CHELSEA HELD THE GRIP of her headphones around her tightly tied blonde hair before beginning the song all over again. It was the sixth take of the same verse, and she was growing tired of singing the same parts over and over again, each take more tedious than the next. The expression on her face was that of frustration as Harris Hangman and a few others watched from the other side of the glass, noticing the irritability in her expression with each take. The music stopped again mid verse as the producer spoke through the microphone.
'Chels, you're gonna have to get into it a bit more.'
'But these aren't my songs, Harris. I have my own originals, damn it. Why the hell aren't we recording those?'
'How many times are we gonna have this fucking conversation?' he shook his head, the frustration finally getting to him. 'For the love of fuck, just sing the bloody songs already. You have two songs of your own that are permitted on the album, the rest have already been written for you. We have songwriters for this.'
'But this is no talent garbage music, and you know it—generic, poppy bullshit, Hangman. I thought I was supposed to be touring with Ozzy, not fucking Tay-tay.'
'It's . . . a bit mainstream, I'll admit.' he sighed.
'Make it harder, Harris! Hard licks, fast bass and double kick petals, you hear me?'
'But we've already recorded most of the songs for this album.'
'We'll do it again! This would go a hell of a lot easier if I just had my band here . . . musicians with some fucking balls.'
Harris suddenly lost his temper, slamming his hand against the wall, but then took a moment to collect himself. As Chelsea watched from the other side of the glass, she felt no remorse for upsetting him. After everything she was put through, and the danger she had put her family in, she wasn't going to waste the worth of her eternal soul. If she was to trade her god-given essence for success in this damned and corrupted industry, it was going to be her way, simple and plain.
'Do you have any idea how much money we've already spent?'
'Oh, give me a fucking break, Harris. Who the hell cares about money? All the boasting about all these unlimited funds, gold cards and diamond stilettos, and we can't even pump out a decent solo?'
The sound engineer pulled his fingers away from the mixing board before him, and rested his chin on his knuckles, taking Chelsea's demands into consideration. He and Harris shot each other a menacing stare. He took his hand off the button that connected their mics, assuring that the singer couldn't overhear their discussion.
'I can't work like this. She wants us to start from scratch?'
The engineer smirked, watching Chelsea's bothersome but determined expression.
'Give her what she wants . . . whatever she wants.' The man replied.
'What?' Harris' crossed arms loosened in shock, surprised that he was willing to give in.
'I thought he wanted the world to follow her. The youth of this generation aren't going to follow the metal scene—not like they did in the eighties and nineties.'
'Oh ye of little faith.' said the man, speaking for the Chief. 'If she will not yield to the trends, we will have the trends yield to her. We set the trends in this industry, and the youth will follow whatever the hell we tell them to follow.'
'You can't be serious.' Harris felt the corner of his lip lift.
'Looks like metal is about to get a serious comeback.'
Harris smiled from ear to ear. He never thought for a split second that the Chief would be willing to bend to her needs; in fact, he had never seen it before. The Dark Man's minions were always instructed to yield, not a single exception . . . until now. The notion had him wondering why Chelsea was so important—why of all the countless people under his control, the Chief was only now willing to negotiate. Either way, he was pleased that his favorite genre was finally making a comeback in the mainstream.
'Don't look so shocked.' The engineer smirked.
'I just don't understand. Does he not realize that bringing metal into the mainstream again will slow any progress with his current contracts? The youth will slowly lose interest, doesn't that matter?'
'I have been instructed to yield to her will, Harris. Chelsea Ellis is part of a grander scheme. Her influence is the only thing that matters now; all others will follow suit or else.'
'Okay, who the fuck is this girl?' he demanded, but the engineer kept his calm composure. 'I mean, I just can't see Beyonce making a metal album if we are to carry the genre across the board.'
'They don't need to follow completely, Harris. Just a song or two on every album will be enough to have them eating out of Chelsea's hand. That is the goal, and I would suggest you play along.'
'You know me, Jameson . . . I always play along.' Leaning forward, he engaged the microphone button once more, allowing Chelsea to hear his voice inside the soundproof booth.
'Alright, listen up, kid. Turns out we are willing to compromise. We're gonna start fresh . . . how's five of your original songs instead of two on the album?'
'All songs; I don't want this boring make-up—break-up crap in my music. No bullshit devil worshiping crap either, and no guest rappers or electric beats. Not now—not fucking ever.' She sat boldly, unyielding in every sense.
Harris considered her for a moment, and Jameson nodded his approval.
'Seven, but all lyrics are to be subjected to a heavy process of approval before we begin recording—'
'All songs, Harris; no exception and no filtering.' Chelsea wouldn't budge. Now that she knew they were willing to negotiate, there was simply no wiggle room within her mind. The time for backing down had passed, and she was in it full steam.
'You're a pain in my balls, Cinderelli.' He took a moment to thoroughly think through the ramifications of what she was demanding. 'Fine, all songs.' Chelsea's face lit up like jack-o-lantern. 'But you're going to have to explain this drastic move to the Chief yourself. I wash my hands of this decision.'
'Don't listen to him, Chelsea.' said Jameson. 'The Chief's got your back; you do you, girl.'
Chelsea pumped her fist with excitement while Harris smirked, impressed with just how far she was willing to push back.
'So, I guess that's a wrap for today. We'll get a hold of your mates and fly them in as soon as possible. In the mean time, I'm going to need a full list of the songs you intend to put on the album, including lyrics, by the end of the week.'
Chelsea seemed pleased, impressed that they would be willing to bend. For a brief moment, she felt like her old self again—like her craft could actually make a difference in the real world.
'Don't get too cocky; we still haven't seen your lyrics or composure.' Jameson reminded.
'What does composure have to do with anything?' she asked.
'You know, for a songwriter as talented as you are, you really know dick about the industry.' Hangman chuckled. 'Some of your songs are going to have to be structured a certain way.'
'I don't understand . . . why?'
'Because, Chelsea, there are certain melodies that entrance the human mind . . . old structure designed to pull the listener in. Every artist since the very beginning of the music industry has one great hit that follows one of the ancient melodies, otherwise anyone with talent can make it big in the industry.'
'Keisha never complained.' shrugged Jameson.
'She just gave in to whatever was requested, I'd imagine.' Harris assumed.
'Well . . . yeah, of course. She's a gangster's wife for fuck sakes. How much natural talent do you really think she has, other than influencing her fans to sound as ditsy as humanly possible?' Chelsea recalled the singer's threatening posterior the first time she took the stage.
'Auto tune goes a long way, Chels. Now go on, get some rest. We have a lot of work to do, and a deadline to meet.'
Chelsea happily removed her headphones, then stood from her stool and vacated the room with a renewed bravado. Her throat ached from singing for six hours continuously, and her head pounded from the headache of terrible music she had been subjected to the whole time. She dreaded having to sing the same horrible songs over and over again the rest of her career, and was delighted to know that she could, at least, control the repetitiveness with her own songs from here on out.
Relieved and exhausted, she made her way to the exit and stepped into the limo that had been waiting all day for her, just outside the studio.
'Where to, Ma'am?' asked the driver.
'Back to the hotel, I suppose.' She smirked, getting comfortable in her seat. As the vehicle took off she thought about calling her sister to let her know everything she had learned, but checking her phone, she realized that Meredith hadn't called her lately. Chelsea was certain that if anything unusual was occurring in her household, she would have called to let her know. Ozzy's words of warning echoed back to her in that moment, reminding her to distance herself from her loved ones, and keep them out of harm's way.
