Mischiefmakers: Dark Macabre Page 17

  “Nothing.” With a menacing glare, she grits her teeth. She peers through the opening in the partition at the unsuspecting man as he enjoys his Japanese feast. She continues to allow the evil to surge within her body, creating shooting numbing, electrical currents. Unexpectedly, the detective begins choking, followed by short coughs and gasps for air.

  “Art! What’s wrong!” The blonde woman in a skin-tight silk, red dress jumps to his side. “Someone, help! He’s choking!” Employees from the restaurant move into action quickly; one young man lifts the detective from the table to attempt the Heim- lich maneuver. The detective holds his throat tightly, desperately attempting to squeeze out the element that blocks his breathing. With one swing, the detective knocks away the employees who are trying desperately to help him. Struggling to stand erect, he collapses onto the table, falling on a half-empty glass of wine. The table sways for a moment, then collapses. Detective Peterson rolls over in despair. Tiny daggers of splintered glass now pierce his chest. His white shirt is wet with blood. His date screams franti- cally as more and more restaurant patrons attempt to assist him. The detective soon loses the battle for air as his eyes halt, and his hands fall helplessly to the floor. His neck, severely bruised, dis- plays the tight grasp he had on it. Food-filled saliva pours down the sides of his face as one man attempts CPR in a last effort to revive him.

  Melissa’s body relaxes. She is fully satisfied. The evil withdraws and leaves her nauseated.

  “I hope he’s going to be okay,” Morgan says, standing over the partition, viewing the event.

  As Melissa’s rage calms, she remembers the young child who called her Mother. She even remembers the child’s command to kill him. Her eyes grow dim as she presses her head against the partition, looking downward. Then, with a quiet voice not heard by anyone else, she speaks, “Did I do that? Did I just kill some- one?”

  “Is that the cop from the hospital?” Morgan asks.

  “Let’s go, Morgan!” she says with added strength.

  “We haven’t eaten yet.”

  “Please, can we go?!” Melissa stands quickly, looking away from Morgan.

  “Okay, we’re leaving. Where do you want to go to eat?” he asks as he stands, pushing his chair under the table.

  Melissa’s voice becomes low and shaky. “Home. I just wanna go home.”

  As they pass the crowd of concerned patrons, they see a sudden flash of lightning through a window, racing across the sky. Evening descends quickly. The black clouds engulf the setting sun. Soon, streams of heaven’s tears come pouring from the sky, drenching everything it touches.

  Melissa walks aimlessly out into nature’s fury.

  “Melissa, wait a second!” Morgan rushes up to her, placing his jacket around her shoulders. “You’ll catch pneumonia.” Melissa ignores him as she strolls casually to the passenger side of the car. The storm sends strong gusts of wind that give Morgan a forceful push.

  The drive back is quiet. The two are suspended within their own thoughts. The enormous raindrops continue to beat heavily upon the windshield as the squeaky wipers attempt to clear the view.

  “Somethin’ is wrong with me.” Melissa suddenly breaks the silence.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Morgan. I know when something is wrong with me!”

  “Don’t get upset. Maybe some rest is all you need.”

  Melissa silences as beads of rain continue to drip off her soaked hair. The rain-swept road is barely visible as the headlights pierce the evening shadows. Nature’s fireworks ignite the sky above. The crooked dashes of lightning bolt through the sky as thunderous roars follow. The roads are barren. It’s as though the earth has swallowed up all who have traveled the streets this evening. Houses are dark as though the electricity has been suddenly cut. Off to the side, a dangling power line sparks furiously, bouncing against the wet curb. The gusting winds slam against the car as Morgan valiantly attempts to keep a straight course.

  “Where the hell did this weather come from?” asks Morgan, looking up at the sky. Melissa ignores his comment as she begins to ask herself questions.

