Mischiefmakers: Dark Macabre Page 19

  “It is yours. You’re the only person I’ve been with!” Melissa screams as the tears come roaring down her cheeks.

  “Now we both know that’s not true,” he says, shaking his finger like a scolding teacher. “That is just-not-true.”

  “What are you talking about?!”

  “You know what I am talking about, that Daniel kid. Everyone knows you’ve slept with him, not to mention the other people. Even your own father complains how he hears about you sleeping around, and why you couldn’t be more like your sisters.”

  Her eyes blood-shot, face flushed with anger, she screams to the tops of her lungs, “His name is Damon, and we broke up months ago! Fuck you and fuck my father, and whoever else said anything can kiss my ass!”

  “Look, calm down, please calm yourself.” Reverend Hobbs begins to worry as she becomes enraged. “Okay, I’m not saying it’s mine, but I will help you. As the pastor, I can use some of the church funds for people in need, and I do believe you are in need.”

  “In need! In need of what?”

  “An abortion of course. Isn’t that why you are here, you need money?”

  Melissa runs her hands through her dark hair, then clasps it within a tight fist. Her voice low and unstable, she attempts to understand his intentions. “So you don’t even care. You just wanna forget it like it never happened. Is that it?”

  “Melissa, you can’t have this baby out of wedlock. What will people say?” His voice is still shaken.

  “You don’t give a shit about any damn wed-lock, you bastard!” Melissa looks at him with a fiendish glare.

  “You couldn’t possibly be thinking about keeping it. You can’t try to pass this off as my child. Who would believe you?” Rever- end Hobbs’ hands shake feverishly as he clasps them together. His beard drips nervous perspiration, which also falls from his eyebrows.

  Melissa looks away, taking a moment to pace the room. She speaks in an acquiescent tone, giving up this fight with Reverend Hobbs.

  “Okay, I guess you’re right. No one would believe me, not even my own father.” Her voice becomes low and less threatening.

  “Now see, you understand. An abortion will be the best thing. God knows we all make mistakes, we all have our weaknesses. Here, I can set you up with a clinic in Millcreek, this way no one has to know.” The fidgety reverend thumbs through his rolodex. “Here.” He hands Melissa a small white card, then opens one of his desks drawers and pulls out a gray metal box. “You’re going to need 362 dollars,” he says, opening the box with a small key he’s pulled from his pocket. He carefully counts out the exact amount of money, then lifts it

  credit to: www.tomituri.hu toward Melissa. She stands there with a blank expression. Wet and dry tears coat her face. “I’ll make the appointment for Saturday morning at nine o’clock. Is that okay?” Melissa continues her blank stare at the Reverend. “Is there something else?” he asks nervously.

  “Yeah, there is something.”

  “What?” he responds, afraid of what she may say.

  “How did you know exactly how much it would cost?” Melissa

  asks as she snatches the money and the little white card. “Maybe someone might believe me. Don’t worry, Rev, I’ll get rid of this bastard child, but who knows what I might say or do later.” She lifts her backpack and storms out of the office.

  Reverend Hobbs wipes his face as the perspiration begins to mount once more. Taking a few deep breaths, he falls deep into thought for a moment. He blots his clammy hands on his shirt and allows his jittery fingers to sift through his rolodex once again. He pulls out another small white card. Peering at it for just a moment, he decides to dial. A few rings later, someone answers.

  “Hello?”

  “Margaret, how are you? This is Dorlan.

  “Oh, hi, Dorlan, how is everything?”

  “Everything is wonderful, the church is doing great.” “How’s Sylvia and the kids?”

  “They are all just wonderful, thank you for asking. Margaret, is

  George around?”

  “He sure is. Hold on for a moment.”

  Reverend Hobbs is intensely nervous.

  “Hello, Dorlan, how you been?”

  “Fine, I couldn’t be better. George, I wanted to know if I may

  talk to you about a personal matter?”

  “Sure, Dorlan, go ahead.”

  “If it’s possible, could we meet somewhere?”

  “Just tell me when and where.”