She thought about what Ozzy had told her about defiance carrying a hefty price, hoping that starting from scratch didn't quite qualify as a reason to discipline her in such ways. The passing of Randy Rhoads crossed her mind, and wondered why the Godfather had targeted him rather than a member of his immediate family. In that moment, a dreadful idea came to her. If she would only get close to Harris Hangman, perhaps he would be selected to die rather than her sister—or God forbid, her children. It was a horrible decision to make, but reasonable, nonetheless. Just in case the Godfather decided to carry through with his threat, Chelsea would choose the lesser of two evils. After pondering the unspeakable possibilities, she scanned past her sister's name and selected Harris Hangman in her phone.
'Hey, what'd you forget?' he asked, not expecting a social call.
'Hangman, are you gonna to be busy for a while?' her tone was intentionally flirty.
'I'll be a few hours trying to figure out where the hell to go from here, but after that I'm free. What's twisting your nipples, love'?'
'Er—I was just wondering . . . if you'd like to, you know, eat or something?'
'Are they not feeding you properly? I'll have a word with the hotel—'
'No, I'm certainly well taken care of. I was thinking more along the lines of . . .'
An awkward moment lingered for longer than Chelsea had anticipated.
'A date?'
'Yeah, something like that.' she replied, acting much more nervous than she actually was.
'Hmm . . . I'm not sure that's such a good idea.'
Chelsea was taken aback; she honestly expected him to jump to the occasion, and just then she wondered if she had mistaken charm for flirtatious behavior this whole time.
'Oh, okay. That's quite alright then.' Chelsea answered with a much more genuine nervousness this time. 'No sweat, Hangman.'
'You didn't think I was going to be that easy did you?' he chuckled charismatically.
'Well, look who's suddenly full of himself.'
'Hey, I like that we were paired together, Chels, really. I've been in this business a long time, and find that relationships can . . . well, gum up the works, for lack of a better term.'
'I totally understand.' she replied, finding that his rejection somehow made him seem more attractive and desirable.
'We'll talk later, alright?'
'Yes, of course; see you then.' Chelsea quickly ended the call, unsure of what to make of the conversation. She had began the phone call with a horrible motive, but now that she was thinking about him in a genuine light, she suddenly felt in a better mood. For the first time since she had arrived, the singer felt good about herself. Perhaps the rejection was just what she needed to feel a little more grounded in reality. For reasons beyond her understanding, she suddenly found herself smiling.
Pushing a button on the door's armrest, the partition which separated the space from the driver lowered.
'Hey, what's your name?'
A young man who seemed just a couple years older than her nephew adjusted the rear-view mirror, as Chelsea caught sight of a set of bright green eyes and a main of neatly ties dreadlocks.
'My name's Damien, Ma'am. How may I be of service?'
Chelsea chuckled and shook her head.
'Well, for starters you can drop the "ma'am" and "serving" bullshit.'
'My apologies . . . what should I call you then, if I may be so blunt?'
'Chelsea; it's nice to meet you Damien.'
'Likewise, Chelsea.' he grinned, a charming Creole accent shining through, now that he was given permission to relax.
'Know of any good places to shop?' she asked, opening her wallet. Her gaze met the gold card she was given the morning after her contract was signed.
'I can think of a few. Many of my clients are fashion moguls and models—'
'No, no; not that extravagant diamond studded crap. Think Hot Topic, but much more brutal and edgy.' she winked.
'I got you, girl.' he smirked. 'Just a heads up, they aren't in the best parts of town.'
'I wouldn't have it any other way.' she beamed.
'Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you.' Damien winked back, turning the limousine around.
Chelsea thought of all the perks that came with a rising star status, and knowing that money was of no concern, she pondered all the possibilities of what she could do with unlimited funds.
"I can spend whatever I want, right? Enjoy the perks, as you so graciously pointed out?" she texted Harris, and received a reply straight away.
"The world is your oyster, Cinderelli. Just don't go buying up sports cars and multimillion dollar estates until your first album goes platinum."
Chelsea bit her lip with excitement, even though Harris had reminded her of who she really was, and where she came from with the not so subtle use of a nickname, which she had to admit was beginning to find somewhat endearing.
"Thanks Harris." She texted back, the use of his first name a first for her, as she was beginning to see him in a new light.
"Not a problem, deary. You go have some fun."
'Hey Damien,'
'Yes, Cher.' he replied in that old Creole manner known only in the heart of Louisiana.
'You got any music up there—something with some old timey swing?'
'I got you, Sugar.' he grinned, and then fiddled with the stereo. A moment later, an trumpets and drums could be heard blaring from the windows of the limousine. 'This is Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Mr. Pinstripe Suit—a favourite of mine.'
'Lovin' it!' she beamed as the big band sound had her swinging her hips in her seat.
~
Hard soles echoed with every step as the entourage of clergy moved through the marble floor of the Tower of Nicholas the Fifth. A stern looking Bishop, an Archbishop, and two Cardinals were focused on an assignment of great importance, their charged demeanor obvious with each march-like stride, the sway of their cassocks moving about the stone floor on a mission. They ventured below many archways and curved hallways, past medieval artwork and busts of historic figures long since ignored and forgotten. They climbed yet another spiral staircase, the elderly in the group groaning with every step. Reaching the top landing, oldest man who took the lead felt himself out of breath, but as he looked upon the nun who stood next to the two Swiss Guards at the end of the Hall, Cardinal Merrill really began to sweat, not because he had climbed six stories worth of stairs in his frail state, but because of who this particular nun commonly accompanied.
Stepping through several archways, he approached them cautiously, his eyes narrowed with suspicion, unsure of her purpose.
'We have been expecting you Cardinal Merrill . . . Cardinal Paul.' she nodded courteously. Sister Mary-Thomas was a stunningly beautiful woman in her youth, and like a fine wine, her age only elevated her radiant skin. Though she had the slightest hint of crow's feet in her early forties, her eyes were big and bright, the hazel in her iris shining a sense of purity—almost divinity. The nun was known for her stern but righteous composure, an attribute which seemed to see right through Cardinal Merrill, which is why he had a habit of allowing Paul to speak for him.
'Cardinal Merrill would like a word.' he began, the Bishop and Archbishops seeming rather nervous.
'Has the good Cardinal lost the ability to speak for himself, Cardinal Paul?' she replied in a sweet but stern tone, her posture perfectly straight with unyielding confidence.
'We were not informed His Eminence would be visiting the girl today. Surely you understand there are procedures involved in such cases.' Merrill pushed with his bullfrog-like voice.
'I suspect a man of your stature would know better than to assume His Eminence would need to set an appointment. I don't imagine our Pope would need your permission to do so.'
'You don't understand, Sister Mary-Thomas; the girl is dangerous. We cannot take such risks allowing him to be alone with her.' Merrill insisted.
'You believe the Pope is somehow at risk? The girl had requested to be confessed; who better to lift her strife than His Grace?'
'I'm telling you, she will try to kill him! If you won't take the protection of our Pope seriously, then we will appoint someone who will.' Merrill insisted.
'He was rather persistent, I assure you, Cardinal. Word has reached his ear of a great many disturbing things occurring under his own roof.' The nun's eyes narrowed with suspicion, scanning through the whole entourage with the exception of Cardinal Paul, who she knew as a just and honest man.
