The Veil

By Eric Maskell

Several years after his mother's death, Jack's life begins a sharp descent into chaos. While his father is lying in the hospital, dying from some mysterious illness and Jack's marriage hangs by a thread, he begins to 'experience' things that can only be considered crazy.
After Jack's father is murdered by a mysterious corporation and a nefarious demon arrives to destroy Jack, the edges of his sanity begin to fray. Attempting to avoid capture by the corporation and assassination attempts by demons, Jack races to discover his part in the war between good and evil before he loses everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Maskell
• Release date: Oct 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9780985987015

Eric Maskell

Eric Maskell is an author, actor and attorney living with his kids in Texas.Connect with me at www.ericmaskell.com

Book preview

Prologue

It was an uneasy night. Jack lay still, awakened by a screech that came from downstairs. It was unlike any noise he had heard before. It sounded a lot like metal scraping on metal. As Jack rubbed his blurry eyes, a flash of lightning lit up the room. The shadows from the stuffed animals rose and fell in unison as the lightning flashed repeatedly.

Jack shuddered as he realized there was no thunder. Normally thunder followed the lightning. The only noise tonight, however, was a constant scraping of metal on metal. Jack drew the covers tightly to his chin. He could feel fear welling up in his throat. It was an irrational fear.

Jack knew there were no such things as ghosts or goblins. He knew there was no monster under his bed. Jack knew there was no nightmarish zombie craving blood in his closet, but still he shuddered growing more and more afraid with each flash of lightning. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck tingle with anticipation. Anticipation of ‘what,’ he was not sure.

MOM, Jack yelled. Are you there? The fear swelled inside him. No answer came.

DAD, he yelled. Still there was no answer. Jack began to wonder if he should leave the bed and venture into the darkness to find his parents. What if something had happened to them and they weren’t able to come help him? What if whatever malevolent spirit was holding them was scraping the metal. What If …?

Jack suddenly realized that the constant scraping had stopped. It must have been a fence scraping on a fence post or possibly some roof shingles. Yes, that was it, a metal fence blown open then closed by the wind from the storm. Jack glanced at the window to see if the tree was blowing in the fierce wind. There must be a bad storm capable of blowing open a metal fence, he thought.

Jack noticed the closed curtains as he looked at the window. Normally, he left the curtains parted so the morning sun could wake him up. As Jack stared, the curtains began to waft slightly, as if blowing in a soft breeze. He continued to watch, mesmerized by their undulating, rhythmic manner. The lightning flashed once more and broke his hypnotic trance. The curtains parted in a whip-like fashion, revealing the huge tree that towered over the front lawn.

Jack jumped as he heard chittering. Not the kind crickets make on a warm summer evening but a more sinister almost wicked sound. It mimicked the earlier pulsing of the curtains. The wave of chittering began slowly at first. Pulse after pulse, it rose in tension until it reached a frenzied state.

As it approached the crescendo, a loud screech rang out and then silence. It seemed like an eternity. Over and over the torrent of sound rained down on Jack. Jack had a white- knuckled grip on the blanket, as he lay frightened in bed.

Lightning flashed and the chittering began again. This time it was almost as if it was mocking laughter. It increased building higher and higher upon an eerie sound. SCRAPE, then silence, the chittering repeated.

It was a background noise this time, barely audible but still maintaining the rhythmic chant. SCRAPE. The metal scraping sound was back. Only now, it seemed closer. SCRAPE. The lightning flashed in an almost strobe-light effect. Jack felt dizzy. He glanced about the room as the shadows made by the strobe-like lightning appeared to dance and sway across the bedroom walls.

The chittering continued taking on a more pounding fervor. It reminded him of a boxing match with the fans yelling, Fight, Fight, Fight! SCRAPE. The scraping sounded as if it was at the base of the stairs. The chittering was relentless against his ears. FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT! Lightning flashed and the shadows danced across the room. This time they flew from right to left. SCRAPE.

