Ash: Return of the Beast

by Gary Tenuta

  “Thank you. Like I was saying, he’s trying to conjure these demons, the offspring of the Old Ones. I think he’s performing an elaborate ritual and these murders are sacrifices to the Old Ones in exchange for the Old Ones giving their permission for their offspring to be let loose from the Underworld.”

  Kane shook his head. “Where the hell are you coming up with all this crap, anyway?”

  “I’ve studied this crap extensively. It’s what I do. It’s my job, remember? Anyway, listen to me. There’s more.”

  “I don’t know if I can take anymore.”

  She pointed to her sketch of the symbol of Kutulu. “This Kutulu character is special among the offspring. He is said to be the most powerful of all the offspring because he alone holds within him all the magick and power that the other offspring can use against the humans here in the world of the living. That’s why he’s the last one, number 9, in the sequence. Curious thing, though. He’s the only one of the offspring that can’t be summoned. Not by any priest or magician of any occult order.”

  That raised Kane’s eyebrows. “Really? Then what the hell are we worried about? Going on the assumption that all of this is true––and I’m not saying I believe a word of it, mind you––then even if all the other offspring showed up here like a bunch of freakin’ zombies, they’d be pretty much powerless to do anything without this Kutulu character, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What maybe? You just told me––”

  “I know. But there is one more thing. Trouble is I can’t verify the information.”

  “What is it?”

  “A rumor with absolutely no background as to where it started and, as far as I’ve been able to determine, there’s no historical evidence whatsoever to support it.”

  “Well, c’mon. What the hell is it?”

  “Another book.”

  “Jesus. What is this, the library of the damned? And what, pray tell, is supposed to be in this little book?”

  “Little is the right word. Supposedly it’s small enough to fit in the palm of your hand and doesn’t have more than maybe twenty-five or thirty pages.”

  “This little gem have a name?”

  “Roughly translated, it’s called The Keys of the Gate Keeper.”

  “Wasn’t that a movie?”

  Ravenwood grinned. “I don’t think so. The keys are spells and incantations, said to have been created by the ancient Sumerian god, Enki.”

  “Inky?”

  “Enki. The supreme Lord and Master of all magick. One of those spells or incantations is said to have power over Kutulu. In the hands of a true magician it could be used to awaken and summon the otherwise nearly comatose Kutulu.”

  “So he’s the baddest of the bad?”

  “Oh, he’s worse than that. It’s said that when Kutulu comes through the Gate, and enters the land of the living, all Hell will break loose. The indestructible offspring will feed on human flesh, the world will be in chaos and the carnage will continue until no human is left alive.”

  She let that image impress itself into Kane’s brain as she got up and set the empty cup on his desk. “You know,” she said in a serious tone, “your coffee sucks.”

  He shook his head. “What?”

  “Your coffee. It sucks. And anyway, I have to leave. I have to get to a meeting in an hour. Think about what I told you. I know you don’t believe any of it but, trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

  When she was gone Kane was left with an unsettled feeling in his stomach and it wasn’t from the coffee. Out of the entire conversation, one word was still at the forefront of his mind: Revenge. A memory that he’d managed to keep repressed for so long was now churning in his gut and it wanted to come up all over his desk.

  CHAPTER 15

  Three Months Earlier…

  Cowl shed the strange hooded robe and hung it back in the closet. “My initiation?” he asked, turning to the Messenger.

  “We’ll begin tomorrow night. If you’re ready.”

  “Ready? For what, exactly?”

  “To receive the Beast, of course.”

  “What?”

  “Are you ready to resurrect the spirit of Aleister Crowley? To become the vessel of his spiritual essence?”

  “You’re shitting me. Right?”

  The Messenger laughed. “Not at all. The time has come to take the first step to exacting your revenge… to realizing your ‘Someday’. That’s what you’ve been waiting for all these years, is it not?”

  The word, ‘Someday’, seared itself into Cowl’s brain and burned like hell. Every last horrifying moment of that encounter with Pastor Pete flashed through his mind in excruciating detail. He looked at the Messenger. “Hell, yes. What do I have to do?”