As she finished her sentence, Merrill pushed forward, but the guards raised their axes, a stern but humble look upon their faces as he lost his temper.
'You dare lift your weapons to me!' he yelled, but Sister Mary-Thomas simply stepped behind them and crossed her arms, unwilling to bend to his persistence.
'The Swiss Guard answers to the Pope, as you well know. He is not to be disturbed by anyone but me; strict orders, you understand. Now, I suggest you go about your business, Cardinal Merrill.'
'I will do no such thing.' he scowled with a tone of utter hate.
'I wonder what the girl could possibly divulge that would have you so worried and insistent, Cardinal.' Thomas smirked, and Cardinal Paul leaned into the conversation.
'Perhaps Sister Mary-Thomas is simply unaware of the danger in which she has allowed His Eminence to so haphazardly wander? May I remind you, Sister, that the girl has made many attempts on countless lives during her ongoing stay in Vatican City. I think it would be prudent to have someone in there, if only to restrain her, if needs be. Perhaps one of the guards would be sufficient to oversee the visit, seeing as you clearly put much faith in their loyalty?'
'You misunderstand, Cardinal Paul.' The nun changed her demeanor when speaking to Paul, as she had always had respect and admiration for the man. 'His Eminence is under the impression that there are spies within the Vatican hierarchy. The walls listen, and sinister eyes watch from the shadows of our fair city, he is convinced.'
'He's growing more paranoid by the day, the crazy old fool.' Merrill replied, looks of shock forming upon the faces of his company. The Pope was not to be spoken of in such ways, in any circumstance; a basic rule which all clergy members abide, but Sister Mary-Thomas was the only one who did not seem appalled.
'Call it what you will, Cardinal, but your subordinate words would only further confirm his . . . paranoia, as you so put it. The Pope was so insistent in his theory that even I was refused entry.'
'How dare you?' Merrill's blood boiled beneath his collar as his pale features turned several shades of pink, his sagging chin twitching with anger. 'Subordinate? My concern is only for his safety, Sister. This girl is violent, and clearly inhabited by demons.'
'We will see.' she said patiently, her will unmoving. 'Are you so naive in your assumptions that you can honestly tell the difference between good and evil? Perhaps your status speaks too highly of your education in such matters.'
'Pardon my intrusion,' Cardinal Paul stepped between them, looking to make peace. 'But if someone as true and pure of heart as Sister Mary-Thomas could not be granted witness, perhaps we must trust that His Holiness knows what he is doing?'
'Ever the voice of reason, Cardinal Paul. You are welcome to wait until His Eminence has completed his duties.'
The entourage stubbornly stepped aside, and found a nearby waiting area with several benches, and a grand window overlooking the entire city. There, Merrill would sulk and stew in his wrath, waiting for the Pope to finish with the mysterious subject behind the wooden door. The Cardinal's gaze would not lower, his sinister stare fixated on Sister Mary Thomas. This wasn't the first time she had intervened in his business, and his hate for her was all too obvious.
More than anything he was indeed worried about the words spoken in privacy within the room beyond. The girl had an unusual ability to see without seeing—to know the unknown.
~
Bare knuckles smashed through drywall in the boy's washroom as Hamish tried to calm his best friend down. James had never been so angry; it was a side of him he'd never seen. The other occupants quickly scattered out of the room, several of them not bothering to wash their hands on the way out.
'Dude, calm down; you're gonna get suspended.' he tried to warn, but James only grew angrier. The muscles in his jaw pulsed as he grinded and clenched his teeth, and for a brief moment Hamish could almost picture cartoonish steam whistling from his ears and red hot smoke from beneath his collar.
'They are saying that my dad is dead, Hamish! If you can think of a better reason to punch a hole in the fucking wall, I'd like to hear it.'
'You don't know that yet. Like you said, there's got to be some kind of evidence, right? You have every reason to be angry, but vandalizing school property . . . you can kiss that scholarship of your goodbye—'
'Fucking Jenson and her half-assed police work.' he groaned, his best friend's words of warning trapped in the background of his rage. 'If she were half the cop my father was . . . is.' James caught himself, and his eyes beginning to water only slight. Hamish approached him cautiously, possibly looking to give him a hug, as the distraught teen surely looked in need of some sort of brotherly support.
'Dude, what are you doing?' Hamish simply grabbed hold.
'You're gonna be okay.' he said sincerely, and James quickly pushed him away, a slight smile forming. 'Dude, it's not that I don't appreciate what you're trying to do . . . he's not dead, so there's no need for it.' he gave his head a shake and checked himself in the mirror. Just then, whether the gesture was intended to calm him by humour, awkwardness or otherwise, he seemed to come down a bit.
'Then there's no need to be so pissed off right?' he reasoned. 'Let's hold off on the anger until we know for sure. At that point, I'll gladly trash some shit alongside you.''
'I hear you, Hamish.' He took a much needed breath. 'I'm just pissed how everyone's just assuming he's dead. Does nobody give a shit about him but me, really?'
'I'm sure that's not the case. Have you tried calling him?'
'Straight to voicemail.' James sniggered, not wanting to add the slightest suspicion that he may have been wrong. He couldn't let it be true, and to even entertain the thought was borderline treasonous in his mind.
A moment lingered while Hamish thought of how to make the situation better. He shifted his book bag from his back to under his arm, and unzipped the front compartment.
'You wanna go get messed up?' he asked, and James could honestly think of no better time.
'I thought you'd never fucking ask.' the distraught teen sighed with relief.
Moments later they were venturing into the Wastelands together, James skipping their Phys Ed class yet again, with little regret, though Hamish had officially dropped the class that day. They made their way through the maze of discarded cement molds, each marking a point along the beaten path which guided them to their usual spot beneath the large depiction of the Grim Reaper, but as they arrived, the boys discovered their vacancy was occupied. Christine and Miranda sat comfortably within the massive concrete cylinder, casually talking amongst themselves.
'I thought you were trying to turn a new leaf?' said James as they approached the girls, though he was relatively pleased to see them. After what had occurred in his apartment earlier that afternoon, the more friends that surrounded him the merrier.
'Too far gone.' Miranda grimaced. 'I asked Ms. Farrell what I can do to bring my grades up. Apparently, even if I turn everything in and get 100% on my final exam, I still wouldn't get a passing grade. So, it looks like I have a spare from this point on.' she shrugged indifferent. 'The guidance counsellor said I could make up the credit in the summer though, so there's that.' The less than scholarly teen had never attended summer school before—never cared enough to worry, really, but this year would be different. Whatever it took, she would not let herself fall behind again.
'And you?' Hamish turned to Christine.
'Quite the opposite, actually.' She tried not to smile and make light of the comparison in grades. 'I'm all caught up—marks in the mid-nineties and exempt from my exam. I was allowed to take the period off to study for the debate tonight, anyways. I assume you're well prepared?'
James shrugged. The truth of the matter is that he hadn't even bothered to research the highly controversial topic of Abortion Rights and Government Ethics. He knew where he stood on the issue, and was confident he could hold his own even if he wasn't plagued with the menacing turmoil of the day.
'It'll be interesting, I'm sure.'
'Well, the bus leaves at 3:20pm sharp, so I suggest you don't linger here for the entirety of the afternoon.' she replied as Hamish lit a joint, took a few drags and passed it to James. 'That's . . . going to wear off before we leave right?'
