Point Pleasant

by Wood, Jen Archer

  Ben hurried to Cardinal, entered the house, and strode through to his father’s office. The room felt like a safe haven.

  “What the hell?” he said to the empty room as he rubbed his face and sank down into the armchair.

  There was a familiar buzz in his pocket, and Ben pulled out his phone. ‘1 New Voicemail.’ He dialed, waited to get past the robotic woman’s monotone announcement, and listened as the voice spoke two words.

  “Not quite,” it said, and Ben could have sworn that the voice was making a joke.

  Ben leapt from the chair. “Where are you?” he asked, darting his eyes around the room as if the red-eyed entity from the forest had managed to slip inside when Ben was not looking.

  There was no answer.

  “Are you here? Are you in my house?” Ben demanded.

  The phone buzzed. “I am everywhere.”

  Ben swallowed and was wholly unsure of how to respond to that. “What are you?”

  “You already know.”

  Ben walked to the window and stared at the sky. He clutched the phone in his hand and was silent for a long moment. “You’re an angel.” It was a direct statement, but Ben’s voice quaked with uncertainty as he spoke the words.

  There was no immediate response, but Ben took the silence as a confirmation.

  “Thank you. For earlier.”

  “I was happy to be of some assistance.”

  Ben huffed out a nervous laugh. “This is so weird. How old are you?”

  “Old.”

  “Concise. How long have you been here? Are you trapped here?”

  “Five hundred years for you. Time passes differently for me. Azazel has something of mine. It keeps me earthbound.”

  “Azazel? The other thing? The demon?”

  “Demons, as you understand them, do not exist. Azazel is a Fallen One.”

  “He’s a fallen angel?”

  “He is corrupted. Stained black by his pride and tainted from the stench of Hell.”

  “Hell is real?” Ben asked, turning away from the window. “Is God real?”

  “You are still asking the wrong questions.”

  “What does he have of yours?” Ben asked. “What needs to be broken?”

  The tediousness of repeatedly dialing into voicemail only added to Ben’s anxiety.

  “My grace.”

  “What is that? Your angel magic or something?”

  “In a sense.”

  “So what, without it you’re stuck here?”

  There was no response, but Ben took it as a yes.

  “Why is he here? If he has your grace, why doesn’t he go somewhere else?”

  “When Azazel set his sigils to cast me from the sky, he trapped himself as well. He is bound here as much as I am, though he is able to pass back and forth into the Pit as he so chooses.”

  Ben shifted from foot to foot with unease at the casual way the apparent angel spoke of ‘the Pit.’

  “If you get your grace back, are you free to fly home?”

  “Yes, but there are other matters to attend before that will happen.”

  “Like what?”

  “I must vanquish my fallen brother.”

  “If you do that, will it stop whatever is about to happen? Something is going to happen, right? That’s why you’re showing yourself to everyone, you’re warning us?”

  “Yes.”

  Ben’s brow furrowed, and he could only assume the answer applied to all of his questions. “When? When is it going to happen? And why is it only happening now if he’s been here as long as you.”

  “I do not know. Something has shifted the balance. Without my grace, these matters remain mysterious to me. I cannot express my own frustrations over this through mere words.”

  “So where’s your grace and how do we get it back to you?”

  “Azazel wears it like a prize.” For the first time, the voice sounded bitter, perhaps even disgusted.

  “And how, exactly, are we supposed to get it?” Ben asked. “I couldn’t even see him earlier!”

  “He will reveal himself,” the voice said. “You will force him to.”

  “No offense, but I don’t think you’ve got the right person for this.”

  “You will have help.”

  “Who, Nic? Tucker? Are you kidding me?”

  “Humans are resilient. It is one of your more admirable qualities.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Ben went quiet and considered the angel’s proposition. The phone remained silent as well.

  “Look, um—what’s your name anyway? Do you even have a name?”

  “Of course I have a name. I am Raziel.”