Half way up the stairs now. It was hard to tell what was worse, the wait to see what was coming, or what would actually show up. FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT, the chittering pounded away. FLASH, the lightning blasted the shadows to the walls. This time they flew left to right. Jack was sure of it.

Those were not shadows after all. They were moving, back and forth in the darkness. The only time he could see them was when the lightning flashed outside. The room was awash with chittering, swaying darkness. FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT. The lightning flashed. SCRAPE. Darkness. The scraping sound this time was right outside the bedroom door. It was deathly quiet. The darkness seemed to swallow up everything.

Jack tried to pull the covers over his head but his body wouldn’t move he lay paralyzed with fear. Every muscle in his body screamed to run. The door creaked open. Jack positioned his mouth to let out a blood-curdling scream but all his body could muster was the equivalent of a squeak that sounded more like a mouse chirp. Jack sat in total darkness waiting for something to happen.

The lightning flashed illuminating a petite grandmotherly figure standing at the door wearing a white nightgown and baby blue slippers. She was tall and slender, appearing gaunt. Jack could see her bones through her skin. Her silver-white hair seemed a little disheveled.

The flash of lightning seemed to hang in the air. She fixed her hazel eyes on Jack staring at him with a bewildered expression mimicking that of a lost child. Jack began to breathe a sigh of relief as suddenly darkness overtook the room.

The chittering began again. FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT. The lightning flashed. Jack stared at the grandmotherly figure standing in the doorway. Her hazel eyes now a soulless black were fixated on his. She had dark circles around her eyes with an eerie, gargoyle-like smile across her face. Darkness. SCRAPE.

A shiver went up Jack’s spine. The lightning flashed. The ghoulish grandmother’s face contorted into a howling expression. Was it my imagination or was she closer? It seemed as if she was a few steps further into the room. Darkness.

Jack could still hear the chittering as a low droning sound. SCRAPE. The sound of metal scraping on metal was definitely coming from inside the room. The lightning flashed. The ghoulish grandmother was a few more feet inside the bedroom door. Drool dripped from her gaping mouth as her vacant eyes stared at Jack. Darkness.

A cacophony of howling, gurgling, and guttural noises replaced the sound of chittering. The lightning flashed again like a strobe light. The ghoulish old woman was now at the side of the bed. Jack gasped loudly. The old woman raised her arms.

The strobe-like effect of the lightning illuminated the walls in rhythmic fashion making the actions that followed appear as if Jack was in a stop motion movie. Flash, Flash, Flash, Flash! She raised her arms high in the air.

FLASH, FLASH, FLASH! She clinched two long, sharp butcher knives, one in each hand, holding them high above her head. She scraped them together, making a sound that left Jack trembling, afraid for his life.

FLASH, FLASH, FLASH! In a swift move that seemed far beyond her abilities, she plunged the knives straight down into Jack’s heaving chest. Instantly, a thunderous BOOM rocked the bedroom

Chapter ONE

Jack fell off the couch covered in a pool of sweat. Still gasping for air, his hands clutched his chest. I haven’t had this nightmare since I was a child, was that a sonic boom that awakened me? Jack could hear jets flying overhead.

Jack slowly drew up his shirt, and with his fingers, he traced the scars on his chest. Jack’s parents had told him that his scars came from an injury he suffered as a child after falling on a fence. They said he was somewhat of a daredevil when it came to climbing stuff. The nightmares started shortly after he got out of the hospital.

Jack traced the scars, first up then down. It was interesting how they made a cross-like pattern on his chest. He thought back on all the whispered conversations that had occurred over the years between his parents in the downstairs study. Jack remembered meeting with several psychiatrists, discussing family, friends, and life in general.

He remembered having sleepless nights brought on by the recurring nightmares. With each one, gasping and struggling always followed intense screaming. Then all of a sudden, they stopped.

Jack entered puberty and was more interested in friends and girls than he was discussing his nightmares. Eventually, after begging them to stop taking him to counseling, Jack’s parents relented and life went on as normal.