'I argue better when high anyways; have a little faith.' he winked, his temper subdued.
After taking a few long hauls, he offered it to Miranda, but she quickly shook her head.
'After school or weekends only from here on in, boys.'
'I'm impressed.' Hamish beamed, quite proud of his friend as he got comfortable on a nearby staircase, long grass and moss covering the majority of its surface. 'Most people who attempt to straighten themselves out go cold turkey, which usually ends in relapse. Moderation is the key, right?'
'That's what I thought too.' she replied.
'I just don't want you all messed up in front of my folks, if it can be avoided.' stated Christine reasonably. That evening, Miranda would return to the Davidson residence by herself, alone for the first time in her home.
'I was thinking the same.' Miranda concurred. 'Your rents are good people . . . if only my mother was half the parent—'
'I'm sure she tried.' James shrugged, still trying to lay on the empathy to make up for their heated argument. 'Different standards, I suppose.' In that moment he thought of the male voice who claimed to be his father, knowing something supernatural was watching them, and involved in Miranda's life somehow. Still he remained quiet, not wanting to relive the episode. At that very same moment, the much less gothic teen recalled Jocelyn's mention of the name Rhoads, and knew their parents were connected in some strange and unknown way. A paper-thin wall of ignorance separated their knowledge of this link, a single word capable of knocking it down if only brought up.
'Speaking of which are you going to fill us in on what happened over the weekend?' asked Hamish. Miranda had kept the finer details to herself up until that point, as she was simply too embarrassed to divulge the specifics of her mother's apparent lunacy. Looks of shock and horror were exchanged as she filled them in, and as the murder scene was described in much more graphic detail James grew all the more worried, recalling the painting his sister had apparently completed a few days prior; the exact scene she was now describing.
James tried to explain the details of the painting to Miranda, but she seemed to be having a hard time understanding what he was trying to say.
'Wait, so you're saying that your little sister somehow knew what happened in my apartment even before the cops figured it out?'
'I don't know.' he shrugged. 'All I know is that some weird shit has been going down with her, and it looks like it might have something to do with what happened to your mom.'
'She didn't say anything?' asked Hamish, directing his question to Miranda and hanging off every response. 'You're mom, I mean. Surely she knows something, right?'
'I couldn't really get anything out of her, to be honest.' she shrugged. 'She just ranted and raved about how she was jealous of my youth, and how she should have been a better mom—or something.'
'What about the warning?' Christine intervened.
'What warning?' asked James, and Miranda took a moment to herself.
'She said something before the doctors subdued her, something about—' pausing again, she combed the area with her eyes, a sudden sneaking suspicion that they were somehow being watched.
'About what Miranda?' Hamish pushed.
'She said . . . they were coming for us.'
'They . . . who's they exactly?'
'I don't know. What's it matter, really? She's clearly out of her tree, James. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about—'
'The Black-eyed Children.' Christine spoke up in monotone, unsure of whether or not it was a good idea to do so, but her fear engaged before her tongue could catch it.
As James contemplated her words, he recalled several images drawn by his sister, but Christine's experience was much more hands-on. She recalled the eerie child in the school bathroom mirrors, the last time she had ventured back from the Wastelands on her own. Much more personal, the gathering in the sublevels of the city, and the sacrifice made by her own hand; the horrible experience she was still convinced was a vivid nightmare and nothing more, but relevant nonetheless.
'Wait, what did you say?' asked Miranda, recalling her own experience in her bedroom, the last time she had seen her mother's boyfriend or Jeffery Lawson alive.
'That's who's coming for us, the Black-eyed Kids.' Christine repeated unapologetic, but Hamish only looked confused.
'You mean that urban myth?'
'They're real, Hamish . . . I've seen one in my room, just before the murders.' Miranda's paranoia only increased. She got to her feet and began searching the area, positive they weren't alone. James, however, was preoccupied recalling the way Ashley's eyes had turned black when another had seized control of her vessel.
'You okay?' asked Hamish as he watched her search the surroundings for watchful eyes, but the others were deep in thought, not paying attention to Miranda's worried expression, a clear note of fear in her roaming glare, positive they were being watched.
'I don't think were alone.' she confessed.
'I've seen one too, in the girl's bathroom at school.' Christine finally admitted aloud.
'Wait, so you both have seen one of these Black-eyed Kids, and you're just now bringing it up now?'
'Yeah, especially given the circumstances of what followed in your apartment, I hope you at least mentioned it the cops.' Hamish agreed with James.
'I . . . sort of left that part out.'
'What!?' James suddenly seemed irate.
'Well, look how insane that sounds.' she countered, and Christine nodded in support though she didn't necessarily agree. 'If I told McMasters that I was seeing dead kids with black eyes in the mirror, I'd end up in that padded cell right next to my mom. I mean, mental conditions are hereditary, right?'
'What the hell is that?' Hamish suddenly froze, face caught white as a ghost when he spotted movement in the distance. Past many large concrete structures, tall grass and old mounds of gravel there was a small figure standing in the doorway of the main dilapidated factory. The building was all but in ruins, but part of the main structure still remained. They all got to their feet and squinted, trying to get a good look at the small child who stood within the shadows.
James clenched his teeth and stepped forward, not taking his eyes off what looked to be a kindergarten student standing motionless in the dark of the arched doorway. The boy's solid black eyes were hauntingly sinister, sending a frigid chill up every spine but one, the son of a cop no less.
'I'm getting to the bottom of this.' he said quite insistently, and Hamish quickly joined him in stride, but the girls seemed hesitant, terrified that the figure was exactly what they had encountered in the past, convinced that only bloodshed would follow.
'Wait, James, don't go!' Miranda grabbed him by the wrist and he quickly turned and pulled away from her grasp.
'Look, if these . . . Black-eyed Kids are screwing with my friends and family, I want to see what the hell is going on. There has to be a rational explanation.' he reasoned, and Christine stepped forward in support of Miranda.
'That's not something you want, James.' Her eyes glistened with worry. 'Please just trust us. These . . . things; I don't think they're quite human.'
'Listen to yourself, Christine. We're going to cower from a fucking toddler, really?'
'You don't know what they can do.' she replied, the fear in her eyes causing James to step back, unsure of what to make of her reaction. True, he didn't know her all too well, but he knew fear when he saw it, and she wasn't the type to react in such a way if the threat wasn't believed to be genuine.
Looking back, James noticed that the child was no longer there. Where the eerie child once stood was nothing but blackness passed the arch of the main rear doorway.
'Great, now he's gone. Come on; let's see where the little bastard ran off to.' The determined teen took off in stride, on a mission to disprove the strange phenomena as a hoax—or bare minimum get some much needed answers.
The girls looked to one another, able to read each other's thoughts with ease.
'This is such a bad fucking idea.' Miranda shook her head, wanting nothing more than to get back to school and forget all about the Black-eyed Children, but the need to protect her friends kept each foot moving forth.
The foursome stepped through the archway one at a time, cautiously in pursuit of the small figure they had witnessed as one, James in the lead, the girls weary at the rear. Cracked concrete and dead leaves crunched beneath their feet as the boys combed the room, but the girls remained close together unwilling to separate, each knowing what they were dealing with.
'What exactly has you so terrified of these kids, anyway?' asked Hamish.
'They . . . can do things, unexplainable things.' Christine answered.
'Vague much?' he pushed. 'Don't be shy; spit it out.'