  I wished him dead, I imagined it, and it happened. The child called me Mother, then she disappeared. No, what am I talking about, that can’t happen. I couldn’t possibly wish someone dead. Could I? At that same moment, Melissa feels a strange presence as Morgan turns onto their block. Looking up through her dangling wet hair, she sees something on the corner as they pass. Her eyes flutter as the steady rain ricochets off the win- dow. She spots the silhouette of a man on the corner, standing quietly, large raindrops bouncing off him. He stares at the car as it passes. His face is cleverly hidden under a black-brimmed hat. He stands within the dense rain-swept shadows. Strangely, Morgan also feels this man’s presence as he brings the car to a screeching halt.

  “Did you see something?” says Morgan, as he stares into the darkness.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, just something, or better yet, someone?” Mor- gan asks, relentlessly panning left and right. Melissa looks back at the once-occupied corner and sees that it’s now abandoned. She wonders how Morgan could know someone was there if he didn’t see anyone. And why is he stopping like he’s frightened?

  Morgan continues down the street, past a few houses, then proceeds into his driveway.

  “I want to see a doctor.” Melissa’s voice trembles.

  “You don’t need a doctor.”

  “Fine, I’ll just pack my shit and go find a goddamn doctor!”

  “I can give you all the medical help you need!” Morgan replies.

  “Yeah, like you helped that guy at the restaurant. Where was all your medical stuff then?” Melissa glares, forcing a staring match.

  With a strong sigh of frustration, Morgan concedes, “All right! I’ll take you to see a doctor!”

  “When?!”

  “I’ll make a call. Tomorrow.”

  “Fine.” They both exit the car. Melissa stares at Morgan, and, for the first time, she doubts his intentions. Is he tryin’ to be my friend? He feels like a watchdog. He reminds me of...of Mr. Nich- olas, just giving me a place to stay, asking for nothing in return. The old colonial styled home doesn’t look or feel like a home but more like a prison with invisible bars.

  “It looks like our electricity’s gone out. We must be connected to that downed line,” Morgan states as the raindrops pound his head. Morgan opens the door and reaches for the light switch.

  “Yep, we’re out too. Wait here. I’ll go get the flashlights.” Mor- gan walks cautiously to the back of the house, feeling his way, as Melissa waits patiently on the porch. Moments later, Melissa feels nervous when the gusting winds send debris swirling around her. She takes a few short steps toward the darkened doorway, when suddenly she feels that presence again. She turns quickly. Standing in the middle of the lawn, facing the house, is that man’s silhouette once more. The dangling power line at the end of the block brightens the shadows; now he is easily seen. His face is still hid- den, and his body blends into the bushes. He is wearing all black, with a black-brimmed hat protecting his head and face from the downpour.

  “Can I help you, Sir? You lost?” she asks in a concerned tone. The man doesn’t answer as he remains quiet and steady, with his arms draped by his sides. Melissa feels no fear as she squints to see a face. She takes a few steps away from the doorway; then a piercing pain rips through her body, causing her to fall to one knee. Melissa looks up, her eyes glowing that devilish witchy green. Her voice is low but becomes powerfully deep. She speaks, remaining crouched on the porch, “I see you have found me.”

  “It wasn’t hard,” Father Johns answers.

  “Why are you here, preacher? This house has been consecrated for worship. You do not belong here.”

  “Who are you? What is your name?”

  “I am the unrelenting power you choose to ignore...I know no mercy...I am ferocious and brutal...I am all you define as cruel
. Get out of here, preacher...away from my rostrum, or I will kill you, just like I killed your assassin!” Lightning bellows from within the clouds. Suddenly Father Johns feels the house come alive. Its win- dows become more like eyes, the open doorway its mouth. The trees along its sides drape in the winds, becoming arms reaching out to grasp him.

  “Sarah was trying to help her friend,” Father Johns answers.

  “To help her friend, she would have had to destroy me! I will not be destroyed!”

  “I know you do not yet fully control Melissa!”

  “I will! Look at the black rain that falls upon you.” It laughs. “Your precious scrolls do not foretell this phenomenon, preacher?” the snickering beast asks. Looking up, the beast allows the water dripping from the porch roof to soak its face as it continues speaking, now using Sarah’s voice, “I am a part of the prophecy now...thank you, Father. You have done wonders for me. Without you, I couldn’t have made it. This black, gritty rain that smells rancid, stale, dead, is the blood of battle that rages on the other side. It smells...wonderful.”