Why have the nightmares returned? Jack assumed they were because his father was in the hospital. The darkness finally caught up with him. He always talked about how the darkness was stalking him. How he never got a moments peace and had to move so frequently. Jack wasn’t a military brat but it seemed that way with the amount of times his parents moved.

Every few months it seemed they would pack up and move to a different location but this did not necessarily mean a different city or state. When he thought back on how many times they had moved it seemed as if his parents were unstable paranoids.

They never left a forwarding address and hardly had any friends. A lot of the time, they rented fully furnished homes and left in the middle of the night. Jack’s parents seemed smart and reasonable but then something would spook them and they would move. Like a thief in the night. It’s probably what continues to cause my lack of commitment in my own relationship. At least I can blame something other than myself. It is a start.

Jack’s father had been in the hospital for a month now and the likelihood of recovery lessened with each passing day. The doctors said that it was as if he was wasting away. They had given him every possible treatment available but to no avail. When Jack asked if it was cancer they told him that his father was not dying of any ailment that fit any particular diagnosis. To Jack it was simple, his father was… just dying.

The cells in his body were ceasing to function. They tried stimulants, hormones, grafts, therapies, pokes, prods, and everything else that can legally keep a human body alive. Jack’s father did the rest, sometimes, calling on very shady people to get him some less than conventional remedies. Still, he was dying. The doctors were not hopeful, giving him only a few more weeks to live.

Jack tried to spend as much time as he could with his father at the hospital. Hospitals were not his favorite places and it took everything within him to keep going back. Jack knew he had to show up and give support because his mom had passed away only a few years back. She was the glue that bound his life together and since her passing, it seemed his father’s paranoia had increased.

That is why it was so odd when his father stopped moving and bought a house. Jack was not sure if it was a good or bad thing. Home ownership made it harder to move around and this seemed to make some things more difficult. Jack’s father covered all the windows around the house with aluminum foil. Jack assumed that the inside was just as bad.

After his moms passing Jack hardly ever visited and if he did, he and his father would sit outside the house on the porch to talk. Mainly their conversations were superficial, they talked little about anything major, and they were not really the type you would have with a parent.

Jack had to laugh. His father always seemed guarded about Jack entering his house. Jack used to think that the only time he would probably ever enter the house would be after his father was dead. It seemed funny at the time, but now, given the circumstances, not so much anymore.

Jack had taken time off from work the last couple of weeks so that he could spend it with his father before he passed away. At the time, it seemed like a good idea, but the more days Jack spent with his father the more distant he felt.

In the movies, you see all kinds of deathbed reunions between siblings, parents, children, and other relatives. Family members huddled around the dying persons bed listening to their stories of a life well lived or memories of days gone by. Jack’s father ranted. Jack’s father croaked. His father made all kinds of incoherent noises, comments, and gestures.

He spoke OF darkness. He spoke TO darkness. In fact, he was very preoccupied with darkness. At his mom’s passing, the grief was so intense Jack nearly died himself. However, he felt little emotion recalling the situation with his father.

Jack finally convinced himself that this was life. We are born and we die. So why shed the tears. Everyone dies eventually and then there is nothingness.

Unfortunately, for Jack’s wife, this revelation came a little late, after they were married. They have been experiencing marital spasms ever since. Jack’s wife is what he likes to refer to as an uber-christian. She prays. She tithes. She attends church service every weekend without fail. She even volunteers at church. She pretty much has offered her existence over to an unseen Lord who is supposed to protect, guide, and teach her.

In fact, as Jack lay there clutching his chest and gasping for air from the nightmares; she was probably on her knees praying to GOD at church. Jack has spent many nights on the couch after heated debates regarding the existence of GOD. It is funny really. When I have nightmares or problems, it always comes back to GOD and my wife. As Jack rolled onto his knees to stand, he imagined she was finishing her prayer and standing as well.

Chapter TWO

The room constructed of steel and glass was dark, lit only by the flash of television monitors and the night sky. Computer monitors and television screens lined the innermost wall. The remaining three walls were floor to ceiling glass windows that automatically tinted as the sun’s rays blazed through.