'They can take control, if that makes any sense.' Miranda replied. 'My mom said something about a man . . . some sort of entity that set her free somehow. It sounds like these . . . children—or whatever, sort of unhinged her morality—or something. It's like she had forgotten who she was; leaving only her worst of thoughts to come through, if that makes any sense.'
James couldn't help but cringe, recognizing the similarities, remembering the cruel being who claimed to be his father, somehow speaking through Ashley with the same lack of humanity addressing those he was supposed to care for above all. It certainly sounded like Jason Rhoads, he couldn't deny, but his father would never have said such horrible things to his partner, much less his wife.
'Like they can take control of your mind, right?' Christine asked, recalling the sub-level ritual chamber, and the warm splash of blood upon her flesh that she would have done anything to stop, but whatever had control of her body simply wouldn't let her intervene. Meanwhile Miranda was piecing it all together in her head.
'I don't think my mother would have killed anyone unless she was being controlled somehow. I mean, she was all over the place. She said it wasn't important what the cops thought just as long as I knew she was innocent. Mom swore she didn't kill anyone intentionally, but had let something in—some sort of darkness.' Her thoughts turned grim, recalling that day in the hospital, Jocelyn's strange rantings unforgettable.
"This darkness has been around long before you were born. Devils don't come for you unless they are provoked, you understand? I let it in long ago, when I was your age; back when they looked at me the same way they look at you. Me and Rhoads, and that other kid . . . he told us he would drag us to Hell with him, and here we are."
'James.' Miranda approached her distraught friend before he could venture into the next room, grasping his arm firmly and halting his wandering eyes. 'Just stop for a moment, alright? There's something I need to tell you.' He reluctantly paused his search for the eerie boy, albeit temporarily. 'I think this whole thing might have started long before we were born, and it has something to do with my mother and your father.'
The news had all four friends locked in intrigue, huddled together inside the walls of the cement factory.
'What do you mean?'
'That day in the hospital, my mother mentioned some sort of incident involving someone named Rhoads. At first I thought of you, naturally, but this happened when she was our age. I think our parents might have known each other when they were kids.'
James said nothing at all as he recalled how the being inside his sister, claiming to be Jason Rhoads had known Miranda somehow. At first, he thought that perhaps he was being watched, but with this revelation, he wondered if his Dad had known of Jocelyn Hiller and Miranda all along.
'What sort of incident, exactly?' asked Hamish.
'I don't know, she was intentionally vague on the subject, and I didn't have a whole lot of time before the nurses rushed in to sedate her, and pull me out of the room.'
Just then, James remembered his brief conversation with Father Jeremy regarding the multiple possible gateways to demonic infestation.
Had Jason and Jocelyn been involved in some sort of Satanic ritual or atrocity when they were his age?
Had they played with a Ouija board or cursed object of sorts—maybe even killed someone?
'What did she say, exactly?' James prodded. 'And for the love of fuck, be specific.'
Miranda searched her memory for the exact recollection, not wanting to mislead anyone.
'I believe her exact words were, "He told us he would drag us to Hell with him, and here we are."'
'Who's "He"?' asked Christine.
'I don't know.' Miranda lowered her brow. 'But I think it's safe to say our parents were involved in something dark—some sort of incident that managed to invite this so-called darkness in.'
'Her wording suggests that a male had died.' The young ginger highlighted, her keen ear ever an ally. 'I bet if we search through the historic records we can find out who, and how this death served as a gateway to let this . . . darkness into our lives.'
'Dude, ask Jenson.' Hamish suggested. 'Any death would be reported in full detail in the police records, right?'
'Jenson's fucking useless.' he groaned, though he didn't really believe that. A sense of guilt washed over him before the words could escape his lips.
'She's a cop, dude; whatever her level of skill, Jenson would want to get to the bottom of this shit. She probably doesn't even know about the connection.'
Suddenly, a light breeze carried a gut-wrenching stench into the space, and everyone coughed, gagging as they tried their damnest not to vomit. With such depth of thought each teen had somehow negated their surroundings. Their eyes wandered about as though they had just realized where they stood, taking in the dilapidated walls and the questionable structural integrity of the floor above them.
'Dear God, what is that smell?' Christine's stomach wrenched as Hamish bolted toward the door, and they quickly moved toward the exit and into the sunlight, away from the horrible odour. 'Can we just get out of here, please?' the ginger pleaded, not wanting to venture any further as every morsel of her being warned her of imminent danger ahead.
'Yeah.' Miranda seconded the suggestion. 'I'm with Ginger Snaps; let's get the fuck on out of this place while we still can.'
'I thought you wanted to get to the bottom of this?' James turned from the darkness of the space within, hoping he could catch the kid in the act. He thought if he could only show his friends that it was just a kid with some convincing contact lenses, somehow everything would go back to normal. That would be all it would take to prove the priests wrong, Jenson a shitty detective, his little sister a convincing fraud, and his mother a fool for believing Jason Rhoads was dead. Despite the convincing evidence, James was only slipping further into denial.
'I'm with the girls on this one, James.' Hamish tried to reason with his frustrated friend. Though James wanted to keep moving, brawn larger than brains in the moment, there was a small part of him that didn't want to do it alone.
'Fine,' he scoffed. 'Have it your way, then.'
James stormed away with an intentional anger in his stride, through the arched door and back under the open sky.
'He took that well.' Miranda grimaced as he stormed away.
'He'll come around.' assured Hamish, ever the optimistic. 'With everything he's going through, what did you expect, really? Surely, of anyone, you'd understand, right?'
'I suppose.' she shrugged, certainly finding sympathy for her friend, genuinely wanting to understand the strange events that had occurred recently. But Miranda couldn't shake the image of the eerie child in her bedroom mirror that day, standing right behind her. Knowing that the demonic vision could have been invited into their lives long before she was born, her curiosity only intrigued her further but not at the expense of their lives. Fear would easily surpass her need for answers, no matter how dire.
'You guys coming or what?' James yelled impatiently from outside the walls.
'Right behind you.' Hamish gestured away from the door, but before they turned something suddenly caught Christine's attention—something she hadn't noticed on the way in.
'Look at that!' The fierce scholar amongst them gazed with intrigue upon the rim of the archway, and she grazed her fingertips over the frame instantly recognizing the strange lettering from her nightmarish visions. Though she could not understand the language, the lettering was an exact match to the etchings that covered every nook and cranny of the underground temple.
James bitterly tapped his foot in the distance, wondering what was taking his friends so long, especially since it was their idea to flee. He looked upon the whole structure, his eyes scanning every window frame for any sign of movement.
'Hey, have you guys ever seen this part of the Wastelands before?' asked Miranda as she and Christine studied the archway, but Hamish shrugged.
'I never bothered to look.' he replied honestly as James ignored them, too preoccupied with his search of the upper windows. Just then, something rather strange occurred—a sinking feeling, like an gut instinct warning him there was something very interesting behind the walls of the factory. As the son of a cop, he had grown up listening to crime stories, all of which began with some sort of gut instinct, the very same relentless need to push forward and discover the source of his seemingly innate curiosity. Suddenly we wondered if this reaction was hereditary—a common trait that had helped his own father make detective. Now more than ever he felt an unexplainable pull, like a call to destiny and a badge waiting for him with his name on it.
Christine removed her cell phone from her pocket and opened the camera app, focusing on the writing embedded over the arch of the door.
'What are you doing?' asked Hamish.
