by Ben Meeks
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Petrified
Book One of the
Keeper Chronicles
Ben Meeks
PETRIFIED
Copyright © 2018 by Ben Meeks
All rights reserved.
Sidestreet Publishing, LLC
www.authorbenmeeks.com
Cover art © 2018 by Lauren Woodruff.
All rights reserved.
www.musesinthemarrow.com
Petrified is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Notes for Clarity
Cearbhall: An Irish name. In Irish a “BH” together makes the “V” sound. So, this is pronounced Care-vall, similar to the name Carol.
Tortured Occult Motorcycle Club: In this book there are multiple ways that the club is referenced. Either as the Tortured Occult, the T.O., or Tom C. The latter being a name made out of the acronym which references the group as an individual. Regardless of which term is used, it references the entirety of the club.
Cut: Leather vest worn by members of a motorcycle club.
Colors: A reference to gang colors, a way of identifying membership of a group. In this case, the symbol on the back of a cut that designates someone a member of a motorcycle club is their colors.
Grimoire: A spell book, often containing dangerous or sinister spells and rituals.
Cupita: Female life partner.
Cupitus: Male life partner.
C H A P T E R • 1
“Where’d you get this old beater anyway? It sounds like it’s about to fall apart,” Holt said.
“That’s called character,” I said.
“Don’t get me wrong, Obie, I’m sure it was a nice truck at some point but it’s a little past its prime,” he said.
The old Ford groaned and puttered through the curves of the mountain roads, creaking at the joints like an old man straining to get up from his rocking chair. It was true it had seen better days. The paint had faded from a vibrant blue into a more pallid shade accentuated with rusted spots and lines. It still had a kind of style with large rounded wheel wells and a triangular hood that formed an aggressive edge at the front. From the right angle it reminded me of a parrot’s face.
“I bought it new in forty-one, they don’t make them like this anymore.” I patted the dash to let the old girl know Holt was full of it. “Don’t listen to him, old girl.”
“It’s a good thing, too. This thing’s a death trap. I mean, did it come with these lap belts or did you put them in yourself? It doesn’t even have AC. The high is what, ninety-eight today? We’re going to die of a heatstroke before we get there. I’m sweating bullets over here and don’t get me started on the choke. You know what else has a choke? A lawnmower. You’re driving around an oversized lawnmower that don’t even cut grass.”
“You’ll get used to the heat. You’ve only been here a few months, it takes time, and show some respect, this truck is older than you are,” I said, crossing the center line to cut the curve.
“Exactly. That’s my point, and can you keep it in your own lane or does this hunk o’ junk just not drive straight?”
“Everyone up here crosses the line at some point or other,” I said, returning to my lane.
Holt ran a hand through his black hair, pulling it out of his face. He stared out the window, shaking his head. He must have decided it was a lost cause because when he spoke again it was all business.
“So, what’s the plan? We go in and rough him up a bit?” he asked.
“I was planning on talking to him.”
A confused expression crossed his face. “What do you mean?”
“You know, spoken words put together into sentences to convey ideas or emotions,” I said.
“You think you’re just going to show up and say, ‘Hey bub, would you please tell me where the demon you’ve been talking to is hiding’, and he’s just going to tell you?”
“Why not? It’s worth a shot,” I said.
“It’s stupid.”
“What would you do?”
“I don’t know.” He looked out the window again at the passing trees. “Break some fingers maybe? Whatever I need to do to get what we need to know.”
“You can always be mean later, Holt. If I need to break his fingers then I will, but if I can just talk to him then that’s better for everyone,” I said.
“I guess.”
He didn’t sound convinced, but he would come around. We hadn’t been working together that long, after all. Still it’s odd. I am sure Cedric didn’t operate like that. I didn’t know where this break fingers first and ask questions later attitude was coming from. I flipped on the blinker and pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Inclusive Assembly of Christ. The church was a plain, single-story brick building, wholly unremarkable other than the large cross on the outside wall. The parking lot had two cars parked up front. I pulled in line with them, giving me a front row seat to the cross.
“Just stay in the truck. This shouldn’t take more than a couple minutes,” I said, killing the engine. I gave the outside of the building a quick scan for security cameras, an occupational habit.
“Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll go. I bet I could have him spilling his guts in two minutes.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, another mess to clean up,” I said. “That reminds me, maybe you could do some dishes when we get back? Think about it.”
I got out, giving the area one last look, while Holt scowled in the passenger seat.
“Hey, why don’t you leave it running so I can use the AC,” he mocked.
I ignored him and walked inside through a pair of plain glass doors. The entryway was more elaborate than the plain exterior suggested. It had tile floor with fake flowers, pictures, and crosses covering every available surface. I sniffed the air, specifically looking for the sulfuric smell of demons. Instead of the demon stink, it smelled like a library, full of old knowledge.
