The Beast Within: The Beast Within

By Nathaniel Sheftfield

As a child, Aris, witnessed unbelievable levels of human depravity reminiscent of wartime atrocities. Someone gave his life a thesis statement, intentionally. Now it's happening again, the case of that first childhood tragedy is on the news. His whole middle school soccer team came up missing, no clues about either team were ever found. It happened on that field, in the forest where the big white house was; the house that everybody says never existed, even though he saw it.

Now many years later, Aris is a financial investor with a beautiful wife and two daughters. His wife and her cousin are not ordinary women, and he is not prepared for this revelation.

Some secretive group is asking about him, the same group that may be responsible for some of the creations he has experienced growing up. Is he who they are looking for? Staan, the boss sends Harry Driscoll, a personality more diplomatic with people to make the offer. Harry has charge over the financial districts of New York, Washington DC and London city from behind the scenes. Harry invites him to that imaginary house in the woods, that doesn't exist.

No one is prepared for the truth, no one is prepared to see what he's going to see. This is a different kind of world, different kind of existence and it will affect the entire planet. These people are the makers of dystopia and he is a pivotal player whether he wants to be or not.

There is a rising Antichrist, a rising false prophet, and no one can get off the earth. People didn't understand what they read, they only thought they did and some say the tribulation starts tomorrow. Prepare for the supernatural.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nathaniel Sheftfield
• Release date: Jan 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393815280

Book preview

Chapter 1 

Bermuda Triangle 

(Kids soccer team)

POLITICS IS A PROXY war fought among friends—using products(People). The first rule of business.

That damn burgundy tie precariously dangles from his neck like a noose. It's like being given just enough burgundy rope to not quite hang oneself. Target some of those bastards in the upper echelon that created this chain gang. His slouching enthusiasm has taken an interlude between the small triangle shaped paper football and the penny his finger keeps kicking to the edge of the desk. He stares out into the ocean of never-ending cubicles and temporary human carcasses. It's a corporate landfill, bathing in a created human refuse. Is he contemplating suicide the way he stares at the half-eaten chicken burrito on his desk amidst the stack of papers? E.F. Hutton and those other places didn't hang around; why the hell is he still at this job? Aris existentially ponders the burrito itself being a gift from the delusional box of fragmented byproducts and arbitrary creations; in laymen terms, the snack machines and food trucks should be set ablaze.

The muffled phone ringing in his desk drawer is casually ignored on Fridays. There is a sea of ringing monotony blending right in as he lays his head on his desk. He blinks to nap and in the blink of an eye, he is standing outside and smelling smoke. Something is off and in front of him appears to be a giant fireplace.

It was either an apartment building made of fire or a fire made into the shape of an apartment complex. Either way it was most assured that the only water sufficient enough to stop this fire would have to come from a second great deluge. Fireman meant something different here because the fire was even shaped into screaming people.

This was an unearthly fire, a declaration of war by creatures from a degenerate existence. It seemed as if this fire slipped through a portal from another dimension and was given a purpose. It was to eat with intent, all the human flesh it could stomach. Fire guarded the entrance, formed a circle around the building. The only thing spectators could do was pray, and all were spectators. There were brief screams from every widow in some horrific cadence, with each brick being a glowing ember, a dedication to some fire god. This smoke house for cured meats was a message from someone.

Time was short. There was a horrible rumor after, that everyone who lived in the building made a spiritual deal and didn't live up to their end of the bargain. Aris saw every face clearly, and it was everyone in his office. Then he began to wonder, did every person in his office make some kind of wicked deal? Then he is snapped out of it by the sound of a soft voice, Janie. His eyes were wide, his mouth was open as his eyes darted back and forth. What the hell just happened? Was it a dream, some kind of premonition or was something coming? The world was a strange place as of late and very few people seemed to notice.  

His thoughts are momentarily interrupted as Janie's butt covers his eyes. Hey Aris, said with flirtation quotes and an agreeable smile.

Hey, Janie, offering a countered blandness, understanding the why, but hiding being a little shaken.

