She walked over to the sink dumped out the rest of her drink and went into the bathroom. Her phone was vibrating again. She ignored it, closed the door, and turned on the shower. The steaming water rushed over her. Mads looked down at the tub put her head in her hands and began sobbing. She didn’t know who was making the call but knew what the call would be about.
She finished her shower, dried off, went back to the living room and checked her phone again. Six missed calls.
The next morning, Madeline Hexham would be on a plane to New Orleans.
Chapter Four
The wooded area was ideal for sacrifice. Late fall is the time of year between dark and light, heat and ice. The ultimate Venn diagram.
The two figures appeared at the end of the road. Their shadows stretched before them in the night and the full moon shone brightly at their backs.
Three large felled sycamore trees were strewn in perfect concealment of the grounds which stood at the edge of this part of the Hockomock Swamp.
The two figures set up tents in the moonlight. Despite the swamp being populated by all manner of living creatures, the silence was deafening and welcome to the two guests. They knew this was another signal.
The older of the two unpacked his hiking pack and produced tools for the ceremony. Candles, matches and a dark robe, among other necessities. The younger walked behind the largest of the sycamores which surrounded the make-shift camp.
The young woman had been brought here three days before. She was completely nude, with her mouth duct-taped and arms tied behind her, secured to the large tree. The twenty-three-year-old blond college co-ed had been kidnapped and brought to the swamp by three men hired by the older. They asked no questions and if they did have reservations about the job, those dissipated when several large rolled bundles of one hundred dollar bills were handed to them.
The summoning had been performed twice before in the last year. Once in spring and another in mid-July.
The Hockomock Swamp was well known by the locals and anyone else who studied paranormal phenomena. UFO’s, ghosts and beasts of all kinds had been documented in this part of the Bridgewater Triangle of eastern Massachusetts. To paranormal nerds of all stripes, this was the hot spot. Books and documentaries abound. The older and the younger knew, however, that few, except the most adventurous or simply nuts, would investigate the Hockomock in the dark.
The two visitors this night believed in the powers of the swamp, but for different reasons. Their ancestors had been coming here to perform the ritual sacrifices for generations. Dark forces were all around them. And older felt it. The younger of the two seemed fearless. This was out of sheer youthful ignorance. The older man knew the deal.
The young woman was brought to the center of the camp. A large, long flat rock sat near the campfire. The captive gave up screaming. She was starving and dehydrated. When the younger removed the duct tape from her mouth she did not scream. The younger offered her a drink of water from the water bladder he produced from his pack. The woman greedily drank from it. He guided her to the rock and helped her sit. The woman wordlessly finished off the water and stared at the fire.
“No food,” the older said.
“I know.” “I’m not stupid.” The younger man said, with indignation.
The older ignored this and continued his preparations.
It would be several hours before the rites would be performed and the others would not arrive until just before the sacrifice.
The moon would be at its fullest after 3 A.M.
It was Will’s, the older, job to make everything ready.
Will liked the younger, Joseph, but insisted to the council that he was not ready. Too immature. He lost the debate, however, and had no choice but to give in. The timetable had accelerated.
The slightest mistake could bring deadly consequences, and there may not be another chance to bring the General for millennia. The demon was given this nickname out of practicality. They dare not say his name aloud. For planning purposes, the General worked just fine and Will mused at it a bit.
The last sacrifice went off smoothly, and the council was pleased. He served at their whim, just as his forefathers before him. Will did not mind being the ‘Renfield’ in this scenario. The role was important, perhaps the most important. If the proper sacrifice was not chosen and handled correctly, the ritual could easily fail. He had been preparing for this his entire life.
Will was sixty years old, but a handsome man, bald with piercing green eyes. He was the successful owner of a thriving car dealership in Norton, Ma. His wife of thirty years, Maggie, knew nothing of this part of Will’s secret life. If all went well, she would find out, as would the rest of the world. He often had been frustrated by this. He longed to tell her of his important role in this universe-changing event.
Will’s ancestor’s role in the bringing, stretched all the way back to the Salem Witch Trials and further than that he supposed. To mistake Will as a Witch, would be an easy, given the work ahead of him. The distant relative, for whom he had been named; William Turner, had been on the persecuting side of those trials.
Since the days of the Salem Witch Trials, over three hundred years ago, witches had been mostly relegated to pop culture fiction and Halloween costumes. However, Will was warned not to grow complacent. Real practitioners of the craft rarely made themselves known. Many had no idea of their heritage at all. It was snuffed out of their family blood centuries ago.
Joseph stoked the campfire. It was a very chilly fall night, yet the sacrifice, though nude did not shiver at all. The younger pulled another water bladder from his pack along with a small cloth. He began to clean the woman in preparation for the sacrifice.
Will thought, perhaps the young man would be alright after all. He lay a circle of medium-sized rounded stones in a circle around the entire camp.
His train of thought returned to witches as he methodically created the circle of power.
He had given Joseph before they started out this night, the same warning the council had given him. The young man brushed it off with a laugh.
“Witches?” “They are all dead man.”
“No,” Will had told his young protégé. “They are out there, and one of them is very important to the General.”