  Ben arched both of his eyebrows. For a moment, he wanted to burst into laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.

  Raziel. Of course the angel speaking to me through voicemail messages would have a name like Raziel.

  “Okay, Raziel,” Ben said, struggling to regain his composure. “Let’s pretend I say, ‘Yeah, sure, what the hell.’ How do I force a fallen angel to show himself to me?”

  “You will trap him. You must break the sigil that binds me and forge your own in its place, one that will bind Azazel once he is summoned.”

  “And where is the sigil?” Ben asked, though he thought he might have an idea. “Is it where you fell? The factory?”

  “Beneath,” Raziel said. “You will have to dig.”

  “Why can’t you do it?” Ben asked. “Why can’t you break the sigil if you know where it is?”

  “It repels me while it is intact. Malakim magic is strong even when perverted.”

  “Malakim? Is that what you were speaking before?”

  “No, it is a human name for the angels derived from the Adamical language, which I employed against Azazel. It is not as effective as what you might call my ‘mother tongue,’ but it is old and burns his sullied grace.”

  “Is that why he spoke in Latin?”

  “Latin is a human creation and therefore free of the divinity that dwells in the language of the Garden.”

  “The Garden? Of Eden?” Ben’s phone did not vibrate, and he took a breath. “What’s the angel name for your ‘mother tongue,’ then?”

  “For me to speak it to you now would dismantle your physical form.”

  Ben dropped down into his father’s desk chair. He said nothing as the angel’s words repeated in his head, reinforcing the fact that he was in the middle of something far beyond his ken. His ken was like a stray baseball knocked clean out of the stadium. No, it was not even that. His ken was the guy stuck in traffic on the way to the game with no hope of arriving before the final inning. He might as well turn the car around and go home.

  “So,” Ben started, swallowing down the lump that had formed in his throat. “Why don’t you get one of your angel buddies to help you? You have other brothers, don’t you? Or sisters maybe? I mean, you’ve been here a while. Shouldn’t they have sent a search party by now?”

  The phone remained still for a long beat, and Ben furrowed his brow at it as if willing it to vibrate. When it finally did, and he had dialed into voicemail, the angel’s shifting tone seemed to have flatlined into a sullen timbre.

  “I do not know,” Raziel said, and a heavy hush flooded the message. “It is strange to think I have not been missed.”

  Nicholas’ solemn blue eyes flashed across Ben’s memory. I kept waiting for you to come back. Ben traced the pad of his right index finger over his lower lip and slumped his shoulders.

  “I’m sure they miss you,” he said. “Maybe the sigil you’re talking about blocks your location.”

  “I have entertained that idea.” Raziel’s voice was still strangely even, and Ben wondered how often the angel had clung to the thought.

  “Can I ask you something?” Ben asked after a moment. “What was that about when I saw you before? When I was a kid. Why did you chase us?”

  “I did not chase you. You simply ran. Certain humans can hear my true voice. When I saw
you, I thought you were one of them.”

  “What about Evelyn Lewis?” Ben probed. “Why did you claw out her eyes?”

  “I am only responsible for saving her life. Azazel did the rest. He enjoys his trophies.”

  “Trophies? Like Emily Lewis’ heart? Is that what all the missing livestock is about? Or does he eat them?”

  “Yes.” The response was terse but grim, and, once again, Ben assumed it applied to all of his questions.

  “Why?” he asked, unable to hide his horror.

  “Power.” Raziel did not expound, and Ben was almost thankful.

  “You saved Grant Harper, didn’t you?”

  “Azazel has a fondness for children.”

  “Jesus,” Ben murmured.

  “Do not blaspheme, Benjamin Wisehart.”

  Ben almost snorted. Almost.

  “Sorry.” He gazed out the window again, half-expecting to see Raziel perched on the sill outside. “So if we do this, you’ll get rid of him? You’ll ‘vanquish’ him, and Point Pleasant will be okay? No more deaths, no disaster, it’ll all be okay?”

