Mischiefmakers: Dark Macabre Read online

  credit to: valvett A tiny chirping noise resonates from the foot of the mattress. Donald’s exhausted senses ignore the tiny noise as well as the now illuminated surroundings. The chirping sound multiplies, originating from different sources throughout the room.

  A silent, glowing mist moves fast to cover the ears of the unsuspecting man in an attempt to deaden his hearing.

  The protruding metal springs of Donald’s mattress begin to take on an organic form. The springs twist, warp, and fuse into tiny little shapes, as if they’ve suddenly come to life. Then they begin to swarm together, forming a throng of worms. The intertwining swarm causes a rippling wave within the mattress. The mattress throbs, like something is alive inside it. The mattress pulsates with a beating pulse. Donald shrugs his shoulders and yawns, shifting onto his side, his sleep only slightly disturbed by the change in cushion.

  The swollen worms now reach out for Donald. They start to squirm sensually around Donald’s head and throat. They wriggle to smother him, like a living blanket. One worm finds itself curi- ously piercing Donald’s skin just above his throat. A small river of crimson trickles down the sides of Donald’s neck, forming a small pool of blood. Other worms smell this exotic element, so they quiver relentlessly toward the red river, indulging themselves.

  From the once quiet chirping, a swarm of locusts develops. They rise up from beneath Donald’s bed and collect in a gigantic mass, until the locusts cover the floor, vibrating with energy. The room hums with their sound. Slithering all over each other like dancers on a crowded dance floor, they swirl in passionate ecstasy.

  Donald’s eyes suddenly open with an emotionless glare. His pupils are as black as soot, his face a pale, soft white, his mouth gapes wide in an effort to scream, but he can only mutter a slight cough. His throat is clogged with thick vomit. Beads of sweat form on his cheeks, creating an eerie spectacle.

  Donald quivers. His body trembles and convulses like an epi- leptic on the mattress. Suddenly a paralyzing poison that has a swift effect infiltrates his body. The only movement he can now muster is in his little finger. He wags it, uncontrollably, as if he’s become a puppet to something he can’t see.

  This slight movement draws the sudden attention of the locusts. They swarm to the bed, crawl all over Donald, and swiftly attack, devouring flesh.

  Donald’s mouth gapes wide, but no sound comes out. Vomit pours from his mouth. His tongue is swollen, filled with poison- ous serum. Then the worms dig deeply into Donald’s body, burrowing as they please. Their bodies swell as they penetrate their beefy meal.

  Death comes slowly as his heart still pounds. Donald hears his heart reverberating against his chest. With one lonely tear, his soul cries for the God whose love he has always squandered. His chapped lips attempt to form words, but they only flutter before becoming deadly still.

  The poison numbs the slicing pain of Donald’s pierced flesh. Death is finally here. His eyes roll back from their paused position; his blackened pupils slowly drift. A quiescent feeling of warmth overcomes his body, which is riddled with gaping wounds. One bloody tear finds its way, sliding down his pale skin, between the throng of worms.

  Traveling throughout the lifeless carcass, these evil messengers find themselves a temporary home away from hell.

  The devilish green gently evaporates; its probing light slowly withdraws. The room becomes dreary and dim, returning to its original form. The room is deathly quiet.

  When the soft phosphorescent lights are gone, the hoard of dangerous insects disappears. Nothing is left but tainted flesh and bones.

  4

  Sarah’s mind is now swarming with questions. At first, she’s convinced her brain and memory are playing tricks on her. Maybe it’s from all that drinking, she thinks. Maybe I’m

  imagining things. But then the questions continue to nag at her, to prick at the back of her neck and haunt her imagination. Sarah begins to recall the old feelings she had when she first found Melissa after Melissa’s release from the hospital. She was in the alley wearing a bright red shirt, but maybe it wasn’t red--no, it was definitely red! Melissa did act strange. I mean...just differ- ent, I can’t even describe how. I know she wouldn’t hurt anyone, but she did have on those clothes and all that money. She did say a lady gave it to her. What the hell is goin’ on? Mr. Nicholas said he knows this Harris lady too. Where did he come from and the apartment, why did he give it to us? I’ve got to find out more about him. Donald mentioned he heard a little girl’s voice warning him. I wonder if it could be the same girl who warned me. Who is she? Where did she come from?

