Hell's Gates

By Mary Masters

Hell’s Gates combines the chilling tone of H. P. Lovecraft’s writing with the dread-inducing pace of a Stephen King novel, resulting in a supernatural horror story that will keep you riveted from start to finish.
From Kirkus Reviews
Alive with a devilish plot, the book takes a satisfying, twisted journey into evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483551852

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 Mary Masters

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1500518654

ISBN 13: 9781500518653

eISBN 978-1-4835518-5-2

Table of Contents

Prologue: Plummet, New York Thirty Years Ago

Part One: Present Day

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13

Part Two

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Part Three

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Part Four

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Part Five

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Part Six

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10

PROLOGUE

PLUMMET, NEW YORK

THIRTY YEARS AGO

Thorn Mastema knew he must die tonight.

In his dimly lit study, the old man sat behind his mahogany desk surrounded by priceless antiques he had collected over the years. His daughter, Sameal, lay next to his desk—dead.

Leaning back in his chair, he caressed the only thing he cherished more than his own life—a golden mask of a young boy’s face, angelic in appearance, with precise details from its dimpled cheeks to the soft strands of curls crowning its face, emanating the essence of life itself. He stroked its smooth, warm surface with deeply felt love, as a father would tenderly caress his child.

The mask began to glow. Its rays gently wrapped around him; Mastema smiled. His thick silver hair glistened like strands of silk against his broad face, with finely chiseled wrinkles around his eyes and mouth born from years of arrogance and greed. Transfixed by its beauty, he gazed into its large, hollow eyes, drifting into limbo.

From the corner of the room, shadows of the damned began slowly crawling along the walls, weaving in and out the tightly drawn drapes, slithering along the barrister bookshelves that spanned the wall, until they stretched their long, dark talons over Sameal and then surrounded him.

Humming softly, the mask lulled him deeper into its tranquil pool of darkness as he freely unlocked the deepest chamber of his soul while it whispered its secrets.

In eerie rhythm, shadows danced around him as the mask crooned sweetly, preparing him for death. He felt his inner being floating, leaving his decrepit shell behind.

Abruptly, someone knocked, loud and rapid, on the door.

The glow vanished.

The mask lay silent in his arms.

Shadows quickly melted into the walls, leaving Mastema crashing down, hitting the pavement of life.

Angry, the old man shouted, Come in! His eyes still gazed at the golden object.

Three men hurried into the room and closed the door behind them. Two, dressed in dark suits, stood guard by the door while the third man, meek and pale in comparison, saw the dead woman’s body and gasped.

It’s time, Torrent. Mastema eyed the smaller man.

No, I can’t do it!

We had an agreement. Unless—he paused— "you prefer to see your wife and son die in a horrible accident."

Torrent stepped back, ready to run, but when he saw the two men step toward him with murderous eyes, he knew it was hopeless.

Please, he begged the old man. His eyes jittered nervously, and his voice trembled. I just can’t.

Mastema glanced at the mask, touching it gently, then looked straight into the man’s frightened eyes and spoke with a deep and powerful voice. "You will do as I command you!"

He’s only five years old. FOR GOD’S SAKE!

The old man laughed. "It’s too late to call upon Him. Isn’t it, Torrent?"

Someone knocked on the door. One of the men quickly covered Sameal’s body with a blanket that hung over a chair next to the desk while the other opened the door. A five-year-old boy with blond hair and green eyes raced into the room and straight to his father.

Daddy! Daddy! Mr. Brody brought me here to surprise you! Torrent bent down to embrace his son. Did we surprise you, Daddy? Jason smiled at his father.

Mastema eyed the child approvingly. As you can see, I took the liberty to have the child brought to me. I knew you couldn’t be trusted to uphold your part of the bargain.

Frightened, Jason hid behind his father.

Come here, Jason. The old man leaned over the desk. I have something to show you.

The boy froze, clutching his father’s trousers.

Which way is it going to be, Torrent?

Sweat dripped down Torrent’s forehead, and his face drained of color. Slowly, he grabbed his son’s hand and led him to a black leather chair next to the desk.

Good. Mastema smiled, leering at the child like a hungry beast. Everyone get out! I want to speak to the boy alone.

The child pleaded, Daddy, don’t leave me!

Torrent leaned over his son; his lips trembled as he tried to smile. Now you be a good boy and stay with Mr. Mastema. I’ll be right outside that door if you need me, OK?

Reluctantly, Jason nodded.

Torrent hugged his son and then hurried out the door, not daring to look back.