Janie, the magenta haired coffee creamed chick with apple green eyes, a novelty item. Making eye contact gives her a chance to make something of this hello; So he does what any man with his kind of wife would do, let her pass. It's a day to day tightrope walk, and he's in charge of this section. After all, he is one of the few black people who work in this field, especially with a level of authority. So he knows he is a prime target of advancement, and retribution. Affirmative action did not get him this position, but they still view it that way. That infers a whole lot. A slight tinge of resentment on his behalf, and revenge on their behalf, says he should be in an office anyway, not an extended cubicle.

Cutbacks they said, his cubicle will be more prominent. Yeah, the rhetoric of thieves and liars, and more work. Villains, as such, they couldn't legally cut his benefits package, despite their overwhelming and seething desire. In all honesty, he never saw himself doing this kind of work, especially where he existed as a child.

And after giving it considerate thought..., are there any good memories from the cruel dissertation that was his childhood. He hated damn near all of it, especially the holidays, the summers when school let out, and even the stressful Saturday morning cartoons. Death and destruction have a way of canceling out fond memories. It seems as if he existed in a third world country. Chicago to New York, and several other places along the way. A traveling sideshow with new parents every other year, and he wasn't even in foster care. Food stamps, the card for the doctor's visit, Goldblatt's department store for affordable clothing, Woolworth for cheap necessity, and Zayre's department store for excitement. That watercolor excitement that the beginning of the month brings, as the coming forth of that glorious pack of Scott Peterson sausages. It's a fervent taste similar to a religious experience for the post-apocalyptic survivors of poverty that last just a few days. Then reality forces one to start conserving food. Then there's the meat market, to get one of their value packs for the freezer that momma slept with some guy to afford. This was a life where parental temperament changed throughout the month; who drank the last of the red Kool-aid? That's the fun color. Somebody ate too much cereal, so now they're in trouble. Some suffered from that generic taste in their mouth of the not quite real. A taste that has been faint in their mouth the last three weeks, where the residue has long been gone. Generic Fruit Loops and Apple Jacks are a travesty; this is not cereal.  At some point, every child realizes that he's not gonna get out of this. Poverty is life; if realization happens on your birthday, consider it a cruel gift. 

One can only wonder why Aris is even thinking of things long past. Are all mental pathways the result of some misdirected historical data? Seems history does have something to do with his current mental flux. They're rehashing old cases on his phone TV, things he lived through. Things often desired to be forgotten by everyone involved. They're talking about that case, the disappearance of an entire kids' soccer team. He was on that team. The only reason he didn't go that day is that he got sick somehow, right after they left that stupid house that nobody said was there. Vivid imaginations are what they told all four of them; there has never been a house in that area. Stupid people!!! They didn't lie. Now that silhouette of hatred is on his face as that five o'clock shadow. Stupid doctors couldn't even figure out what was wrong with them. Maybe they ate something; come back in a few days if it doesn't go away. They could've been dead in a few days.

Aris, you okay?

Hugh, what?

It's Dan. I came over to drop this paperwork off, and you were gone, dude. You had this look, like you could bite a steel bar in half.

Oh,... bills, you know, shrugging and gesturing a surrender. Paper money pits.

Preaching to the choir man, preaching to the choir. My wife..., perfumes, purses, more shoes, as he just shakes his head. Should've read the warning label, as both of them chuckle. Here's the graphs, Dan adds.

Thanks, I'll take it from here..., and make sure you get the credit, Aris says.

Man, we are so glad you're in charge, Dan says as he departs.

Aris checks his watch, an hour to go. He skims the graph but is soon lost in thought again.

I was just a kid, dammit, he mumbles. He looks around to make sure no one heard him. It was talked about in school... crap-shoot counseling. What were kids supposed to say?  The authorities didn't know. A whole soccer team vanishes from both schools, coaches, and all; Just gone without a trace. People panicked, parents screamed, and the story went throughout the news everywhere. They questioned those poor bus drivers for days; the world mentally survives off scapegoats; any explanation would do, But it just wasn't possible. What kind of serial killers could pull this off? Is there such a thing as alien serial killers from space? 