  Sarah’s mind swells with endless questions as she walks downtown to find some answers. Where to start...

  5

  “ H ello, may I help you?” Her voice is neither growling nor pleasing, but loud and tuneless. The short, stout woman expresses a very faint smile. Sarah finds herself daydream-

  ing, in a whirlwind of thoughts. “Oh, I needed some information on a building on 202 L Avenue, down Ironbound.”

  “Public or private?” asks the woman.

  “I don’t really know.”

  “What are you trying to find out exactly?” she asks.

  “I wanted to find out somethin’ about the owner. You see, I live there, and he hasn’t done any repair work in months, and I’m gettin’ real tired of him.” Sarah hopes her trembling voice does not give her away.

  “Are you sure about 202, down Ironbound?” she asks skepti- cally.

  “Yeah, is somethin’ wrong?” Sarah responds.

  “No, it’s just that I don’t remember many places down there. I’ll go take a look for the owner’s information, just wait here. What’s the name of the owner?”

  “Mr. Nicholas.”

  “First name?”

  “He never mentioned it.”

  “I’ll see what I can find.” With a doubtful stare, she turns away to search through her files.

  Sarah takes a seat in the ever-so-comfortable municipal chair and awaits the woman’s return. She doesn’t wait long. The woman comes out the back, frowning.

  “Look, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but this is not the place for it. I am too damn tired of--”

  “What’s the problem!”

  “The problem is, you can’t live in a building that burned up six months ago and has yet to be reconstructed. Hell, as far as repairs, the whole damn building needs repairing. It was gutted out shortly after the fire! Furthermore, the owner died in the fire; he lived there, Owen Marshall. There is no Nicholas!”

  Sarah cups her mouth, her eyes glazing. Turning completely around, she runs out the double doors. The information terrifies her and sends chills up her spine. Racing down the crowded streets, she finds herself two blocks away from the mission at an old abandoned building where a crowd has gathered. Forced to stop due to exhaustion, she notices a few people she knows.

  “What’s wrong with you?” asks Natalie, another mission volun- teer. “You look scared. Are you okay?”

  Panting, Sarah responds, “Everything is all wrong.”

  “Yeah, it’s wrong all right,” Natalie says as she peers over the crowd.

  “What are you talkin’ about?” asks Sarah.

  “What somebody did to Silas, Marty, and Donald. One of the prostitutes found their bodies. She said it was just pieces of them everywhere. Blood and shit all over, in one of the back rooms. She went hysterical, and the police had to take her to the hospital.”

  Gasping in shock, Sarah’s mind whirls. Her body shivers madly as the voices and chatter of the murder scene cease, withdrawing into a solemn calm. Her knees tremble as if she has aged sixty years in two seconds. Her hands quiver uncontrollably. Her skin becomes clammy and wet. She perspires with no restraint.

  Pure terror in its natural form is the only way to describe the wearied despair of Sarah’s emotions. With her body feeling sick and feeble, she cannot speak, hear, or think. She follows her tunneled vision out of the crowd.

  T
he watchful eyes loom above the crowd, watching carefully, tracing the steps of this dazed woman. They stare menacingly. They feel their secret may soon be revealed. The child they have sworn to protect must remain a powerful secret until the time is right, when darkness shall again inherit the earth. When the Black Mass becomes as common as Sunday morning Bible study. When the majestic gates of heaven open, allowing the warlords of darkness to pillage this sacred domain. The earth will not have a chance. The sun’s radiant energy will be reduced to a kindling torchlight, and the freezing temperatures shall give rise to a new breed of animal, a new breed of man, a new breed of wickedness.

