The Damnation Chronicles
Book One:
The Damned
by Joseph Sweet
Copyright © 2007-2011 Joseph P. Sweet. All rights reserved.
Published on Smashwords by Forsaken Press
http://www.forsakenpress.co.nr
forsakenpress@gmail.com
***
Dedicated to Vincent J. Condino
1948-2009
Artist, Author, Photographer, poet, Friend.
Rest in Peace Brother.
We’ll meet again someday.
Vince helped with editing on this book, a month or so before his passing. He was a good friend. And although I wish he was still here, I am happy that he is no longer suffering.
To Wendy Flint, and others who test read this book for me. You were all a great help.
And to you Dear Reader.
This book is recommended for ages 18 and up.
***
The masses sick
With bitter madness,
A jealous rage,
Tinged with sadness
Putrid flesh
The maggots thrive,
Cold stiff limbs
And clouded eyes.
The Damnation Chronicles
Hades’s Memoirs
Part One
The Descent
Prologue
*
It is cold, dark, wet, and gray; a typical October evening in Watertown, New York. The trees look dead, or almost there. The sky is overcast and dark, giving no hope of any light beyond, except for the dim white, hazy ball of the moon.
The trees, still vibrant with red and orange during the day, have become bleak, colorless, and menacing, in the bland gray from the evening sky and the weak artificial glow of sparsely placed street lamps. In such light, the sentinel pines and maples look like something out of a fairy-tale gone wrong.
It is just past 11 pm on Tanis lane, a little dead end street off Brainard. It’s not a street that you come looking for intentionally, unless you know someone who lives here. Tanis lane is the street you stumble upon accidentally when lost, and if you didn’t know better, you would think the world had ended. So far from even the mild traffic of the main streets, this entire section of town, in fact, seems completely devoid of life at such a late hour.
Perhaps most people would ignore the feeling of dread building inside on such a night – that tingling uneasiness at the base of your spine, telling you that something is wrong – and try to convince themselves that it is just their imagination, but there is undeniably something different about this night. Something menacing about the way the shadows seem to climb up from the spots where they lay, stretching across lawns and out from under porches and sewer gratings, as though they are living things, reaching for you, hoping to drag you down into the darkness where they reside – screaming – and then devour you.
It is the type of night that would have been perfect for Halloween, perhaps even the perfect location for a climactic scene in a horror movie, except that nothing appeared to be going on at first glance, and it is two weeks early for that dark, ancient Holiday.
A half block away, two young men are walking slowly this way. Their heads are down but swerving left and right every few yards, eyeing the shadows as if they suspect an attack.
They will most likely write off what they are feeling as fear of the confrontation that will undoubtedly take place soon; fear of what might happen to them then. Each of them will discount the possibility - at least on the surface - that anything supernatural is going on.
However, if they had been paying close attention, they might have noted how the shadows, upon closer inspection, are stretching in the direction of the very house they are headed toward. It is as though the building itself were some great gravitational force, sucking in even the shadows.
The house seems to be reaching out for something, death maybe, and very soon, perhaps, it would open its jaws and have what it hungered for.
One:
All Debts Paid
1
Marcus and Greg slowly closed in on Frank’s house at the end of Tanis lane. It was a three story Victorian, dark and menacing in the lifeless light of the moon. Two ancient pines, and one massive, scarred and twisted oak, towered over it like grim protectors, waiting to smash and tear through anyone attempting to lay siege upon their master’s home. There was a light on inside, with the shade drawn halfway, which made the house appear in that instant as though it were some large predatory creature, lying in wait with one eye half open, ready to pounce.
Marcus brushed off his unease as paranoia and tucked it away. The only real danger, he told himself, was in being spotted before he and Greg could get to the door. Still, as they stepped onto the sidewalk at the edge of the property Marcus eyed the giant oak with mistrust. It was the closest to the street, and the one they would have to walk beneath to get to the front door. He knew that he was being foolish, but he couldn’t seem to help himself tonight. It was like something from a nightmare. It’s twisted, battle scarred trunk, winding upwards to deformed, dead-looking branches, looked like the diseased, beckoning, undead arms of some massive creature. Still, even knowing that his fears were completely irrational, Marcus felt a shiver move through him as he passed beneath the ancient giant.
He took a deep breath, steadied himself and determined that this sudden anthropomorphism wasn’t helping at all. Stress and lack of sleep, he told himself, not to mention one too many late night movies. Trees didn’t uproot and attack people. There was nothing supernatural about a house with 13 in its number, no matter how creepy it looked in the dark. Still, no matter how much he talked his fears down, every shadow seemed threatening, and both he and his friend Greg, at some point over the last two blocks, had contemplated running home more than once. Marcus closed his eyes for a second, refocused on the purpose of this trip. When he reopened them he seemed to have gained a little confidence.
“Alright, the idea is to scare him into giving us the money and my property. No one gets hurt.” He said. He realized suddenly that he sounded like some officer in a movie, giving orders to the soldiers under his command, even though his military – or even law enforcement – knowledge, ended right there with the movies. Just who the fuck do I think I am? he asked himself silently, and then quickly realized he didn’t have the luxury of an answer. That would only raise more questions in his mind. Questions that would undoubtedly only instill more fear in him, more than what he already felt, more than he could keep in check -- that might get them both killed. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and made one last attempt at refocusing on the situation at hand.
Except, he couldn’t stop thinking about Madison: His sister, who at this very moment, lay helpless and near death in a hospital bed across town.
