Eve of Redemption

by Tom Mohan

  HER TIME HAS COME…

  John Burke's life is filled with despair. Four years after the mysterious disappearance of his wife and daughter, he wants nothing more than to end his own misery—until a confrontation with a peculiar little girl alters his life. Burke’s world collides with supernatural chaos, forcing him to face the reality of his past.

  Now he must find his family and destroy the ancestral curse. Teaming up with a former policeman and his blind wife, along with a boisterous motorcycle gang, Burke discovers the one thing he thought he lost forever—hope.

  EVE OF REDEMPTION

  Copyright © 2016, 2017 Tom Mohan

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Open Window

  an imprint of BHC Press

  Library of Congress Control Number:

  2016906449

  Print edition ISBN number:

  ISBN-13: 978-1-946006-73-8

  Visit the publisher at:

  www.bhcpress.com

  This book could not have been written

  without the love and support of:

  My Mom,

  who passed down to me the love of books

  My wife and daughters,

  Nancy, Sara and Katie,

  who put up with me throughout the process

  Kelly Farr and Kelly Dyson,

  who dared to read the early versions and

  give me honest feedback and advice

  Quill Pen Editorial

  for cleaning up my mess

  BHC Press

  for making it beautiful

  And, of course,

  my Blue Monkey tribe

  who inspired and encouraged me

  when the task seemed impossible

  Thanks to all of you!

  NOVEMBER 11, 1965

  Caleb Burke’s heart pounded as he stared down at his bloodied hands. His heaving breath and the pulse pounding in his ears nearly drowned out the sound of the crickets that sang their praise to the night. Other than that, all was silent. He pulled his dazed eyes from the gore and looked around. Silhouettes of naked trees surrounded him, silent witnesses to this night’s cruelty. Something snapped in the darkness behind him, causing his labored heart to strain beyond what seemed possible. The cold ground numbed his flesh as the night’s events numbed his mind. He could smell the damp leaves that carpeted the forest floor, smell the sour odor of his own perspiration. What have I done?

  Caleb’s eyes were drawn back to the still shape lying a few feet away. She didn’t have to die. This night could have been special. He had told her that. He had told her how beautiful she was and how special this night could be for them. She had agreed to come out, after all. Why should he have thought she’d refuse? How could everything have gone so wrong?

  Another crack—this time to his right—caused Caleb to twist his head so fast his neck popped. A shadow moved through the trees. He held his breath and listened.

  Silence. Even the crickets had gone quiet, as though in silent mourning of the young girl whose blood seeped into the ground.

  Caleb shivered in the cold night air. Where’s the car? He turned his head, wide eyes searching, but could see little. If anything, it seemed to have grown even darker, all but the nearest trees invisible. He sagged, his chin resting on his chest, and tried to get his brain to work. An item on the ground beside his foot caught his attention. The cooling blood felt sticky on his hand as he opened stiff fingers to reach for the object. It was cold to the touch, metal—a tire iron. He had kept one beneath the driver’s seat of his car ever since that idiot jock Chris Hutchins had come after him for hitting on his girlfriend. Hutchins was lucky Caleb hadn’t had the iron within reach that night, or things would have turned out a whole lot differently.

  The memory of that midsummer evening faded as Caleb’s fingers stroked the tire iron. He’d used it tonight, but not on Chris Hutchins. He looked again at Jackie’s broken form, thankful that the darkness hid most of the evidence of the pent-up violence that had exploded from within him. Why had she slapped him? It wasn’t like he didn’t care for her. He did. He’d told her that over and over. She shouldn’t have led him on if she wasn’t going to go all the way. The little tease should have just stayed home and not even bothered him. It was her own fault she was out here now—not his.

  She had brought this on herself.

  Caleb shivered uncontrollably. He dropped the tire iron and wrapped his arms around his body, fighting to hold in the escaping heat. What now? Too many people had seen Jackie and him together. Her best friend, Heather, knew she had gotten into his car. He had to get back, find his car, and get out of here. No one could prove anything. They might not even find her body out here in the middle of nowhere. Even as these thoughts jostled together in his sluggish mind, Caleb knew his life was over. Who was he kidding, anyway? Jackie’s uncle was the county sheriff. The temperature dropped at least twenty degrees. Caleb’s head snapped up as a wave of dread washed over him. Shock from what he had done? No, this was something else, something worse.

  He wasn’t alone.

  He was as sure of this as of anything in his life. Though the woods remained ghostly silent, something lurked out there.

  ‘’W-Who’s there?’’ Caleb stuttered. A cold breeze rustled the leaves on the forest floor, carrying with it a musky animal scent. Not just animal—something more. Smoke? Caleb felt himself slipping into panic. The fear that clawed its way through him refused to be denied.

  Caleb.

  The word carried on the breeze—and like the breeze, it was little more than a whisper.

  Caleb.