  “Saturday afternoon, about two, at Mel’s, is that okay?” “Sure, that’s fine, could you give me some sort of hint of what

  this is about?”

  Reverend Hobbs pauses for a brief moment, then continues. “Well, it’s about your daughter and that colored boy, Damon,

  and some other things I think you should know about.” “What has she done now?!”

  “Now, George, don’t go gettin’ yourself in a frenzy, let me talk

  to you first. And please don’t tell your wife or Melissa anything until after.”

  “No problem, I look forward to seeing you.”

  “Okay, George, I’ll see you then, goodbye.”

  Melissa looks on as her past is played out right before her eyes.

  “It was him,” she says, her voice choked in anger.

  “Yes it was,” the child answers in a sticky sweet voice and then continues. “He met with your daddy after he was sure you had the abortion and told him all types of stuff. You trusted him with all your secrets, and he used them all against you. He betrayed you. Your father didn’t even hear your side of the story, he just waited for you and told you to get out. Reverend Hobbs was smart, he knew how your father thought, and he used that. He knew that your father could only stand so much and that he was already on the edge with you. Hobbs just gently pushed him over.”

  “Why are you showing me this?! Why!” Melissa asks angrily.

  “Yes, that’s right, get angry, you should be angry. Look at the two men who ruined your life.”

  Melissa suddenly finds herself and the child back on Tipper Street once more. Two men walk out onto the porch of the house she stands in front of. The two men smile as they stand wearing their preachers’ black. They stare off at the sky in deep contemplation.

  “How long has she been gone?” asks Reverend Hobbs.

  “I don’t know, years. To be honest, I’m just glad the little whore is gone.”

  “Hey, anyone can have a bad apple.”

  Melissa is shocked, hearing the men talk like this. Suddenly the blood in her brain begins to boil. She wants to rush up onto the porch, crush their heads in with a rock, and strangle them. But she feels powerless, only able to stand and watch. Not able to change anything.

  “Melissa, look at them, look how they talk about you, and they are supposed to be men of God. Look what they have done to your life.” Melissa stares at the two men with pure rage, then suddenly she feels something materialize within her hand. A huge black dagger decorated with carvings of black ravens. She finds herself grasping it tightly. “This is your chance to get even, allow your heart to grow black so that I may show you the way. Permit me to convert your soul, make it easy. Destroy them, and your journey to the black kingdom will be complete, and the lost souls of Asylum will be released.” The young child’s words of strength mesmerize Melissa. She is no longer under her own control as she stares at the men with bloodthirsty eyes. The young child’s eyes release their menacing witchy green, along with a sudden voice change. “Get them, they deserve it, pierce their hearts and watch the blood flow. Stab them once, twice, three times, or a hundred, it doesn’t matter, Mother!” The child is staring at Melissa but then is disturbed by a strange noise.

  The child glares back as if looking for someone, then becomes agitated. “What are you waiting for, go, do what you feel!” Melissa walks toward the chattering men who don’t even notice her. “Destroy them!” The child’s evil voice rends the air. Melissa raises the razor-sharp dagger. She steps c
loser. The two men continue their casual conversation. They cannot see Melissa stepping toward them. Melissa, as if under a spell, never blinks; her eyes are wide and fixed on her victims. The child is disturbed once more. She stares backward, releasing a threatening growl, and her eyes increase in intensity. “Kill them now!” Melissa raises her arms, grasping the dagger tightly as she stands directly in front of the conversing men. “Hurry! Do it!” the evil child blares.

  Without warning, a small flock of white doves swoops in front of Melissa, shattering her daze. She drops the dagger and turns. The little girl has changed into the small, skinless demon with the piercing blue eyes. Melissa gasps in awe and terror. She is suddenly back within the cloud kingdom, and the heavenly doves encircle the skies above. A swarm of sinister ravens swoops down from another distant realm. The black flock streaks toward the white doves. Sounds of immortal combat emanate from all corners of this once tranquil domain. A mist of blood showers Melissa as the opposing clans clash. Her once white dress is now covered with tiny pinpoint drops of blood. Black and white feathers fall from the sky, saturated with crimson. The sky resounds of hideous squeals of pain and torment. Melissa lifts her hands, only to reveal two palms filled with blood-soaked feathers. Her mouth open wide with a frozen scream, she looks over at the little demon. It stands there with its mouth wide as well, allowing the blood rain to soak its face and tongue. It turns toward Melissa, licking its thin lips.