She wouldn’t leave his mind. One second he was wondering how he was going to help her, and the next he was wondering if she would even want him to. Would she be disappointed in the brother she’d always looked up to for the situation he’d gotten himself into over her?
Marcus thought then about the statement he’d just made to Greg – No one gets hurt – and looked around, as if checking to see if anyone had noticed the obvious lie. Someone would get hurt tonight. He could feel it. He just hoped it wasn’t his friend. He also hoped – at least a small part of him did, anyway – that he wouldn’t be the cause of the hurting. He knew that once he got a look at Frank he might not be able to restrain himself. He choked back the feelings of anger, rage, and betrayal, which fought to defeat his calm exterior. Marcus liked to think of himself as a nice guy, but there had always been a bit of darkness there, just below the surface. Abandoned by his biological father at a young age, betrayed by his mother, and verbally and physically abused by his domineering, control freak of a step father – betrayal and violence against him and those he loved were and always would be his greatest triggers. He thought he had risen above his past. With the help and support of some influential people in his late teens, he’d shaped his personality and immediate world to fit the image that he thought would be expected, and become a better person for it. Now, however, standing before this house, he felt as though that goodness had merely been a self constructed illusion. One he’d put up to fool himself into thinking that he wasn’t like his father or step father. And he wondered, as the rage inched closer to the surface, if he would be able to contain the rising urge to choke that fucker Frank to death for the sheer pleasure of it.
Maybe I haven’t come quite as far as I’d thought.
“If we’re just here to scare him,” Greg started with a nervous and perhaps disbelieving tone, bringing Marcus crashing back to the situation at hand once again, “why do I have to have bullets in this thing?” He waved his revolver in the air for a second, waiting for an answer, as Marcus seemed to slowly snap out of his thoughts.
Marcus realized then that Greg looked more than just a little nervous, and he wondered if maybe they should just get the hell out of there. It wasn’t like this bastard was going to give back what he’d taken without some serious persuading, and suddenly he wasn’t sure that the two of them were the ones to be doing it.
“Incase we have to show that we’re not bluffing…,” Marcus replied. “You know, shoot a hole in the floor or ceiling or something.” He kept his voice calm, and tried to maintain that air of confidence, the one he’d been fighting to display all evening, but inside he wanted to run. He had never done anything like this in his life, and he was scared, not only for himself, but for his friend and what might happen here tonight.
People would understand, wouldn’t they? Two days ago I was working at a call center, helping people with billing problems, and today I’m standing outside some criminal’s house with a gun. This isn’t me… Somehow his inner turmoil, and cowardly attempt at self justification in running away with his tail between his legs, only strengthened his resolve. He wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself. That was enough.
“To show we mean business…” Greg said sarcastically, “right.” and probably would have added a little okay sign if he hadn’t been holding the revolver with both hands like his father had shown him at target practice so long ago. It had been the one and only time he’d been allowed to even hold a gun until tonight. Marcus knew because he’d talked about it non-stop for days. This night, however – his father’s revolver in hand – he didn’t look too sure of himself or the protection of the guns at all.
“Right,” Marcus said, only half aware that the sardonically charged statement of his friend had not required any further input from him.
Marcus knew that he would have to keep moving along quickly to get Greg through this, and he felt a little bad about getting him involved. He was, after all, the only one who actually had a real gun. He had stolen it from his father earlier that night before he’d come home from work. He would be the one shouldering most of the blame if they got caught and the police became a part of this whole mess.
As far as Marcus could see though, there was no other way. Things had just gone too far, and the only way to salvage it was to get back what had been taken from him. A life depended on it.
Did a life really depend on all of this, though? Marcus wondered then, or was he just holding on to hope when there was none? Maybe Madison was going to die anyway. Perhaps it would be best to just deal with that fact and walk away now, before things got any further out of control.
Greg took the initiative and rang the doorbell, yanking Marcus from his thoughts and making him wonder if he’d been misjudging him this whole time.
Regardless, there was no turning back now. Despite his ridiculous fear of everything around them – the trees, the house, the shadows, their distance from town – Marcus knew, or at least told himself, the real danger was about to start.
On the third ring, Frank answered. Wrapped in a dark blue robe, made of what appeared to be silk, with no shoes on, he looked as though he’d just been about to go to bed. His short black hair was slightly tousled, and in that moment, he looked like Marvin Aday, the lead singer of Meatloaf after a bad bout with anorexia. In the instant before Frank spoke, Marcus almost felt bad for him.
“This had better be…” he started, and they both assumed that sentence had been intended to end with, “good.” But as Frank’s eyes fell upon the revolver, he lost the need to finish his sentence. It wasn’t going to be good. Things that started with a weapon pointing at you, most likely weren’t going to end well. After a couple of seconds, he managed to pull his eyes away from the gun and rested them firmly on Marcus. He looked a slight bit more pale than usual.
“Surprised to see me?” Marcus asked him, with hate evident in both his facial expression and voice as he resisted the urge to cave in this man’s face with his fists. He could feel the anger building and fought to contain it. He knew he had to maintain control here.
“Look, I…I can explain.” Frank stuttered.
Marcus’s rage let loose then as he quickly flashed backwards in his mind, remembering his rude awakening as he’d slammed into the ice-cold water of the Black River. That was only two nights ago and he could still feel the chill in his bones. He pushed Frank backwards into the house, almost lost to the building rage within.
“Do you think you can just explain away drugging me and dumping me off a bridge, ass-hole?”