The two men followed him out to a long, narrow hallway and closed the door behind them. Standing close to the door, they watched Torrent leaning against the wall, his hands shaking as he tried to light a cigarette.

You’re probably wishing the sheriff got here by now, one of the men said, pulling out a lighter and holding it up to him.

Cautiously, Torrent leaned closer to the flame, took a deep drag, and stepped back.

Slipping the lighter in his pocket, the man grinned. Don’t worry. Mastema is going to take good care of your boy.

Yeah, real good care, the other man snickered.

Both men started to laugh.

Suddenly, they stopped and listened.

A low drone vibrated the walls as a golden glow pierced the cracks in the door. At first, they heard the child burst out in laughter; then, long, horrifying screams. The walls rumbled and shook, flinging paintings. Lights from sconces burst. The men screamed, covering their heads as slivers of hot glass pelted them.

Before the men could stop him, Torrent leaped toward the door, grabbing the handle. Instantly, icy pain gripped his hand, shooting up his arm into every limb of his body with such force, it hurled him down the hall. Stunned, he slowly got up.

The glow faded.

The humming stopped.

Silence filled the house.

The door opened. Jason stepped out, his face sickly pale and his eyes glazed, with blood tearstains streaking his cheeks.

Son! Are you all right? Torrent was ready to hold him in his arms when the child’s eyes met his. For an instant, the child’s eyes turned black and hollow. Horrified, Torrent gasped.

Suddenly, the sound of a police car siren pierced the air—getting louder. Mastema limped out the door, holding a black lacquer walking stick with a golden handle carved with a child’s face. Leaning toward the boy, he smiled and handed him the golden mask. This belongs to you now. He glanced at the boy’s father. Take good care of our son, Torrent.

The men grabbed Torrent and the boy. We better leave through the back entrance.

Mastema limped through the hall and out the front door, pulling a gun out of his pocket. Defiantly, he stood on the portico, watching as the town’s police car, followed by two other cars, veered in front of the mansion. Abruptly, the siren died. Headlights from the cars glared at Mastema as men darted from their cars and crouched behind the vehicles for protective shields, pointing their guns at him.

Sheriff Greenwald, a heavyset man with a thick neck, shouted, Thorn Mastema! Drop your weapon and put your hands behind your head!

Mastema watched in amusement as he gripped the gun in his hand tighter, his finger on the trigger.

Don’t be a fool! Surrender—

Mastema raised his gun and fired, grazing the deputy’s arm.

Fire! the sheriff shouted. FIRE!

Gunshots blasted. Windows exploded; glass splattered over the lawn. Gunpowder smoke, thick and heavy, hovered over the air as Mastema twisted and turned with each bullet piercing him. Dropping the gun, he fell face down, still clutching his cane.

Three men charged into the house while the sheriff and his wounded deputy stepped up to the bloodied portico.

After a few minutes, the men came back, and one of them said, Sameal Mastema is dead. Bullet wound to her heart. The house is empty.

I’m not surprised, the sheriff said.

The deputy stared at the twisted body lying in front of his feet, blood dripping down the steps. Well, it’s over.

The sheriff turned to him; the handle of his .38-caliber gun still burned in his hand. Is it? For the rest of our lives, we’ll have to live with what we did tonight. Never telling a soul. He slipped the gun back into his holster. No, it’ll never be over for us. He’ll be back, haunting us in our sleep.

What I can’t figure out is, why did he fire the first shot? the deputy asked. It was like he wanted to die.

Or maybe he knew we were going to kill him and his daughter anyway. The sheriff turned the body over with his foot.

Black hollow orbs for eyes peered from the dead man’s face. His lips contorted into a grotesque, frozen grin.

PART ONE

PRESENT DAY

1

She’s losing it , Sheriff Chris Samuels thought, standing in the doorway of the sheriff’s office. From across the avenue, he watched the old frail woman with a birdlike face who had a fetish for colorful hats decorated with flowers around the rim. Planted on the corner, she stared at a poster hanging from the telephone pole, the same poster he and his deputies had spent the entire afternoon hanging up all over town—compliments of Jason Torrent.

It gnawed at him all day. Torrent offered a $500,000 reward for a missing three-month-old baby. Chris knew he wasn’t doing it for the kid or his family; he was doing it for the publicity. The great Samaritan’s face and name was plastered all over the media, feeding his ego. Meanwhile, everyone had forgotten what the pompous dirtbag did several years back. And now the old woman gawked at that poster as if it were her own kin.