  6

  Sarah walks, feeling a gentle tug on her shirt. Looking over, she doesn’t recognize the petite old man who looks at her with a gentle smile.

  The watchful eyes shy away, pushed back by a powerful force. They try to follow, but the kind face and the holy nature of the old man hinder their powers. Angrily they drift off, unable to follow.

  “Are you Sarah?”

  Sarah slowly responds, “Yeah.”

  “Well, you must come with me, Sarah,” he instructs with a calm,

  soothing voice.

  “I can’t, I have to help a friend. I think she is in a lot of trou

  ble,” Sarah says with a trembling tone.

  “More trouble than you could ever imagine. Please come with

  me, there is someone who has sent me to find you.”

  “Who sent you to find me? What trouble?”

  “Please, just follow me. I’ll take you to a place where you will

  be safe.”

  Sarah doesn’t ask any more questions. She feels naturally safe

  with the kind-faced man. He is surrounded by a charming karma

  that radiates an overwhelming sense of well-being. Through her

  cautious glare, she watches him as he smiles. Thin wire glasses

  comfortably complement his pleasant, heavily creased face. He’s

  wearing a tweed shirt with old-fashioned black knit pants and

  shoes that resemble those at the bowling alley.

  Sarah knows she must help her friend, and somehow she knows

  that this man is a crucial part of the answers she seeks. A soothing voice swells within her mind and soul, vividly instructing her

  subconscious to follow her instinct.

  As she walks steadily behind the old man, Sarah’s thoughts

  slowly drift back toward the murder scene. Her eyes fill with

  tears. She remembers the fear and anxiety in Donald’s voice when

  he described the voice he had heard. The memory of his bulging eyes and trembling hands burns a terrifying image into her

  memory.

  The evening sky slowly descends on the city. The streetlights

  begin to surge with energy. Their small amber radiance slowly

  develops into a brilliance that dominates the evening’s atmosphere.

  Sarah finds herself walking through a large, black gate. She

  looks around, noticing the words “Saint Paul’s Cathedral” etched

  in stone. Its skin is brown granite, and its eyes are stained glass

  images of angels. The structure is magnificent as it rises into the

  air, piercing the evening sky. The dark shingle-covered steeples

  end with magnificent golden crucifixes at each point. The divine

  building is dimly lit and seems undisturbed by the large city that

  encompasses it.

  The old man, pushing open one of the doors, turns and smiles,

  “You are safe now.”

  The pews are numerous with a lustrous glaze finish that

  reflects in the delicate candle light. The radiance of the multicolored stained glass captivates her. Towering faultless columns

  rise up throughout the holy chamber with a sanctified quality. A

  sweet lemon aroma fills the room, along with the fragrance of

  freshly cut flowers found in carefully arranged baskets around

  the alter.

  In the front of the sanctuary extending above all other elements, rising far superior to the pulpit, hovers the purest symbol of Christianity. Sarah’s heart jumps slightly as the man with his bound arms spread wide and bloody feet stares into her soul; she

  feels the strength of His love.

  The kind-faced man and Sarah walk on the left side of the pews

  toward the front of the Cathedral. Saintly figures guard their path.

  Through one door then another, Sarah carefully follows the old

  man’s steps.

  The two travel down a series of spiral stairs that enter a secret

  area of the church, visited by few. The cobwebs cling undisturbed

  to the shabby brick wall. The deep brown-varnished wood floor of

  the sanctuary is now replaced by an uneven cobblestone ground.

  This dungeon-like place is surprisingly well lit. Light bulbs dangling from their sockets loom just above their heads. Large piles

  of crumbled brick line the base of the walls. A strong aroma of

  ancient mildew floods these narrow corridors, cutting through a

  thick humid mist.

  The old man gestures for Sarah to stop. She finds herself in

  front of an aged wooden door with hinges large and rusty, bolted

  into the unstable brick wall. The old man reaches out with his

  well-aged hand to unlatch the huge, dusty lock.