  “See you later, Mother,” the little demon says in a sticky sweet voice and with a devilish smile.

  Melissa awakens. The black rainstorm continues outside her windows. Her heart pounds as blood rushes through her body. Her skin is colorless and clammy, her hands cold and numb. Melissa stands, with vague memories of her violent nightmare.

  The child, Reverend Hobbs, my father, what’s happening to me?

  Clasping locks of her hair in a tight fist, she struggles to calm the migraine that ravages her head. Melissa attempts to stand, grasping the headboard for support. She walks toward the door as the shrieks of lightning intensify.

  Somethin’ is wrong, I gotta go to the hospital now.

  Melissa struggles to open the door. Her head is throbbing. The electricity is still out, so the house remains cold and dark. She can barely see; only the continuous bolts of lightning flashing through the windows guide her way.

  Slowly reaching out, she turns the doorknob. The door opens, exposing a room with a bed that has not been slept in at all.

  “Where is he?” Melissa looks over at a porcelain mug with a clock centered within it. “Four o’clock in the morning, where could he be so early?” Melissa closes the door to the undisturbed room and staggers downstairs. A jolt of pain shrieks through her skull, forcing her to stumble slightly. Maintaining her balance, she grips the wooden banister. Following familiar shadows, she guides herself to the kitchen.

  “Morgan?” she calls softly. “Morgan?”

  The ringing of the phone shatters the quiet and hurls Melissa’s heart in a frenzy. She lifts the receiver to stop the ungodly noise. Trying to catch her breath, she hears a woman’s voice.

  “Hello. Hello?!” Melissa hears as she lifts the phone to her ear.

  “Hello?” Melissa replies.

  “Who is this?” an angry voice asks.

  “Melissa.” Melissa’s voice is still shaken as she continues to fight the pain within her head.

  “Who?”

  “A friend of Morgan’s.”

  “Let me speak to Morgan, friend!”

  “I’m not sure where he is, but I don’t think he’s here.”

  “Well, look, friend, you tell that damn brother of mine I’m sick of his games. You tell him grandma and grandpa are not in Flor- ida, Mexico, or the Caribbean, nor have they ever been. I have checked! You tell him I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I will be flying in Monday morning, and he’d better stop playing games! Also, you let him know that I know he has long since been fired from the fire department, so he can stop lying about that! You got all that, friend?!”

  “Yeah,” Melissa answers, confused and still in pain.

  The furious woman slams the phone down.

  For the first time, Melissa feels as if she and her child are in dan- ger. Her hands shake. She takes a moment to gather her thoughts.

  I gotta get out of this house, somethin’ is wrong, I can feel it. The baby, I gotta go to the emergency room! My head is poundin’!

  Melissa picks up the receiver. Squinting because of the lack of light and her migraine, she presses 9-1-...suddenly the phone is snatched from the wall.

  “Who are you calling this time of morning?” Morgan’s silhou- ette stands in front of her, with his eyes glowing bright green. “You look sick. Come, let me take you where you can rest.”

  Melissa screams as loud as she can. With all of her might, she pushes Morgan into the kitchen table. The table collapses as Morgan crashes to the floor. Gripping her stomach, Melissa turns and starts to run. As she reaches for the door latch, she is snatched by her hair and slammed onto the floor.

  “You are making this harder than it has to be.” Morgan’s once calm, soothing voice has been altered to a deep and sinister tone.

  Melissa is in intense agony as her head pounds with each heartbeat.

  “Stop fighting it! The pain could already be gone if you had fol- lowed your heart and slew those two men. Rest, Melissa, you will be given another chance to ease your pain, but even if you choose not to, it will be all over soon anyway, two more moons.” Morgan looks deep into Melissa’s eyes, causing her to feel faint. His glow- ing stares force Melissa to drift into a deep sleep. Before she drifts, however, she is able to mutter a small sentence.