Marcus pushed him again, flashing back in an instant to the numbing cold, blinding, panic-stricken fear, and confusion of two nights prior, as he’d flailed about, coughing up ice cold river water and struggling to keep his head above the surface. - Frank almost fell backwards, but he caught himself on the door casing with an outstretched hand, re-balanced himself, and swiftly backed into the room behind him. Marcus had been aware of the rising volume of his voice and hoped the neighbors would pass it off as a quick argument between friends and go back about their business.
“I’m sorry…” Frank blubbered, “I’ll get your money.”
“Damn right you…” Marcus’s words were silenced suddenly by the metallic click of a hammer being pulled back on a revolver, inches from his head. He could feel the cold steel of its barrel pressing into his left temple, and he calmed instantly, almost thankful for this deadly interruption.
So, this is where it ends? Marcus asked himself. I’ve failed my sister, and am about to fail my friend as well. But, he also thought for a moment, how far back he had fallen. He’d done so well for so long, and struggled not to become like his father or step-father, but he could feel that darkness worming its way back in, threatening in that moment to help him to do things that might make him just as bad, and it was all because of Frank. He’d only sought to do something good for someone he cared about, but to quote a very old saying: Hell is full of good intentions and desires. In his moment of desperation, Frank had taken advantage, and forced him to do things he never could have imagined doing. Or perhaps, a voice at the back of his head suggested, in confirmation of his previous thoughts, Frank just forced something out of you, something dark, which you’ve been keeping at bay your whole life. He thought suddenly of how good it would feel to just give in. How justified he’d be. And then he pulled himself together. He could not do that. He had a younger sister who looked up to him. How much of a role model would he be if he appeared on the evening news, Young Man And Accomplice, Kill Two Over Deal Gone Bad…
“We got a problem here Frank?” asked the man from the shadows at the other end of the gun.
Frank’s expression changed to a victorious grin, and Marcus, so enraged by that grin, forgot about the weapon to his head and pulled out his own chrome plated Dessert Eagle. The fact that it wasn’t real seemed not to matter. It did the trick. All of the color drained out of Frank’s face as he instantly lost the self confidence he’d built up just a moment before, and that was all Marcus cared about for now.
However, after only a second or two, Frank smiled again, brushing off at least the appearance of his former fear, in light of a new, confident, well manufactured air of pride. He obviously thought he’d regained the upper hand. “Well, what we got here boys is what’s called a Mexican standoff in the movies.”
“Yah,” Marcus started, nearly spitting the words at him in disgust, “Well, the way I figure it is, I shoot you, your friend shoots me, my friend shoots your friend, and I die happy.” He imagined for a moment accepting an Oscar on stage while thanking his agent. He smiled at the thought, which only added to his appearance of self confidence - further selling the act, although he was unaware of it - and then added, “Either way, you die.”
Frank looked unsure now, and after a couple of seconds, he nodded to the man behind Marcus, and said, “Sal.”
A few moments later, they all cautiously lowered their weapons.
Marcus took a deep breath and tried not to show the relief that had washed over him in that instant. There was a small hurricane tearing through his insides, and acid was fighting to eat through everything from his stomach up. He swallowed it down, and tried not to show his discomfort. He consciously fought with himself not to turn and look at Greg for fear that it would make him feel even worse.
If they had called his bluff, this story would have ended right there, with his brains blown out all over the door casing.
Perhaps, if he had known how quickly and how far things would soon spiral horribly out of control, he might have thought that the better option.
*
A few minutes earlier
Sal had arrived half an hour ago, having watched the place for nearly an hour before that to insure that there were not going to be any surprises. He knew that there was never any real way to “be sure” of no surprises, but these extra steps of precaution had saved his ass more times than he could count.
He and Frank were just about to conclude their business.
“Do I have to count this?” Sal asked, looking at the money in the briefcase, even though he knew he didn’t have to. The question was just a part of the act. Intimidation was a powerful tool in his business, as long as you didn’t back them too far into the corner. Even the weakest of individuals could strike if you pushed too hard. Frank knew better than to try and cheat Sal, though. There was no place on this earth he could hide if he attempted to screw him over.
“Course not.” Frank said, his eyes shooting across the room, and then back again, and his hands were fidgety, as though looking for something to do to maintain an appearance of calm. Sal loved seeing Frank squirm, because he knew it was a look the man seldom wore, if ever, and it made him feel confident that he held all the power. For a moment he seriously considered actually counting it in front of him, just so Frank could sit there, fidgeting nearly to the point of panic, praying that he hadn’t miscounted a single bill. In the end, he decided to save himself some time and just get it over with. There was only so much pleasure to be had from the fear of such people. Then it became pathetic, sickening… boring.
“Well then, I guess our deal is done.” Sal said with a business-like smile, just friendly enough to ease tension, but not enough to insinuate that they were friends. “I suppose you’ll disappear now.” He added in a dry conversational tone.
In truth, Sal didn’t care, but he felt the need to make conversation, and he knew that the longer he hung around, the more nervous old Franky would get. The new identity, complete with college transcripts, would serve Frank well in starting over. However, they made him easy to track as well. Any credit-cards taken out in his new name, or bank accounts, deeds, titles, or any other number of things would lead Sal right back to him. Not to mention, he could just as easily remove everything from the government databases, making Frank a ghost or even a wanted fugitive, if he so chose. Still, it was never easy to ascertain just what connections a person might have and how powerful they were. He’d done his research on Frank. His current identity had been a fake as well, though not nearly as well done as what he had just purchased. The paper trails ended on Franklin Edward Monroe sixty years prior, however; which, while curious, had led Sal to believe that he’d either stolen it from someone, or had been sold the identity of some person obviously older than him. It was surprising that he’d managed to get by with it as long as he had.