One of Aris's best friends was on that team; his other best friend Manuel missed the bus. There was a big old white house there; he doesn't care what anybody says, and it didn't just vanish. Never there his ass, he knows what he saw. Creaky, spook filled, in the middle of the woods. Friday the 13th/Halloween/Jason and the Argonauts shit. It had to be imported from Transylvania because Count somebody lived there. Marked woods, a giant spider was bound to chase you through.  According to some miscellaneous records, there was some kind of house there over 150 years ago. But that's not official, just a side note someone wrote in; And Realtor's do not consider ghost stories canon. They saw it; it set back off the road. It couldn't be seen unless the path back into the woods was followed.

Out messing around, as usual, they just had to go back there. A clearance in the middle of the forest with a house. If little Red Riding Hood went to this house, something else got her beside a wolf. Even the wood was strange, warm, buckling, moaning like it was coffin wood with tombstone steps. Maybe somebody was buried in the wood itself, that would explain the embedded smell of charred flesh. The air surrounding this charnel house looked watery like heat was rising off of it. Some evil spirit was proud—no discernible trail or path to it, no footprints away from it, scary thought. No garage, nothing; Built in the 1800s, maybe. It had a big porch that went around a good section of the house. A prominent center window and a bunch of regular windows with something that looked like Steeples at the top. There was definitely an attic; all spooky houses wish for one; it gives them that Cool Hand Luke edge. Maybe he was up there, hollering for help. It's customary for death to watch from the window.

The definition of stupid doesn't change, even if one only chooses to be present. Standing there, like a bunch of blank slates for their names to be scrawled across their faces in epitaph, headstone numbers one through four, plots about 10 to 15 feet away, thinking they were safe. Children are stupid, lesson number one of good parenting. Watch their asses, especially around the age of 10.

The house was completely dark, one little red flame peering through a window. How ominous is that? A word they all missed on the spelling bee. It was weird because it wasn't a candle, just a flame suspended in air. Despite the floating warning, someone dares someone else to go on the porch. What the hell. Aris blended into the white noise with chameleon-like stealth.  That wall of fear is real, now inhabited, swears he even feels hands on his ankles. They didn't pay any attention to him as they ran over to the house. Guys! This is really stupid, but the words wouldn't come out.

There was enough left of him to grab Manual's wrist, make him stop as they watched. The other two crept up on the porch to see the flame. A small presence nudged his leg. A white rabbit was standing on its hind legs, just staring at the house; then it started trembling real bad. They could hear a faint whimper, and it started backing up. It looked to it's left and let out a scream, a shrill. They never heard anything sound like that before. What the hell was it looking at? They looked left quickly; something moved in the trees; A big shadowy figure. It hovered, bounced, something, but it moved sporadically. That rabbit was talking straight bunny language, and it was clear, let's get the hell out of here. Then a curtain in the house moved from one of the windows. This snapped necks; they hit it. They ran off the porch as Aris pushed the rabbit out of shock. It worked because he took off, and they were right on his tail, literally through the woods and back down to the road with the rabbit. They couldn't lose him if they wanted to. He would have rather ended up in a stew then deal with whatever the hell that was. Bunny Dog became his pet, and he didn't even have to carry him; he just followed. They never went back to that place.

The two friends of his who went on the porch got sick but went to school. So they went with the rest of the soccer team and vanished like it was some sort of retribution. The news reported that the bus drivers parked on the road, that everybody took a pathway up to the empty field, and that was it. The bus drivers went to eat and came back later; Waited for a while, past due, and then checked the field. They inquired, did any other buses go and pick the people up? Nothing. The police grilled them, but in the end, there was no explanation.

Aris's phone rings, it's about the graph's. I got em right here, on my way.

Chapter 2

Mockery of The Fire Breathing Preacher

THEY ARE CAPTIVES IN a building with many faces. Sometimes a prisoner doesn't always know he is a prisoner until it's too late. Everything at this moment is a deception, even the air.

Why is it so darn hot? It feels like it's 120° in here.

Complaining isn't going to make it any cooler, is the response.

What time did the invite say church was supposed to start? someone asks.

My question is, why are we here in the middle of the week, at night? What time is it?

8:30 PM, another person says.

The group is getting antsy, looking around at each other peculiarly.