At the command of the occupant, the glass would tint to complete black keeping any light from the outside from penetrating into the room. The interior decorations were sparse. In the middle of the room was a large oak desk with a glass top. The glass top was a large flat screen monitor spanning the entire surface of the desk. At the desk sat a man.

As he sat starring at the wall of monitors, the room began to chill. As he breathed in then out, he noticed he could actually see his breath as he exhaled. The room became bitter cold every time ‘they’ entered. It was odd. Always the room was cold.

One time, out of curiosity, he asked ‘them’ why. Because we can, they replied. He imagined that they did it as a show of their power. He laughed to himself. A show of power was just that… a show. Those with true power never needed to show it. It did not need a parade. It did not need a flash or bang. It was just that… power. A hard lesson he learned, at the end of a spear.

They were afraid of him.

Greetings Praetorian, the slithery voice came from behind him.

He was not startled or afraid. They always tried to spook him by creeping up behind him, or appearing at inopportune times. It was part of their show. They were afraid of him.

Praetorian. A barb they used to try to goad him. It worked. He hated the term. It always riled him talking to them. He wasn’t sure if it was because they were sources of evil or if it was just an irritating inconvenience having to deal with them on a regular basis.

He could feel their fetid breath on the back of his neck.

The seer has returned, it taunted.

The man slowly swiveled his chair to face the creature. He was eye to yellow eye with the insidious thing. It had been some time since anyone had mentioned the seer. The seer had gone off the grid roughly twenty plus years ago.

According to whose information? asked the man.

According to MY information, the beast sneered.

It wasn’t a good idea to converse with demons. It was an even worse idea to accuse them of deceit. They prided themselves on being completely honest with people. The problem with that philosophy is that what is truth for the devil isn’t necessarily truth for the world.

This could be a problem for our current plans, said the man.

Indeed the demon gruffly replied.

This demon was an angry demon, even as far as demons go. He seemed angrier than most…almost bitter.

Their names were incomprehensible, even if one were able to speak their native language predating civilization. The closest the man ever got to naming them was abbreviating their names to the first few letters that made sense.

In this case, the demons’ name was AL. It was how its name began before it turned into a nonsensical, at least by human standards, series of clicks, whirs, grunts, and squeaks.

Al, the man said. I need your seekers to search the cities and find some trace of the seer.

That seems a tall order, Praetorian, even for us.

If you can’t do it then I can always go with someone else… someone human.

The shrieks and chitters began almost immediately. The room was a rage of warbles, cackles, grunts, and shrieks. It was obvious that they had a disdain for anything human. They felt superior to humans in every aspect.

PRIDE, after all, is one of the things that got them cast out of heaven. That predictable nature makes it easy for the man to manipulate them in the first place. It’s not difficult dealing with prideful, boastful, better than thou creatures. As long as you maintain the illusion that they are your superior, then they generally do as you command. The difficult dealings are with those that have nothing to gain through the transaction.

We will find the seer and bring him back to you, Praetorian said Al with a sneer. Or, what is left of him.

The cackles and chitters rose in what seemed to be laughter. It was an interesting thought; should he return or just dispatch the seer? Man or woman, would the return or the destruction of the seer better serve the agenda?

If the seer fell into the wrong hands, it could be disastrous. However, by returning the seer they may be able to salvage some of the time and expense that went into its creation. They would also be able to see what effect being outside the presence for so long has had on its abilities. It seems that a little risk analysis would have to be undertaken prior to any final decisions.

At this point Al, the seer is to be found not disturbed. IF your seekers find the seer they are to report back to me for additional orders. Al looked angrily at Praetorian WHEN, they find it they will report back to me. I will inform YOU as to what the situation is.

With a large HUFF, the demon expelled an unholy putrid stench into the air and melted into the shadows. The room warmed as the shadows began to recede into the walls. This seemed to be a job far greater than their boisterous abilities could comprehend. It would most likely require additional resources.

I need Mac. The man leaned back in his chair.