An open door to my right had a sign that read Steve Heck, Pastor. Inside, a man thumbed through papers at a large wood desk. I knocked on the doorframe to get his attention. He was short and pudgy around the edges, sporting a button-up shirt and graying hair.
“Hey, I’m Obie. I talked to you on the phone,” I said, leaning into the room.
“Sure, come on in,” the man said, sparing only a glance up before returning to his papers.
I walked in, closing the door behind me. The room was a large rectangle and the desk’s position on the far side left a good twenty-five feet between us and only accentuated how much wasted space there was. Bookcases, pictures, and Christian paraphernalia covered the room, with a spare pew resting against the left wall beside another door. He stayed focused on his papers as I approached.
He looked up when I arrived, eyeballing my Han Shot First shirt, and
extending his hand without getting up. “Steve Heck, Pastor.”
“Nice to meet you.” His hand was limp and clammy, like shaking a dead squid. He smelled like spearmint gum and old cheese, with a hint of rotting garbage underneath.
This meeting was probably a waste of time, like Holt thought, but still I had to try. I sat in a chair in front of his desk, taking a moment to scratch the stubble on my face. My hair and nails grew quickly, quickly enough to make any kind of style more trouble than it was worth. My look could vary anywhere between clean shaven and a full beard and a dirty blond mop on top of my head. Judging from the length of growth it was getting closer to the mop persuasion and time to cut it all off. The chair was a plain, boxy thing with lopsided padding that made me squirm to get comfortable. Not the first time that being in church had made me squirm.
“What can I do for you, Obie?”
“I’ve been following what you have been posting about demons,” I said.
He leaned back in his chair, focusing on me instead of the paperwork. The light coming through the window to my right reflected off his head. A shadow passed in front of the window and all I could think was Holt had gotten out of the truck.
“It has been attracting a lot of attention lately,” he said. “Let me guess, you are here to tell me that demons don’t exist and I’ve lost my marbles. Well, Obie, putting the biblical support for them aside for a minute, I have seen them, and I assure you they are quite real.”
“Yeah, I know.”
He perked up at my validation. “So, you believe me?”
“Of course, Steve,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ve had the pleasure of their company on multiple occasions.”
“If you are familiar with them then you understand how misunderstood they are,” he said.
“Yes, people have all kinds of misconceptions about them.” I hoped the subtlety of my statement wasn’t lost on him.
“That’s great! I would love to meet some of them that you know. Do you think they would be interested in a personal relationship with Jesus Christ?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, shifting my weight to the other side of the chair. It wasn’t any better. “From what I have been reading from your blog, it sounds like we have had very different experiences. In fact, I would suggest that you reconsider trying to convert them.”
“God loves all His children and as He created all of us, what people call demons included, they deserve a chance at salvation,” he said.
“I’m not here to question your conviction,” I said.
“Then why are you here?”
I shifted my weight back to my left side. “You have mentioned a specific demon you refer to as P.V.T. I was hoping you would tell me how I can find him.”
“Her,” he said.
“What?”
“P.V.T. is a her, not a him. She explained to me how once word got out people would come looking for her and that they would hurt or kill me to get what they want. You understand if I’m cautious.”
“I’d be suspicious if you weren’t,” I said.
“So why do you want to find her?”
“It’s my job,” I said.
“Your job? Are you with the two guys that came by last week?” he asked.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I have someone that helps me out but that’s it,” I said, wondering what trouble Holt was getting into.
“Then who do you work for?” he asked.
The clicking of high heels on the tile outside caught my attention. I started to wonder if this P.V.T. could be in the building. He did say it was a she. But I would have smelled it and demons don’t generally wear heels. Probably just a secretary. Steve was oblivious to all this of course, as the clicking would be out of earshot for a human. I wasn’t your average human. Hell, I wasn’t human at all, not anymore.
“An interested third party,” I answered.
“What would you do if you find her?” he asked.
“I just need to make sure that she isn’t a threat,” I said. Telling him that I already knew she was a threat and I planned on jumping ahead to the eliminating the threat part of things wasn’t going to get me what I wanted.
He thought about it for a minute before answering. “I can talk to her about it and see if she would meet you.”
“Why don’t you tell me how to find her and I’ll save you the trouble,” I said. “You clearly have a lot of important work to do here.”
“I can’t do that. I am responsible for protecting my congregation so I’d have to be sure you wouldn’t hurt her. You understand how people have judged them because of the way they look. I admit they can be hard to get used to but . . .”
“It’s not safe for you to be playing with demons. You don’t know them like I do,” I said.
