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Garden of Nightmares
- Garden of Nightmares -
A Descent Into Madness
“That is not dead, which can Eternal lie. And with Strange Aeons, even Death may die.” – H.P. Lovecraft
Whilst America struggled against the British during its’ war for independence, other forces were seeking to shape not the destiny of a country, but the destinies of certain individuals. Unseen evils walked about unnoticed, whilst lunacy, incest, and murder were left in their wake. Even though the dark powers that manipulated the evils had no corporeal form, no fleshly substance, there were those who went out in the night and pledged to purge the land of them. Some had fallen prey to darkness unawares, and as generations went by… the sins of the parents would be visited upon the children. And certain children would seek vengeance because of it! The story that is about to be told begins with a son reading his father’s diary, innocently enough. But the pages carry a poison he cannot fathom, and his family’s lands are sickening with a poison of a far more insidious nature. For the past three nights before opening the diary, he has been plagued by a nightmare he cannot speak of, not even to his faithful wife. Though she secretly suspects he is slowly going mad, she says nothing to him and plays her part to perfection. Shadows have begun to appear in the old garden, and at least one of the horses in the stable was found mutilated as if by a wild beast. The servants whisper of ancient curses and the wrath of native gods unknown to the “learned” men of more “enlightened” climes. It is all but the first faint stirrings of an end that was not foretold, but destined nonetheless. For the old gods are patient, and they know when they have been wronged. A local man, a notorious drunk and troublemaker was found hung in the highest branches of a massive willow tree in some swampland on the outskirts of the town. It would have seemed the work of human hands, had the rope and body not been set too high for any man to reach. On the same night that this took place, seven children from seven different homes were found dead in the town well, their flesh fused together in a way that kept them conjoined in a most unnatural fashion. Again, a crime that was impossible for any human being to perpetrate. The local militia sought to no avail after the cause of all these strange and brutal deeds, but when some of their own members began to go missing only to turn up half-eaten with marks no known creatures of this world could make… it became apparent that something wished the case to be pursued no farther. But there are always those who will not be frightened away so easily, and one son in particular will not rest until he finds his own terrible answers! I, your humble narrator, am not relating to you these events from recorded history. For they are not history, they are legend. And so, let us begin.
Prelude - Darkness Descending
Somewhere in Massachusetts: 1782 A.D.
“In the back yard of my family’s home, there is a certain old and abandoned garden. At its’ precise center there is a statue of a cherubic angel holding up a bowl, and appearing somewhat with an air of heavy dislike for his task. In front of that, there are two rows of large bushes… and before them are large statues of lions that flank a great stone bench. Very elegant sounding though it may be, the area had become a desolation following the fall of two great trees that shook the ground beneath them when they crashed down to earth, tipping up their roots and breaking apart with a thunderous crack. Following their loud fall, heavy rains brought on by an excessive winter turned the once solid ground into a more marshy terrain. The fall of the trees was a dire omen that presaged the decline of the garden, and it was perhaps indicative of a more spiritual decline in the land itself. For when human beings do evil deeds, it poisons all around them. Sometimes… as with those evils I have witnessed… that poison will become manifest visibly. The darkness waited patiently, in this case. It held no malice against any one person, but rather it hated all things not of its’ nature. One day, during those months of the spring thaw that come each year, a large flock of crows came down unto the garden in search of things to feed upon. Their descent was an omen of the darkness that was slowly descending, or perhaps more accurately rising up… from the outer depths in which it had waited since before mankind walked the earth. For man lives where once other, alien things dwelled… and when man is no more, those things shall but inherit the long-forsaken kingdoms that inhuman hands had labored to raise up.” So it was written in my father’s diary from a lifetime of years ago to this day, and so it has come to pass that the crows have come back to roost. The marshy garden that was never reclaimed by the hands of man has long stood in its’ wild splendor upon the estate of my kin. The darkness my father wrote about… whatever form it took in his lifetime… never did rise to trouble me in my own. But I am seeing signs more evil than just simple birds in the very small town I live in. People becoming meaner and crueler as the days go by… animals becoming more feral… and the preachers warning of hellfire and brimstone. The local preacher, a pastor named Harley Packard, even claims that the Devil dwells in the wild places of the surrounding lands. I do not know what to believe, but I know something dark is coming to our valley… and I confess that I am afraid. Tonight, I shall pack my musket and ready my rapier. I will ride out in search of the truth, and if I do not return then so be it. My family knows that I do what I must, as my father did before me. My neighbors already think me mad. God has abandoned us all, I suspect… and so men with courage must stand firm and act with honor. My father was a member of the Masonic order, and he raised me with values and traditions that needs must be upheld. The war against the British costs this nation much, and what is coming of that conflict will be recorded surely by history. My struggle, as my father’s struggle before him, will go untold of save in these journals wherein we keep our secrets. As my father let me read of his, so one day shall I let my son or daughter read of mine. Each generation must stand against the darkness, for only we know of its’ insidious existence. I will kiss my wife and unstable the horse… and then… God must have mercy on my soul! There is something abroad in the garden at this hour, and I suspect it is not of this world. I must go forth and seek it out, even though it imperils my life to do this.
Part I – Hunter and Hunted
The old stories say that before our family had their home on the spot it was built on, that it was a vegetable garden tended by people who lived in the area back in the days when the puritans settled it. Before that, it was sacred ground to a local native tribe. When the puritans came, there was a conflict over the land and many of the natives were killed on the spot where the garden came to be planted. Ironic, that the garden was watered by blood before it was nurtured by water. Ironic, and tragic! Our garden is for flowers and plants… but it lies upon that same ground, accursed by blood and death. No priest was ever able to exorcise it, and so it lies to the hunters to keep the evils that stalk the place at night at bay… when it is their season to come forth. Now is the season of the hunt, and I walk through the overgrown marsh… having thus leashed my horse to a nearby tree. It is far from our house. Far enough to require a ride to get here… and on this night in particular, I have no wish to walk back all that way. Black shadows that are like unto fingers stretch out across a landscape of shadows. Tonight is the harvest moon, and there is ample light to see by! I will need that light. The old, dead trees that cast the aforementioned shadows seem twisted and ill. More like creatures akin to squat trolls, than is any proper vegetation’s want. I hear rustling nearby, as I make my way slowly along old paths towards the statue at the center of the garden. Fool, I was to have called it such a thing, though! A garden indicates a place of life and growth, but here the growth seems to be caught betwixt life and death, in some ghastly state that is both and neither. I am being watched, but I pray it is only by animals and not something else. My prayers all go unheard, when lumbering up ahead I can clearly spy the hunched form of what seems to be a bear, but with the head of a goat. Nothing natural is like unto such a beast, and it lopes about on hooves… its’ arms the muscular limbs of a man. What called it forth from Hell, and gave it a leave to come hither? None can say, but I ready my musket to fire on the creature. The loud shot of the musket ball shatters the otherwise quiet of the evil night, and as expected the monster seems to merely shrug the attack off. I do unsheathe my blade, its’ steel gleaming in the moon’s illumination as my body charges forth to meet the devilish foe. I manage to thrust the sharp sword into the fiend’s back, just shy of its’ spine, before the thing swipes at me with a massive clawed hand. I dodge the blow, extracting my weapon as I prepare to attack again. We each attack and doge one another’s many blows, until at last I manage to deeply bury my rapier… far into the vile creature’s neck, by some fortunate chance. However, my luck is short-lived! For as the beast writhes in its’ death-throes it manages to rake my left forearm with a well-struck slash of its’ claws. Though it lies dead at my feet, the monster did its’ work all too well… since the blood that oozes forth from my wound burns like fire where it has been drawn. In the morning, I will need to retrieve the monstrous corpse and take it to the preacher. He will know the enemy by this minion, even if I do not. I bind the cuts on my arm with a torn piece of my shirt, and I swallow my pain as I continue along my way to the center of the garden. There, I see that the statue was somehow ritually defaced in the most obscene manner… with the blood and fur of slaughtered animals, smeared across its’ surface. The evil has arisen! On the morrow, it seemed, I would need to have the servants come and clean this horrible mess up, before departing to pay a visit to the pastor. He would never be expecting me.