Does anyone know what this is about? someone asks.

Who the hell are these people? his wife whispers as her voice echoes.

That's a good question, he says. I don't recognize any of them. This isn't even our church, so why are we here?

The invite from our pastor, remember? It said, please attend; I really need to meet with you.

Don't these new buildings have central air? someone complains.

You would think so. It's muggy; I'm being mugged, a voice responds.

Even the stained-glass ain't stained no more, somebody says as they chuckle.

Nice building, a woman states. Embroidered gold lacing everywhere, marble steps.

Yeah, someone interrupts. It's quite a showpiece for a community with humble surroundings.

Excuse me, anyone, a lady stands up. Does anyone know what this is about? I don't recognize any of you, and you probably don't recognize me; I'm lost.

You're right, lady; I'm wondering the same thing.

You're one up on me. I don't even recognize the building, and by the looks on everybody's face, no one else does either.

Yeah, we are all wondering that. We got a special invitation from our bishop to come.

Bishop, what denomination are you from?

I was thinking the same thing because I've never seen you in our services. We don't have any black people. You, wearing the turban, what church could you belong to?

I am not from a church; I am with a sect of...

Hold it, someone interrupts abruptly. Is that a dot on her head?

I brought my prayer rug, someone else says.

I thought this was a temple, an Asian guy adds.

Seems we have a United Nations things going on, someone comments.

The fine print said no children under any circumstances; that's all we know. It's kind of weird if you ask me.

Maybe I misread my invite, the foreign voice on the other side says. I'm Hindu.

The conversation picks up steam, By the name of Allah, what is going on here?

Ding! a bell loudly rings as it envelops everyone's attention. They all turn towards the front; it's 9:00 PM. Suddenly a man appears at the podium. Everybody jumps. Where the hell did you come from?

The light around them grows dimmer as the light around him grows brighter. The weird man stares at them from behind his thick black-framed glasses. Balding at the top, thick eyebrows, pale complexion with a smidgen of hue in his cheeks. Slight wrinkles caress the grooves under his eyes and around his mouth; hints of gray tip what hair he has left on the sides. He’s saddled with a few extra pounds, dressed in goth black and torturing a white collar with his chubby neck. He’s wearing this real unhappy glare, and yet it seems as if he refuses to speak. 

What the hell is going on? someone is impatient.

Interesting choice of words, the man at the podium says. He pauses, stares. I am, father, Clem.  Sin, is the topic of discussion, he says dryly.

I am a Muslim; what have I to do with this?

I am Hindu; I agree with the Muslim.

I am a Buddhist; I saw a Buddhist temple when I entered this place. What is the meaning of this?

This building is a mosque, the Muslim shouts. You infidels should not be here.

This is a church, the lady says.

What are you talking about? the Muslim replies. I know what I saw.

He is clearly a preacher, the lady says as she points at father Clem. They look at him, he smiles. It makes them uncomfortable.

Not quite, he responds. I am a priest to some, a prophet to others, a statue to most, a sacred animal. I exist in many forms. I have many houses, temples, and places of worship.

This man is clearly crazy, the Muslim shouts. I'm leaving. Then he turns to look. What happened to the door? said in a state of alarm.

No one is going anywhere, Clem says.

I can't move, the Muslim says.

I can't either, someone else states.

Neither can I. Now the panic is settling in.

Be silent!Clem shouts angrily. It gets quiet. Sermons about sin are my specialty. Then he cuts loose, making direct accusations, pointing out crimes at those in attendance. Eyes avert, and mental whispers are brought out into the open. How did he know is heard by everyone as people attempt to keep their secrets in vain. You are no longer safe to even think it, he declares. Clem delights in his harangue of human behavior. You would have believed he thought man came from apes the way he belabored human traits, constantly comparing society to animals of no moral behavior. You had no remorseful consciousness of your actions, but you will now. He has angry tormenting eyes of somber stress, a voice that imprints frightening images. Something else is coming, and they can feel it. Seems this creature-preacher is mad at the world for existence. As time lapses from a voice that eats desperate moments, they are dripping with perspiration and getting hotter.