'Getting answers.' she replied with a sense of determination as James snapped himself out of his trance and joined them. 'I don't know what language this is, but I have a feeling it somehow relates to the Black-eyed Kids. Whatever's happening in this city, we're all quite obviously a part of it, and we need to get to the bottom of it before anyone else gets hurt—or worse . . . killed.' Christine looked to her friends for support. 'These demon children have killed before, and it's only a matter of time before they strike again.'
'I agree.' Hamish seemed just as worried. 'And it begins by telling the cops exactly what you just told us, both of you.' He looked to Christine for support, and Miranda and James suddenly found themselves agreeing for the first time since their heated exchange. 'I don't care how crazy it sounds, but if these demon kids have anything to do with the recent murders in your building or this . . . incident from your parent's past, it'd be safe to say that your mom might not be as crazy as we thought. If they really are coming for us, we need help and we need it now.'
'I'll get a hold of Jenson.' James replied, setting aside his bitterness. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to his dad's ex-partner, but if she was already on the case, this new information could be vital to putting a stop to this unworldly phenomenon.
As the four teenagers walked away their voices gradually faded in the distance, and a small boy watched and listened from a second floor window, the child-minion's eyes black as midnight, skin pale and dead in appearance. Behind him, an evil mark was spray-painted upon the peeling walls in crimson, within the door frame of what seemed like an oversized closet. Upon the floor a man lay still and festering, dried blood splattered against the wall behind him and caked into his short brown hair. A vacant, lifeless gaze stared at the ceiling with his mouth agape, as countless flies and maggots crawled in and out of his orifices.
The remains of Jason Rhoads lay unmoved and not yet discovered; his body so close to his son, yet so far away. The small boy approached the door, his charcoal eyes locked upon the fallen police officer, a gun still firm in his death grip. A slight smile formed as he watched the cop's dead eyes move, but only just.
~
An overcast sky blackened the land below, the not quite full moon shy and seemingly timid behind a vast and thick blanket of dark clouds. A white, unmarked cargo van travelled alone along the country road highway, high beams cutting through a thin layer of fog that silently crept through the area like a predator with no prey. They had travelled just outside the city limits, where there were no street lights along the road, only the odd porch light from country homes every few kilometers that separated the thick brush of forestry and open fields between.
The radio was turned up, and for good reason as the driver could no longer stand the sound of screaming from the rear of the vehicle. The steel partition blocked the disturbed and dangerous prisoner/patient from the driver, and the uniformed police officer who sat in the passenger seat during transport.
As a new song was about to begin, Jocelyn Hillier finally quieted herself, and Leon Jones breathed a sigh of relief. Normally he loved his job, the solitude of prisoner and patient transport was peaceful, almost always in the dead of night.
'We have an extra special treat for you tonight, kicking Devil's night off with a bang.' said Justin Anderson, a radio talent on Rock107fm, Belleville. The tone in his rich voice turned to excitement as he spoke. 'She's been seen walking the red carpet in Hollywood, the mystery woman everyone's been talking about all over the tabloids, and celebrity hype magazines is—are you ready for this—she is none other than Belleville's own Chelsea Ellis.'
'Chelsea?' replied Dani Guppy, his charismatic female counterpart. 'Hasn't she been right here in our studio? She played a few acoustic songs for us last year, if I recall—very talent woman.'
'Indeed she is, Dani. Quite an attractive woman, as well—way out of my league.'
'Most are out of your league, Anderson.' she chuckled.
'Ouch.' he laughed.
'I kid, I kid. You know I love you big guy.'
'Well, certainly now that she's rubbing elbows with the stars, anyway. I bet there's a whole lot of ex-boyfriends kicking themselves right about now. I actually went to high school with her, way back in the day.'
'Well, if you're listening, Chelsea, we hope you don't forget the little guys—or where you came from.' said Dani. 'Maybe we can convince her to come on the show again? I guess we'll have to see what happens. This is all so exciting, just seeing one of our own on the red carpet. I'm looking at a front page article right now of her and Ozzy, another with Harris Hangman.'
'He of course is the legendary producer that has brought some of the hottest new talent to the music scene over the last decade. But enough talk, for now. You've no doubt seen her busking on a busy corner downtown—or in one of our many fine establishments, right here in the Friendly City. Our little singer/songwriter is all grown up and making some serious noise on the music scene. As my less than charming partner in crime had mentioned, we had Chelsea on the show several times over the years, always giving away free merch with every visit. With promises of a mainstream debut album release only weeks away, I dusted off one of her earlier singles, which you can find online if you're interested. Here's Chelsea Ellis for your late night listening pleasure with, "The Devil's Due" right here on Rock 107.'
'Hey, I know that girl.' said Officer Clemens, his clean cut dark complexion could be seen in the glow of the fog, the high beams lighting up the pitch black of the rural setting.
'Really?'
'Yeah, we dated for—like—a week, or something, back in high school. She dumped me 'cause I apparently "Got in the way" as she put it.'
'You're one of the ex-boyfriends kicking yourself in the ass?' Leon laughed.
'Hey, that woman deserves every bit success coming to her. She wouldn't let anyone get in her way—never even seen that level of devotion before. I think she really liked me too, but her music came first.' he shrugged. 'Can't blame the girl, as fine as she was back then.'
'And now she's all big time and shit. That's just cool—inspiring really. Makes me wonder why I'm stuck driving these freaks back and forth every night.' he smiled, then lit a cigarette and cracked the window. He wasn't supposed to smoke in a government vehicle, but the rules were a bit more lax in the night time, and in such a tight nit community. Officer Clemens didn't smoke, but the smell didn't bother him much, neither did he really care if someone broke a little rule here and there. Small crimes that didn't really harm anyone were of little concern, a theme that carried throughout his unblemished career.
'Yeah, it's a small world.' Clemens gazed into the pitch black beyond the window, as the song reached its second verse.
Leon noted the woman's silence, curious as to why his patient would suddenly grow quiet.
'Awful quiet back there.' He reached forth and turned down the music, now that the excess volume wasn't really needed. He just hoped the rest of the trip would be just as peaceful. Leon would normally have no contact whatsoever with the people he transported, the authorities usually loading them in the rear of the van while he sat in the driver's seat, filling out the paper work. He would commonly capture a quick glimpse of the prisoners through the caged rear windows while he double checked the locks, and that's about it.
This particular prisoner didn't seem all that intimidating, Jocelyn Hillier keeping her twisted gaze lowered, her long hair concealing her eyes as they had strapped her in for the journey, much like most of his prisoners. Leon couldn't help but notice the bandages wrapped around her forearms, confirming the official paperwork which emphasized she was a danger to herself, as well as others. The screaming began the moment the vehicle rolled out of the Belleville municipal precinct, only now calming.
'We need to start sedating these whack jobs during transport.' he looked to his armed guest. 'They don't pay me enough for this shit. Hey, what's her deal anyway?'
'You don't wanna know.' Constable Clemens replied.
'Hey, I asked, didn't I?'
The cop considered Leon for a moment, the dashboard lights revealing his thin beard, perfectly groomed over a caramel skin tone, unsure if it was wise divulging what he knew about the case. Clemens wasn't supposed to talk about it, but it was a long journey to the Kingston psychiatric hospital, and they were going to be stuck together for the next hour.
'Alright, but you didn't hear it from me.'
'Not a word, my brother.' he assured.