Part II – The Devil’s Doorman
The church I approached: was founded by the puritans, back when my hometown was first settled. Pastor Packard was a notable freemason and a more progressive sort of minister than perhaps most of the townsfolk would prefer to have there. I always bring the stranger finds to him, because he is an old friend of my father’s… and I too call him friend. He meets me outside the church’s doors as I approach with my cart, my horse tired and weary from bearing our heavy cargo all the way from the family manor. The pastor is a tall man, bald, with piercing black eyes that match the black garb of his office. He bows politely and takes off his hat as he greets me. I shake his hand and lead him to the back of my cart, where I cast off the massive white cloth that is there, stained in places with blood, to reveal what lies beneath it. In the morning light, the hideous features of the demonic creature were all-too apparent. It was no animal that lay there. The pastor seemed unmoved by that hideous visage, and motioned for me to help him bring the carcass into the church itself. Hours later, I sat in a large chair by the altar, listening to Pastor Packard reading from an ancient book that was definitely not the Bible. “So as you can see, my good master Alton, there were some in New England that were actually true witches. Unlike many of the sorry souls who were so convicted back in the day! The cult whose sacred book this was, had settled into these parts in the years when your father and I hunted the darkness that back then stalked the land. It was a different darkness than the one that rears itself now… but a part of the same guiding evil. The cult that I do speak of tried to summon the evil itself, and succeeded in raising up monsters the likes of which you seem to have slain. We managed to put an end to their activities before they got too out of hand, but of course we could not eliminate them entirely. The type of ritual blasphemies they engaged in were not dissimilar to the defilement of your statue as you described it.” That was what the pastor told me. I looked at him grimly and so stated: “I forgot to mention… the creature wounded me on the arm during our struggle. Have a look at it, would you?” and I rolled up my sleeve to show him the marks. They appeared to have healed by some uncanny power, but turned black under the skin. Three slashes in all were visible. Three lines. Three marks. The pastor seemed visibly shaken by this and drew back a breath in shock. When he composed himself better, he explained his horror to me: “That is the sign of the cult I spoke of, my friend. Three slash-like lines in precisely that very style… like the claw-mark of some terrible beast. They must have somehow unleashed that demon and set it upon your lands. Probably to avenge their defeat at your father’s hands and mine! It is certain they will strike at me next… but I am ready for such as they. As for yourself, the reason why they would mark you so is not clear. They do not mark their enemies, only potential converts; so, mayhap they are laying some plot to sway you to their cause. That certainly would be revenge aplenty on your family!” I asked the pastor if the demon I fought had a name. He told me the fiend is known in lore, as the Devil’s Doorman. Apparently, there are many of them. I would assume that Hell has many doors. I though it prudent to return home to make certain my wife was safe, and so I left the pastor to his plans… and proceeded to begin making several plans of my own. Before I left, the pastor gave me detailed directions to the place where the cult had once been headquartered. I was intent on journeying to there, but I dared not rush off in mad haste.
Part III – Desire and Nightmare
Upon my return home, I rushed into the house to find everything was normal enough. My wife greeted me warmly, as though all was well with the universe, and I smiled broadly at her… thankful for her being well. She was so beautiful to me! Long brown curly locks framed an oval face that looked very much like a fair maiden or angel out of some classical painting. Her big blue eyes looked deeply into mine with love, and her full lips promised pleasures aplenty with but a kiss. She wore the plain dress of just a common woman, though she could have afforded more befitting attire for as person of our means. “What ails you, husband?” she begged to know, and I so told her all that had transpired the night before and where it was I had gone this morning. I kept no secrets from her, ever. She looked fearful for me, but stated bravely: “If another such beast comes around here, I will kill it myself with a kitchen knife before I will allow it to harm you!” She was not a typical woman of her times, and I loved her for that. I showed her the marks upon my arm, which now seemed more like tattoos than a wound, and she gasped at the sight of them. “No beast known to man makes marks of that sort!” she exclaimed, and I nodded my head in agreement. “So, what will you do now?” she asked me, and I told her that I planned to make a trip into the Indian woods nearby to find the place where my father and Pastor Packard fought the mysterious cult back in their time. I had stopped home only to make certain of my wife’s safety. As the good lady touched my arm, the marks began to burn like fire once again… and I had a sudden urge to do things with her that are unfit to speak of. Before I knew what had transpired, she lay pinned upon her back on the kitchen floor whilst I took her in love with great savagery and lust the likes of which no Christian gentleman could fathom. Her shrieks and screams made me long to weep, but from my mouth came animalistic growls and other sounds more feral still. She was my wife, but I treated her in that moment like a whore. When I had finished in this most disgraceful behavior, I mercifully passed out and slipped into a dark and frightful land of nightmares. In the dream that then came upon me, I was in total pitch-black darkness. A white radiance shone in the distance, and as I neared it, I saw that it came from a young girl who sat on the edge of a black bed framed not with wood but with bleached human bones. Black was her hair, and black were her eyes. Black were her lips, as well. She wore a purple blouse and loose purple knee-trousers. Her hair was short, like unto a pageboy, and she seemed to be trying to get me to lie down on the bed with her. I surrendered to her will, for it was strong beyond imagining. In the next instant, I lay atop her and caressed her smooth skin beneath the fabric of her garments. I longed to tear them from her and have my way with her, and she sensed the lust in my heart. She sensed it and fueled it with obvious relish. Though she spoke not a word to me, she conveyed to me through thoughts… through images that appeared in my mind… that she desired me, and that she was actually a very ancient soul. Ancient before the earliest races of mankind! Ancient… and somehow evil in every sense of the word, though innocent and almost childlike was her form and her mannerisms. “Who are you?” I asked her whilst overcoming the glamour she held my mind under. But then, the dark overtook everything. I know not what transpired after that, for it seemed I drifted on the waters of oblivion. I longed to awaken, but I could not even cry out for help! No one was there to answer my pleas.
