight, and mysticism.
During one of the spiritual enlightenment rituals, led by one of the elder tribesmen, something unexpected happened. With more than half of the new settlers present, all of them went missing. Some were slaughtered to an unrecognizable mess. A portal had been opened to another world, letting out evil things. With the promise of life, only death was revealed. At least that was what the sole survivor had said when interrogated later regarding the missing English settlers and local Coushatta Indians. The only thing that was left behind was a set of letters found carved into the belly of a dead pregnant villager. It read; Sons of the Gray beasts.
It was much later that new settlers came, naming the small settlement Grayson, after being warned by nearby tribes of the evil in the land and of the dead woman’s carved inscription.
“What the fuck,” Greg sighed, in disbelief. “Gray freaking beasts like the ones riding around on these towns-people? Really? Who the hell decided it was cool to even live here? Should make this place one big freaking parking lot and never let anyone come here. Please don’t tell me Teddy and his dad are going to let this Prince dude loose.” Greg sighed again, setting the book in his lap. “If this book doesn’t tell you how to get rid of this Obos dude, then that’s just stupid.” He looked down at the small book of folklore and shook his head in disbelief.
He flipped the page. A large diagram of images and shapes that Greg didn’t quite understand covered the paper. The center of the series of images was the dagger that he had seen in his vision. The next page, which happened to be the last page related to Obos, was torn away.
It wasn’t in the book.
There was plenty of detail about how to call this Obos person out of the darkness of the abyss, about his legions of demons, and the divinity he offered to those willing to set him free, but nothing about how to get rid of him. It talked about the alignment of the stars and the moon every ten years, but nothing of a way to defeat this thing.
“Great, just great. The last freaking page. The page that I probably freaking need is the one that is missing. Just typical! Can’t make it easy, can you?” He thumbed at the torn page with aggravation.
Looking closely, he could see that the page hadn’t been torn straight down. There were a few words still at the top left of the torn page. Thumbing the paper, Greg brought the book up to the light to get a closer look.
Mathew 5:13? Or, is that a fifteen?
It was a bible verse. Greg knew that much, but what does it mean? He set the book aside and stood, hoping to find a Bible among the pornographic magazines and folklore books.
He was in luck. There was one. Excitement flooded his being as he reached up to pull the book from the shelf. A sudden loud thump at the hole that he had climbed though to get under the patio startled Greg. He dropped the holy book and stepped back, looking toward the noise. It sounded heavy, like metal. Just when panic started to fill him with the possibility of t
hose things climbing under the patio to kill him, he smelled a familiar scent of alcohol.
Jack…
His heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t one of those creatures. It was Elliott. The junky, drunk bum had finally come home and Greg would get some solid answers. Like what this Obos guy might mean to the Sheriff and old man Doc, and how to save Peggy Ann.
Greg listened nervously as a large black bag was forced through the opening under the patio. The aluminum rattled as it was forced through. The bag dropped, hitting the ground hard. The plastic burst on impact with the ground inside the room. The crushed cans erupted from the bag, spilling out. The man that Greg assumed to be Elliott cursed and kicked having heard the bag bust. Sending a second bag down, it landed atop the loose aluminum.
Greg watched and waited, expecting the man to climb down into the hole. Instead, he heard the sound of a lid sliding off a bottle. The loud long gulps that followed could only mean one thing. The man belched, screwed the cap back on the bottle and tossed it down the hole. Greg had to slide out of the way as the small empty glass bottle crashed to the ground at his feet. The sound of shattering glass filled the air along with the thick aroma of Jack.
“Son of a…” the man said, having heard the broken glass as he climbed down the hole.
When his feet hit the floor of the underground room, Greg recognized him instantly and could tell that he was intoxicated. It was that guy from the diner that had given Peggy Ann so much trouble. All of the things that Peggy Ann had said about this guy instantly flashed in his mind. He gritted his teeth, looking over his shoulder. Instinctually, he felt cornered. Trapped. This guy was trouble.
“Well, well, well, if Elliott didn’t come back home. You got some balls comin’ around here.”
“What?” Greg asked, stepping back.
His heart started to race. This was not the place to be. This guy was intoxicated and he was the last person he would want to have run into, especially down here. Greg looked around at the chair and other clutter in hopes that he might find something to defend himself with. Brian stumbled forward. The swaying makeshift light on the end of the extension cord in the middle of the room made everything seem eerie. Both men’s silhouettes danced along the wall to Greg’s left on the bookshelf.
“Wait a second,” Brian hissed, stepping forward. “You ain’t Ellott. What the hell did you do with Elliott?”
“Look man, I don’t…”
Brian laughed, cutting Greg’s pleas short. “Where the hell’s your pants, boy? You one of them weird people? Your friend Elliott might a swung that way, but not this guy. I’m a hard workin’ ladies man.” Brian took two more steps forward, raising a clenched fist. Aggravated, he slurred, “Is that it, boy? You come down here thinkin’ you can fuck with me and help Elliott get his house back?”
“Get his house back? So Elliott doesn’t live her now?” Greg asked, stepping back and looking over his shoulder.
“Shit no, son. I took this spot from that creep a while back. One of the best things I ever did.” Brian laughed, stumbling against the recliner. “Wait a minute, I know you. You’re that punk that was talkin’ to my future wife in the diner. You’re that prick that stared at me while I was eatin’ my meal. What the hell are you doin’ in my house?”
“Look, dude,” Greg started to say, still holding the folklore book in his hands.
“You come down here to push me on? Think you can take me?” Brian continued, cutting Greg short once more. “Well, think again, pal. I’m in control. Did you know I’ve killed three people today and you know what? I like it. I like the feeling it gives me. Like I’m above the world. The power. You know what? No reason we can’t bump them numbers up. Hell, killin’ me one more before the nights over just might be what I need to call it a day.”