His youngest deputy, John Hawthorne, first noticed her when he glanced out the window to see whether it was snowing yet while the sheriff was on the phone with Doc Nolan’s secretary canceling another appointment for his flu shot. It had been over a half hour ago when he made that call.

John glanced out the window again. Chris, she’s still standing there.

The sheriff got up and peered out the window.

The slim man in his late twenties glanced at the sheriff. You want me to go over and see if she’s OK?

No, I’ll do it. I have to run over to McGregor’s anyway. Chris grabbed his navy parka. Vernon and George should be here any minute to relieve you.

You know they never come on time. The deputy frowned. I’ll be here for another hour waiting for them.

"Don’t worry. I called them and told them I’m going to wait until they come in. They’ll be here soon."

Relieved, John smiled. Thanks, Chris.

Standing in the doorway of the sheriff’s station, Chris zipped his parka. Wind mixed with snow swooped down, lifting the front of the old woman’s red hat while yellow flowers danced in a frenzy around the rim. Shoppers scuttled past her, trying to get out of her way and, most of all, out of the cold. She’s definitely losing it, he decided. No one in their right mind would stand out there for so long for no reason.

It was brutal out. Last week it had been in the seventies, and this week, it had dropped down to the thirties— and with the wind chill, it felt like the twenties. You’d never think it was late September.

Weathermen had predicted six to eight inches of snow by morning. And by the looks of it, it seemed for once they were going to be right, blaming it on global warming. The streets were still clear but wet, gleaming like a sheet of glass from the lit shops and street lamps. Large clumps of snow streamed down, and Chris knew it wouldn’t be long before the entire town would be covered. Rooftops and parked cars were already capped with snow, as well as the old woman. She didn’t seem to notice; her hands in her coat pockets, she stood frozen, gaping at the picture of a baby boy with brown hair and blue eyes.

The sheriff didn’t know Louise Larson except for a brief hello or a quick nod of the head when they occasionally passed each other on the street. He knew of her. His next-door neighbor, Pete Pearson, had given him the scoop on her several years back. That was when Chris turned fifty and decided getting your head blown off by a crackhead in the Bronx wasn’t worth being a cop anymore. When Chris got word that Henry Thompson, the mayor of Plummet, was looking for a new sheriff after the last one suddenly died of a heart attack, he decided to give him a call and check out the town.

After meeting Chris, the mayor and the town council wanted to hire him on the spot. At first, Chris couldn’t understand why they were so eager. Usually, the townspeople elected the sheriff, but after he met his three deputies, he knew why.

The town was pretty nice as small towns go, the kind of place where everyone not only knew your name but knew your dog’s name too. Built in the late 1700s by a wealthy businessman, Thomas Plummet, the town had expanded from twenty settlers to three thousand. Most of the town was built on hills, with the Hudson River toward the west, a power plant toward the south, and Broderick University with its one hundred acres toward the north and east. Central Avenue stretched for a quarter of a mile, dotted with quaint little two-story buildings with mom-and-pop stores. You could still get a chocolate egg cream straight from the soda fountain at the drugstore along with homemade ice cream.

The best part of Plummet was that you didn’t feel you were stuck in the boondocks where the nearest shopping mall was forty miles away. Route 9A conveniently ran parallel to the town. All you had to do was jump on it and head south to Yonkers or north to White Plains. It didn’t matter which way; either was about a half-hour drive—doing the speed limit, that is.

The sheriff’s job wasn’t too bad either. Most of the time the town was pretty quiet, but like any town, it had its share of drug and alcohol abuse among teenagers and the usual marital problems that got out of hand.

The worst part of living in Plummet was that it was in a dead zone. Everyone in town had to rely on landlines to make phone calls, which could be a nuisance at times.

But Chris and his wife, Ericka, thought it would be a great place to raise their two kids, and within four months, they had bought a house, packed the kids in their Honda Pilot, and kissed the Bronx good-bye.

Pete Pearson helped them get settled and filled the new sheriff in on some of the colorful characters of the town. Louise Larson, owner of about three blocks’ worth of property on Central Avenue, hit the top of the list.

According to Pete, Louise Larson’s fiancé, Charlie, had been in cahoots with Thorn Mastema, a man who had obtained his wealth in some inventive and unsavory ways, giving their squeaky-clean town a big black eye. Even though her parents had objected to their courtship, Louise didn’t care. At the age of thirty-eight, Louise felt she had finally found her true love, and she was determined to marry him.

A week before they were to be married, Louise found Charlie brutally murdered. That same night, a young local girl hung herself, and Thorn Mastema and his daughter were killed in their home. The whole town had been in shock, and to this day, no one really knew what had happened. And the ones who did know weren’t talking about it. But Pete did remember hearing something about Louise’s fiancé dying in her arms. Louise took it hard. Anytime someone mentioned it, she’d go off the deep end.