Trapped in a bad dream with the never-ending talking priest, some think loudly as sweat drips from their collective brow. It's like boiling potatoes while watching from inside the pot. It's sweltering in here, another fleeting thought. Why is he doing this to us? Casual thought, casual thought, casual thought.

Clem smirks, You are here of your own free will.

This was a trick, the next thought says.

You accepted the invitations, didn't you? being nowhere near a question.

It was an emergency; someone thought to say. This was a deception; someone else thought to say. 

You still don't understand....accepting the invitations is not what I mean when I say you are here of your own free will. In my speech of sin, I called you all by name.

They still don't get it; get to the point they think.

Clem smiles, A lot of you did things you made no mention of, because you think no one saw you. Let thus, without sin, cast the first stone.Just then, a little piece of charcoal-like rock shoots past the right shoulder of Clem's neck. His eyes follow its flight like the eyes of a renaissance painting following an admirer, as everyone else's does.

Why is it so noticeable? Someone thinks.

It hits the floor, bounces, and slides into the middle aisle as if being guided. Clem's voice breaks the silence of their gaze, A sign from god perhaps. You're free to move about.

They can finally move freely and talk again. The immediate consensus starts the search for a way out. Everything goes dark, a different kind of dark, enveloping, permanent, silent.

I feel some kind of resistance, an alarmed voice says.

Don't panic, someone else says.

Things start to lighten up a little, just enough to see the flame burning from a candle where Clem was standing a moment ago. It focuses enough light to see the charcoal-like rock on the floor, smoldering.

The smell is horrible, someone gasps. Then all of a sudden, everything goes cold. People shudder as they wrap their arms around themselves to try to hold on to what warmth remains in them. Some move around while others pat their skin.

Now the central air works, someone gripes as their speech becomes visible, like they are smoking as they talk.

We need to get out of here, now.

There is a creek from a door that no one sees. It causes a slight panic.

Calm down, someone says. Hush.

Ring around the Rosie, faint.

What's that?

Shhh.

Ring around the Rosie, faint.

There it goes again, someone says.

Did someone bring their kid?

Didn't see any.

It gets louder, Ring around the Rosie.

Out of thin air, a dense blue mist appears from the floor. A little blue transparent figure of a little blonde girl appears out of it. She is swinging on a swing set.

You came to see me, she says. Hi daddy, did you miss me? I miss you. She appears to be talking to someone in particular. The people turn around and look at the man who is approaching with tears in his eyes.

Janie, he says as he walks up with open arms. My little girl, I missed you. The little blue figure stops swinging, picks up, and approaches. He stoops down to talk to her.

I loved it when you used to take me to the park and push me on the swing, daddy. I loved the little games we played. Remember, daddy, as she gets closer. 

Startled, he falls back as his mouth gapes open. Janie, my little Janie. He takes off his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes. Silent, hand over his mouth, staring at what's before him. Everyone is staring. Other figures start to appear, just like the little girl. Aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, parents, sisters, friends. A smorgasbord of relatives for everyone in service tonight, and they come bearing gifts. He decides Janie is real; his warm smile reaches out for his little girl. He wishes to fill her flesh again. Tears and shock run through this building.

What is this place that brings back the dead? the Hindu states.

Are you not happy to see me? his former friend tells him.

I am shocked, is the response. Half of the group doesn't know what to make of it; the others just go with it.

How is this possible, daddy?Janie asks.

He shrugs his shoulders, tearfully, I'm taking you home.

Remember, daddy, how you used to push me on the swing. We would play for hours. Sometimes even at night when mommy was asleep.

This statement garners some attention as he tries to hush her. We'll talk about that later.

You would always give me ice cream after; I love ice cream, she says. A couple of the women look at him angrily as he smiles and shakes his head as if it's all a big misunderstanding.

You would hug me so much, daddy, and it was our little secret, right daddy. I was your special little girl. Now he bends down, trying to hush her. The smile on her face changes. Pain is love, right, daddy. It hurt so much, but I'm your little girl, so that made it okay.

