See You in Hell: Stories of Mr. L ... and others

By Mike Nibley

The affable and mysterious Mr. L -- always ready to help make the impossible happen. And ready to enjoy watching the unexpected consequences.

Also, stories of magic, sometimes good, sometimes bad, in the lives of people both ordinary and less so.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Nibley
• Release date: Mar 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524297541

Book preview

PENTAGRAM

The news was all over town within hours. The devil had been sighted.

A group of children had been playing in the woods above town. They came on a small clearing. Scratched crudely but definitely in the dirt was a pattern: a circle with a five-pointed star inside it. The kids didn't know what it was or what it meant, but, being kids, they began running races around it, as if the circle was a racetrack.

One boy, out of breath, (he had won the last round), stepped outside the race, looked around and pointed.

Emerging from the trees was a big black dog—shaggy, mangy, emaciated—hipbones hollow, spiky clumps of fur sticking out from the ribcage. The long sharp face had a feral, blank-eyed look.

A boy, who loved all dogs, dropped to one knee and beckoned to it. The other children backed out of the way as the dog trotted to him.

There, boy, he purred, scratching the animal's back and ears. Good boy. The dog turned its head down and panted.

That's not a dog, it's a bitch! shouted another boy. The children let out a burst of laughter at the dangerous word.

At that moment, it happened. Silently, a man had appeared at the edge of the trees. He was tall and lean and his clothing was baggy and nondescript. Instead of a face, he wore a great moon-shaped mask. It was the face of a boar—but no boar ever seen on earth. There were no horns, just great tufted ears, and the tusks protruding from the lower jaw. The twisted mouth was half a snarl, half a sneer; the tiny slits of eyes slanted down in an expression of limitless malevolence. Two of the boys later said that they had seen yellow flames flickering in the eyes, but none of the other children confirmed it.

The children screamed and ran. The man (or whatever it was) made no move to follow them. They went home sobbing and told the story to their parents.

The next day, there was an inquest. The children, one by one, went up to the witness stand and told their stories. At the end of the proceedings, two other witnesses came forward, 13-year-old girls, Amy and Sally. They said that they had been playing later near the site, and the man in the mask came out of the trees as if out of nowhere. Amy had run away without being touched, but Sally—yes, he had lifted her skirt from behind as she was trying to run, and he had touched her. His finger, she said, was colder than ice. She remembered to call on Jesus, and then she got away.

All evidence pointed to the Marcy cabin. Old man Marcy had lived there for decades. He had worked in the cement mill, till it closed. Then he had hunted venison, raccoons and opossum in the woods. His wife walked down into town five days a week, and taught reading and arithmetic to fourth-graders. She wasn't a particularly good teacher, but she was adequate and never asked for more than her pathetic salary, so they kept her on.

The Marcys had two children—a boy who died of diphtheria at age nine and a girl who disappeared at age sixteen. Nothing was known about her except rumors from the Big City—and they were not favorable. And then the wife died.

Old Mr. Marcy came down from the cabin once a month, to collect his pension check, pick up canned goods, and see if he'd had any mail, but after a year or so even that ended. He was up in his cabin with his big black dog, hunting venison and raccoons.

The rumor went about that he had sold his soul to the devil. What else did he have to sell?

Trent—studentbody president, deacon at the First Baptist church, called his three best friends. We're gonna take this guy out, he said. Who? they said, knowing the answer full well.

But it's a school night, said his friend Ashby, who got good grades and was something of a nerd.

Whine, whine, whine, retorted Trent. Gonna leave it to the weekend, when the cops have got all over it? Take a sick day next day if you have to. We're gonna kill the devil.

Jack was up for it, but with reservations. Trent, he said, do you really think we can do it?

Trent grabbed his Bible and shook it. Jesus is with us, he said.

Moe, just to please himself, pantomimed loading his gun, although no one could see him. This is gonna be fun, he chuckled.

It was winter, and dark by 6:00 pm. The boys, having made their excuses to their families, trekked into the woods. In case of a long watch, they had brought along supplies: water, bread, bologna, apples. Trent had sneaked a bottle of whiskey out of his parents' liquor cabinet: he figured that once he'd killed Satan, they'd forgive him for pretty much anything.

There, through the dark trees, was the cabin. The boys caught their breath. Light, an unearthly light, light that didn't come from any light bulb or fireplace, glowed in the windows and fitfully illuminated the surrounding trees.

The devil's in there, muttered Ashby.

Well, yeah, said Trent, that's why we're here.

They sat down at the base of a tree about fifty feet from the glowing windows, opened the bottle of whiskey, and debated what to do.

A big black dog trotted toward them, feral yellow eyes and sharp jackal-like snout, tongue protruding.

Shit, whispered Jack, that's the devil's dog.

Moe reached out and scratched the creature between the ears. She's old man Marcy's dog, he said. Trent, give her some baloney.

Trent rummaged in his pack, pulled out a piece of meat, and tossed it to Moe. The dog snatched it in midair and gulped it down ravenously. She's just a dog, said Moe, She hunts with him. Maybe he sold his soul to the devil. But she's just a dog, and she didn't sell nothing. He scratched the animal's belly.

So I guess old man Marcy isn't far away, said Trent. Could be inside the cabin.

Could be, said Jack.

Somebody has to open that door, said Trent.

Yeah, said Moe. You first.

Trent pulled out his Bible and shook it. He can't harm us, he said.

You sure? said Ashby.

What are you, some goddam atheist? growled Jack.