'Well, I wouldn't have even been on this beat if I wasn't ordered to do so. This bitch is all kinds of messed up.'
'How so?'
'Double murder and attempted suicide, a level of psycho that shouldn't even exist. Nothing I've heard of before, anyway. She got that look in her eye, you know?'
'What do you mean?' Leon casually ashed his cigarette out the window, rolled down but a few inches.
'I don't know.' he shrugged, struggling to properly illustrate the contempt in the subject. 'There's just something about her eyes that shakes me to the core, like a predator stalking its prey. It's like she don't see the rest of us as human beings, you know? Like we don't even matter—like we're just insects to her.'
'It's not unheard of.' Leon shrugged, taking another drag from his cigarette. 'I've seen it before.'
'Nah, you don't get it. I only spent a few minutes alone, watching her at the precinct while they prepared they paperwork. She . . . whispered things.'
'What kind of things?' asked the driver out of sheer curiosity.
'Personal things—shit she shouldn't know.' Clemens felt his collar tighten, the subject itself making him apprehensive.
Leon paused for moment, unsure of what to make of his companion.
'Like?'
'Look, I don't wanna talk about it.' he shook his head. 'Bitch creeps me the fuck out; let's just leave it at that, alright?'
'It's just you and me; I aint gonna say anything to anyone.' he reassured, but Clemens sighed in frustration, honestly wanting to leave the past behind where it belonged.
'There was . . . a kid, back when I was in elementary school; Theodore—or Theo, as we called him. We used to pick on him a lot, even bully the kid, me and my idiot friends. Just childish bullshit, you know? Stuff I thought I put behind me a long time ago.'
'We've all done shit we regret, brother. Kids are fuckin' morons anyway, cruel no matter which generation.'
'Yeah, I know. But this one kid . . . he wasn't all there, you know?' the officer's gaze drifted into memory, his nerves on edge.
'You mean special or something?'
'Nah, he wasn't a dummy or nothing like that, just sort of socially awkward, maybe autistic or something. He gave us all the creeps. His family were into some strange shit, like witchcraft or voodoo—or something. Anyway, we had a shit habit of roughing him up every now and then, taking his lunch money or tripping him in the hallways.'
'Hey, you aren't the same person these days, I'm sure. School was a long time ago.' Leon tried to sooth his guilt, noticing a look of shame in his companion's eyes, and a slight glimmer of despair. 'Hey, it couldn't have been that bad.'
'Ever say something you wish you could take back?' he asked.
'Who hasn't?' shrugged Leon.
'Last thing I said to the poor bastard . . . I told him nobody liked him, and that he should just go kill himself.'
Leon exhaled a large breath of smoke, the words no kid should ever hear echoing in his ears. Even though he assured his empathy, he was finding it difficult not to judge the police officer, even though he was just a punk kid at the time.
'He didn't though . . . right?'
'To my everlasting shame, he did.' Clemens hung his head in remorse. 'Never could get it out of my head. That's why I became a cop, you see; to wipe the slate clean and try to save lives rather than coaxing innocent victims to take their own. Not a day goes by I don't think of Theo, and what I said to him that day.'
Leon remained quiet for a long moment, the awkwardness hanging in the air, so thick it could be cut with a knife. When the song changed to another, he flicked the butt of his cigarette out the window, and took a deep breath.
'So, what does that got to do with our girl, back there?'
'I never forgot the last words little Theo said to me—the very same words she whispered when no one else was around. It was even the boy's voice, I swear to God.'
'What did she say?'
The cop lowered his eyes once more, not wanting to repeat the horrible words that haunted his nightmares all his life.
'Irate and in tears, Theo turned and said—'
Just as he spoke the words aloud, Jocelyn raised her brow as she sat quiet and strapped down in the back of the van, her eyes a demon yellow and beyond mad.
"Then I'll drag you to Hell with me."
Suddenly, panic ensued as all four tires blew out beneath the van, and Leon lost control as the vehicle swerved from one side of the road to another. Fear rang through the air as he struggled and toiled desperately to maintain control, but it was too late.
'HOLD ON!' he screamed as they braced themselves. The vehicle squealed loudly as the flat tires veered off the asphalt and into a nearby ditch, launching the white van upward, twisting through the air. Glass shattered and metal crimped as the van landed hard on its roof, sparking as it grinded on rocky terrain, and shifted downward into a muddy surface.
Then, all went silent.
Leon lay semiconscious, arms dangling as he hung from his seatbelt upside down and bloody. Officer Clemens released his own seatbelt on the passenger side, and flopped onto the ceiling. His ears rang like telephone tone, the moment wrought with uncertainty and confusion. He looked over to the driver, his head glistening with blood, small chunks of glass lodged into his face and scattered about the cabin.
He reached upward, moaning in agony as he tried unclipping Leon's seatbelt, but it would not budge.
'Stay with me, Leon. I'll get you out.'
Clemens squirmed bloody and groaning out of the vehicle. His back and shoulders seared with shooting pain as he scrambled around the smoking engine, barely able to walk as he panicked, the smell of gasoline vapour overwhelming.
'I'm coming for you, Leon!' he yelled, crawling and snaking on his belly through the warped driver's side window, glass shattered, its shards laying scattered about the scene. 'Can you hear me?'
Leon forced his eyes open, black smoke filling the van as he looked upon the frightened eyes of his companion, trying desperately to disengage the seatbelt mechanism, but it would not release.
Constable Clemens reached into his utility belt and unfolded his standard issue blade.
'I'm gonna cut you free, alright? Just brace yourself for the fall.' He warned as Leon barely nodded his compliance, choking and coughing, the black smoke too thick to bear.
As the belt was cut, Leon fell to the crimped metal ceiling, letting out a shriek of pain he had never thought possible, positive that his neck was damaged from the initial impact. Both men covered in blood, Clemens screamed and cringed as he dragged him out of the vehicle by his legs, every step utter agony as his back felt like it was dislocated in several places.
Once Leon was far enough out of range of any explosion that may ensue, Clemens hobbled back to the van, hoping his prisoner was still alive.
As he stepped behind the vehicle he unclipped and pointed his flash light, but noticed a rear door was ajar.
'Shit!' He quickly drew his weapon, disengaging the safety clip and ready to fire.
He moved cautiously knowing the prisoner was dangerous, armed with nothing physical, but a strange ability beyond explanation—supernatural perhaps, had he believed in such things. Staring into the open door, the restraints had been miraculously cut, and Jocelyn Hillier was nowhere to be seen.
'Leon, she's not here!' he yelled, and his heart pounded out of control, terrified that the psychopathic murderer was on the loose, and no doubt close by.
Leon struggled to stand, his neck searing with pain as his eyes darted from one direction to another, expecting the insane killer to leap out of the darkness at any given moment. Sweat dripping from his bloody brow, he grasped a golden cross he wore around his neck, quietly whispering prayers and hoping to make it out of the situation alive.
'You see anything?' the cop yelled, but the darkness was far too dense, a single headlight and a standard issue flashlight the only means of sight.
As Leon moved toward the officer, Clemens quickly held up his hand to stop him in his tracks.
'Don't come any closer! The van could explode at any given moment.'
Desperate to see, and without a flashlight, Leon made his way in the direction of which the sole headlight was still flashing, keeping his distance in fear of a sudden explosion.
'You got your cell phone?'
'Yeah, it's in my pocket.' Leon grasped his side, relieved to feel the rectangular lump in his pants.