The ‘one’ was the reason for the ritual sacrifices. The other witches were likely to come out of the shadows after tonight’s business concluded. The thought of it made his blood run cold.
They would not be covered by the witch trials of three hundred and twenty-five years ago. The forces the council brought forward, were vastly more powerful than any witch. Will knew, however, a witch with realized powers could stop or weaken the bringing.
After the last sacrifice in July, the bringing of the ‘General’ had been completed. Tonight’s final sacrifice would bring about his full power so he may fully control the vessel. This was esoteric council business to Will, but he did not question the power
The Salem Witch Trials of 1692 were a soap opera on an epic scale. Witches, demons, and bringers. The bringers were Hell’s lackeys on earth. During an attempt at the bringing of The General, the interference by the witches started a war and ultimate failure to bring forth the General. The story had been told to him many times by his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. The fucking witches remained in the shadows until the council bringers of Salem initiated the sacrifices.
The trials were merely the public face of the larger battle that went on behind the scenes between the ‘General,’ his legions and the coven trying to stop them.
The older man had begun to wonder over the years if the bringing would happen in his lifetime. After all, generations of his ancestors passed without it.
This part of the Hockomock Swamp had been guarded by the soldiers of the council for over three hundred years in preparation for this moment. Lesser demons of the ‘General’ often assisted the worldly followers, the bringers, using all methods to scare any who dare trespass.
&nb
sp; At the base of the stone altar where the bound woman sat and would later be sacrificed, Will poured sea salt out of a black velvet bag, creating a circular symbol. The sigil of the ‘General,’ Bale the Demon. The young woman began to scream.
Bale was aware. He continued his watch from the steeple of the abandoned church. The moon was full, the hour late. He was capable of thought and the concepts of time and matter, though meaning little, served him. As would an ordinary wristwatch serve man.
Bale could see and feel most men. His power was great and his legions kept him informed. However, the power of light, as Bale saw God, placed new pawns on the board millennia ago. Men knew them as witches, warlocks, and sorcerers.
Man feared these puny magicians instead of seeing them as allies against evil. All of this served Bale’s purposes well. In previous incarnations, Bale assisted in their trials, tortures, and executions.
The sacrifices of his minions brought his formless evil back to the world of men. Although Bale knew the time was near, he paid it little mind. Nothing could be done until his earthly lemmings fulfilled their end of the bargain. For his part, he could not interfere in his own bringing.
Bale’s last battle ended in defeat. Youthful ignorance, he thought. Most of the blame lay on the bringers. They grew confident in their ability to control the covens. Over centuries of persecution, they believed the witches no longer posed a threat and underestimated their great strength.
Man’s superstitions waned over time. The witches fled into shadow, hiding among ordinary men and women. Bale, Baal, Bael or any other number of names he used, was a young demon. His powers grew quickly in the realm of darkness and he had been rewarded with legions.
Once the third sacrifice was complete, he would prepare his earthly vessel. Even now she was his meat-puppet His part in this giant three-sided chess game approached.
Bale knew the witches watched and waited.
Bale had been banished from earth over three hundred years ago. Sent to his dark realm, but his patience was great. If all went well, and he knew it would, he would take complete ownership of the whore-vessel.
He waited.
Chapter Five
Mads plane landed in New Orleans after one in the afternoon. The late November sky was a grey steel, threatening rain. The six-hour flight from Portland was a turbulence ridden nightmare.
The Diocese of New Orleans bought her a ticket for the 5 A.M. flight which left her with little sleep. She was hungover mentally and physically from the last exorcism on Kate Chenowith
More out of curiosity than greed, she agreed to consult with the investigating priest on a possible, case of possession. The church offered to pay her a consulting fee, which they did. This perked her interest, and finally her agreement.
Mads hailed a curbside taxi in the loading zone. The church booked her a hotel a couple of miles away from the Poole house. They spared no expense, she noted upon exiting the taxi in front of the Super Luxury Suites. The suites were neither super nor luxurious.
She often, during her stays in such dumps, contemplated the purchase of a black light, which would detect body fluids. Mads finally decided against it for fear of what she may find on her bedding. Sometimes, knowledge was not power.
She checked in at the front desk with a scraggly looking man who looked as if he just came from a soup line. His body odor was overpowering, and she struggled to keep her inflight breakfast of powdered eggs and limp toast down.
The room was dark and smelled of mildewed gone over socks which last saw the inside of a washing machine sometime before the Nixon administration. She called the front desk and asked them to bring a set of fresh sheets. Mads was not a germophobe, however sleeping in a dirty bed was not in her job description.
She was hungover, but that did not prevent her from having the taxi driver stop at a mini-mart on the way to the hotel. She purchased frozen burritos a fifth of bourbon and overpriced toiletries which she forgot to pack.
Mads looked into the mirror above the table which doubled as a desk, and television stand. Her afro was getting out of control.