  Father Johns glimpses down, while cupping his hand to catch the rain. He sees that the normally clear drops are actually a black murky liquid. Then a vaporizing sewage odor floods his nostrils.

  “You are not Sarah.” His voice is reserved, with a slight gag from the distasteful smell.

  The beast changes its voice back to its original loathsome tone, “My birth will be the dawn of a new era. Blackness will engulf light; a new beginning shall be born. Don’t worry, preacher, you will like it.”

  “What about Melissa?”

  “What about her? She is my mother. Once I devour her human soul, she will emerge a worshipped sorceress of Hades.”

  “I will stop your birth!”

  “Fool, you think my birth fulfills the prophecy of the Asylum of Omen. You are wrong! Asylum of Omen will open!”

  Father Johns tries to hide his bewilderment.

  “What--”

  “Sorry, preacher. I must go, but it has been nice chatting with you.” The beast within Melissa takes a slight pause, allowing her head to drop, then it swiftly lifts it and speaks once more, “Oh, by the way, as you can see, I have already replaced the pathetic human soul of the unborn child.” With an evil last stare, the witchy green glow within her eyes begins to lose intensity. Without warning, a monstrous black raven swoops from the wet skies and lands on the porch banister. Perched directly between the priest and the crouched woman, it stands as if guarding its master. It grips the wet banister with razor-sharp claws that sink deep into the wood effortlessly. The pouring rain and thunderous lightning don’t frighten the devilish monster; it maintains its merciless gaze upon the priest. It spreads its wings to flutter off some of the irri- tating rain dripping from its body, but, more importantly, to send a warning directed toward the priest. It gapes its black beak wide and releases a powerful shrill, further intensifying the moment.

  Bolts of lightning shriek across the sky, lighting up the black city streets. Suddenly one bolt finds its way down to this particu- lar rain-swept street, striking a tree directly in front of the house. This collision of nature causes brilliant sparks to explode from the tree, showering onto the dark street. Father Johns turns to watch this strange event, the lights mirroring off his spectacles.

  “Melissa!” Morgan’s voice comes from deep within the house. Father Johns turns back toward the house. “Melissa!” Melissa remains crouched on one knee as if in pain. The bird’s dark burgundy eyes maintain their fixed gaze upon the priest. Once again, it opens its massive wings. The raven arrogantly splashes some of the black rain into Father Johns’ face, then races into the dark sky.

  Moments later, Morgan emerges from the darkened house, shining a bright flashlight.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, concerned, as he helps Melissa to her feet.

  “I just got a little dizzy, that’s all,” Melissa responds softly. With his arm draped around her, Morgan turns, looking suspiciously into the dark bushes in front of the house, still sensing a presence. Morgan squints with a devilish glare. I can’t see you, but I know you’re there.

  Peeking through the dripping wet bushes next to the smoldering tree, Father Johns stares at the dark house. He looks down- ward but raises his hands, again cupping them to capture some of the rain pouring off his black brimmed hat. The dark water fills his hands. Freeing the tainted rain by slowly opening his fingers, he releases a soft sigh, then walks away from the house.

  Thunderous lightning continues to illuminate the skies. Rain pounds the concrete. The streets are pitch-black like the houses. The roaring sounds of thunder rattle the earth; this raging storm will continue through the night.

  Father Johns steps into his wood-paneled station wagon. His hands and clothes are soaking wet. His face is still filled with con- cern. He shakes his hands vigorously, then reaches into his pocket to remove his keys. After placing them into the ignition, Father Johns pulls off slowly, heading directly toward the downtown lights of Newark. He watches people scurry across the city streets, shielding themselves from the rain and lightning. He wonders if they even realize the change in the rain’s character. Suddenly a man walks in front of the car. Father Johns comes to a screeching halt. His heart racing, he looks up to see if the young man is okay.

  “You fucking asshole!” the young man shouts, and he flicks his middle finger. His eyes fill with evil intentions as he punches the hood of the car, then starts to walk around to the driver’s side. Fear fills Father Johns’ heart as the man approaches, wiping his wet face.