  Stepping inside, Sarah is almost overcome by the smell of feces

  and urine. The old man evidently has been here before; he wastes

  no time cupping his nose and mouth before entering.

  The chamber is no different from the outside hall; it is also

  dungeon-like. Deprived of windows, the room is dim at best, with

  a few thick candles creating spots of light. The furniture looks just

  the same as the front door--thick and petrified. Large stones make

  up the degenerated walls; several dense beams form the makeshift

  ceiling. The spiders’ beautiful architectural webs suspend from

  everywhere.

  “She has been here almost a week now.” The old man speaks

  softly as he reaches up to pull a string, igniting a low wattage bulb. “Who?”

  “Her.” Huddled in the corner, a dark figure crouches, hiding

  from its mortal enemy. Looking up through her unkempt hair, her

  mouth open, a soft humble sound emerges.

  “Sarah, is that you?” Jumping up, Jackie rushes toward Sarah.

  “I knew you’d come! I knew it!” Her face and hands are shivering.

  She grabs Sarah’s hand, then quickly lets it go. “It’s you, it ain’t

  them?”

  “Jackie, what’s happened to you? You’re burned?” Jackie’s skin,

  once smooth and dark, is now scorched with burns. Her bleeding

  wounds and peeling scabs are grotesque. The smell of the burned

  flesh reeks in the dreary atmosphere of this cavern.

  “I need my protection. I saw their world. I know their secrets.

  I know their plans. The child can’t be born...it must die! I saw

  the beasts, they blew the horns, but they ain’t supposed to be no

  beasts, the end is close. Revelations...it’s in there.” Jackie drifts

  back into the camouflaging shadows like an injured animal. “What child? Beasts?”

  “Come next door, Sarah, I’ll explain things,” the old man says.

  Pulling the switch once more, the room falls victim to deep black

  shadows accented by golden halos of carefully placed candles. The two walk a few steps to another room filled with aged

  books and antique furniture. The room is clean and well lit. The

  old man removes his wire-framed glasses and extends his hand to

  Sarah.

  “I didn’t
mean to be rude, my name is Alexander Johns. People just call me Father Johns. I’m a priest here, at St. Paul’s. I

  didn’t want to talk to you outside, because I didn’t think it would

  be safe. It looks like we have a serious problem, Sarah, and your

  friend Melissa is in a lot of trouble.” Father Johns walks behind

  a wooden antique desk and sits. There are no hinges or screws;

  it looks as if the desk has been sculpted by hand. The desk is

  crafted with meticulously carved legs that resemble the waves of

  an ocean. Sarah’s eyes follow the waves until she decides to speak. “Somehow, I know that, but I don’t understand what’s goin’

  on,” says Sarah.

  “Sit down, Sarah, let me start from the beginning. A few nights

  ago, I heard a banging on the back doors of the Cathedral. When

  I opened the door, Jackie was standing there staring at the sky. I

  thought she was in trouble, so I pulled her inside. At first, I didn’t

  recognize her, but soon I realized I knew her from the mission.

  She continued to stand with her hands held in a tight fist. Her

  clothes were torn, her mouth filled with blood. I asked her if she

  was okay, but she refused to speak. I began to worry. She continued to bleed from her mouth, so I asked her if she wanted a

  doctor. It was then that I heard her voice for the first time. ‘No,

  Father, you must protect me. I ain’t leavin’ this place ever.’ Then

  she collapsed to the floor. I called for help, and we brought her

  downstairs to an empty room. It turned out that she had just bit-

  ten her lip and had some deep scratches, like she was attacked by

  an animal. We bandaged her up and allowed her to sleep. Later that

  evening, one of my assistants called for me; he said I needed to

  hear the woman while she talked in her sleep. Of course, I walked

  down, wondering what could possibly be so important at five a.m.,

  but it turns out my assistant did the right thing. Jackie was screaming, drenched with sweat and tears. She screamed about a place