Ash: Return of the Beast

by Gary Tenuta

  “Get up.”

  St. Martin struggled to his feet, his legs quivering, his hands and face glistening wet, his clothes damp and wrinkled. He stunk of piss. The unpleasant odor wafted up into his nostrils. A chunk of vomit lodged in his throat. He gagged it down. It came up again. He swallowed. It burned his throat. His eyes welled up.

  The Hooded Figure nodded. “That’s much better, yes.”

  “I––I don’t understand.” The preacher’s voice was wavering and weak. “What do you want from me?”

  “Silence would be good.”

  Silence? Somehow a moment of clarity had found its way into St. Martin’s state of confusion and fear, offering a glimmer of hope. There must be other people in the building! He summoned what little will power he had left and acted on his flash of inspiration. “Let me go or I’ll yell for help. I swear to God, I will.”

  “Well, that would just ruin everything. But, if you insist, then by all means, please. Be my guest.”

  The preacher was surprised by the response but wasn’t about to waste another moment. He opened his mouth to yell but nothing came out. He tried again, every muscle in his throat straining, arteries bulging, his face contorting into hideous shapes. Again and again and still nothing. Finally, breathless, confused, shaking with fear, he sank to his knees and wept, pleading to God for this nightmare to end.

  The Hooded Figure looked down at its victim and spoke in a measured, sympathetic tone. “I know. But it’s almost over. Now get up and come toward me.”

  The preacher’s mouth moved as he tried to speak. Toward you? Again, no sound, but he could hear his own words clearly inside his own head.

  “You heard me,” the Hooded Figure said. “Come here.”

  The preacher then realized his thoughts were somehow being perceived by the hooded creature. The realization frightened him to the point of near madness. He was no longer alone in the sanctuary of his own mind. That frail barrier had been breached. The intruder was inside.

  St. Martin’s head dropped to his chest and he obeyed the command. He prayed as he moved against his own will toward the hooded figure. Our Father…

  The Hooded Figure recited the prayer along with the preacher. “…who art in Heaven…”

  The preacher struggled to hear his own inner voice over that of the monster. …deliver us from evil… But with those words he realized the futility of the effort. He left the prayer floating in limbo.

  “What’s the matter?” the Hooded Figure said. Forget the words?”

  St. Martin’s head lifted slowly as if it had become a tremendous weight. His eyes were empty.

  “Too bad.” The Hooded Figure’s voice was contemplative, almost compassionate. “It’s a nice prayer, actually.” Then his tone switched abruptly. “But, no matter. We’ve got a couple more things to get done here. So let’s get on with it, shall we? Come closer.”

  St. Martin moved another step closer and waited––for what, he could not fathom. He didn’t even try. He was an empty, distorted reflection of the once dynamic man who had, for years, passionately served the very God that had now, for some inscrutable reason, abandoned him to the will of this monster.

  “Now,” the Hooded Figure said, “I’m going to heal you.”

  Heal––?

  “C’mon. You know. The laying on of hands?” It raised an arm and extended a hand out of the dark sleeve toward the preacher’s face. “Close your eyes. This might hurt a little.”

  St. Martin’s eyes suddenly clamped shut in spite of his straining to keep them open and the creature began to chant.

  “Kah-hahdin azahn. Dinjah Dinjasa. Kah-hahdin azahn. Dinjah Dinjasa!”

  The very sound of the strange words caused St. Martin to recoil in horror. God in heaven! Help me!

  The Hooded Figure carried on, oblivious to the preacher’s torment. “Hear me, O Lucifer! Son of the morning! Approve this invocation with the seal of my Master!” The Hooded Figure pressed its hand against the preacher’s forehead and pushed hard. “Thy will be done! Aum. Ha!”

  St. Martin’s eyes flew open, bulging from their sockets. A searing pain ripped through his skull and burned like a hot poker under his rippling skin. He knew his screams, his desperate wailing cries for help, were heard by no one but himself, inside his own head. Paralyzed by the will of the monster, he was helpless to do anything but endure the torture. How many times during his ministry had he told people they were destined for Hell and now Hell had come to him.