It was, of course, possible that he’d simply killed someone and was currently living with that identity. Someone who’s identity had also been forged over sixty years ago. Sure it was a stretch, but how many other options were there? He supposed plastic surgery was possible, but he highly doubted it.
His hand moved to the cup of coffee that Frank had poured him just after he’d arrived. Sal had ignored it until now but thought seriously about staying long enough to drink it. He was driving to the train station in Syracuse in about an hour, and the caffeine would be good, but the thought stopped dead. Sal knew better. Never accept any food or drink that you didn’t take out of the package or break the safety seal on yourself. That had always been the rule – one he’d not broken in ten years. What’s wrong with me?
It felt like there were fishhooks in his throat, and his mouth was dry. He picked the cup up in his hand, and watched Frank carefully. What was that look? Frank’s eyes shifted uncomfortably to the left and then back to the cup. Was that a hint of a smirk?
Sal put the cup back down, refusing to indulge the urge. Then he walked across the kitchen, opened first one and then another cupboard. Finding what it was that he wanted, he grabbed a rock glass and filled it with water from the tap. He could pick up a Red Bull at a gas station on the way. Sal had always been one to trust his gut, and he wasn’t going to stop now.
As Sal leaned against the counter, drinking the water, Frank seemed to grow even more nervous than before. What had been his plan? Was the coffee drugged? Did ole Franky actually have the balls to drug him and run off with the money?
No, Sal said to himself, and was almost convinced until the doorbell rang.
Frank tensed but didn’t move to answer it. He looked confused, as though he wasn’t expecting anyone to visit at this hour and was afraid of whom it might be.
“You expecting someone?” Sal asked suspiciously, although Frank’s demeanor said otherwise.
“No.” Frank answered, and for a second Sal almost believed him. There was something about Frank that set off warning bells in a person used to dealing with criminals, though. Something, perhaps in the way his eyes didn’t quite stay on you when he was talking, and his hands were always finding little things to do, or shoved in his pockets. Frank was not to be trusted, at least not for anything important. Unfortunately, however, in Sal’s business, everything was important. Everything was subject to an intense, distrustful scrutiny that bordered on paranoia. It tended to keep you alive…and out of prison.
Sal pulled his gun, pointed it at him, and said, “Answer it and act calm, like nothing is out of the ordinary. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I promise you, if you try anything, I will put a bullet in your fucking brain, understood?
“Yes,” Frank replied calmly, but there was a disturbing instant – just a look – where he was certain that Frank didn’t give a shit. He dismissed it in the next instant for a very convincing act on Frank’s part. Who wasn’t afraid to take a bullet?
He followed Frank to the front door and then moved off to the right, gun held close to his chest with both hands as he waited.
This was most likely going to make him late for his train, or at least have to rush, and for that he decided he was going to shoot Frank anyway, and whoever was on the other side of that door. The drive from Watertown NY to Syracuse was an average of an hour and a half, although it could be done in forty-five minutes in good weather. As it stood, he only had about three hours to get there. He could easily change the photos in the records he’d manufactured and resell them. He would just consider the money he’d taken from Frank as a very handsome reimbursement of his personal time wasted.
2
A few minutes later, they were all sitting around the medium sized kitchen table. Looking more and more uncomfortable with each passing second, Frank slowly turned an empty glass round and round nervously with his hands while repositioning himself in the chair every couple of seconds, and that was alright as far as Marcus was concerned.
“I told you,” Frank pleaded, “There’s no money here.”
“I don’t care if we have to escort you to an ATM Frank, we’re getting our money before the sun rises, or you die. Either way, all debts are paid by morning.”
Marcus wondered then, why he hadn’t gone into acting. If he could remain calm on the outside and fool two criminals into thinking that he was someone to fear – especially with a fake gun and when he was scared shitless – he could do anything. He wondered though about the threat to kill Frank. Would I really do that? Could I?
Frank’s eyes kept wandering to the briefcase Sal was holding.
“So,” Sal began, “Tell me how this business venture of yours went.” The look on his face was the kind someone might get when they were having a good time. It was as if he thought he was at home, watching his favorite cop drama on TV.
“Well,” said Marcus, “This ass-hole promised me something, and I brought the money. Only Frank didn’t come through with his side of the deal. He didn’t even own the house we did the deal in. The real owners were out of town. I tracked him here, and he drugged me, dumped me in the river, and made off with the cash.” Marcus didn’t feel like adding any more detail to the story. The less this man knew the better. If Sal knew what Marcus had really been buying, he might have lost any of the assumed respect they’d already earned. Marcus realized then that he had been pointing his gun at Frank during the entire story, and he’d come pretty close a couple of times to squeezing the trigger in anger.
Frank had noticed too. He was sweating profusely, his gaze kept shifting from the gun’s barrel to Marcus’s eyes, and the glass in his hands never stopped turning round and round.
Easy boy, Marcus thought to himself, we don’t need to paint the side of Frank’s face and let everyone know this gun isn’t real.
“Well then, I guess I should be thanking the two of you,” Sal said, “He might have done the same to me.”
Sal turned back to Frank and glared at him, making sure that the little bastard saw the promise of a slow death ahead of him. He was certain now that Frank had planned the same for him.
Marcus didn’t know what to say to this. The man’s sincerity seemed a bit fake – full of sarcasm – as though he were just humoring them. He decided not to say anything and looked silently around the room instead, taking in the scenery.