Mads considered herself in the mirror for a moment. She was an attractive black woman with a great figure. She was short. Only 5’1 and quite skinny. A Surprising development, given her diet of frozen burritos, hot pockets, and bourbon. She had never had sex or even a date for that matter. Briefly, after being excommunicated, she considered a normal life. Perhaps finding a handsome young man to settle down with. She wouldn’t be a bad catch, after all. A skilled nurse, she would certainly be able to secure a great job in any busy hospital emergency room. These thoughts occasionally crept into her thoughts but were ultimately dragged away by the realization that her life was anything but normal.
Since performing her first, unassisted exorcism eight years ago, she knew that her life would never be the same.
The burrito, she over-microwaved, was disgusting, but she ate it just the same, then washed it down with straight bourbon.
Out of boredom, and knowing the church would not be sending someone to pick her up until the next morning, she turned on the television. Every local channel interrupted with breaking news of the newest victims in an ongoing series of murders in the New Orleans Metropolitan area.
Two families, in an upper-class suburb, had been slain. The victims were all from the same neighborhood. This was a strange enough detail, but the bodies, ten total, were not found in their homes. The bodies were found in a New Orleans cemetery, some ten miles from their homes. The first family at the beginning of June and the most recent one this morning.
The young male reporter lacked any serious details and the rest of the report looped the initial information. Mads turned off the news and retrieved her laptop from her luggage.
It was well after midnight before she went to bed. The glass of bourbon she started drinking over eight hours ago, sat unfinished on the nightstand.
The knock startled her awake. She was still suffering from jet lag and a long sleepless night of research on her laptop about the murders. The digital clock on the lopsided night table read 9:00 A.M.
She looked through the fish-eyed view of the hotel room peep-hole. A trim, youngish priest dressed smartly in his collar and cassock, stood patiently. Madeline grabbed her bathrobe and answered the door.
“Ms. Hexham?” The priest looked a tad nervous.
“Yes, Father… uh, Father…..?” Mads finished closing her robe.
“Father Kline.” The young priest finished for her. “You can call me Walter.”
“Well, Father Walter come in.” Mads waved the man into the room. She pulled a chair from the dresser. The priest sat down. He looked very nervous, plucking at the hem of his pants.
“I have to get dressed.” “Excuse me.” Madeline grabbed her single piece of luggage, a hiker’s backpack, and went into the bathroom.
Before leaving the hotel, Father Walt filled Mads in with the few details on the possession investigation he had. Father Kline was only recently brought on board to assist the lead priest.
The priest handling the case was Father John Peterson. Jeremy, the father of the girl, exhausting all medical and psychiatric avenues, approached the church for help. After several weeks of investigation, Father Peterson asked for the church’s blessing to conduct an exorcism.
“Can you give me the pea soup and crucifix details, at least?” She asked with a bit of frustration, as Father Walter opened the passenger door of the plain black car loaned to him by the church. Father Walter shrugged, got into the driver’s side and started the car.
Father Walter’s cell phone vibrated. He checked the text message. He turned to Mads. “Detour.”
Instead of driving to the house of Grace Poole, where they expected to meet with Father Peterson, Grace and her family,
Father Walter drove them into the French Quarter of New Orleans.
The priest found a suitable place to park his black Chevy Impala, about two blocks from the dive bar where he now led Mads.
The bar, about as ratty as they come, was on the bottom floor of a tourist hotel for Mardi Gras tourists. A dirty ancient neon sign above the door declared the establishment, of all things, Gator Tails.
Mads tried in vain to get Father Walt to tell her what was going on. He politely declined, and told her Father Peterson would fill her in.
Dive bar was a perfect description for Gator Tails which smelled of piss, urinal cakes, and stale beer. The shanty of a bar had a large circular serving area surrounded by barstools in the middle of the room. Cheap wooden flat tops were scattered sporadically throughout the rest of the establishment.
Above the bar, gaudily colored beads hung from hooks. Presumably, Madeline thought, to entice nubile and perhaps not so nubile women to show their boobs.
Planted along the perimeter, were several faded and torn red vinyl booths. All, save one, were empty this morning. If not for the circumstances, this type of bar, Mads frequented often.
Walter led them to a booth at the far end of Gator Tails, closest to the kitchen, which was definitely not open for service this morning. Mads wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to sample Gator Tail’s menu.
Two men sat in the booth opposite each other. On first sight, they appeared to be a couple of blue-collar workers having early morning beers. The older of the two, a stocky but handsome black man in his late fifties or early sixties. The other a white man in his forties. The older man stood up first.
“Sister Madeline.” The black man said, stretching out his enormous hand.
“You can skip the sister part, that ship sailed a couple of years ago.” “Call me Mads.”
The man grinned at her.
“Father John Peterson.” His grip was strong. Neither his demeanor nor his dress indicated the man was a priest at all. He wore a dark blue chambray shirt and black cargo pants, and Jesus save us, white tennis shoes sans socks. Upon closer inspection, Mads noticed, although a large man, he carried himself well and was very attractive. He had a short dusting of salt and pepper grey in his shortly cropped hair. Father John had the friendly, open face of a grandfather rather than of a priest. His brown eyes sparkled with a mischievous sense of humor and deep smile lines. Mads liked him immediately.
The Devil's Harp String: Hexham Chronicles: Book One Page 3