Tears are forming in his eyes as he falls to his knees and lowers his head in shame. This scene is playing out everywhere as joy quickly changes to confrontation. You murdered me for my wife; you were sleeping with the neighbor's son, you poisoned my dinner, the other accusers speak loudly.

What's wrong daddy, your sin is accusing you, the little girl snarls.

Forgive me, baby, he says as he tries to hug her, but his arms go through. He looks at his blood-soaked hands; a number has been assigned them—his body trembles like someone shaking a frail tree to release a captured apple. Every hand is receiving a number.

What's wrong, daddy? the little girl says as she glares at him. There is a sharp smell in the air approaching vigorously. It's like a combination of decay, shit, lime, and bleach. People are starting to notice; it's coming from that piece of rock. Pick it up, Janie says. As my token to you, daddy.

He looks at her momentarily, then reaches down to examine the stone with his fingers. He screams as heads turn. He drops it as the pain shoots through his entire body.

You okay? somebody says as a couple of people walk over to him.

On his knees grasping his hand, his fingers are welded together and burning inside with a glow. I can't stop the pain, he grimaces, desperately holding his hand.

Enough of this, someone else says. Let us out.

Look at your hands, little Janie tells everyone. They're starting to feel a slight burn as they look at their hands. There are numbers in everyone's hands.

What are these numbers? a panic, grief-stricken moment speaks.

Look at your hand's daddy.

He looks, ARGHHHH! 666 appears.

Did you enjoy fucking me, daddy? Did you enjoy splitting my pussy in half? You killed me and left my body in a dumpster. What's wrong, daddy? Her voice tormenting, angry, directly exposing, no more secrets.

The building is getting hotter by the second. The bluish figures are all turning red; the battered wife with the ax in her head, the cheating husband with the knife in his back, the man with half a head. Now they see their crimes as they really are. Arghhh! People start screaming as someone notices large shadowy figures on the walls in each corner. Where did they come from?

What the hell are those things? someone shouts as they start huddling together. There is no protection in numbers, no unity prayer to call all gods, and no clicking their heels together. Things with wings and claws, large dark eyes, terrible, repressive eyes. No image conceived by man in recorded history has unearthed these things. They're from someone else's history.

A flash of fire sparks as little Janie's face disappears into flames and burns away slowly to reveal a skeleton underneath. Her last parting words. What's wrong, daddy? Want a little pussy, as a snake-like tongue appears from her mouth.

Arghhhh! unconscionable screaming, unable to be controlled screaming, deep-rooted tingling starting from the toes going through the veins and sinews screaming. Bone shattering trembling, heart palpitating as if trying to escape the chest cavity terror, solicited body excretions in different forms of water and fluids unclogging arteries from every cavity. The guest appears to be having a moment as it persists within every human carcass, as if by bodily instinct, Arghhh!

The smell is much worse now; the extra flavor of excrement and rotting corpses permeates their senses. Pure death is abounding as the rock starts to sink into the floor; it cracks. Screaming eyes aglow exponentially as the red hue from beneath appears. Fuck, the floor is quaking, oh my god, it's splitting, shifting upwards. Large pieces turn upwards; people scramble to hold on to pews, benches, each other, for dear life. Large pieces start to give out. Loyalty and life long obligations are abated quickly as feet kick and arms untangle. What happened to thick and thin? Our love is forever, and going through hell in gasoline drawers for you. A glimmer of hope that somehow they can climb to safety doesn't exist as they try vigorously anyway. Flames are reaching upwards to grab and caress painfully, eternally, as screaming patrons slip to the pits below.

Welcome home, daddy, welcome to hell, a voice from nowhere says to him as he looks down at the horrible sight of burning souls down below. For as far as he can see, nothing but endless pits, holes in the earth with flames, fire hotter than the sun as he listens on his way down to the endless screams of pain and torment. Skeletal figures with nerve endings intact, sinews to aid the senses so that one will feel every unbearable shred of pain and heat. Push the lingering down; the winged creatures are delighted to do. The familiar faces they will see, the famous faces who live there also. An earth with a full belly but room for more. A sight and smell so horrible that one would never close their eyes again as the putrid smell of burning flesh takes root in one's soul. They are screaming on the way down, bursting into flames mid-air. Here come the new recruits as every person hits the pit of the number written in their hand. They will not burn up; they will still exist in that fire, feeling every flame that pierces their veins and makes the blood boil. It is felt to the core, and it will never stop, ever. A process that never sleeps; every second, every day and night, someone is always on their way there. The last victim cannot hold out any longer; they have fallen. The floor closes up, and everything is quiet. The building is just as it was, except now it is empty. Father Clem steps back out from the shadows and has a seat on the stage next to the pew.