The house was not what he had expected. Maybe dark and dreary, or even plain and simple would have comforted him just then. This place was far from either. It was like something out of an old picture, spare and old fashioned, but very personalized and interesting just the same. Marcus had expected it to be decked out with a lot of expensive electronics, which obviously, Frank would have purchased with money he’d stolen from other people, but the only electronic devices here were today’s equivalent of the bare necessities: A coffee pot, a toaster, a refrigerator and a microwave. He doubted by the appearance of this place that Frank even had a television here. The wallpaper had little designs on it, featuring old brand names, and classic, antique looking items. There seemed to be antiques everywhere. The more Marcus looked around, the more he wondered if, in fact, Frank had swindled some old couple out of this place. He could easily imagine a ninety-year-old man tooling around this kitchen, but even at ninety years, a lot of this stuff would have been before the old man’s time.
Frank started to stand then, pointing at Sal, and startling Marcus from his thoughts. “He’s got…” was all Frank managed to spit out before Sal stood up and pistol-whipped the words from his mouth.
“Sit down and shut the hell up,” Sal shouted furiously and for that instant, Marcus thought he was going to kill Frank right then and there.
Frank fell backwards, just barely stopping himself from falling straight to the floor. He somehow ended up slumped in his chair, eyes rolling into the back of his head for a moment before he righted himself and managed to bring the room back into focus.
Sal pulled back again, wanting to give him more.
“Don’t kill him,” Marcus blurted out while jumping to his feet, and he suddenly hated himself for how weak he’d sounded in that instant, but he knew he had to do or say something. If not, this man was going to kill Frank right in front of them. The butt of Sal’s gun had hit dangerously close to Frank’s left temple. They could all see the blood already trickling down the side of his face, glistening in the kitchen’s subdued light. Just a quarter inch, Marcus thought, and Frank would already be dead or at least unconscious on the floor.
“He ain’t gonna give up your money, so what do we need him for?” Sal asked. The look in his eyes hinted at agitated urgency, as if killing Frank was at the top of his mind.
“Me and Greg will search the house, but we need him alive for now, in case we don’t find anything.” Marcus paused, watching Sal closely to see if he was going along with it. He knew they needed to buy time. He didn’t want to be responsible for a death, but he didn’t want to sound weak in front of this man either. The sight of him made Marcus think of a mean dog, or a high school bully, and he wasn’t about to give him a whiff of fear to respond to.
Sal relaxed and took his seat.
“Keep him here, and we’ll search the place. Don’t kill him, but if he tries anything, make him wish you had.” There I go again, barking orders, this time to actual criminals. If I make it out of here…
“Alright.” Sal said, and the grin on his face, both silenced Marcus’s thoughts and made his blood run cold. There was little, if any emotion in it. It was cruel, sarcastic, and just barely hiding some dark intent, just below the surface.
Marcus wanted to tell the man that he could go. He had his money after all, no reason to stay, but he had a feeling that Sal was hanging around for something else, and Marcus had no intention of making things worse. As he and Greg left the room, Marcus went back to the thoughts he’d had when he arrived. Ten minutes ago he had wanted to strangle Frank with his bare hands just for the hell of it, and now he was trying to keep the bastard alive. Maybe there’s hope for me yet, he thought.
*
Frank sat, defeated. He knew Sal was pissed, and if the glass of water hadn’t told him that Sal knew the coffee was drugged, the fucking kid telling him what had happened a couple of days ago, did. There was no way in hell that he was getting out of here alive.
“Sal.” He said, pleadingly.
“Shut up,” Sal hissed. “You think I care if they want you alive? You think I’m afraid of them? Right now, I’m playing along. Waiting to see if there’s anything extra I can get out of you for this waste of my time. I could have taken them out at any point.” Sal smiled, and the confidence in that grin told Frank to believe every word he’d just spoken. “And I will soon, so you’d better just stay on my good side. If you do, I might consider putting you out of your misery quick and painless.”
Frank remained silent and looked away. What was there to do? Sal was going to shoot him. Why not tell the kid what was really going on here and give them all a little better of a chance? He knew where he was going if he died here. What Sal didn’t know was that there was a very good chance that he wouldn’t stay dead for long. The thought of coming back after a bullet to the head and then one night surprising Sal in some dark alleyway almost brought a smile to Frank’s face, but he held it in check. He didn’t want to go through that again unless there was no other way.
Frank thought back to all he’d been through to get to this moment: a near eternity in hell, and his eventual escape to lesser realms of darkness, despair and torture. Two world wars, which had almost made him feel nostalgic about hell. He’d had two different families in the time he’d been here, and at some point along the way, he’d become the bad guy he’d known he was all along. So much time wasted in search of redemption, only to fall back again, having accomplished nothing. Inspired, he turned his attention back to Sal. “And then,” he said softly, no longer pleading, “what happens when they find nothing?”
Sal didn’t take long to respond, quick with anger, “You better hope they find something. If they don’t, and I’ve wasted my afternoon for nothing, I’ll shoot you just to make it worth my time.”
“I dumped that kid in the black river. He was unconscious.”
“What’s your point, Frank?” Sal asked, obviously bored and possibly disgusted. He seemed to think that Frank was begging for his life. Frank, who had lived through more torture for uncountable human lifetimes, than this thug could imagine, would no more beg for his life than a mad dictator would beg for land. Still, a point had to be made here.
“My point is that he came back from that and with a friend. He came back with guns.”
“Yah?” Sal asked, but he was growing more and more disinterested by the second.