  The Messenger pointed to the cinerary urn. “I think you know.”

  “Yeah… but how?

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “But––”

  Without another word, the Messenger was gone.

  A rush of anxiety crawled over Cowl’s skin like a swarm of ants. He turned his gaze toward the desk across the room. The shiny, black urn beckoned for his attention. He started to approach it but stopped with a confused look on his face. The lid of the urn had been removed and was now sitting upon the diary. What the––?

  He moved quickly to the desk and stared at the opened urn. I know I didn’t do that.

  He leaned over and peered into the accursed container. A puff of ash suddenly burst up out of it, directly into his face. He gasped, sucking the sour ash into his mouth and up his nose. Choking, spitting and nearly blinded, he grabbed the lid of the urn but it slipped from his fingers, hit the floor and tumbled away into the shadows. His nostrils burned, his eyes watered, as he staggered backward into the chair.

  Nauseous and groggy, he struggled to get to his feet to retrieve the lid but his quivering legs gave in and he flopped back into the chair. His eyelids fluttered, his head dropped to his chest and everything faded to black.

  He awoke the next morning with a stiff neck and a foul taste in his mouth. He looked about, groaning and wiping the grit from the corners of his eyes. As the fog cleared from his brain he recalled the events of the previous night. Gotta find the damned lid. Half way out of the chair, he froze, stunned by what he saw. The urn was sealed with the lid firmly in place.

  CHAPTER 16

  Three Months Later…

  Kane blew the head of steam off his first cup of morning coffee and stood staring at the calendar on his office wall. It had been nine days since the last preacher met his maker at the hands of… what? A lunatic? A boogeyman? Kane didn’t know. All he knew was that this was day number nine and, unless something had changed, all he had to do was sit and wait for the phone to ring.

  The hours passed.

  By 2 o’clock in the afternoon the only call he got was from Special Agent Ravenwood asking if he’d heard anything.

  “Nothing. Nada,” he told her. “You think he’s changed his M.O.?”

  “Doubt it. This guy’s carrying out some sort of a ritual. Unless he’s dead he won’t stop until he’s completed the pattern. Let me know the minute you hear anything.”

  “If I don’t hear anything does that mean I never have to talk to you again?”

  “Yeah, right. Just call me.”

  Kane chuckled and hung up the phone.

  Another three hours passed and Kane was beginning to think maybe Ravenwood was wrong. God, wouldn’t that be sweet?

  The call came in a few minutes after five. The preacher killer had struck again. Martin ‘Marty’ St. Martin, victim number six, was only 33 years old, married with two kids.

  It crossed Kane’s mind that making a trip to the crime scene was almost pointless. He doubted it would reveal any more clues than they already had which was next to nothing. The call from Detective Wheeler––already on the scene––pretty much confirmed his suspicion. Every detail of the scene was an exact repeat of the other five. But the location seemed
a little odd.

  “They found the body where?” Kane asked.

  “In the men’s restroom at the Queen City Concert Hall. And get this. His clothes were soaked with urine. Presumably his own.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Nice, huh? Samples are on the way for DNA testing.”

  “Anybody see anything?”

  “No. But shortly after we got here about a half dozen people from his church showed up. Apparently he was heading up a protest and was supposed to meet these people at five o’clock to get organized. He’d arrived ahead of them and by the time they got here he was dead.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “Maintenance guy. John Cushman. Long time employee. He was just getting off work for the day. We checked him out. Family man. Volunteers as a soccer coach for under privileged kids on weekends. Clean record. He was pretty shook up about the whole thing.”

  “Okay. What about this protest? What’s that about?”

  “Ever hear of a band called Mega Therion?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “Death Metal crap. You know. Head bangers. That shit.”

  “Yeah. Second only to rap for the most annoying noise on the planet.”

  Wheeler chuckled. “Yeah, well these guys are into weird stuff. At least you’d think so if you ever heard the lyrics to their songs.”