Part IV – Journey Into Despair
I awoke upon the couch in the living room of my home, my wife nursing me to wakefulness. Her torn garments had reminded me that I had not been dreaming the wicked deed I had perpetrated upon her person. Even so, she foolishly loved me and so stood by me through my seeming unconsciousness. “I do not hold you to blame, husband, for the madness that overcame you earlier.” She explained, holding back tears that had been rolling down her face previously to my waking. “What took me in the kitchen was something… not you. Aye, you were… not yourself, I say!” And I apologized to her deeply, as my own tears fell uncontrollably down my cheeks. She wiped the bitterest tears from my eyes with a handkerchief, her words soothingly soft and sweet: “Do not cry, husband! Be strong, and find the source of the evil that seems to be affecting you and this land so. I will keep things safe here whilst you are away. Delay not your quest for worry of me.” And so hours later… late in the afternoon… I was riding my horse along a beaten trail that ran through the Indian woods just past a local cemetery. The sky was dark gray and bleak looking, with the only birds that flitted there being the occasional crows. I was filled with a sense of self-loathing as I thought of my wife’s suffering at my hands, and I knew that the only way I could atone for such a sin was to find and put a stop to the source of the evil that was trying to claim me. The trail led down a sloping terrain of heavy woodland that was reasonably clear of underbrush. Tall pines and some other evergreen trees spread out before me, and a mist as gray as the sky clung to the forest floor in the distance. Soon, the trail would disappear and I would need to rely on the directions the pastor had given me to reach where the cult’s headquarters had been in days past. I left the trail at its’ end and made my way to the right and down a ditch. Soon, I came to a wooden bridge across a babbling stream that fed into a nearby swamp where I could hear creatures that chattered loudly… mere animals this time, no creatures born of Hell. I crossed the bridge and rode my horse up a hill and into the deeper forests beyond. Natural paths crisscrossed the area, and I kept to the one that I had been instructed to follow, passing an old oak where once criminals had been hung from the highest branches. Their skeletons still hung there, and I regarded this sight solemnly as I journeyed on. Eventually, I reached the darkest woods and there my horse would proceed not farther. I stopped and waited to see if the animal’s nerve would improve, but I could not even so much as lead the beast past that point. Suddenly, the horse took fright at the sound of a wolf that seemed directly behind us… but when I spun around with my musket at the ready, there was nothing to shoot at. I turned back to regard my steed, only to find that the animal had died literally of its’ fright. I buried him like a beloved friend and by then it was nearly dusk. Even so, I ventured into the woods that my poor horse had been so fearful of. I stopped by a cool little stream after a while, to refill my water-skin… for, by then, I had drank most of its’ contents. No sooner had I accomplished this task than I heard a woman in heartbreaking sorrow, weeping not far from where I stood. I closed in on the source of the sound, and by another branch of the stream there was indeed a woman who seemed to be intently washing her face in the water, attempting to wash away her tears by the look of it. As I came close to her, I was startled to see that her face was that of my wife. It turned into a skull as I drew near, and then this apparition faded off into nothingness.
Part V – Abomination and Desolation
Beyond where I had seen that… ghost of sorts… I encountered a blighted land where nothing grew and the air was strangely humid. It was night by then, and the sky was covered in too many clouds for moon or stars to light the way. I held the lantern I brought with me as I walked along the dead landscape, coming at last to a group of stone ruins. It had been a church once, perhaps of a similar age to the one wherein the pastor gave his sermons to the faithful every Sunday. Now, it was a desolation fit only for wild animals and feral beasts. It had burned down, by the look of the charred black walls. And for stone to burn like that, it must have been a terrible explosion indeed that had consumed the building! This was, I had been told: the very place I was seeking… the domain of that demonic cult which once my father and the pastor fought together against. Some of the old structure was still intact: the part that housed an entrance into the church’s forgotten crypts below its’ deepest foundations. If the cult still existed in an active capacity, then that would be where they hid themselves today. I pushed on the stone door that led into those deep recesses and it did swing back on its’ rusty metal hinges with a crash. So much for venturing into the enemy’s lair without being detected! Holding out my lantern… I set foot on ancient stairs that led down into utter darkness. Suddenly, I was harshly reminded of the nightmare I had of that strange young girl. That was a more unnerving thing even than the place itself… but I was not willing to allow a dream to hinder me, and so I pressed onward. The scent in the air beneath the ruined church was like a mausoleum, and moist earth’s distinct odor was mixed with it in a dreadful fashion. There was no sign of life anywhere, and only ancient crypts and burial chambers could be seen. At the far end of one row of such rooms, there was a wooden door as untouched by time as you could please, with shiny new metal hinges and a well-polished doorknob. It was too new to match the age of the ruins, and I knew that therein laired my enemy. I turned the knob and found it fully unlocked… and so the door opened inward and I discovered the room I had witnessed in my nightmare. Pitch-black save for the light of my lantern, and of massive scale the chamber was. In the distance of the room, I saw some white radiance and as I drew near to it I discovered a bed with black coverings, framed not with wood but with human bones. Upon it was the young girl I knew would be there, and I felt a strange desire for her deep within me that was difficult to fight. Though fight it I did! I asked her to tell me her name, but she would not speak. And so we just stared at one another, waiting in a kind of stalemate. After a span of time, which passed thusly, the girl at last deigned to say something to me: “I called to you, and you came. I called you in your dreams, and I knew you would come, master Alton. I knew you would come here, to me. For I called you!” and hearing her voice, so youthful and pleasant and yet so ominous and mysterious, I knew fear more grave than that I nearly felt when I faced the minion she had sent to mark me. She told me who she was, then, and I listened to her tale: “I am the goddaughter of he who once held sway from the altar of the Church of the Black Moon, when still it stood in all its’ glory up aboveground. My father would be about your age now, master Alton, would not that he died of fever in this very room. It is his bones from which I made my bed, as he himself wished. My godfather was slain by your father. That is why I have called you.” I saw no malice in her eyes, but even a devil can mask the worst intentions.
Part VI – Revelation of Insanity
I regarded the beautiful but evil girl as I would any child who was orphaned too young: with pity. And so, I thought to reason with her. “So, do you seek revenge upon me because of what my father did, and because like him I hunt the fiends of the night?” I inquired of her, and she stated matter of fact-like in reply as follows: “I hold you no grudge, master Alton, and that is why I ordered you to be marked instead of slain. So that I could contact you through your dreams and call you to come before me! I want peace between our two families, and an end to the hunting of my pets by those of your bloodline.” And when she said that, she was just an innocent young girl, earnestly desiring an end to a fight that had bothered her. I knew, however, that she was far more than that though! I said unto her: “Your pets are hunted because of the evil they cause. They defile sacred places, and they spill human blood. Your godfather was slain because he set such creatures upon innocents, and my father stood up to him only because he alone had the courage to do so. He, and Pastor Packard.” At which the child had laughed and in an imperious tone she stated: “Is that the story you were led to believe? Let me tell you the truth, then. Your father and my godfather were around the same age. In fact… they grew up together as best friends, and became the bitterest of rivals as time went on. More so, because your father had long lusted after my godfather’s wife! The son she should have born to my godfather, she bore to your father, and that son was my father. You were born the same year as he, and the two of you could have been brothers, had things worked out differently. Whilst you were raised in comfort, in a loving household where you were kept ignorant of your father’s more wicked doings… my father was raised in secret, in these crypts. His wife was a native woman, and I was born of their union. We are related by your father’s blood, you and I… your father’s blood that flowed in my father’s veins. But your mad father could not simply leave us in peace… no, he and that evil pastor, Packard, came here with explosives and caused the death of all within. My mother was amongst those killed, and my father never recovered from her loss. Years later, when the fever took him… he had no strength left to fight the illness that claimed his life. We were never Satanists or devil-worshippers. That was your father and the pastor. We were good Christians who helped the Black Moon tribes who were native to these woods, but to cover his sin of lust your father took innocent lives and blamed us for all the evils that were unleashed by his defilement of this sacred ground. The land cries out for this wrong to be righted, and so my pets arise up to defile the grounds that your father’s people hold sacred! The devils he and that phony pastor had dealings with have come to collect their toll, but I have subjugated them to my will and used them for my own ends… to bring you here and offer you peace.” And she was sincere in every word spoken… this girl who was young enough to be my own daughter. So sincere, that I felt ashamed of my father’s deceptions. Ashamed that I ever trusted the lies he penned in his journal about some nebulous “darkness” that existed in his soul alone… and ashamed that I ever called a liar like Packard friend. How else could Packard have even come by a diabolic tome, unless it was in fact his own book and not some cult’s! He always focused so much on Hell in his sermons, and too little on Heaven that it just made sense. And… he always knew too much about demonic lore. Secretly though, I was most ashamed that my father’s evil was in me.