“Don’t underestimate him, Sal. He tracked me down, which isn’t easy to do. He lived through being drugged and dumped in a pretty tough river, and then he came back for more. I did a little more than misjudge him. What do you think is going to happen if he figures out that the money I stole from him is in that briefcase you’re carryin?”
Sal just smiled.
Frank sighed and went back to staring at the wall. It was better than staring at the gun Sal was holding on him. All he could do when he looked at that was imagine a bullet exiting the barrel and plunging into his head at high speed. He could fry Sal alive where he sat, if he chose to do so. But, he’d learned a long time ago that abilities like that came with a hefty price. Every time he used them, he chanced becoming something else. Maybe frying Sal wouldn’t be enough to cause that to happen, but just maybe he’d get a shot off before he died. Frank knew that dying would be worse. Oh sure, he’d come back alright, but every time he did, he’d lose more and more of the humanity he’d been fighting to hold on to all those years.
Am I really human anymore though? He wondered.
That was a question he’d asked himself many times, and one he’d never had an answer for. He doubted it though. Whatever he was, he’d ceased being human long ago. Yet there was still something left of what he once was, even if it was very small and almost nonexistent, and that was something worth fighting to keep, wasn’t it?
*
Marcus and Greg searched the house as thoroughly as possible – dumping drawers and boxes, checking shelves and cabinets – but after a half hour, they’d come up empty. They both were aware that they were leaving the place a wreck, but there was no time to be neat and tidy. Frank could be expecting more people – most likely with guns – or someone in one of the nearby houses might have called the police already.
Finally, in an upstairs bedroom, the search came to an end.
Marcus walked across the dark and murky room, having noticed something near the bookshelves lining the far wall. “Hey, check this out.” he said to get Greg’s attention.
“What is it?” Greg asked, closing in. It was hard to see since the only light fixture in the room was broken. He strained and looked right at what Marcus was pointing to, but he didn’t seem to grasp what the problem was yet.
“Take a close look at all of these pictures,” Marcus said, excitedly, as though he’d just found what it was they were looking for. “Tell me what you see.”
“People?” Greg asked sarcastically. He was sure his friend was out of his mind.
“Alright then, smart ass, tell me what you don’t see.”
Sensing that there was something important that he was missing, Greg looked around again, but threw his hands in the air after a few seconds, having found nothing.
“It’s Frank.” Marcus said, smiling, and then he waited patiently for Greg to connect the dots.
Greg looked back then, his eyes growing wide as he looked at the pictures with a new perspective.
There had to be a dozen or so of them: a couple on the shelves and some on a dresser, five or six of them hanging on the wall, and a few on an end table next to the bed. None of them had Frank in them.
“You think this house isn’t his either?” Greg asked.
“I’d say that was a good bet.”
Having searched the whole room, they left and made their way back to the kitchen, prepared to ask Frank some new questions.
As they made their way, both of them failed to notice a picture hanging on the far wall. Each of them had glanced past it only briefly. What would a picture that looked to be from World War II have to do with their situation? Especially one of a soldier in uniform and his new wife.
If they’d paused a moment longer to study the picture at any length, they’d have realized that the soldier was Frank. Perhaps that would have led to a better line of questioning.
As Marcus reached the bottom of the stairs, while turning and pausing momentarily in an attempt to remember which direction the kitchen was in, the questions they’d been meaning to ask Frank were forgotten when they came upon a cellar door with three locks on it.
“Well, what have we here?” Greg asked in his stereotypical mobster voice.
“Jackpot.” Marcus said and then yelled, “Hey Sal, Bring that asshole in here.”
There was the sound of chairs sliding across the floor in the kitchen, and then Frank and Sal appeared silently in hallway.
As soon as Frank saw what they were looking at, his attitude completely changed. He looked scared beyond comprehension.
Marcus tried not to enjoy the change in Frank’s demeanor, but found himself smiling despite his efforts.
Two of the locks were standard hardware store padlocks, and the third was a combination lock. They looked to be quite old.
“Please,” Frank pleaded. “You can’t make me open that door.”
“Oh, you’ll open it,” Sal told him, putting a gun to the side of his head.
“There are worse things than death,” Frank replied.
“Yah?” asked Sal, “And one of them involves us putting a hole in you every few seconds until we either run out of bullets or places to shoot that won’t kill you right away. Which do you think will happen first?”
“Go ahead.” Frank dared them, but all hope seemed to have drained out of him.
After looking Frank in the eyes, Marcus’s stomach twisted. He didn’t want the door open. His gut told him that there was something frightening down there, and he didn’t want to see whatever scared this man so much. It was obvious, however, that there was no turning back now. Sal wouldn’t let them. He wanted to know what was down there that Frank was guarding so carefully.
Marcus wasn’t so sure that the locks were installed to guard it so much as they were installed to guard Frank from it. These locks didn’t look like something you put on to keep a child from opening a door, or to keep burglars from stumbling upon your prized possessions. This looked permanent. These were more along the lines of locking up your werewolf cousin so that he didn’t eat you during the full moon, or hiding a John Wayne Gacey-esque burial chamber.
Marcus suddenly wished he hadn’t called any attention to it, but a few seconds later he brushed the thoughts off as paranoia.
“I saw a hammer in the other room,” Greg informed them. “I can break the locks with that.”
“Well,” Sal started, “I guess we don’t need you after all.” He aimed at Frank’s head, and Frank closed his eyes, waiting for it.