  “How so?”

  “Dark stuff. Satanic. Demons and shit. You know. That’s why this Pastor St. Martin and his people were here. The band’s playing here tonight. The pastor and his people were planning to stage a protest. They believe the band is responsible for turning kids away from Christ and all that stuff.”

  “Hmm… interesting. Sort of fits with this mumbo jumbo that Ravenwood’s been feeding me. Any of the band members there?”

  “No. Not yet. According to the guy who manages this place the band isn’t scheduled to show up for another hour to get set up for the show. But you’ll like this. We got another video. The concert hall manager is getting it for us as we speak.”

  “Excellent. Bring it in, pronto. I can’t wait to see this one. And get me all the info you can about that band. I want names, addresses, phone numbers. Whatever you can find out.”

  Kane ended his conversation with Wheeler and promptly called Ravenwood.

  “So, Ravenwood, you wanna see a movie?”

  “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  “You should be so lucky. The boogeyman struck again. We got video.”

  “Save me a seat. I’ll be right there.”

  “Bring popcorn.”

  CHAPTER 17

  A Few Hours Earlier…

  The old stairs creaked with each step as Cowl made his way down to the main floor of the Manor. He looked at his watch. There were still two hours before he had to meet with the other band members at the concert hall to prepare for the show. Plenty of time.

  He entered the Inner Sanctum, moved straight to the secret closet, pulled the door open and stepped in. The musty smell that permeated the interior of the enclosure was well suited to the foul deed he was about to commit for the sixth time. He glanced at his watch again and immediately began removing his clothes.

  When he was completely naked he lifted the hooded robe from the hook. Draping the robe over his arm, he stroked its velvety blackness as if it were a beloved pet. Then––feeling a sense of piety that surely the Pope himself must feel when donning the holy vestments in preparation to administer some sacred rite of the Church––Cowl slipped into his own sacred garment and drew it closed at the waist.

  Now, secure in his new skin, he reached up and retrieved a wooden box from the shelf above the robes. The box, slightly larger than a shoebox, was smooth and unadorned, coated in a glossy black lacquer. He gently, admiringly, brushed the tips of his fingers across the cool, smooth finish of its brass-hinged lid.

  He moved to a corner of the room, set the box down, and rolled the carpet back, revealing a 6-foot diameter rendering of the modified Lucifer Seal he’d painted onto the hardwood floor. He stood for a moment admiring the precision of his work. Then he lifted the hood of the robe onto his head, stepped into the center of the magickal Seal and opened the box.

  Inside the box were nine white candles. Five had been lit for a time and extinguished in the previous sessions and were now half the length of the others.

  He dropped to his knees, reached into the box and retrieved the first of the five spent candles. He placed it on one of the nine points of the unholy geometric pattern. He lit the candle, bowed his head and began to chant.

  “Shadah inzu korah. Shadah inzu korah.” The words rolled out in a low, throaty whisper. Then louder. “Shadah inzu korah! Humwawa, Lord of decay and demise, thou hast carried me to and from the first of nine. Thy task is complete. We are One! Shadah inzu korah!”

  He retrieved another spent candle from the box, set it on the next of the nine points of the Seal, lit the candle and bowed his head.

  “Shadah inzu korah. Shadah inzu korah. Shadah inzu korah! Pazuzu, Dark angel of four wings, thou hast carried me to and from the second of nine. Thy task is complete. We are One! Shadah inzu korah!”

  And the next…

  “Shadah inzu korah. Shadah inzu korah. Shadah inzu korah! Xastur, most foul demoness among the Offspring of the Old Ones! Thou who dost slay men as they sleep and who dost lust after their flesh and devour it at thy pleasure! Thou hast carried me to and from the third of nine. Thy task is complete. We are One! Shadah inzu korah!”

  In like manner, the fourth and fifth of the spent candles––that of the demon Akhkharu who yearns to suck the blood from Men and that of Lalassu, the demon that haunts the dwellings of Man and desires to become a Man––these were placed on the Seal, lit once again and recognized for the service they had rendered over the past many weeks.