  Caleb fought his way to his knees, muscles stiff from cold and fear. His head pivoted in all directions. Around him the darkness had grown so complete he could not have seen his hand before his face if he had tried. His loss of vision put his other senses on full alert, amplifying the silence, the cold, the smell—stronger, closer. A horrible thought erupted in his mind. He tried to force it away, to make it change to something else— anything else—but it had taken up residence like a squatter refusing to be chased off.

  He was being stalked.

  Caleb, what do you desire?

  The question came from all around him.

  Tell me, Caleb.

  What did he desire? To be warm? To be home in bed, none of this having happened? Yeah, that was what he really wanted—home and cozy in bed.

  It’s not that easy, Caleb. You murdered a girl.

  Caleb cursed as he tried to keep his body from shivering itself to pieces. Of course it wasn’t that easy. It never was.

  I did not say impossible.

  His mind was playing tricks on him. He wanted to laugh, but his face had grown numb, and that animal scent was even stronger than before. Even if the voice was in his head, something else was out here with him.

  Warm, Caleb thought. I want to be warm. The moment the thought crossed his mind, the breeze died off, and the night grew still. The air around him still felt freezing, but the lack of wind seemed to raise the temperature a degree or two. What caused it to stop? His fear rose to a whole new level. His eyes strained to pierce the blackness that held him in its cold embrace. Still on his knees, Caleb turned himself in a full circle, the toes of his boots thumping the ground behind him.

  Caleb’s eyes ce
ased their desperate darting and locked onto something in the shadows. It was so dim as to be barely noticeable, but he recognized it as a light. He stared, his mind too numb to think, as the light grew larger, closer, until he felt the blessed warmth that radiated from it. The source of the light remained invisible, but the heat it offered was enough for Caleb to burst into tears of joy. Never before in his life had he been so grateful for something as simple as light and warmth.

  You like that, do you?

  ‘’Yes,’’ he whispered.

  It is nothing. I can do more. So much more.

  ‘’Who…who are you?’’ Caleb’s shivering had lessened considerably. The light stopped ten feet or so from where he knelt, hovering a few feet off the ground just above his eye level. He wanted it to come even closer, to bring some of that glorious heat nearer.

  I am your savior.

  Caleb considered this. ‘’My…savior? Like Jesus? They call him a savior in church, but I don’t pay much attention.’’ He knew he was rambling. His jaw ached from the tremors that had taken control of it. But, he was able to talk, so things were getting better. At least he hoped they were.

  No, not Jesus. Something better. Much better. Your churches teach things they cannot possibly understand. I can lead you to the truth.

  Truth? Caleb thought. Whatever. ‘’I’ll follow you anywhere, as long as it’s warm.’’

  The light did grow warmer. Warmer, brighter, and bigger. It swelled until he stared up into it. Deep within the gloriously warm light, a shape took form—man-like, but larger, more majestic. Caleb could not tear his eyes away. It was the most beautiful being he could ever have imagined. He realized the acrid animal scent had grown much stronger, but the beauty that stood before him erased all else from his mind. For the first time he could remember, Caleb felt he belonged, that this incredible being actually cared about him.

  ‘’I love you.’’ Caleb had not been aware of this thought until the words spilled from his mouth.

  Follow me.

  ‘’Anywhere,’’ Caleb whispered. ‘’Anywhere.’’

  The being, his savior, began drifting away into the trees. Caleb scrambled to his numb feet and stumbled after it, chasing this spectral entity that he knew he could not live without. Once, he tripped over something and fell, his chin crashing to the frozen ground, but he barely registered the damage to his body, so great was his need to follow his savior. The specter finally stopped. Caleb watched, mesmerized, as the air before it shimmered like ripples in a pond. The savior reached out and pushed his hand into the waves, and the air around it parted like an exit from reality. Caleb felt a hot breeze spill out of the hole and wash over him. The air smelled of burning flesh, along with a putrid odor that spoke of death. Something else radiated from that hole as well, something that caused him to hold his ground.

  Power.

  He could feel it. A power like nothing he could have imagined. Caleb wanted that power, craved it.

  You feel it, yes?

  ‘’Yes.’’

  You want it. Need it.

  ‘’Yes.’’

  Follow me.

  ‘’Who are you?’’

  You may call me Agibus, and I will show you such wonders as your human mind could never imagine.

  Caleb smiled. That sounded good. Something in the back of his mind told him this was not right, but he ignored it. For the first time in his life, he had found his place. ‘’I can imagine quite a bit.’’

  I know your heart, Caleb. I know your dreams…your fantasies. You can have whatever you want. Follow me.

  Caleb stepped closer to the opening, drawn by its alluring promises. He heard what he thought at first to be a hissing sound, but as he drew nearer, the hissing became the whispers of what must have been many voices. The whispers were harsh, filled with malice, but they didn’t worry him. His savior would protect him.

  ‘’Lead on, Agibus. Show me your wonders,’’ Caleb said as he followed his savior to whatever fate awaited him.