Before Greg could reply, Brian reached around his back.
Greg swallowed hard. He’d never had a gun pointed at him before.
“You think I won’t do it, do you?” Brian hissed, waving the pistol wildly as he hiccupped.
“Man, I wasn’t trying to get in your business,” Greg said, his back bumping against the wall. “I’m just looking for Elliott. There’s something way bigger than us going on out there. We got to do something, man. We need to band together if we’re going to beat this…”
“You ain’t gonna beat nothin’. You hear me?” Brian shouted.
This guy was nuts. Peggy Ann had been right. This guy was a freaking lunatic. Greg didn’t doubt not one bit that this guy was a murderer. It was written all over his face. As he aimed the gun, blood on his shirt and hands, there was no wavering in his eyes or his demeanor. He meant what he said and Greg was starting to wish he were anywhere other than where he was. He looked to his left. There it was. The other door. Over his head, light seeped in from the large square. It was the cellar door. Only, there weren’t any steps leading up to the door. There was a rope hanging down in the middle. And when he saw the hinges, confirming his suspicions, hope returned.
“Now, unless you want me to kill you, you’re going to tell me where to find Elliott. I owe him a little somethin’,” Brian said, waving the gun suggestively.
“Whatever, dude.” Greg barked, tossing the book at the gunman.
The book collided with Brian’s chest. The pistol went off as he grunted, dropping it. Greg took his chance, bolting for the cellar door. He could hear Brian fumble to pick the gun back up. Refusing to look back, Greg pulled the rope. The cellar door fell open. The light from above flooded the poorly lit cellar room. The blinding light engulfed Greg’s vision. Forcing himself to see past the blurring light, he jumped up through the door’s opening.
The cellar door had opened up to a large kitchen. No one was around, because the small Chinese restaurant was already closed. Even still, the kitchen light was on. A large grill was to his left and above it on one side were a line of large pots, pans and woks. Behind him, the wall was lined with various spices, seasonings, fresh vegies, and canned food. The room smelled of sesame seeds and cooking grease.
Not wanting to waste any more time, Greg leaned down to pull the cellar door shut. Startled, he jumped back. Brian was already climbing through the opening.
Greg jumped back, grabbing one of the large woks from the liner of pots and pans. When he pulled, it didn’t come free. He pulled again, panic taking over.
Brian was starting to get to his feet and he still had the gun.
Greg yanked hard. The liner finally gave under his weight. With the wok still in hand, the liner broke sending a sea of pots and pans crashing to the floor. They clanged loudly as over a dozen metal cooking utensils came to rest at his feet. The pots momentarily drew his attention away from the man with the gun, who was now on his feet and facing him. His attention was drawn back when Brian coughed tantalizingly.
“You’re working my last nerve, k-kid.” Brian slurred, and stepped past the cellar opening toward Greg. “What you gonna do, start throwin’ pots at me instead of books? Don’t be stupid. I’ve got a gun and I ain’t afraid to use it.”
Greg stepped back, bumping into the large shelf of canned foods and spices. Gripping the wok tightly, he held it up ready to swing. As Brian staggered closer, the only thing between them were the array of pots and pans strewn all over the floor.
“Now, I’m a man of my word, kid,” Brian said with a soothing voice, kicking one of the pots out of his path. “You tell me where I can find Elliott and I’ll think about lettin’ you slide. I really will.” He pointed the pistol up, his voice becoming stern. “Now where the hell is Elliott?”
Greg flinched, his entire life flashed before his eyes. He wasn’t ready to die. Clenching the wok with both hands, his knuckles going white, a single moment seemed like decades. The drive to Alexandria. Being stood up. How mad he had gotten over it and for no real reason. Meeting Peggy Ann and deciding to stick around. He was currently in this position he was in by thinking with the wrong head. If he got out of this alive, he would change his ways. Become a b
etter person. Fall in love for the right reasons. Because a girl was smart, relational, and loving. Not because she had a nice rack and pretty face. The way a girl looked was important at the end of the day, but when it came to the ladies, did it give him a right to be such a jerk. It was the rock and roll lifestyle that he had grown accustom to over the last five years that made him this way. The way that mainstream society pushed corrupt morals and poor character. It didn’t matter. He was done chasing girls for the wrong reasons. But there was a difference between saying it and doing it. If he really was going to prove it to Peggy Ann and to himself, he needed to live through today. Fight for his life and for hers.
Pop!
The sudden sound of metal crashing to the floor among the already scattered pots and pans jarred Greg from his petty life changing thoughts. When he looked up, his blood started pumping and he felt hot. Fear induced adrenaline rushed through his veins and his arms started to shake. The thing on Brian’s shoulders hissed. The hitcher appeared from nowhere. With its left hand deeply in his left ear, the black sludge running down his face was spilling onto his blood stained shirt. With both hands limp at his sides and his eyes rolled back, the gun was at his feet among the fallen pots and pans. Its teeth chattered for a moment then opened wide. The stench that spilled out was horrendous. The smell of sulfur and decay filled the kitchen, pushing back the aroma of spices and cooking oil.
The thing forced Brian forward, his already drunken shuffle even more seemingly so. He shuffled forward in a zombie-like waddle.
The sudden movement forced Greg into action. With everything he had, he tossed the wok at Brian. With the cooking pan still in midair, he dashed forward kicking all of the cookware on the floor out of the way. He went for the gun. The creature on Brian hissed as the wok collided with them. Brian staggered back a step. By the time the wok fully rested on the floor, no longer echoing metallic nonsense into the kitchen air, Greg had backed away from Brian and the creature, pistol in hand.
Hitchers Page 15