How about we draw lots? said Moe.

Trent knocked back a shot of whiskey. Hell with it, he said. Moe, you coming with me? Your rifle loaded?

Always is, said Moe.

Well, take the safety off. We're going to that door.

Safety? deadpanned Moe, who ever puts the safety on? He took the bottle of whiskey and downed a good-sized pull. I'm with you, man, he said, getting to his feet.

The two of them walked to the door. Trent knocked. Nothing. He knocked louder. The fitful light from inside flared up, went down, and then—died.

Trent, heart in his mouth, pulled the door open. Nothing. Dark emptiness.

He leveled his shotgun and motioned to Moe. The two of them stepped in.

The other two sat under the tree, wishing they were somewhere else, glancing at each other guiltily in their fear.  Finally Jack yelled, You guys okay?

No problem, Trent called. Come on in.

The cabin's interior was dark, now that the unnatural light was gone, and it was cold. Jack turned on the Coleman lantern and looked around the room. They were in what, for lack of a better word, would be called the living room: a worn old couch, a couple of chairs. There was an empty table that had evidently once supported a TV until, probably, it had been pawned to buy canned goods. Jack put the lantern on the table. The boys checked their .22s and 30.06s to make sure they were loaded and ready.

Look, said Trent, pointing at the rough wooden floor. Drawn, evidently with a chunk of charcoal, was a circle, and inside it, a five-pointed star.

Pentagram, breathed Ashby. The sign of the devil.

Well, said Jack, we're ready.

They wrapped themselves in sleeping bags. Trent, the leader by tacit acknowledgment, got the couch; the others placed themselves on the floor. They pulled out the bread and bologna and apples and munched on impromptu sandwiches, passing around the whiskey bottle. They were not used to whiskey, and grimaced at the taste. But they liked the way it made them feel.

Where's the dog? asked Trent.

Ran off into the woods, said Jack.

Do you think—you think she went and told old man Marcy where we are? quavered Ashby.

Jack whooped with laughter. She's a dog, you dumb shit, he said. She's not Lassie.

Also, said Trent, we want him to know where we are. We want him to come for us. That's why we're here.

If it is old man Marcy, put in Moe.

Whoever it is, said Trent. He put both hands tight around his shotgun and shook it. We're ready for him.

The other boys laughed, and the whiskey bottle went around again.

Ashby was the nerd of the crowd. He read a lot. He had actually read most of the Bible. They made fun of him for it, but they respected him too. I went to the hearing, he said. The little kids talked about the mask. You know, that mask isn't Satan.

Huh? said Jack.

Really, it's more like—Beelzebub.

Cool name, said Moe. "Who's Beelzebub?

He's not Satan, explained Ashby. He's more like second-level. Like, you know, if Mr. Elgin runs the drugstore, Mr. Elgin is Satan, and Beelzebub is, like, the cashier at the counter. Understand?

Dude, you need some more whiskey, said Trent. There was a guffaw all around.

Guys, it's getting late, Trent went on. We gotta watch all night. I'll take first watch and stay awake till one. Then I'll wake up—um, Moe, you okay with one to three?

Yeah, that's okay, said Moe.

Trent said, We're not gonna pull that dumb shit they do in the movies, where they all split up. We all stay right in this room, right?

Yeah, said Jack. Except to pee. Have you been in the bathroom? Toilet musta been stopped up for ten years. I'm going outside for that.

There was a general murmur of agreement.

Time passed.

Trent stared at the planks of the ceiling, hand on his shotgun, listening to the measured breathing around him. Jesus, time moves slowly without TV. He checked his watch. Only 11:30. He nodded, and then nodded off.

The sound of the door opening woke him. He sat up and tightened his grip on the shotgun. A man, tall and lean, walked through the door. Where his face should have been was a hideous mask—the mask described by the children—a malevolent otherworldly boar.

Trent jumped to his feet. Satan! he shouted, and fired two shots—both barrels—into the creature's face. It slumped to the floor. Shaking, he tried to call out to his friends, but he couldn't find them. There was nothing there where they had been. In a panic, he fumbled to put two more shells into the gun. He would go out into the woods and find them. He walked toward the door.

Trent, a voice said. Trent turned, and there he was again—a man's body and the face of a hideous boar. He fired one chamber into it and it dropped.

Then he heard a sharp, high scream from the other end of the room. There he was again—the horrible pig's face, the fiery slanting eyes—what does it take to kill this thing?—and he pulled the trigger without thinking.

Quiet. Trent sat down, gasping. Where were his friends? He had killed the devil—killed him three times—and they weren't there to see it. Cowardly weenies, they must have run off into the woods while he was asleep. Well, he'd tell everybody what pussies they were. He'd killed the devil—it had taken three tries, but now all was quiet, so he'd succeeded. He would show the whole town the body of the devil—or old Mr. Marcy, same thing—and nobody would be afraid any more.

He switched on the Coleman lamp. On the floor were three bodies. None wore a mask. They were his friends. Blood pooled around them.

He gulped and turned away—and shrieked. There in the black windowpane was his reflection—the clothes, the frame were unmistakable—but instead of his face was the mask.

He clawed at it, but somehow it had fused with his head. He sat down, picked up the shotgun, and shoved the muzzle into his mouth; then he remembered that there was no cartridge in the chamber. He fumbled for his ammunition, but somehow couldn't find it.

Good evening, Trent, said a calm, gentle voice behind him. I believe you're looking for me?

In the middle of the room stood a distinguished-looking