Part VII – Awakening from Dream
I returned home, walking hand in hand with the young girl whose family had suffered so terribly because of mine. As we approached my lands, I stopped and held her close, kissing her sweet face and telling her that I would care for her until my dying breath. She was content, and that made me glad. I told my wife everything that had transpired, and all that I had learned… and she too felt sorry for the child who was in fact my blood niece. But I forgot for a moment what the girl had done with her father’s bones. My brother’s bones! And how mercilessly she had set that demon loose in our garden. The next day, when we heard the news about the gruesome death of Pastor Packard, I was not surprised. The evil he dabbled in did at last take its’ toll, and leave his torn limbs and shredded flesh scattered from one end of his church to the other. Never more were demons seen in the land, and things seemed to quiet down following the ruling that it was an “animal attack” that had claimed the pastor’s life. The people were content to believe this, and I busied myself with caring for both my wife and my niece. I left all occult matters behind me, and I hunted after fiends no more… having learned that sometimes they are not what they at first appear to be. It was as though I awakened from a long dream and only now saw things clearly! The marks on my arm never went away… I would bear them like Cain’s mark for the rest of my days, for they I did believe were symbolic of my father’s wickedness. He never paid for it, and so now I had to pay for it for him. But I was not yet done paying, it seemed! One day, after working in the fields with the servants, I came indoors to find my wife had fallen to her death down the basement stairs. My niece: whose name was Delia, incidentally… was just sitting there, staring at the body as if she were regarding a simple curiosity. I asked her how this transpired, and she only stated that it had been an accident. I became morbid and withdrawn, and violently depressed following my wife’s passing, and I did not leave my home or seek after another to love. They buried her in a beautiful crypt in the cemetery not far from the Indian woods, I was told. I just could not bear to go over there… I wanted to remember her: as she was when she still lived, and not as something which now lived no more. Six years went by, and Delia became a beautiful young woman in that time. She still took to wearing boyish clothing like blouses and knee trousers, and she still fancied a pageboy hairstyle, but in all other ways she was a lovely and feminine lady. She and I were always very close, more like a father and daughter than anything… but she, it seemed, had designs beyond that. It was a fine, golden autumn when she finally approached me as I sat in my study, immersed in reading an old book about ancient mythologies and trying to get over my grief and long mourning over the greatest tragedy of my entire life. She just sauntered in, walked over to my desk, and put her arms around me before whispering into my ear: “I love you! Not as is between relatives, but with a passion like unto the fires of Hell. Tell me you love me in return, and let your mourning be at an end.” And I looked deep into her eyes, felt the warmth of her tight embrace, and yearned to succumb to its’ charms. But I could not forget what it was I had lost, and I told her so. Then, Delia grew angry and said: “I killed for you! Do not let your wife’s death be for naught. I killed her, so that we could one day be together. I am a child no longer, so let today be the day I have for so long dreamed of. Tell me you love me as I love you. Please, my darling!” Oh, how I ached to tell her that.
Part VIII – Marks of the Beast
The only other person I loved as much as my wife had just admitted to being my wife’s killer. Of course I held a passion for Delia all of those years, but first her youth and then my grief blinded me to it in turns! She had been saving herself for me, and in a way I had been saving myself anew for her. My father’s lustful blood roared in my veins, and it would not be silenced. I said not a word in reply, but I caressed her hair and kissed her lips with a passion I had never shown my wife, for she had been too tender, too proper. Never that is… except once. The black marks on my arm burned hotly, having been cold and dormant for so long. Delia was awakening the beast within me once again, and this time it was fully under her control. We made love savagely upon the desk, and Delia laughed with delight as I took her. I loved her with such wicked abandon, and she loved me madly. When the wild frenzy subsided and my mind cleared, I wept anew for many long hours as I felt an insanity begin to creep into my every thought. Then, a moment of clarity occurred when I realized the ironic reason God had for what Delia had done. My father’s actions had caused the death of her mother. My brother’s wife! Now, Delia herself had caused the death of my wife. The scales of justice had been balanced, so that the slate could be clean at last. I had paid the final price for my father’s sins, and now I could be redeemed and start my life over. With Delia as my new wife, any future child of ours would unite the blood of her family and mine for all of time. So that surely would heal the damage my father had done… and so I told Delia at long last: “Yes, sweet Delia, I do love you! I have always loved you, and I always will.” At which she smiled and was content, and that made me glad. The old church in the woods was rebuilt, and I became the pastor of that church. Delia and I helped out the Black Moon Indians whenever we could, and we laid my brother’s bones to rest at last, in a grave not far from my wife’s crypt. Since we had now been living mostly at the church, my family’s home was given to the servants and their families to keep. They all went their separate ways… and the old house was abandoned, torn down, and replaced by a new vegetable garden. Nothing of the old garden that I knew had remained, for the marsh became a swamp and the statues sank into the mire. Everything was as it once had been, and there was a rightness to it that transcended human understanding. For there are powers more ancient than man, and they once ruled where man rules now… but in places where man rules no more, the old powers return. Delia was a harbinger for such a return, and whilst we remained safe in our haven in the woods there descended upon the small town, darkness so absolute that the whole place never fully recovered from it. They say that demons came out of the marsh and punished all the citizens of the town for their crimes, both petty and great. Only those within our church were spared their fury. That, then, was the cosmic terror my father had written about so long ago! A truly cosmic terror brought about by very human, down to earth evil. I hear that they want to rebuild the old town and keep us as the local church of choice. Folks think it was Indians who claimed the lives of the townsfolk, and they want us to keep the local natives peaceful. I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry at such a turn of events. Will the new people have more sense and virtue than their predecessors, or will the history repeat itself? Delia tells me that the old powers are sated, and that for now the balance is restored to the land. I wonder how long they will remain satisfied!
Epilogue – Offspring of the Damned
And so it came to pass that a single child was born to the couple of Delia and Alton, but because Delia had won Alton’s love by bloodshed the child was accursed, and born as a hermaphrodite with a predominately feminine nature. So much so, that the child was passed off as a girl, and no one ever suspected the truth. What was far more difficult to disguise, was the fact that upon reaching her thirteenth year, the child no longer aged and remained forever young as all those around her grew old and died… and the world was changing, as the long years turned into much longer centuries. She had been named Lily, but her nature would prove to be far from as pure as the flower is inclined to be. It is said she is still amongst us today, and that she is worshipped by a secret cult that has cropped up around her over the countless decades since her birth. Some call her the Great Priestess of the Unnamable Gods, whilst others maintain she is the reincarnation of the demon goddess Lilith herself. Because of her pale bone-white skin and coal black hair, and because of her large black eyes… her cult is oft known as the Cult of the White Owl. Her worshippers seek a world liberated from notions of good or evil, a world in which laws and morals are determined by the individual: rather than society as a whole… and so it is most attractive to many who tire of the drudgery of the modern era. They preach creativity through chaos, and order through anarchy, and they are waiting for a certain distant hour to arrive. When the planets align just so, and when people have evolved just enough to appreciate what special delights Lily has to offer them… she will summon to this tired and weary world the gods who ordained her birth, and then all things shall change one final time. For the gods who once ruled where man rules now, are patient… and when man rules this planet no more… they shall rise: to reign in humanity’s stead. And of course, if there is one thing mankind is always ripe for… it is change. I have walked with the incarnation of Lilith, and I have learned much that others could never imagine. Perhaps I myself, your humble narrator, am damned. But consider when you see the wickedness of the world today, and the things we do to our fellow man… consider just for one small moment, if we do not perhaps deserve our fate. She has told me that I am human in flesh only, and so maybe I might be spared what surely is coming. Who can say what the future holds? Some say the world will end on a certain date, but they are wrong. It can end at any moment, if the powers that govern creation should grow tired of man’s presumptuousness. We are always living on the cusp of a new, and stranger, eon.