  The hooded figure withdrew its hand and stepped back.

  St. Martin collapsed to the floor, a quivering heap of a shattered soul. Crowley’s rendition of the Lucifer Seal was now seared into the flesh of his forehead.

  The Hooded Figure nodded approvingly and knelt beside the preacher. “I told you it might hurt a little.” The tone was mockingly sympathetic. “Now just relax. I’m going to prepare you for something special.”

  The preacher’s eyes pleaded for mercy.

  “I know, I know. But we’re just getting to the good part. You’ll like this. Trust me.” The Hooded Figure slowly unbuttoned the preacher’s shirt, spread it open, rolled the undershirt up to the man’s chin and gazed upon the smooth canvas of naked flesh. “Ahhhh, yes. Very, very nice.”

  The preacher struggled against the psychic straightjacket this monster had strapped around him. It was no use. His inability to move of his own will was pushing him ever further toward the edge of madness. He tried again to catch a glimpse of his tormentor’s face but looking into the darkness of the cavernous hood was like staring into the proverbial valley of the shadow of death. I will fear no evil…

  “Ah, yes,” the Hooded Figure said. “The ol’ twenty-third Psalm. Very good. How’s it workin’ for ya? You know, my dear mother used to read that to me at night, just after making me recite something about ‘if I should die before I wake’. I slept real good with that going through my mind. Do you make your kids say that one? I bet you do. I bet you fucking make your kids say that one.”

  A pitiful noise gurgled up from St. Martin’s throat.

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

  The restroom door suddenly rattled.

  The preacher’s eyes lit up. Someone was trying to open it. I knew there had to be someone else here! Help! Please!

  The door rattled again.

  Once more the preacher’s silent pleas echoed inside his own head. Help! Please, help me!

  The rattling stopped. “Damn it!” came a frustrated voice from beyond the door. The curse was followed by the barely audible sound of fading footsteps. The preacher’s last glimmer of hope was walking away.

  “Oh, come on. You didn’t really think I’d let just anybody walk in here, did you? This is our time, just you and me. Now, be a good little boy and close your eyes. No peeking.”

  Once again, St. Martin’s eyelids fluttered uncontrollably as they struggled to resist the power that was drawing them closed. Dear God, this isn’t happening! Tears squeezed out from behind his clamped eyelids. Don’t let… Oh, Jesus… What is that?

  The Hooded Figure was pressing its finger against the preacher’s bare chest and slowly, skillfully, it was tracing out the sigil of the sixth demon.

  The scream that tried to escape from St. Martin’s lungs would have shattered the walls. The blistering sensation beneath his skin followed along the winding path of the Hooded Figure’s finger like a slow burning fuse. The welts began to rise up on his flesh in the shape of the unholy sign.

  “Lalartu!” the Hooded Figure bellowed. “Sixth Offspring of the Old Ones! Blood demon! Dweller amongst the undead! Thou who dost slay mothers at the moment of birth! This is your sign! I give you this soul!”

  St. Martin’s eyes flew open. His nerves were on fire, his body buckled and twitched as if he were being electrocuted. He saw his wife waving goodbye as he left the house that morning––He heard his children playing and laughing––He saw the dog he accidentally hit with the car ten years ago––He saw his mother pac
king his lunch for his first day at school––The wrist watch his father gave him for his sixteenth birthday––The Bible he kept by the bed with all the important passages underlined... A moment later he was motionless, delirious and defeated, begging God to let him die.

  The Hooded Figure rose up and looked down at the preacher. “‘I form the light and create darkness. I make peace and create evil. I, the Lord, do all these things.’ Isaiah forty-five, verse seven.”

  St. Martin barely heard the words through the pounding of his own pulse throbbing inside his ears.

  “Do you know the phrase, coup de grace? The stroke of grace? Well, that my dear St. Martin, is the holy gift you’re about to receive.”