  “He’s a preacher, chill out!” another man from the shadows shouts. This man, this savior, steps in front of the approaching man.

  “I don’t give a fuck!” he says arrogantly, retracting his finger. He then walks off, glaring at Father Johns, his eyes blood-shot, rain dancing upon his head, pouring onto his face.

  Disappointed at the man’s lack of respect, Father Johns releases his brakes and continues.

  Forgive him, Lord, for he does not understand the impact of his words. Maybe he didn’t know I am a man of God. But Father Johns knows he has unbuttoned his coat, and his priest collar is quite visible. Furthermore, the other man acknowledged it, and still the enraged man did not care. Even if he hadn’t seen his collar, Father Johns wonders, Is this what we have come to, Lord, man against man? Is this how the mischiefmakers were able to infiltrate your earth, my God, through our fall from grace? I understand what I must do, I understand.

  7

  Deep under Saint Paul’s Cathedral, in the forgotten caverns, two men attempt to unlock the secrets behind the black rain and its meaning. They know they must find and under-

  stand why the demon within Melissa is able to show its identity so soon, contrary to what was foretold in the sacred scrolls. In the dungeon office where Father Johns made Sarah a believer of the Asylum of Omen, the priest develops his plan. He searches through mounds of ancient documents sprawled across a large wooden table. Standing directly behind him is a student of divinity from one of the local universities. The student has used his summer to study under the guidance of Father Johns. Sweating and panting heavily, Father Johns answers as many of his young student’s questions as he can.

  “You mean the beast actually spoke to you, Father?” asks the young man, standing timidly, wearing his thick brown cloth robe. He is tall and slender, with an extremely dark complexion, and his voice is powerfully deep.

  “That’s exactly what happened, Vincent. No more, no less,” answers Father Johns.

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing!” Father Johns states sternly, as he stops temporarily to look his enthusiastic pupil directly in the eyes.

  “Then why fill my head with this information?” Vincent asks, slightly angered. Father Johns stops his search once more, then looks up at Vincent with a serious glare.

  “Do you believe everything I’ve told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Everything?”
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  “Yes.”

  “Then you know the Church will not back me, not because they don’t care, but things like this aren’t supposed to happen. Exor- cisms, ancient battles with the devil, Armageddon. Do you understand?! Before I can convince them, the world as we know it will end.” Father Johns takes a brief pause, then continues. “I need you to watch, listen, and learn. I just need someone to know, to explain, in case I do not succeed, and to carry out what must be done if I fail.”

  “Why me?”

  “Vincent, you are one of the brightest students I have ever had the honor of teaching divinity.” Father Johns steps up, face to face with the young man. Placing his hand behind the young man’s head, cupping his neck, Father Johns pulls his head down softly. “Since the day you walked into the church, I knew someday you would make a noble priest. Why you, you ask? Because you have a pure faith, and that is the only weapon against the beast. I can’t risk you helping me now and something happening to you.” With that, Father Johns goes back to searching through the mounds of scrolls. “Here it is.” Father Johns looks closely at one particular scroll and begins reading.

  credit to: www.tomituri.hu “The heavens shall shower blood of blackness when the war has commenced. The dark rain must last three moons. The lost souls of Asylum shall gain strength with each drop of the black fluid that tarnishes God’s Kingdom. At the passing of these lunar cycles, they will be released to wage war alongside Mephistopheles. The rancid blood of battle will change good to evil, wars will ensue, and the coming of our lord shall be praised by all. Once the child of the beast is of power, it shall rise and devour the host soul long before its birth. Then it shall recreate its essence into its own image, much like God created man. The devouring of this lost soul of heaven shall mark the beginning of the end of The Kingdom of Light. Protected are those whose hearts are as black as the abyss of the nether world. Be willing to give all to him, be willing to die for him, you must kill for him.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Armageddon has begun,” says Father Johns, pulling his glasses off his face and clasping them in a tight fist. “I don’t know why I didn’t see this passage before. I should have studied the scrolls more carefully,” says Father Johns disappointedly. “This blood of blackness.”