“Wait.” Marcus pleaded, and Sal gave him an impatient look. “If you shoot him, the neighbors will hear it and dial 911. That doesn’t leave us with much time to find what we’re looking for and get out before the cops show up at the door.”
“Hey you’re in luck,” Sal said to Frank with obvious disappointment in his voice, “These guys think more than I do.”
*
Frank watched as that little bastard Greg left the room and returned seconds later with a hammer. He tried to think of a way out of this. He hadn’t imagined that anyone would assume there was anything of value behind that door, just because of the padlocks. Locks he’d installed to ensure that nothing from below ever found its way to him.
The last thing he’d ever imagined, in fact, was being forced back down those stairs at gunpoint where he knew they’d be waiting for him. He couldn’t allow himself to die down there, and down there he almost certainly would. There was no coming back beyond that threshold. At least here, on this side, he had a fighting chance.
During his first escape, he had been told that the place between worlds was different. Death there was permanent. He had been told that you remained trapped within your body forever as it rotted around you. Seeing no other choice in the matter, he tensed the muscles in his arms and waited to make his move. He was going to have to fight back now.
He could feel the hairs on his arms standing up as all of the available electricity in the area began to surge into him. He wondered briefly if the others could feel the building charge in the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the light from the kitchen, which had been spilling across the hallway, flicker and go out. With the ample light sifting in through the partially open shade nearby, no one else seemed to have caught it though.
A couple of seconds later he was almost ready.
*
Less than a minute later, they had the door open, and Marcus watched on, unable to deny a small amount of satisfaction, as Frank really started to freak out. “You can’t make me go down there,” he cried as every muscle in his arms tensed as though he were about to turn and fight.
Sal cracked him in the temple with his revolver and then kicked him toward the open door.
Frank’s eyes went wide, and then rolled into the back of his head and closed. His body went limp and twitched as he began to fall, and then Sal’s kick hit home and his head went back as the rest of him was thrust violently toward the doorway. A moment later, he was lost to the darkness below with a series of thuds and the wet crack of bones breaking.
There were no cries of pain even after these sounds had ceased. Frank had finally hit the bottom, and he was most likely dead. But all of this, although shocking and bad in and of itself, was not what bothered Marcus the most in that instant.
He tried to brush it off as nothing, but he had seen what looked to have been an arc of electricity come off the gun right after it had connected with Frank’s skull. It had only been there for an instant, but for that instant the room was charged somehow, and the hairs all over his body had been standing on end.
That’s ridiculous, thought Marcus, assuming that Sal had probably just walked across a carpet recently and that the rest had been in his head. Yes, that was it. He snapped himself out of it a second later and turned to the man, enraged. “What the hell?” he asked in disbelief as the reality of what had just happened came crashing in.
“No one heard a shot, did they?” Sal asked him with a note of sarcasm in his voice and an oily grin across his face. He was obviously very pleased with himself. “How’d you put it earlier, Marcus? All debts paid?” He laughed then. “Now that’s friggin’ poetic.”
Marcus was sorry now that he’d become involved in this whole mess, but more so because he’d brought his friend into it. Now they were involved in a murder. He wondered what he would do just then if his gun were real. Would he just shoot this man and take his friend out of here? One thing was for certain, he didn’t want to go searching around in the dark with him, but at the moment there didn’t seem to be many options. Sal had a gun, and Marcus couldn’t be certain that Greg would use his if it came to that. They were in for the duration. He didn’t like the way his name had sounded coming from this guy’s mouth either. He had a feeling that bad things often happened when this man, or men like him, knew your name.
This whole situation was like some sort of sick joke that fate was playing on him recently. No matter how hard he tried to make things right, they only seemed to get worse and worse. But could he just sit by and let his sister die? He was beginning to wonder if, in fact, there had ever been anything he could do about that.
Marcus looked down into the darkness below for a long time it seemed. He didn’t want to go down there. He definitely didn’t want to drag Greg down there either. He knew he was being superstitious, but he feared that darkness more than he’d ever feared the shadows as a child. It felt like some living thing down there, watching and waiting, a razor toothed grin on its monster face as it prepared to make dinner out of three unsuspecting trespassers.
A dream from the night before came back to him. He had been wandering in the ruins of some dark other place. When he’d awakened, it had felt as though he’d been there for centuries, lost. And there had been something else too; something almost forgotten about the dream upon waking. Something had been chasing him.
Marcus pushed the dream away. It didn’t have anything to do with this. Still, it made him shiver. As he prepared to start down the stairs, he hoped Sal hadn’t seen his reaction and assumed it was a sign of weakness. But even if he had, it was too late to worry about such things. Totaling up the things he’d done, his misdemeanors, his indiscretions, and all the justifications, only one thing made sense…
Looking to the doorway ahead one last time – a jagged hole, tearing out of the semi-normal façade of Frank’s house, ancient and foreboding, like a tear in time and space – he resigned himself to whatever fate was in store for him. Perhaps he’d earned it, good or bad.
Two:
The Guardians
1
Sal looked expectantly at Marcus and Greg, motioned with his gun, and finally said with a severely impatient tone, “Well…Ladies first.”
Marcus exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Greg that he feared Sal would be all too aware of, and they started quietly down the stairs. He wasn’t at all comfortable with having Sal behind him, where he could easily shoot them in the back before they even knew what had hit them.
Sal flipped a light switch to his left as he fell in behind them, and the rickety, ancient looking wooden steps beneath them were illuminated with a dry electrical pop which startled them all, though none would likely have admitted it.