“The Road to Hell is paved with Good Intentions. (Hell is full of Good Wishes and Desires).” – Saint Bernard of Clairvaux
A Descent Into Madness
“That is not dead, which can Eternal lie. And with Strange Aeons, even Death may die.” – H.P. Lovecraft
Whilst America struggled against the British during its’ war for independence, other forces were seeking to shape not the destiny of a country, but the destinies of certain individuals. Unseen evils walked about unnoticed, whilst lunacy, incest, and murder were left in their wake. Even though the dark powers that manipulated the evils had no corporeal form, no fleshly substance, there were those who went out in the night and pledged to purge the land of them. Some had fallen prey to darkness unawares, and as generations went by… the sins of the parents would be visited upon the children. And certain children would seek vengeance because of it! The story that is about to be told begins with a son reading his father’s diary, innocently enough. But the pages carry a poison he cannot fathom, and his family’s lands are sickening with a poison of a far more insidious nature. For the past three nights before opening the diary, he has been plagued by a nightmare he cannot speak of, not even to his faithful wife. Though she secretly suspects he is slowly going mad, she says nothing to him and plays her part to perfection. Shadows have begun to appear in the old garden, and at least one of the horses in the stable was found mutilated as if by a wild beast. The servants whisper of ancient curses and the wrath of native gods unknown to the “learned” men of more “enlightened” climes. It is all but the first faint stirrings of an end that was not foretold, but destined nonetheless. For the old gods are patient, and they know when they have been wronged. A local man, a notorious drunk and troublemaker was found hung in the highest branches of a massive willow tree in some swampland on the outskirts of the town. It would have seemed the work of human hands, had the rope and body not been set too high for any man to reach. On the same night that this took place, seven children from seven different homes were found dead in the town well, their flesh fused together in a way that kept them conjoined in a most unnatural fashion. Again, a crime that was impossible for any human being to perpetrate. The local militia sought to no avail after the cause of all these strange and brutal deeds, but when some of their own members began to go missing only to turn up half-eaten with marks no known creatures of this world could make… it became apparent that something wished the case to be pursued no farther. But there are always those who will not be frightened away so easily, and one son in particular will not rest until he finds his own terrible answers! I, your humble narrator, am not relating to you these events from recorded history. For they are not history, they are legend. And so, let us begin.
Prelude - Darkness Descending
Somewhere in Massachusetts: 1782 A.D.
“In the back yard of my family’s home, there is a certain old and abandoned garden. At its’ precise center there is a statue of a cherubic angel holding up a bowl, and appearing somewhat with an air of heavy dislike for his task. In front of that, there are two rows of large bushes… and before them are large statues of lions that flank a great stone bench. Very elegant sounding though it may be, the area had become a desolation following the fall of two great trees that shook the ground beneath them when they crashed down to earth, tipping up their roots and breaking apart with a thunderous crack. Following their loud fall, heavy rains brought on by an excessive winter turned the once solid ground into a more marshy terrain. The fall of the trees was a dire omen that presaged the decline of the garden, and it was perhaps indicative of a more spiritual decline in the land itself. For when human beings do evil deeds, it poisons all around them. Sometimes… as with those evils I have witnessed… that poison will become manifest visibly. The darkness waited patiently, in this case. It held no malice against any one person, but rather it hated all things not of its’ nature. One day, during those months of the spring thaw that come each year, a large flock of crows came down unto the garden in search of things to feed upon. Their descent was an omen of the darkness that was slowly descending, or perhaps more accurately rising up… from the outer depths in which it had waited since before mankind walked the earth. For man lives where once other, alien things dwelled… and when man is no more, those things shall but inherit the long-forsaken kingdoms that inhuman hands had labored to raise up.” So it was written in my father’s diary from a lifetime of years ago to this day, and so it has come to pass that the crows have come back to roost. The marshy garden that was never reclaimed by the hands of man has long stood in its’ wild splendor upon the estate of my kin. The darkness my father wrote about… whatever form it took in his lifetime… never did rise to trouble me in my own. But I am seeing signs more evil than just simple birds in the very small town I live in. People becoming meaner and crueler as the days go by… animals becoming more feral… and the preachers warning of hellfire and brimstone. The local preacher, a pastor named Harley Packard, even claims that the Devil dwells in the wild places of the surrounding lands. I do not know what to believe, but I know something dark is coming to our valley… and I confess that I am afraid. Tonight, I shall pack my musket and ready my rapier. I will ride out in search of the truth, and if I do not return then so be it. My family knows that I do what I must, as my father did before me. My neighbors already think me mad. God has abandoned us all, I suspect… and so men with courage must stand firm and act with honor. My father was a member of the Masonic order, and he raised me with values and traditions that needs must be upheld. The war against the British costs this nation much, and what is coming of that conflict will be recorded surely by history. My struggle, as my father’s struggle before him, will go untold of save in these journals wherein we keep our secrets. As my father let me read of his, so one day shall I let my son or daughter read of mine. Each generation must stand against the darkness, for only we know of its’ insidious existence. I will kiss my wife and unstable the horse… and then… God must have mercy on my soul! There is something abroad in the garden at this hour, and I suspect it is not of this world. I must go forth and seek it out, even though it imperils my life to do this.
Part I – Hunter and Hunted
The old stories say that before our family had their home on the spot it was built on, that it was a vegetable garden tended by people who lived in the area back in the days when the puritans settled it. Before that, it was sacred ground to a local native tribe. When the puritans came, there was a conflict over the land and many of the natives were killed on the spot where the garden came to be planted. Ironic, that the garden was watered by blood before it was nurtured by water. Ironic, and tragic! Our garden is for flowers and plants… but it lies upon that same ground, accursed by blood and death. No priest was ever able to exorcise it, and so it lies to the hunters to keep the evils that stalk the place at night at bay… when it is their season to come forth. Now is the season of the hunt, and I walk through the overgrown marsh… having thus leashed my horse to a nearby tree. It is far from our house. Far enough to require a ride to get here… and on this night in particular, I have no wish to walk back all that way. Black shadows that are like unto fingers stretch out across a landscape of shadows. Tonight is the harvest moon, and there is ample light to see by! I will need that light. The old, dead trees that cast the aforementioned shadows seem twisted and ill. More like creatures akin to squat trolls, than is any proper vegetation’s want. I hear rustling nearby, as I make my way slowly along old paths towards the statue at the center of the garden. Fool, I was to have called it such a thing, though! A garden indicates a place of life and growth, but here the growth seems to be caught betwixt life and death, in some ghastly state that is both and neither. I am being watched, but I pray it is only by animals and not something else. My prayers all go unheard, when lumbering up ahead I can clearly spy the hunched form of what seems to be a bear, but with the head of a goat. Nothing natural is like unto such a beast, and it lopes about on hooves… its’ arms the muscular limbs of a man. What called it forth from Hell, and gave it a leave to come hither? None can say, but I ready my musket to fire on the creature. The loud shot of the musket ball shatters the otherwise quiet of the evil night, and as expected the monster seems to merely shrug the attack off. I do unsheathe my blade, its’ steel gleaming in the moon’s illumination as my body charges forth to meet the devilish foe. I manage to thrust the sharp sword into the fiend’s back, just shy of its’ spine, before the thing swipes at me with a massive clawed hand. I dodge the blow, extracting my weapon as I prepare to attack again. We each attack and doge one another’s many blows, until at last I manage to deeply bury my rapier… far into the vile creature’s neck, by some fortunate chance. However, my luck is short-lived! For as the beast writhes in its’ death-throes it manages to rake my left forearm with a well-struck slash of its’ claws. Though it lies dead at my feet, the monster did its’ work all too well… since the blood that oozes forth from my wound burns like fire where it has been drawn. In the morning, I will need to retrieve the monstrous corpse and take it to the preacher. He will know the enemy by this minion, even if I do not. I bind the cuts on my arm with a torn piece of my shirt, and I swallow my pain as I continue along my way to the center of the garden. There, I see that the statue was somehow ritually defaced in the most obscene manner… with the blood and fur of slaughtered animals, smeared across its’ surface. The evil has arisen! On the morrow, it seemed, I would need to have the servants come and clean this horrible mess up, before departing to pay a visit to the pastor. He would never be expecting me.