He paused, stunned at the abruptness of my statement. “‘Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.’ Matthew 28:19.”
Why is it whenever people start quoting scripture I feel like my face is melting into my shoes? “I understand what you’re trying to do, but the path you are on will get you killed. If there’s one thing I know, it’s demons. There’s plenty to do for your own kind, this world is sick enough. Why not spend a long meaningful life making it a better place for the people around you?”
“Are you threatening me?” he asked.
“I’m trying to save you,” I said.
“And if you can’t save me?”
“Then I have to stop you.”
He clearly took this personally, leaning forward with a sneer. “How would you stop me? Would you kill me?”
“I’d rather not, but even if I don’t, someone or something else will. Your days are numbered on the road you’re on,” I said. “That’s not a threat, it’s just a fact.”
“I have to stick to my conviction and trust in Him,” he said.
This was pointless. “Listen, Steve —”
“Pastor Heck.”
“Sure, Steve, if you don’t want to tell me that’s your business, but if you don’t let me help this is going to end real bad for you. It may not seem like it but I’m the only friend you’ve got in all this,” I said.
“I appreciate your concern, but I’m afraid I have another appointment in a few minutes that I need to prepare for,” he said, picking up his pen and returning to his papers. “I trust you can find the way out on your own.”
I sat there for a few seconds trying to think of what I could say to change his mind. I couldn’t come up with anything and I didn’t want to start breaking fingers so I stood up to leave. “Thanks for your time. I’ll be in touch.”
“With all due respect, I would rather you didn’t come by again,” he said, not looking up.
I turned and headed for the door. I had to get to the bottom of this and nothing was going to come from Steve right now. I would just have to pay him a visit at home to get some answers. We could have a more private conversation there. A sigh of frustration escaped my lips when I made it outside and found the truck empty. Tracking on gravel can be tough but Holt’s scent was still strong. I picked up another familiar scent underneath his: noxious sulfur. There was a demon about. I followed the scents into the woods to the right of the church, into an overgrown graveyard. Holt stood close to the center, looking around the tombstones.
I walked cautiously to where a wooden fence had once enclosed the graveyard. It had long since fallen down, with only a hint of the decaying wood left behind. “What is it?” I whispered.
“Not sure. I didn’t get a good look at it, something small and fast. What happened to these graves? I think the bodies are gone,” he said moving from one grave to the next.
I stepped over the remains of the fence for a closer look. The ground in front of each headstone was an open crater, they had all been dug up. The tombstone closest to me was dated 1979. Some of them dated much farther back. The people in the older graves would have been buried in
a shroud or a wooden box, nothing that would still be around. This grave was more modern with a large metal casket lying open. The skeleton had been disturbed. I could see pieces of bones, some fragments and some whole, tossed haphazardly around the grave. Whatever did this definitely removed a few choice bones.
“Over here,” Holt said from the far side of the graveyard. “You’ve got to see this.”
I walked over to find the answer to the mystery of the missing bones. They had been arranged in a central pile about three feet in diameter with three rows on each side of varying lengths pointing off in different directions. The end of each row came to a point with a bone that had been cut sharp. I knelt for a closer inspection.
“It looks like a weird compass, like you see on old maps,” Holt said over my shoulder. “What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know, maybe some kind of marker or cantrip? Whatever it is, it’s not good,” I said. The breeze shifted, blowing against my back, bringing with it a smell akin to rotten eggs. “You smell that?”
“Yep.”
I stood and turned to see a small grey face peeking up over a headstone. The imp crawled up on the headstone, giving us a clear view of it. It stood almost two feet tall with four arms, grey skin, and long claws on its hands and feet. Its long arms and pallid complexion made it look like a miniature resurrected gorilla, with a Cheshire cat smile. A line of black barbed quills ran down its back. By far my least favorite thing about imps was catching them.
“What’s it doing?” Holt asked.
He was right, this was strange behavior. Imps are small and not inherently powerful. They use their speed and size to evade; they never go toe-to-toe or expose themselves like this.
“Something’s wrong,” I said, trying to put the puzzle together.
It clicked just as pressure, followed by severe pain, shot through my calf. I looked down to see one of the sharpened bones sticking out of the front of my leg. The bone pile behind us had stabbed me with the row closest to where I was standing. Holt jumped to the side, avoiding a similar strike meant for him.
“Get the imp,” I said through gritted teeth.
The five rows of bone that didn’t have me impaled moved underneath the center pile, lifting it off the ground like a spider. The orientation of the bones suddenly made more sense: they were legs. I bent forward to support myself with my hands and donkey-kicked its center mass with my good leg, sending it flying back into the woods. The bone piercing my leg was ripped free, leaving a gushing wound that was quickly filling up my shoe.