  Having set each of the previously used candles aglow, he placed the four virgin candles on the remaining points of the Seal. He left number six alone for the moment and lit numbers seven, eight and nine without ceremony. Then he returned to the sixth candle, Lalartu. He raised it above his head, giving honor to the Old Ones, then set it back in place. He lit it, bowed his head and recited the evocation to conjure the demon, Lalartu, into service.

  “Harok uzni hadahs. Harok uzni hadahs. Harok uzni hadahs! Lalartu, sixth Offspring of the Old Ones! Blood demon! Dweller amongst the undead! Come! Thou who dost slay mothers at the moment of birth! Come! Carry me to the sixth of nine and light the path for my return! Then we shall be as One! Harok uzni hadahs!”

  The sixth candle began shaking, vibrating furiously. The flame flared beyond its natural capacity filling the room with a blinding light. Cowl’s body went limp as the intense brilliance subsided.

  At that moment, Cowl’s virtual double––enshrouded in a hooded robe––materialized in the restroom at the concert hall where Pastor St. Martin was in the process of unzipping his pleated black trousers.

  Deep in thought about the protest he was about to lead against Mega Therion––that abomination and corruptor of innocent youth––the preacher was about to relieve his straining bladder when his attention was suddenly drawn to an unexpected reflection in the mirror before him. He froze, staring at the dark hooded figure standing not five feet behind him. A crackling sound came from above. St. Martin looked up. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling were flickering like strobe lights. A moment later the room went dark.

  St. Martin panicked. He spun around, his piss spattering onto the green tiled floor. One fluorescent tube in the corner flickered and came on, barely illuminating the darkness with a dim, bluish glow. “Jesus!” he said, fumbling awkwardly at his zipper.

  “Not exactly,” the Hooded Figure replied from the shadows. The haunting voice came from deep within the folds of the large drooping hood. “But you would do well to pray.” The Hooded Figure then took one step forward from the shadows into the gloomy half-light.

  The preacher jerked back with a sharp gasp. He searched
for a face somewhere in the dark void of the hood but he could only catch a tiny glint of light reflecting off the whites of the eyes. What is this? He believed in demons but… No… this must be some kind of a joke. A sick joke.

  The Hooded Figure took another step forward, then stopped.

  The preacher sucked in another gasp and shuffled backward until he was pressed up against the hard, cold porcelain urinal.

  The Hooded Figure lolled its head to one side, then the other, casually studying the pathetic excuse for a man who was shaking like a timid mouse trapped in a corner.

  The mouse swallowed hard, his eyes darting this way and that, wanting to run but unable to move. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  The Hooded Figure advanced another step but stopped as its foot made a splat in the puddle on the floor. It looked down and shook its head. “Tsk-tsk. What have you done? You’re a very bad little boy.”

  “I––I’m––”

  “Now who’s going to clean that up?”

  “I… I don’t––”

  “You don’t know? Then I shall tell you.” The Hooded Figure’s fatherly tone was gentle but firm. “You. You’re going to clean this up.”

  “Wh––what?” The preacher’s lower lip was quivering.

  “You’re going to do exactly as I say. Now get down on the floor.”

  “Don’t hurt me. Please!”

  The Hooded Figure raised an arm as if to strike the man. “The floor, goddamit! Now!”

  St. Martin dropped to his knees, trembling. Without looking up, he muttered, nearly sobbing. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”

  “Not on your knees, you fucking imbecile. Down! On your stomach!”

  St. Martin slowly lowered himself face down into the stench of his own urine.

  The Hooded Figure nodded approvingly. “Very good. Now squirm around like the worm you are until you’ve sopped up every last drop of your filthy mess.”

  The preacher’s will to resist was overpowered by a force beyond his comprehension. Whimpering like a helpless child, he found himself squirming and writhing around in his own liquid waste until his clothes were soaked.