Part II – The Devil’s Doorman
The church I approached: was founded by the puritans, back when my hometown was first settled. Pastor Packard was a notable freemason and a more progressive sort of minister than perhaps most of the townsfolk would prefer to have there. I always bring the stranger finds to him, because he is an old friend of my father’s… and I too call him friend. He meets me outside the church’s doors as I approach with my cart, my horse tired and weary from bearing our heavy cargo all the way from the family manor. The pastor is a tall man, bald, with piercing black eyes that match the black garb of his office. He bows politely and takes off his hat as he greets me. I shake his hand and lead him to the back of my cart, where I cast off the massive white cloth that is there, stained in places with blood, to reveal what lies beneath it. In the morning light, the hideous features of the demonic creature were all-too apparent. It was no animal that lay there. The pastor seemed unmoved by that hideous visage, and motioned for me to help him bring the carcass into the church itself. Hours later, I sat in a large chair by the altar, listening to Pastor Packard reading from an ancient book that was definitely not the Bible. “So as you can see, my good master Alton, there were some in New England that were actually true witches. Unlike many of the sorry souls who were so convicted back in the day! The cult whose sacred book this was, had settled into these parts in the years when your father and I hunted the darkness that back then stalked the land. It was a different darkness than the one that rears itself now… but a part of the same guiding evil. The cult that I do speak of tried to summon the evil itself, and succeeded in raising up monsters the likes of which you seem to have slain. We managed to put an end to their activities before they got too out of hand, but of course we could not eliminate them entirely. The type of ritual blasphemies they engaged in were not dissimilar to the defilement of your statue as you described it.” That was what the pastor told me. I looked at him grimly and so stated: “I forgot to mention… the creature wounded me on the arm during our struggle. Have a look at it, would you?” and I rolled up my sleeve to show him the marks. They appeared to have healed by some uncanny power, but turned black under the skin. Three slashes in all were visible. Three lines. Three marks. The pastor seemed visibly shaken by this and drew back a breath in shock. When he composed himself better, he explained his horror to me: “That is the sign of the cult I spoke of, my friend. Three slash-like lines in precisely that very style… like the claw-mark of some terrible beast. They must have somehow unleashed that demon and set it upon your lands. Probably to avenge their defeat at your father’s hands and mine! It is certain they will strike at me next… but I am ready for such as they. As for yourself, the reason why they would mark you so is not clear. They do not mark their enemies, only potential converts; so, mayhap they are laying some plot to sway you to their cause. That certainly would be revenge aplenty on your family!” I asked the pastor if the demon I fought had a name. He told me the fiend is known in lore, as the Devil’s Doorman. Apparently, there are many of them. I would assume that Hell has many doors. I though it prudent to return home to make certain my wife was safe, and so I left the pastor to his plans… and proceeded to begin making several plans of my own. Before I left, the pastor gave me detailed directions to the place where the cult had once been headquartered. I was intent on journeying to there, but I dared not rush off in mad haste.
Part III – Desire and Nightmare
Upon my return home, I rushed into the house to find everything was normal enough. My wife greeted me warmly, as though all was well with the universe, and I smiled broadly at her… thankful for her being well. She was so beautiful to me! Long brown curly locks framed an oval face that looked very much like a fair maiden or angel out of some classical painting. Her big blue eyes looked deeply into mine with love, and her full lips promised pleasures aplenty with but a kiss. She wore the plain dress of just a common woman, though she could have afforded more befitting attire for as person of our means. “What ails you, husband?” she begged to know, and I so told her all that had transpired the night before and where it was I had gone this morning. I kept no secrets from her, ever. She looked fearful for me, but stated bravely: “If another such beast comes around here, I will kill it myself with a kitchen knife before I will allow it to harm you!” She was not a typical woman of her times, and I loved her for that. I showed her the marks upon my arm, which now seemed more like tattoos than a wound, and she gasped at the sight of them. “No beast known to man makes marks of that sort!” she exclaimed, and I nodded my head in agreement. “So, what will you do now?” she asked me, and I told her that I planned to make a trip into the Indian woods nearby to find the place where my father and Pastor Packard fought the mysterious cult back in their time. I had stopped home only to make certain of my wife’s safety. As the good lady touched my arm, the marks began to burn like fire once again… and I had a sudden urge to do things with her that are unfit to speak of. Before I knew what had transpired, she lay pinned upon her back on the kitchen floor whilst I took her in love with great savagery and lust the likes of which no Christian gentleman could fathom. Her shrieks and screams made me long to weep, but from my mouth came animalistic growls and other sounds more feral still. She was my wife, but I treated her in that moment like a whore. When I had finished in this most disgraceful behavior, I mercifully passed out and slipped into a dark and frightful land of nightmares. In the dream that then came upon me, I was in total pitch-black darkness. A white radiance shone in the distance, and as I neared it, I saw that it came from a young girl who sat on the edge of a black bed framed not with wood but with bleached human bones. Black was her hair, and black were her eyes. Black were her lips, as well. She wore a purple blouse and loose purple knee-trousers. Her hair was short, like unto a pageboy, and she seemed to be trying to get me to lie down on the bed with her. I surrendered to her will, for it was strong beyond imagining. In the next instant, I lay atop her and caressed her smooth skin beneath the fabric of her garments. I longed to tear them from her and have my way with her, and she sensed the lust in my heart. She sensed it and fueled it with obvious relish. Though she spoke not a word to me, she conveyed to me through thoughts… through images that appeared in my mind… that she desired me, and that she was actually a very ancient soul. Ancient before the earliest races of mankind! Ancient… and somehow evil in every sense of the word, though innocent and almost childlike was her form and her mannerisms. “Who are you?” I asked her whilst overcoming the glamour she held my mind under. But then, the dark overtook everything. I know not what transpired after that, for it seemed I drifted on the waters of oblivion. I longed to awaken, but I could not even cry out for help! No one was there to answer my pleas.