  JULY 4, 1999

  THE INDEPENDENCE DAY parade had been over for less than an hour. Most of the town of Pressfield was still hanging out on the town square when Sean Burke murdered his family. Pressfield was not a large town, even by the standards of rural Missouri, and the annual parade and the games that followed it were the biggest events in town all year. That the Fourth of July fell on a Sunday this year was a bonus—the farmers and laborers that comprised a good portion of the population were already dressed in their Sunday best, a rare event that would make for great pictures in the next day’s newspaper. They would not remain dressed this way the whole day, of course. Now that the parade was over, most of them would rush home to change into more casual attire before coming back to watch the kids chase the greased pig while the adults ate barbecue. Sean and his family, however, did not return. Nor did the parade pictures make the front page of Monday’s paper.

  Normally, Sean would have been milling about with the town citizens, many of whom he considered to be his flock. Though he was only one of four pastors in town, Pressfield was nothing if not godly, he felt the entire population to be his responsibility. Not that the other pastors were negligent. Sean would never criticize a fellow man of God, but he truly loved everyone he came into contact with. His round face bore a constant smile as genuine as the invitation to his home for dinner that was offered to all he came in contact with. “One day we shall dine in heaven with God himself,” he often said.

  He had resisted the voices for months. At first he had simply denied they were there, as would any sane man. He rationalized that stress from his responsibilities had left him tired and imagining things. After a week, he began to wonder. The voices told him things that he would never think himself. Horrible things. Nasty things. The more they talked, the harder he tried to shut them out, but they refused to leave. Day and night they spewed their filth. He finally came to the conclusion that they were demonic. Nothing else could be this vile. He prayed without ceasing, as the Holy Book taught, knowing that his loving Father would protect him from the forces of evil that tried to turn him from his sacred path. But God was silent. On the short drive home, the voices returned, this time crying for blood. Sean’s head felt ready to explode as he pulled up to the curb and rushed his wife and kids into the house. He could tell they were scared by his behavior, but he found himself unable to care. His breath came in ragged gasps as he closed and locked the front door.

  “Sean, what is it? What’s wrong?” his wife Carrie’s fearful voice questioned him as he hurried to pull the ground-floor blinds closed.

  Sean wanted to fight the voices, to order them out of his head, but he was so tired of fighting. They were driving him mad, and he knew he would do anything to shut them up. And not just them. He found himself searching for anything to get that nagging wife to shut her trap.

  Distorted shadows filled his memory after that. A muffled sound of crying brought Sean back to awareness. He found himself on his knees, unaware of what had happened or how long he had been there. In his hands he held Johnny’s baseball bat, a maple wood Louisville Slugger that he and Carrie had bought their son last month for his ninth birthday. The bat was covered in something he could not make out at first, but the voices told him what it was.

  Blood.

  Sean turned his head to where his wife’s body lay on the linoleum kitchen floor. She faced away from him, the bloody dent in the back of her head clearly visible. Protruding from beneath her, as though growing out of her back, was a small foot covered in a tiny black dress shoe. Sean gulped, knowing Carrie had died trying to protect her little girl, knowing just as well that she had been unsuccessful. From somewhere within, Sean felt a deep regret that managed to push itself through the voices and darkness that all but consumed him. He was glad he did not remember killing his wife and daughter. He hoped they had died painlessly. A sob welled up in his throat.

  A sudden movement from the corner of his eye startled him. Without thought, he whipped the Slugge
r around and struck something solid, yet giving. The cry that followed told him he had injured whoever had been so unfortunate as to be on the receiving end.

  Home run!

  Sean pulled himself to his feet and turned toward the agonized screams that filled the small kitchen. Johnny lay a few feet from him, writhing in pain and clutching his hip, which was bent at an odd angle. He stepped toward the boy, raising the bat, ignoring the pleading eyes that gazed up at him.

  No, not this one.

  Sean stopped, head cocked as he listened to the voices.

  Not this one. This one is ours.

  Pounding on the front door jerked Sean’s attention to the living room. Voices shouted, not inside his head but outside the house. More pounding, and then a crash. Sean stomped out of the kitchen in time to see local cop Les Ryan storm through the broken front door. Les had his gun drawn, though the frightened look on the young cop’s face belied any confidence the weapon might have provided. His eyes darted to Sean, questioning at first.

  Kill. Kill. Kill.

  Sean was not aware of the words tumbling from his lips as he tightened his grip on the bat.

  Kill. Kill. Kill.

  The voices howled their murderous command. Sean felt a primal growl well up in him. He raised the bat above his head and charged.

  Kill. Kill. Kill!

  He felt a surge of power that screamed for release, saw the hammer of the gun move, the flash from the barrel…

  APRIL 1, 2032

  John Burke gazed through the dirty pawnshop window. Dim security lights illuminated the display case where death awaited him in the form of a pistol. He had never truly contemplated his own death. Even now, he didn’t really think about dying—only the peace it would bring him. A ragged awning did little to protect him from the heavy drizzle. Cold raindrops ran like tears down his cheeks. A neon sign across the street flashed BUDWEISER in red and white letters that illuminated his reflection on the smudged glass of the shop. He could hear the steady whine of electric cars in the street behind him as normal people carried on with their normal lives.