Finally, her parents sent her away for a while; it didn’t help. She was never the same. A year later, she came back, moved into the house Charlie had bought for them, and lived there alone with only his memory to keep her company.

Most of the people in town, including Pete, had thought she’d crack a long time ago and wind up in a sanitarium. She didn’t; at least, not until tonight.

Frigid wind mixed with snow blasted down the street. The traffic light danced, dangling from the wires as the No Parking sign rattled against the pole. Hurrying up the street, Will Brady, owner of the Silver Star Café, quickly turned his face away, almost knocking Louise down. Meanwhile, the caretaker of the town’s cemetery, Bill Croton, cursed as his hat flew off, hit the pavement, and rolled down the street along with a white plastic bag and a sheet of newspaper. Cursing again, he took off after it.

Chris ducked back into the doorway when the wind smacked him, stinging his face with its icy hand. Peering out to the street, he couldn’t believe it; Louise Larson still stood there.

Calling out her name, Chris hurried across the avenue.

She didn’t hear him; her face glued to the poster with a dead, blank stare. She mumbled something he didn’t quite catch. It sounded like, It’s happening again. He wasn’t sure. When he touched her shoulder; she jumped, swerving around. Wiry white hair, wet from snow, stuck to her cheeks and forehead, her face blood red from the cold, her eyes wide and frightened. For a brief moment, he thought she didn’t recognize him.

Miss Larson, it’s me, the sheriff.

She turned and glanced at the poster. I know who you are, sheriff, she snapped. It’s not a crime to stand on the street, is it?

No, of course not. But it’s freezing out, and you’ve been standing here for a long time. I thought you might have…

Gone mad? She smirked. I’m as sane as anyone else in this town. If that means much of anything.

Miss Larson, do you know the family? He pointed to the poster.

No, she whispered, lowering her eyes. It just reminded me of something that happened a long time ago.

You want to talk about it?

No, she said curtly, and with a quick goodnight, she headed down the street.

He watched her turn the corner onto Hillary Lane. She’s heading home, he thought. Good. The way she stared at that poster as if she knew something more than she was willing to tell me. He quickly dismissed the thought. She’s just an old lonely woman whose hardships have caught up with her.

He turned and headed toward McGregor’s, feeling pity for her. Louise was fifteen years older than he was, and he knew too well the years pass by quickly. In a blink of an eye, he’d find himself as old as Louise, and he wondered how the scars in his life would affect him.

2

As Chris approached McGregor’s Mini Mart, the lights from the store cut through the glass windows and out into the wet night. He pulled the door handle; it was locked. Peering inside, he saw Ron McGregor, a heavyset bald man with a thick brown mustache and a red, round face, standing behind the counter, ringing up Kevin Anderson’s groceries. Feeling relieved that he didn’t have to walk four more blocks to Mike’s Mini Mart, Chris knocked on the glass door, calling out, Hey, Ron! Ron!

Ron glanced at the door, waved at him, and then called out in a deep Irish brogue to his son in the back room, Sean, get the door!

A lanky teenager with brown cropped hair, wearing a black T-shirt and old jeans worn with holes, strolled casually out from the back of the store dragging a mop behind him. Shaking his head, he tucked the mop handle under his arm and unlocked the door.

Thanks, kid. Chris stepped inside, dripping water on the muddy floor.

You always show up when we’re closed. Sean grinned. My old man should give you a spare key.

I’m busy keeping the town safe. Chris smiled as he glanced at the boy’s jeans, and then he turned to Ron. Hey, Ron! What’s the matter? Business is so bad that you can’t afford to buy your son a new pair of jeans? He winked at Ron.

I gave that boy three hundred dollars to buy clothes, and that rag he has on is what he brought home. He tells me it’s in style. He tells me the more worn-out the pants are, the more stylish you are, you see. And it seems to me if my son gets any more stylish with those raggedy jeans, they’ll fall off at the seams and he’ll find himself butt naked on the street. Then you’ll really be stylish, sitting in jail for indecent exposure. Now won’t you, son? Ron shook his head disapprovingly.

The boy shrugged and headed to the back of the store while the sheriff and Kevin laughed.

Chris grabbed a half gallon of milk from the refrigerated section and headed toward the counter near Kevin, a clean-cut man in his late twenties with dark-red hair, blue eyes, and a ruddy complexion. Tonight, Kevin seemed haggard and his