Part IV – Journey Into Despair
I awoke upon the couch in the living room of my home, my wife nursing me to wakefulness. Her torn garments had reminded me that I had not been dreaming the wicked deed I had perpetrated upon her person. Even so, she foolishly loved me and so stood by me through my seeming unconsciousness. “I do not hold you to blame, husband, for the madness that overcame you earlier.” She explained, holding back tears that had been rolling down her face previously to my waking. “What took me in the kitchen was something… not you. Aye, you were… not yourself, I say!” And I apologized to her deeply, as my own tears fell uncontrollably down my cheeks. She wiped the bitterest tears from my eyes with a handkerchief, her words soothingly soft and sweet: “Do not cry, husband! Be strong, and find the source of the evil that seems to be affecting you and this land so. I will keep things safe here whilst you are away. Delay not your quest for worry of me.” And so hours later… late in the afternoon… I was riding my horse along a beaten trail that ran through the Indian woods just past a local cemetery. The sky was dark gray and bleak looking, with the only birds that flitted there being the occasional crows. I was filled with a sense of self-loathing as I thought of my wife’s suffering at my hands, and I knew that the only way I could atone for such a sin was to find and put a stop to the source of the evil that was trying to claim me. The trail led down a sloping terrain of heavy woodland that was reasonably clear of underbrush. Tall pines and some other evergreen trees spread out before me, and a mist as gray as the sky clung to the forest floor in the distance. Soon, the trail would disappear and I would need to rely on the directions the pastor had given me to reach where the cult’s headquarters had been in days past. I left the trail at its’ end and made my way to the right and down a ditch. Soon, I came to a wooden bridge across a babbling stream that fed into a nearby swamp where I could hear creatures that chattered loudly… mere animals this time, no creatures born of Hell. I crossed the bridge and rode my horse up a hill and into the deeper forests beyond. Natural paths crisscrossed the area, and I kept to the one that I had been instructed to follow, passing an old oak where once criminals had been hung from the highest branches. Their skeletons still hung there, and I regarded this sight solemnly as I journeyed on. Eventually, I reached the darkest woods and there my horse would proceed not farther. I stopped and waited to see if the animal’s nerve would improve, but I could not even so much as lead the beast past that point. Suddenly, the horse took fright at the sound of a wolf that seemed directly behind us… but when I spun around with my musket at the ready, there was nothing to shoot at. I turned back to regard my steed, only to find that the animal had died literally of its’ fright. I buried him like a beloved friend and by then it was nearly dusk. Even so, I ventured into the woods that my poor horse had been so fearful of. I stopped by a cool little stream after a while, to refill my water-skin… for, by then, I had drank most of its’ contents. No sooner had I accomplished this task than I heard a woman in heartbreaking sorrow, weeping not far from where I stood. I closed in on the source of the sound, and by another branch of the stream there was indeed a woman who seemed to be intently washing her face in the water, attempting to wash away her tears by the look of it. As I came close to her, I was startled to see that her face was that of my wife. It turned into a skull as I drew near, and then this apparition faded off into nothingness.
Part V – Abomination and Desolation
Beyond where I had seen that… ghost of sorts… I encountered a blighted land where nothing grew and the air was strangely humid. It was night by then, and the sky was covered in too many clouds for moon or stars to light the way. I held the lantern I brought with me as I walked along the dead landscape, coming at last to a group of stone ruins. It had been a church once, perhaps of a similar age to the one wherein the pastor gave his sermons to the faithful every Sunday. Now, it was a desolation fit only for wild animals and feral beasts. It had burned down, by the look of the charred black walls. And for stone to burn like that, it must have been a terrible explosion indeed that had consumed the building! This was, I had been told: the very place I was seeking… the domain of that demonic cult which once my father and the pastor fought together against. Some of the old structure was still intact: the part that housed an entrance into the church’s forgotten crypts below its’ deepest foundations. If the cult still existed in an active capacity, then that would be where they hid themselves today. I pushed on the stone door that led into those deep recesses and it did swing back on its’ rusty metal hinges with a crash. So much for venturing into the enemy’s lair without being detected! Holding out my lantern… I set foot on ancient stairs that led down into utter darkness. Suddenly, I was harshly reminded of the nightmare I had of that strange young girl. That was a more unnerving thing even than the place itself… but I was not willing to allow a dream to hinder me, and so I pressed onward. The scent in the air beneath the ruined church was like a mausoleum, and moist earth’s distinct odor was mixed with it in a dreadful fashion. There was no sign of life anywhere, and only ancient crypts and burial chambers could be seen. At the far end of one row of such rooms, there was a wooden door as untouched by time as you could please, with shiny new metal hinges and a well-polished doorknob. It was too new to match the age of the ruins, and I knew that therein laired my enemy. I turned the knob and found it fully unlocked… and so the door opened inward and I discovered the room I had witnessed in my nightmare. Pitch-black save for the light of my lantern, and of massive scale the chamber was. In the distance of the room, I saw some white radiance and as I drew near to it I discovered a bed with black coverings, framed not with wood but with human bones. Upon it was the young girl I knew would be there, and I felt a strange desire for her deep within me that was difficult to fight. Though fight it I did! I asked her to tell me her name, but she would not speak. And so we just stared at one another, waiting in a kind of stalemate. After a span of time, which passed thusly, the girl at last deigned to say something to me: “I called to you, and you came. I called you in your dreams, and I knew you would come, master Alton. I knew you would come here, to me. For I called you!” and hearing her voice, so youthful and pleasant and yet so ominous and mysterious, I knew fear more grave than that I nearly felt when I faced the minion she had sent to mark me. She told me who she was, then, and I listened to her tale: “I am the goddaughter of he who once held sway from the altar of the Church of the Black Moon, when still it stood in all its’ glory up aboveground. My father would be about your age now, master Alton, would not that he died of fever in this very room. It is his bones from which I made my bed, as he himself wished. My godfather was slain by your father. That is why I have called you.” I saw no malice in her eyes, but even a devil can mask the worst intentions.
Part VI – Revelation of Insanity
I regarded the beautiful but evil girl as I would any child who was orphaned too young: with pity. And so, I thought to reason with her. “So, do you seek revenge upon me because of what my father did, and because like him I hunt the fiends of the night?” I inquired of her, and she stated matter of fact-like in reply as follows: “I hold you no grudge, master Alton, and that is why I ordered you to be marked instead of slain. So that I could contact you through your dreams and call you to come before me! I want peace between our two families, and an end to the hunting of my pets by those of your bloodline.” And when she said that, she was just an innocent young girl, earnestly desiring an end to a fight that had bothered her. I knew, however, that she was far more than that though! I said unto her: “Your pets are hunted because of the evil they cause. They defile sacred places, and they spill human blood. Your godfather was slain because he set such creatures upon innocents, and my father stood up to him only because he alone had the courage to do so. He, and Pastor Packard.” At which the child had laughed and in an imperious tone she stated: “Is that the story you were led to believe? Let me tell you the truth, then. Your father and my godfather were around the same age. In fact… they grew up together as best friends, and became the bitterest of rivals as time went on. More so, because your father had long lusted after my godfather’s wife! The son she should have born to my godfather, she bore to your father, and that son was my father. You were born the same year as he, and the two of you could have been brothers, had things worked out differently. Whilst you were raised in comfort, in a loving household where you were kept ignorant of your father’s more wicked doings… my father was raised in secret, in these crypts. His wife was a native woman, and I was born of their union. We are related by your father’s blood, you and I… your father’s blood that flowed in my father’s veins. But your mad father could not simply leave us in peace… no, he and that evil pastor, Packard, came here with explosives and caused the death of all within. My mother was amongst those killed, and my father never recovered from her loss. Years later, when the fever took him… he had no strength left to fight the illness that claimed his life. We were never Satanists or devil-worshippers. That was your father and the pastor. We were good Christians who helped the Black Moon tribes who were native to these woods, but to cover his sin of lust your father took innocent lives and blamed us for all the evils that were unleashed by his defilement of this sacred ground. The land cries out for this wrong to be righted, and so my pets arise up to defile the grounds that your father’s people hold sacred! The devils he and that phony pastor had dealings with have come to collect their toll, but I have subjugated them to my will and used them for my own ends… to bring you here and offer you peace.” And she was sincere in every word spoken… this girl who was young enough to be my own daughter. So sincere, that I felt ashamed of my father’s deceptions. Ashamed that I ever trusted the lies he penned in his journal about some nebulous “darkness” that existed in his soul alone… and ashamed that I ever called a liar like Packard friend. How else could Packard have even come by a diabolic tome, unless it was in fact his own book and not some cult’s! He always focused so much on Hell in his sermons, and too little on Heaven that it just made sense. And… he always knew too much about demonic lore. Secretly though, I was most ashamed that my father’s evil was in me.