To either side of the stairs, slats of wood and old sheet rock were littered with cobwebs, extending across their path, making Marcus wish he hadn’t done it. It all looked rotten and prehistoric, about to turn to dust beneath their feet, lending even more credibility to his former seemingly foolish impression of an evil magical gateway to some dark and dangerous other world. So dense were the webs that they had to cut through them with their guns.
Marcus had gone about three steps down, when a very large, partially deformed spider, similar in build to a Daddy-longlegs, dropped onto his right hand.
Marcus reared back, making an attempt to smack it away, which only ended in him smearing spider guts all over his hand. He immediately wiped it on his jeans and tried to act like it hadn’t happened. Sure, that looked manly, he thought, just glad he hadn’t cried out on top of it.
Marcus hoped they could find a way out of this before the situation got any further out of control, certain with each step that he was digging himself a deeper hole for Sal to bury him in; although he didn’t really think it could get much worse, so maybe riding it out was the best option. A part of him knew that Sal was only following along to see if he could cash in on the situation. If they found what they were looking for, he would probably kill them and make off with the money. However, Marcus stayed calm -- for his friend. Panicking and trying something may get them both killed now. Perhaps a different solution would present itself, given time.
At the bottom of the stairs, they could clearly see Frank’s body. His left leg looked broken in two places, and it lay twisted across the last two steps. There was some blood around him, and his body was twitching; then a second later, it went limp.
Marcus could almost feel Sal grinning behind them.
Greg didn’t look afraid anymore, and that was good. At least for now, he seemed to have given in to the current situation.
*
Each of them in turn were careful not to disturb the dead body at the bottom of the stairs as they stepped over it, but as they took in the strange architecture, all of them forgot their purpose for a few seconds.
There was no discernable light source except for the weak-willed bulb hanging about halfway up the staircase, but even in the struggling light, they could see for a very long distance. It was as though this place were generating its own dim light. The basement stretched on for what seemed the length of a few city blocks, and very possibly beyond.
Everywhere there were large ancient-looking wooden crates, which appeared, by their generous accrual of dust, to not have been disturbed in centuries. Rows and rows of them, stacked to the ceiling, went off in every possible direction, giving the place the feel of some large warehouse, and Marcus was suddenly sure that Frank could not have collected all of this by himself. Assuming, that was, that he had anything to do with this place at all. He’d obviously been terrified of whatever was down here.
Every few yards there was a somewhat featureless and ancient looking stone column for support in a semi-circle around the staircase. From just beyond that the ground sloped downward in every direction as it moved away from the stairs, giving the impression that they were on some great concrete hill. The already near impossibly high vaulted ceiling looked to go off in a straight line, unaffected by the floor’s steady decline, causing it to eventually disappear completely into shadow above them as they got further from the spot where they’d entered this strange place.
Marcus found himself walking, as did the others, curious, toward the closest row of crates.
What is this place, he asked himself, knowing that to have asked it aloud would have been pointless. The other two didn’t have an answer any more than he did.
A moment later, a hand fell upon his shoulder, and he turned, startled out of possibly a couple of years of his life, to find Sal backing past him, face ashen as though he’d seen a ghost. He looked like he wanted to cry. The fearless individual Marcus had witnessed only moments ago was gone in the face of what now appeared to be nothing more than a large frightened child, and he doubted that he’d ever have been able to imagine it if he hadn’t just witnessed it with his own two eyes.
“What’s wrong with you?” Marcus asked.
Sal just pointed with one shaky hand, and raised his revolver with the other.
“Jesus!” Greg exclaimed.
Marcus turned then, skin crawling all over his body. Some dark part of him had known there was something down here, watching and waiting. He’d just chosen not to believe it and pushed it to the back of his mind.
The creature stood before them, giant, emaciated, with the head of a Jackal, a mane of green fir, and ram-like horns. It had scales instead of fur covering the rest of its dog-like body, and its eyes pulsed with a dim, orange, flickering light. It had dragged Frank’s body a yard or so away from the staircase and was crouched over it, feeding.
They were all backing away now.
There’s no such thing as monsters.
Marcus’s mother had told him that many times, and now he heard her voice ringing out from somewhere in a half forgotten memory; perhaps one where he’d awakened in the middle of the night, terrified. He fought hard to hold in the nervous laughter that was threatening to spill forth.
Yah, right, he thought, no such thing as monsters. Seems that had been one hell of a lie now, hadn’t it? Oh, maybe she hadn’t realized that she was lying, but there is a hidden part in all of us that knows monsters exist, and that subconscious knowledge might just be the reason we all fear the dark.
Through that dark, the monster looked up at them. A growl, deep and guttural, echoed out to them, vibrated in their bones, and then it began to walk their way.
Marcus’s skin grew ice cold. His mind wanted to immediately discount everything his eyes were seeing, but at the same time he knew it was real. Nearly paralyzed with fear, he said the only thing which made sense. “Shoot it.”
“Why don’t you shoot it?” Sal asked, as though he feared that bullets would merely piss it off and didn’t wish to end up being the focus of its rage.
“I’m a shitty aim.” Marcus lied.
Greg said nothing.
The beast let out an unearthly roar then, and bolted toward them at full speed.
“Shit,” Sal exclaimed and opened fire.
In a blur of dank air, pistol fire, displaced dust and cobwebs, they were running, except for Marcus. He was mesmerized for one last moment, staring in horror at the mass of green fur surrounding the monster’s jackal head. The fur was moving as if caressed by an unknown and unfelt breeze, and in the moment before he finally forced himself to turn away, he got a clear and very unwanted glimpse of what that swaying fir really was…
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