Chapter THREE

The phone rang. Edward Mac Kowalski is six-foot-five inches and three-hundred-fifty pounds of intensity. He was a former professional football player banned from the sport for gambling and violence. Mac was the player that would sneak spikes in his kneepads to hurt other players. His goal every game was to send someone out on a stretcher. Although the league had a hard time proving anything, they were finally able to ban him from playing because of illegal gambling.

Mac is a good fit for the company with his brute strength and never-give-up attitude coupled with a low tolerance for anything religious. Mac has a severe hatred for anyone who even hints of religion. Rumor has it, as a young man, a preacher in his hometown molested him.

Apparently, in his younger years, Mac had a yearning for singing in a choir. It was a desire that met with molestation and deceit. No one believed Mac’s story. The church dropped the issue and sent an apology letter after the legal proceedings resulted in a no contest plea. Everyone in town went back to life as usual. The preacher ended up moving to a different town to set up shop and people soon forgot. Everyone forgot that is except little Eddie Kowalski. The destruction of a little boy’s faith occurred during this tumultuous time.

From that point on Mac had been on a downward spiral into a dark realm. Mac had been in and out of juvenile detention centers for violence. It wasn’t until high school that Mac finally began to channel his anger into something more productive. The arena of football was the perfect outlet for this warrior of anger. He could hurt people and be applauded for it. The crowds would cheer as he flattened his opponents. It seemed the harder he hit the louder they would cheer. The nickname Mac originated out of those high school games.

A reporter for the high school newspaper was the first to coin the name writing, Eddie Kowalski hits the quarterback so often that by the end of the game it looks as if his opponent was run over by a Mac truck. From that game on, every time he sacked the quarterback or made an especially hard hit a truck horn would sound and the crowd would break into cheers. Mac loved the crowd. He loved the cheering. He remembered thinking that he was a roman gladiator and this was his coliseum.

Mac’s life progressed well in football. The teachers helped him pass his classes so that he could continue to wow the crowds. The coaches pulled strings to ensure that the Mac truck stayed on the field. If there were awards for inflicting pain on the battleground of football, Mac achieved them all. Yet during this time little Eddie Kowalski fell deeper and deeper into a dark realm.

Through his experiences, Mac learned there is sometimes reward for violence. Eventually, Mac made it to the pros. In the beginning, the big time was good to Mac. Drafted within the first few rounds he ended up signing a million dollar deal with one of the top teams. At first, things seemed okay. Mac hit opponents and the crowd cheered. Eventually though the coaches began to expect other things. They wanted Mac to attend more practices. During summer training, they expected him to swear off drinking with the hope he would be more of a role model instead of just a heavy hitter.

At first Mac tried. He attended training camp with the intentions of not drinking but ended many days drunk. The coaches agreed that Mac was an asset but a volatile one. They were concerned about team morale. Mac would initiate fights with other team members whom he felt were not carrying their load on the field. He would skip out on practice to go to bars or strip clubs. He would use steroids to boost his performance. The steroids always left him feeling edgy and empty. During the down times, the quiet nights, Mac could feel a longing; an emptiness neither drugs nor violence could fill.

Eventually, Mac married. Shirley was a stripper in one of the clubs that Mac frequented. Their relationship started quickly and continued to burn hot. They began to dream of a perfect life together complete with a white picket fence, two kids, and a dog. Unfortunately, for Mac, the world had darker desires for one such as him. Eventually, the heat began to fade into monotony. The relationship began to wane. Mac tried to sustain the relationship but he was ill equipped for that magnitude of a partnership when all he had known was pain and violence.

One day, Mac returned home to find his wife with another man. In Macs eyes, this man was lesser than he was. This man was a mockery of the life that he had created. This man was a destroyer, a jackal, feasting on the kill of another. So, Mac put this man in the hospital.

After the incident Mac could only recall the moment he opened the bedroom door. He claimed it was as if something from a dark realm took control of him, some unstoppable force.

Eventually, once his team paid the man off, they downgraded the charges to assault.