  ***

  The shadows on the walls of the Inner Sanctum danced wildly in concert with the flickering light of the candles. Droplets of sweat rolled down Rye Cowl’s face, his body tense, anxious. The anticipation of the approaching moment of ecstasy was nearly unbearable. He could smell it, taste it.

  ***

  St. Martin was barely conscious. Yet he could clearly hear the Hooded Figure’s voice but it was coming from inside his own head. Unfasten your belt. Maybe he’d been hearing it in his head all along. Maybe none of this was real. Maybe it’s all been one horrendous hallucination. Maybe it–– I know you can hear me. Now unfasten your belt and push your pants down. No. This isn’t real.

  As St. Martin desperately tried to deny what was happening, he felt the cold floor beneath his bare buttocks. His body had already complied with the command. Now roll over like a good dog. Dear God in Heaven, deliver me…

  St. Martin found himself face down on the floor, his streaming tears blending with what was left of his own urine smeared across the tiles. Again, he heard the Hooded Figure’s voice echoing inside his head.

  Alashem-barah-alashem! Lalartu, sixth Offspring of the Old Ones! Blood demon! Dweller amongst the undead! Thou who dost slay mothers at the moment of birth––––––

  Towering over the preacher, the Hooded Figure loosened its robe, let it fall open, and slowly lowered itself into position to consummate the evocation.

  ––––––I give this soul to you!

  With the initial stroke of grace, a jolting tremor ripped through St. Martin’s body. His heart sputtered and seized up like an old motor and, with a final gasp, he was gone.

  ***

  Rye Cowl’s head jerked back, his muscles tensed, his body quaked as a series of orgasmic spasms rippled through his system. The circle of candles flared. The room lit up like a flash bomb. Cowl’s seed exploded onto the floor like a stream of hot wax. A moment later, the candles flickered and died out, one by one, until a thick and heavy darkness consumed the Inner Sanctum and Cowl collapsed onto the floor.

  ***

  The Hooded Figure rolled the preacher over, pried his mouth open and placed a black plastic coin onto the dead man’s tongue like a priest dispensing a Communion wafer.

  The Hooded Figure stood up, closed its robe, uttered the final words, ‘Aum. Ha’, and vanished into the aether.

  ***

  At that moment, Rye Cowl felt the familiar twitching sensation of that strange part of himself reentering his body––a prodigal son returning home. He shook off the trance and slowly struggled to his feet. Once he gained his equilibrium and was fully conscious, he wiped his sweat-drenched brow and staggered over to the chair behind the desk. He eased himself into it and sat, staring blankly at nothing for several moments. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the distant voices of children laughing, taunting him. Hey Rodney! Rodney Fuckworth-not-worth-a-fuck! He just grinned and checked his watch. His fans were waiting.

  CHAPTER 18

  The sodomy scene sent Kane’s stomach into a turmoil. He switched off the video. No one said anything for several moments.

  Wheeler was the first to break the silence. “Jee-sus. I’ve seen it all now.”

  Kane finally tore his eyes away from the blank screen and looked at Wheeler. “Not a word about this to anyone. Not a goddamn word. The last thing we need is for the press to get wind of what’s really going on here.”

  “What the hell is really going on here?” Wheeler asked.

  Kane turned to Ravenwood. She returned his look with a quick glance toward Wheeler and back to Kane again.

  Kane nodded. “Wheeler, you got stuff to do. I need that information about that band. And take this tape and lock it up. No one gets access to it without my authorization. Now get out of here.”

  Wheeler chuckled on his way out of Kane’s office. “Be a hell of a sensation on YouTube.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Kane poured a cup of coffee for Ravenwood and one for himself and leaned back in his chair. He looked tired. He closed his eyes, gave them a good hard massage and let out a long slow sigh. “Well, Wheeler did ask the question of the day, didn’t he? What the hell really is going on here?”

  Ravenwood raised an eyebrow. “C’mon. With all you’ve seen, and after everything I’ve told you, you really have to ask?”