  “Death is a normal part of human life. You are aware of this fact. Death will always exist whether or not Azazel does. However, this place will be free of his presence. Life will continue as it should.”

  “And you get to go home?”

  “Yes.”

  “That must be a nice thought. After so long away, I mean.”

  “You would know.”

  “I guess I would.”

  Ben rose and paced around the desk. Andrew’s armchair sat empty with the pack of Marlboros by its arm. Ben eyed the worn leather of the arms and was struck by an irrational affinity with the strange voice in his inbox and the winged creature to which it belonged.

  “Okay, Raz. I’ll help you.”

  The phone did not buzz straight away, and Ben frowned as he waited. When he felt the vibration in his palm and checked the new message, Ben was surprised by the gentle tone of the voice. “Thank you, Benjamin Wisehart.”

  “I’ll get Nic and Tucker on board,” Ben said. “Or at least try to. What do we do?”

  “The full moon is on Monday,” Raziel said in his next message. “The magic will be strongest then.”

  “It’s Friday today,” Ben said with rising concern. “That’s a long time to wait considering everything that’s happening.”

  “It will give you time to uncover the sigil.”

  Ben sighed and supposed that was true. They would have to dig through however many layers of concrete and earth to reach something that had been buried there five hundred years prior.

  “Fair enough. And what happens in the meantime? If Azazel shows up to do whatever he’s going to do?”

  “We must be vigilant.”

  “Uh huh. Salt, iron, holy water… are those all a good idea to keep on hand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great,” Ben said, and he winced at the trace of sarcasm he could detect in his own voice. “Any other advice?”

  “Pray.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that,” Ben said, rolling his eyes.

  “Have faith, Benjamin Wisehart.”

  Ben had no idea how to respond to the angel’s words; he was unsure if they were an order or merely a suggestion. He swallowed again and reached up to touch the arrowhead that dangled from the leather cord around his neck.

  “You can call me Ben, you know,” he said. “And thank you. For the arrowhead, I mean.”

  “I am pleased it is back with you. Keep it close from now on. Goodbye, Ben.”

  Ben pocketed the phone and rubbed at his temples. For a moment, he was certain he had never made it to Point Pleasant. He had crashed the Camaro on I-79 at some point during his drive down from Boston, and all this business with angels—fallen or otherwise—was actually his fleeting grapple with consciousness. At any second, Rod Serling would appear with a cigarette, take a deep drag, and welcome Ben to the Twilight Zone.

  Illustration, Chapter Two. “Naenia typica.”

  Illustration, Chapter Three. “Apamea monoglypha.”

  Chapter Three

  Angelology was a complicated field of study. If Ben had access to a decent library, he was certain he would have marveled over the highbrow texts his research would no doubt uncover. As it happened, it was almost seven o’clock in the evening, and Ben was stuck in his father’s house on Cardinal Lane. His trusty friend Google was of some assistance, however.

  Over the course of two hours, Ben scrolled through search results for as much information on angels as he could find, though the Internet boasted a strange amalgamation of blogs shrouded in mysticism, serious academic work, and websites smothered by enough sparkling, animated Precious Moments gifs to cause a seizure. His travels led him to a website with what claimed to be a complete list of all the known angels in Heaven, and Ben puzzled over how many of them were real.

  Raziel was featured prominently and referred to as an archangel, which seemed to be the highest rank of the species, though such a term felt inappropriate when describing the apparent multitude of celestial beings that occupied some other realm Ben had never believed to exist. One article called Raziel the scholar of Heaven and keeper of divine secrets. A geek angel, basically. Another website heralded him as the ‘angel of mysteries,’ which Ben thought apt considering the situation and the level of frustration that Raziel had claimed to be unable to express.

  Azazel was more complicated. The name itself translated into something akin to ‘scapegoat’ or ‘the one sent away.’ This felt appropriate for an angel who had been cast out of Heaven. He seemed to have been a lesser angel than Raziel, which brought up the question of just how Azazel had been able to overcome the archangel and remove his grace.