'Call 9-1-1, and tell them to track your phone. Give them my badge number, 2118.'
'Right.' He removed his phone, but as the backlight turned on the battery mysteriously drained to nothing, and the phone died almost instantly.
'What the—phone's dead, Clemens.' he yelled from a distance.
'Perfect.' The policeman replied. He had his flashlight in one hand and his gun in the other; but he would have to let go of one to call for help on his radio, his cell phone still in the van somewhere. Quickly, he sprinted into the light of the van's headlight, and handed Leon the flashlight.
'Keep your eyes peeled for the prisoner.' he ordered as the cop kept his gun drawn, and spoke into the radio attached to his shoulder.
'This is Officer Clemens, badge number 2118; we have an escaped murder suspect and automobile accident along highway 2, approximately twenty kilometers east of Belleville city limits, do you copy?' When nobody replied he tried again, repeating the information. 'Requesting compliance, is anyone there?'
The two men looked to one another, worried that they were on their own, stranded with a vicious killer on the loose.
'You see anything?'
'Nothing.' Leon replied, not letting go of his cross.
'Repeat, this in an emergency; we need police, fire and ambulance, right now! Do you copy?' he tried again, but heard only a slight response—a voice higher in pitch than expected . . . that of a child.
'Do something you dumb fuck.' the youthful voice spoke, but not in response to Clemens' request. They were listening to something that took place long ago, a conversation he had tried to forget his whole adult life.
'Why doesn't he fight back?' said a young female voice, a girl he remembered trying to impress years ago, when he was just an adolescent boy.
'Because he's fucking retarded.' laughed the young version of himself like an echo through time.
Clemens froze, gun trembling in his grip in fear of the unknown.
'Who is that on the radio?' asked Leon, unsure of what he was hearing.
'It's me . . . many years ago.' he answered with quickened breath, jaw dropped and sweat dripping from his brow.
'But how—'
'You know, everyone thinks you're a sped, right?' said the girl, and another young boy could be heard laughing in the background as they roughed up the young boy.
'M-my brother will—'
'Your brother aint gonna do shit, Theo. He's just as much a loser as you are.'
'Sammy's not a loser!' Theo barked back, the quiver in his youthful voice revealing the tears in his eyes.
'Come on Jocelyn, that's enough. Just leave the kid alone.' said the third boy, the more merciful of his friends.
'Fuck you, Rhoads. Learn to have a little fun once and a while.' said the boy Clemens.
'This isn't fun!' yelled young Jason Rhoads.
The sentence was followed by a distinct smacking sound of knuckles meeting bare flesh.
'S-s-stop it!' Theo cried.
'S-s-stop it.' Jocelyn mocked when the sound of footsteps could be heard scurrying away.
'Hey, get back here!' young Clemens yelled. 'Nobody likes you, white boy. Just do us all a favour and kill yourself already!'
The laughing suddenly stopped, both Jocelyn and Jason knowing he went too far.
'Wait, you knew the crazy bitch in the back of the van?' asked Leon, unsure as to why he didn't say anything.
'It was a different time. I wanted nothing to do with Jocelyn after Theo killed himself.' The grown Clemens replied.
'Bullshit! You should've said something, Clemens. Now you got me trapped out here with some nut crazy white lady straight outta Tales from the Crypt—'
'Look, just calm down, alright?' he tried to reason, Leon growing more terrified by the second.
'No, it aint alright! Yo bitch . . . ma'am!' Leon yelled out to the darkness, unsure if her demon eyes were upon them as he spoke. 'I don't want no part of this spooky-ass bullshit, you hear me? I didn't tell no kid to off himself, and I aint going down with this bitch-nigga right here.' He backed up from the officer, separating himself from the situation.
'M-maybe I will!' Theo cried from the radio, the hurt in his voice trembling. 'Then I'll drag you to hell with me!'
The words echoed through the police officer's very soul, heart pounding and hyperventilating.
'Just do us all a favour and kill yourself already!' his own words scorched his lungs and filled him with dread.
'Do us all a favour and kill yourself already!'
'Kill yourself already!'
'Kill yourself!'
'Kill yourself!'
'SHUT UP!' the officer screamed in borderline madness, the words ever tormenting, his mind slipping.
'Then I'll drag you to hell with me!
'I'll drag you to hell with me!'
'Drag you to hell with me!'
'I'LL DRAG YOU TO HELL!' the child's words of rage turned demonic, course and violent—hateful and mad. Suddenly a slight flame ignited in the engine, and the ground shook as the van exploded, the shock wave blowing both men backward, onto the rocky terrain. Pieces of steel and glass shot toward them as they took cover, but as the smoke rose from the flames something seemingly impossible occurred. The black clouds swirled downward rather than up, as though the flames were sucking them inward in a whirling vortex formation.
'What the fuck is this shit?' yelled Leon, but Clemens lay frozen in shock, terrified beyond rational thought.
The pile of burning steel suddenly sunk into the earth, and burned away like paper within the whirling vortex of fire. The sound of the wailing damned could heard by the thousands, as Satanic chants echoed through the woods, growing louder and louder. Neither men would be moved, both stuck in certain shock, watching the impossible with wide eyes and trembling lips. They tried to scream, but their voices were caught in their throats, unable to react in the slightest. As they watched the horrific phenomena, a small charcoal hand reached up and grasped the earth in its claw-like hand.
'W-w-what is that?' asked Leon.
A second hand reached forward, followed by a small blackened head, and the dead, vacant stare of a small boy. The corpse crawled erratically from the flames, its creature-like movements and animalistic growls anything but human in nature. Dead eyes rolled in his small skull until the white cornea fixated on the police officer, trembling with fear on the rock floor ahead.
'Theo?' he breathed only just, the burned face matching the name.
The beastly child screamed with madness and lunged forward with superhuman speed.
A shot was fired to its chest, but the dead would not stop. Then another bullet was fired to its head, but even though a chunk of its skull flew backward, it only moved quicker by the second, gaining momentum with every erratic stride.
'What the fuck, die!' Clemens yelled unloading the entire clip, but by the time he let off the last shot, he felt the child's demonic hand wrap around his ankle, and he was pulled off his feet with superhuman strength and dragged screaming toward the fiery vortex.
'Let me go!' he frantically screamed, but the dead child just moaned and groaned like an animal, unresponsive to reason as its eyes rolled around like a ventriloquist's dummy. 'Leon, do something, help me!'
His companion could neither do, nor say a thing. Fear gripped every fiber of his being, and so he watched as Clemens kicked and screamed, being pulled closer and closer toward the hellfire as he grasped his cross.
'Help me; for the love of God, help me!' his voice echoed as he was dragged into the flames, the fire engulfing him entirely, though he would not die. 'HELP M—'
The giant fiery hole in the ground collapsed into itself, leaving nothing but mud and charred grass behind, and Constable Clemens was gone.
Leon dared not move, tears in his eyes and terror in his lungs as he gripped his crucifix tighter than ever, a spot of white in his hair where none was there before.
Watching from the road was a crooked smile and a set of evil yellow eyes. Jocelyn Hillier grinned wide at Leon's torment, one of the few living souls permitted to see the horror of Hell open in the land of the living. Mr. Jones was a man of faith, baptized in his youth and untouchable, no matter how desperately she wanted to kill him. She turned and stepped into the darkness, vanishing in the blackness of night.
There was work to be done, and her daughter, Miranda must play her part.