Part VII – Awakening from Dream
I returned home, walking hand in hand with the young girl whose family had suffered so terribly because of mine. As we approached my lands, I stopped and held her close, kissing her sweet face and telling her that I would care for her until my dying breath. She was content, and that made me glad. I told my wife everything that had transpired, and all that I had learned… and she too felt sorry for the child who was in fact my blood niece. But I forgot for a moment what the girl had done with her father’s bones. My brother’s bones! And how mercilessly she had set that demon loose in our garden. The next day, when we heard the news about the gruesome death of Pastor Packard, I was not surprised. The evil he dabbled in did at last take its’ toll, and leave his torn limbs and shredded flesh scattered from one end of his church to the other. Never more were demons seen in the land, and things seemed to quiet down following the ruling that it was an “animal attack” that had claimed the pastor’s life. The people were content to believe this, and I busied myself with caring for both my wife and my niece. I left all occult matters behind me, and I hunted after fiends no more… having learned that sometimes they are not what they at first appear to be. It was as though I awakened from a long dream and only now saw things clearly! The marks on my arm never went away… I would bear them like Cain’s mark for the rest of my days, for they I did believe were symbolic of my father’s wickedness. He never paid for it, and so now I had to pay for it for him. But I was not yet done paying, it seemed! One day, after working in the fields with the servants, I came indoors to find my wife had fallen to her death down the basement stairs. My niece: whose name was Delia, incidentally… was just sitting there, staring at the body as if she were regarding a simple curiosity. I asked her how this transpired, and she only stated that it had been an accident. I became morbid and withdrawn, and violently depressed following my wife’s passing, and I did not leave my home or seek after another to love. They buried her in a beautiful crypt in the cemetery not far from the Indian woods, I was told. I just could not bear to go over there… I wanted to remember her: as she was when she still lived, and not as something which now lived no more. Six years went by, and Delia became a beautiful young woman in that time. She still took to wearing boyish clothing like blouses and knee trousers, and she still fancied a pageboy hairstyle, but in all other ways she was a lovely and feminine lady. She and I were always very close, more like a father and daughter than anything… but she, it seemed, had designs beyond that. It was a fine, golden autumn when she finally approached me as I sat in my study, immersed in reading an old book about ancient mythologies and trying to get over my grief and long mourning over the greatest tragedy of my entire life. She just sauntered in, walked over to my desk, and put her arms around me before whispering into my ear: “I love you! Not as is between relatives, but with a passion like unto the fires of Hell. Tell me you love me in return, and let your mourning be at an end.” And I looked deep into her eyes, felt the warmth of her tight embrace, and yearned to succumb to its’ charms. But I could not forget what it was I had lost, and I told her so. Then, Delia grew angry and said: “I killed for you! Do not let your wife’s death be for naught. I killed her, so that we could one day be together. I am a child no longer, so let today be the day I have for so long dreamed of. Tell me you love me as I love you. Please, my darling!” Oh, how I ached to tell her that.
Part VIII – Marks of the Beast
The only other person I loved as much as my wife had just admitted to being my wife’s killer. Of course I held a passion for Delia all of those years, but first her youth and then my grief blinded me to it in turns! She had been saving herself for me, and in a way I had been saving myself anew for her. My father’s lustful blood roared in my veins, and it would not be silenced. I said not a word in reply, but I caressed her hair and kissed her lips with a passion I had never shown my wife, for she had been too tender, too proper. Never that is… except once. The black marks on my arm burned hotly, having been cold and dormant for so long. Delia was awakening the beast within me once again, and this time it was fully under her control. We made love savagely upon the desk, and Delia laughed with delight as I took her. I loved her with such wicked abandon, and she loved me madly. When the wild frenzy subsided and my mind cleared, I wept anew for many long hours as I felt an insanity begin to creep into my every thought. Then, a moment of clarity occurred when I realized the ironic reason God had for what Delia had done. My father’s actions had caused the death of her mother. My brother’s wife! Now, Delia herself had caused the death of my wife. The scales of justice had been balanced, so that the slate could be clean at last. I had paid the final price for my father’s sins, and now I could be redeemed and start my life over. With Delia as my new wife, any future child of ours would unite the blood of her family and mine for all of time. So that surely would heal the damage my father had done… and so I told Delia at long last: “Yes, sweet Delia, I do love you! I have always loved you, and I always will.” At which she smiled and was content, and that made me glad. The old church in the woods was rebuilt, and I became the pastor of that church. Delia and I helped out the Black Moon Indians whenever we could, and we laid my brother’s bones to rest at last, in a grave not far from my wife’s crypt. Since we had now been living mostly at the church, my family’s home was given to the servants and their families to keep. They all went their separate ways… and the old house was abandoned, torn down, and replaced by a new vegetable garden. Nothing of the old garden that I knew had remained, for the marsh became a swamp and the statues sank into the mire. Everything was as it once had been, and there was a rightness to it that transcended human understanding. For there are powers more ancient than man, and they once ruled where man rules now… but in places where man rules no more, the old powers return. Delia was a harbinger for such a return, and whilst we remained safe in our haven in the woods there descended upon the small town, darkness so absolute that the whole place never fully recovered from it. They say that demons came out of the marsh and punished all the citizens of the town for their crimes, both petty and great. Only those within our church were spared their fury. That, then, was the cosmic terror my father had written about so long ago! A truly cosmic terror brought about by very human, down to earth evil. I hear that they want to rebuild the old town and keep us as the local church of choice. Folks think it was Indians who claimed the lives of the townsfolk, and they want us to keep the local natives peaceful. I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry at such a turn of events. Will the new people have more sense and virtue than their predecessors, or will the history repeat itself? Delia tells me that the old powers are sated, and that for now the balance is restored to the land. I wonder how long they will remain satisfied!
Epilogue – Offspring of the Damned
And so it came to pass that a single child was born to the couple of Delia and Alton, but because Delia had won Alton’s love by bloodshed the child was accursed, and born as a hermaphrodite with a predominately feminine nature. So much so, that the child was passed off as a girl, and no one ever suspected the truth. What was far more difficult to disguise, was the fact that upon reaching her thirteenth year, the child no longer aged and remained forever young as all those around her grew old and died… and the world was changing, as the long years turned into much longer centuries. She had been named Lily, but her nature would prove to be far from as pure as the flower is inclined to be. It is said she is still amongst us today, and that she is worshipped by a secret cult that has cropped up around her over the countless decades since her birth. Some call her the Great Priestess of the Unnamable Gods, whilst others maintain she is the reincarnation of the demon goddess Lilith herself. Because of her pale bone-white skin and coal black hair, and because of her large black eyes… her cult is oft known as the Cult of the White Owl. Her worshippers seek a world liberated from notions of good or evil, a world in which laws and morals are determined by the individual: rather than society as a whole… and so it is most attractive to many who tire of the drudgery of the modern era. They preach creativity through chaos, and order through anarchy, and they are waiting for a certain distant hour to arrive. When the planets align just so, and when people have evolved just enough to appreciate what special delights Lily has to offer them… she will summon to this tired and weary world the gods who ordained her birth, and then all things shall change one final time. For the gods who once ruled where man rules now, are patient… and when man rules this planet no more… they shall rise: to reign in humanity’s stead. And of course, if there is one thing mankind is always ripe for… it is change. I have walked with the incarnation of Lilith, and I have learned much that others could never imagine. Perhaps I myself, your humble narrator, am damned. But consider when you see the wickedness of the world today, and the things we do to our fellow man… consider just for one small moment, if we do not perhaps deserve our fate. She has told me that I am human in flesh only, and so maybe I might be spared what surely is coming. Who can say what the future holds? Some say the world will end on a certain date, but they are wrong. It can end at any moment, if the powers that govern creation should grow tired of man’s presumptuousness. We are always living on the cusp of a new, and stranger, eon.
“The Road to Hell is paved with Good Intentions. (Hell is full of Good Wishes and Desires).” – Saint Bernard of Clairvaux
Published 25th Oct 2011
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