  Ben pondered the notion of angel grace and if it was at all akin to the idea of a human having a soul. He had never given much thought to the idea of owning one, but he wondered what it would feel like to have it ripped out. He thought of Emily Lewis’ heart and cringed.

  Azazel had been one of the chief Grigori, a rank of angels whose sole purpose was to watch over humanity. According to the apocryphal book of Enoch, Azazel had married a human woman and spawned children with her. The children were monstrous giants, and the Biblical flood responsible for the creation of Noah’s ark was attributed as the means of their destruction. Azazel was also said to have introduced weaponry, jewelry, and makeup to humanity, which, apparently, led to war, godlessness, and fornication.

  That Lizzie Collins owed her red lips to one of the creatures in the woods was enough to make Ben laugh with unease.

  Oh well.

  The fallen angel’s general corruption of humanity was apparently an issue with his brothers upstairs, who saw Azazel as having “brought unrighteousness on earth and revealed the eternal secrets which were in Heaven.”

  God ordered Raziel to cast his brother into the Pit as punishment.

  “And place upon him rough and jagged rocks, and cover him with darkness, and let him abide there forever, and cover his face that he may not see light.” Ben read the words aloud, affecting a Hestonian timbre that rang like Moses in The Ten Commandments, and he whistled.

  “Who knew Heaven had such a dysfunctional family?” Ben asked the empty office.

  The doorbell rang, and Ben closed his laptop. He was cautious as he approached the front door and peered through the peephole, but he saw Nicholas on the front step and opened the door.

  “Come on in, Sheriff.”

  “I can’t stay long,” Nicholas said. “I’m off duty, but I told Ford I’d be home. I should stay close to the station.”

  “Oh, okay. I get it,” Ben said. He frowned as he assessed Nicholas’ appearance.

  The sheriff had seemed so self-assured and in control at the town meeting. Behind the closed door of the Wisehart house, Nicholas’ shoulders sagged.

  He reached out and brushed the fingertips of his right hand over Ben’s. “I wanted to see if you’d come with me. You could bring all
your stuff and stay as long as you want until this is sorted out.”

  “You should probably sleep,” Ben replied. “You look tired. I’d just get in the way.”

  “Don’t be stupid. I can sleep with you.”

  Ben hummed and considered the option. “Tempting.”

  “Humor me,” Nicholas said. “And besides, I won’t be able to sleep knowing you’re here alone.”

  “I’ve been on my own for a long time, Nic. I think I can handle myself.”

  “But you don’t have to be alone,” Nicholas said, then added, “unless that’s what you want.”

  “Not really. I’m kind of freaking out.”

  “Why, did something else happen?” Nicholas asked with concern.

  “You know,” Ben sighed, “just when it seems like I have said the craziest thing anyone could ever say, I end up with something even crazier.”

  “Go get your stuff,” Nicholas said as he held up a hand. “You can tell me on the drive.”

  “I’ll meet you there, actually,” Ben replied, which prompted a confused head tilt from Nicholas. “I want to take my car,” Ben explained. “I rode to town with Tucker earlier, and the walk back was creepy as fuck. I don’t wanna do it again tomorrow.”

  “Oh, right. Okay.”

  “Also, I don’t trust you not to make me sit in the backseat,” Ben said and shot a wry smile.

  For the first time that day, a genuine laugh escaped Nicholas’ lips. He turned to leave but paused when he noticed Tucker’s spare Remington by the door. “Do you have a permit for that?”

  Ben uttered a derisive snort. “Are you kidding me?”

  Nicholas offered a coy smile. “Yes.”

  “Wiseass,” Ben said.

  Warm affection lightened Nicholas’ features. “Hey now, that’s my name for you.”

  “I’m borrowing it,” Ben replied with a fond smirk.

  “Seriously, though. What’s with the shotgun?”