  Kane exploded, slamming his hand down on the desk. “Christ!”

  “Feel better?”

  He got up and paced back and forth, buying a moment to gain control over his frustration. “Okay,” he said, finally, plopping back into the chair. He folded his arms and leaned back. “Let’s see if you’ve got an answer for this one.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You saw that creep do the nasty with that poor son of a bitch, right?”

  “Sex magic. Like I told you, but you didn’t believe me.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe there’s a little flaw in your theory.”

  Ravenwood was amused. “Really.”

  “Yeah. Maybe there’s nothing magic about any of this.”

  “What about the vanishing act?”

  “What? Oh, yeah. Well, I haven’t figured that one out yet. But this sex thing––”

  “The flaw in my theory.”

  “Yeah. The autopsy on the other victims showed no sign of semen. If I remember right, you said that whole sex magic thing was based on some hocus-pocus that happened at the moment of orgasm. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. So tell me, how does a guy have an orgasm without… you know.”

  “That’s a good question, Detective.”

  “Ah, ha. See?”

  “But I have an answer. And you probably won’t like it.”

  Kane rolled his eyes. “Oh, of course you do and of course I won’t.”

  “The answer is that I don’t think the hooded figure is a real person.”

  “What? You saw it with your own eyes. What the hell do you think it was? An illusion? I’m no physicist but I’m pretty sure illusions don’t show up on video tape.”

  “Not exactly an illusion. A phantasm. Sort of a mental representation of a real person. Or, in this case, maybe a better definition would be a mental projection from the mind of a real person. In some esoteric lore it’s better known as a doppelganger.”

  “A doppelganger. What the hell do you think this is, a friggin’ Stephen King novel?”

  “Stephen King didn’t make up the idea. Like other writers of paranormal fiction, he just borrowed it from a concept that’s been around for ages.”

  “And you’re going to sit there and tell me doppelgangers are real.”

  “Well, like Don Juan said to Carlos Castaneda, ‘What is real?’”

  “Casta-who? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Ravenwood shook her head. I should have known better. “Nothing. My point is, if that hooded figure is in fact a doppelganger––and I’m betting it is––then it explains both the lack of semen as well as the vanishing act.”

  “I’ll probably regret this, but explain what you mean.”

  “Pretty simple really. If the psychic energy of the person who is projecting the doppelganger is strong enough then the doppelganger can not only take on what appears to be a physical form, it can also interact physically with
other people. Nevertheless, it’s still a phantasm. See? An illusion, a mental construct. It’s real but it’s not real.” She noted Kane’s jaw tighten. “I know you hate that, but there’s really no other way to describe it. At least not in simple terms. Trust me, your eyes would glaze over if I gave you the graduate-level explanation. So just take my word for it.”

  “I’ll think about it. Just get to the point.”

  “Well, since it’s not an actual living being, it doesn’t possess the full range of biological functions of a living being. Cut it with a knife, it won’t bleed. Shoot it with a gun, it won’t die. If you watch the video again you’ll notice the hooded figure didn’t display any sort of visible orgasmic reaction at any point during or after the penetration. It was a pretty dispassionate act. My guess is that all the orgasmic energy was transferred directly to who ever was projecting the doppelganger.”

  She could see Kane was having a hard time buying her explanation but she also sensed he was at least giving it some consideration. After all, she thought, he doesn’t really have much choice.

  “So,” he said, finally, “if I buy into this doppelganger thing then I suppose that’s also the explanation for the fact that the damn thing just appears out of nowhere and disappears into… God knows where.”

  “Disappears back into the mind of the person who projected it.”

  Kane shook his head. “Unbelievable. And I don’t mean that as a figure of speech. It’s just goddam unbelievable.”

  Ravenwood grinned. “But you’re beginning to believe it.”

  Kane didn’t respond.

  “Well,” she said, changing the subject, “I’ve got something else to show you.”

  She pulled a sheet of paper from her briefcase and laid it on Kane’s desk. “Remember this?”