  “Please, God...help me.”

  2

  F

  ather Johns’ eyes open suddenly. He rises from the bed, reaching for his glasses, and views his watch.

  “Four fifteen, I have to go.” In only his underwear, he stands and reaches for his clothing that lays draped on a small table. Laying his clothing across his lap, he drifts his fingers through his balding scalp and wipes his heav- ily creased face.

  credit to: Puritanikal Slowly, Father Johns slips on his black pants, shirt, and shoes. He stands and softly blows out the white candles, then continues out the door.

  Walking through the dreary corridor, Father Johns hears the storm raging. The powerful thunder causes the dangling light bulbs to sway gently. Small sections of already unstable brick crumble to the ground with each thunderous rumble. Father Johns steps into his dim office and grabs his long, black overcoat that hangs on an old wooden coat rack. Placing it over his arm, he grasps a pencil and scribbles a short note. He slips his arms into his coat as he reaches for his Bible and his black brimmed hat. Turning slowly, Father Johns takes another look at the office in which he has spent so many years, then exits the room, closing the door behind. As he walks down the hall, just before climbing the set of spiral stairs that leads to the upper floor, he stops at one of the wooden doors. He kneels down and gazes through the keyhole. Vincent appears exhausted as he reviews the scrolls with precision. Father Johns smiles softly, stands, and continues on his way.

  As he exits Saint Paul’s Cathedral, he sees the sky’s useless attempt to peek through the black heavy clouds. The rain continues to pour heavily; the lightning flashes through the sky.

  Walking through the spear-tipped steel gate, Father Johns steps toward his car. Getting closer to the car, he notices the steaming hood. He opens the door and unlatches the hood. He then walks in front of the car, lifting the hood to reveal the engine.

  “I don’t believe this,” he says quietly to himself. The engine has been melted beyond recognition. Melted steel parts bubble within a sweltering hot liquid. As Father Johns pulls down the hood, a black raven greets the roof. As it paces, its razor talons screech an unbearable high-pitch noise. The raven glares steadily at the priest.

  A huge bolt of lightning startles Father Johns, making him look at
the sky. When he looks back to continue his standoff with the devilish creature, the raven is gone.

  “I see you’re trying to slow me down. Are you afraid of me? You can’t stop me!” Father Johns screams, gazing up into the dark skies.

  Huge gusts of wind stream from the clouds as the weather worsens. The streets are barren, as traffic lights sway along their thick electrical wires. Old papers and debris dance a ghostly ballet in the streets and sidewalks. The accosting winds and rain add new elements to their repertoire. Without warning, Father Johns is struck in the face with hail the size of golf balls. He falls onto the ground, his Bible flipping out of his hand. His black-brimmed hat dislodges itself and rolls beyond sight. An evil wind begins to rip through pages of the Bible assiduously. Father Johns snatches the book away from the bombardment. Reaching into the sky, he salvages lost pages and shoves them back into the book.

  “You will have to strike me dead! I will not stop! Do you hear me? I will not stop.”

  Father Johns waits, hunkered down on the ground, for the evil wind to snatch him up and toss him into the sky. He closes his eyes, his heart pounding. But the wind only batters at him, shrieking in his ears. It’s unable to rip him from the ground. After a minute, he begins to feel stronger and rises to his knees, opening his eyes.

  The wind whips and screams at him. It slaps at Father Johns’ face. It slams harder and harder.

  Standing to his feet, he wipes the small stream of blood flowing from just above his left brow. The wind continues to thrash him, but he stays on his feet and takes his first nervous step. Then he takes another, and another. While the wind picks up speed, and the rain pelts his head, he proceeds down the street, shoulders slouched.

  Minutes later, as Father Johns continues to fight through the heavy winds and rain, he takes temporary shelter within a darkened alley. Exhausted, he rests against a brick wall. He gasps and trembles, while inches away the rain continues to bombard the street. While taking a few deep breaths, he hears a faint radio broadcast coming from a slightly opened window. The DJ’s voice is loud and teeming with energy.