Clap, clap, clap, taunting happy hands embracing the moments' victory, entertainment. A figure appears from the shadows. Bravo, a job well done. You are getting more impressive each millennium, as a pale manicured finger points.

Thank you, a smiling Clem says as he stands and takes a bow.

It was quite exciting; maybe you should have your own variety show, the figures says.

Clem takes off his glasses; his face morphs a little, You know, boss, I'll bet they're still confused.

Those are the best kind. Eventually, they will figure out that they were already dead, and that this is very real. Touching, a Hallmark moment, and they expected me to come with horns, a pitchfork, and a red suit. You know.... Eddie and Bob are working on a winner this year. They promised to put on one hell of a show. They think they can beat your performance.

Yeah, right, not possible, Clem replies.

We'll see, but it has to be good to beat this.

Eddie In Washington

You have some concerns about our chip program, senator, a simmering natural malcontent Eddie says. It's not a question; it's a problem-solving threat.

Of, of, of, um, he swallows, stares up at the large eclipse blocking his future days of existence from behind his desk. Eddie is large, imposing; unusually large vice-grips as hands that look made to turn train wheels, bigger than normal eyes as if he needs to see something extra that humans can't. Over seven feet in height, he has the appearance of Dracula's older brutal brother as he stands calmly with one hand in the pocket of his dark blue pinstripe suit. The lines on his pale face crack as a grimace peek through. Straight jet black hair with light touches of gray, intensely dark, and thick, brooding eyebrows. Clean-shaven to stress his statue-like jaw. It looks like he's been fighting a war for 1000 years. The senator has spotted a touch of hue in his face, maybe. There isn't even a speck of lint on his suit. There's a bet, that Eddie cannot keep his composure. Composure, a word imprinted upon the heads of the obedient, a curse word that strikes at his very nature. He has always had the internal belief that kindness is appalling; but, if he wants this image to talk... smile, Eddie thinks. His face makes a few motions as the terrified senator tries to make heads or tails of what he's attempting to do, agitation apparent. Fuck, Eddie thinks.

The senator gulps, shuffles some papers, almost knocking over his cup, then adjusts his wire-frame glasses. Eddie's essence oozes torture, torment, murder.

Does it bother you, senator, that humans will be marked, like animals? Eddie asks.

I just don't know if the people will go for it, the stuttering senator replies.

Doubt, indicates, choice, Eddie says.

And the other representatives? 

Let us worry about that... What's really the problem, senator? Eddie inquiries as he leans closer to read the little man. What's your concern, is there something you would like to ask? His heavy voice is even-toned and calm as his head tweaks just a tad right.

Seems an even more twisted version of The Wizard of Oz is real, and he, has been selected to play Dorthy. His eyes close just a brief second as he clicks his heels together under the desk. Upon reopening, they lock on the family photo on the desk. I was just wondering, wondering if my family would be okay? A desperate question. 

That's not the question, is it? You want to know if we can win. You're not sure you picked the right side. You've been reading about that God in the book, and now he scares you. Had a couple of bad dreams, maybe. The senator looks up at him in surprise. When we first met, you didn't believe in anything, and you willing took the chip, to be on the inside. You wanted a front-row seat, shiny things, and Cuban cigars. Now you wonder more about it because the realization of my existence has finally set in. Here I am as some kind of proof (Eddie gestures), that maybe there just maybe something to all of this. Let me give you some advice ( Eddie picks up the picture of his family and looks at it), read another book with gods in it. There are plenty of them to go around. It might even ease your conscience and help you sleep at night. The Chinese have some interesting tales, next time you go for Chinese food; maybe they'll give you a pamphlet.He sits the picture back on the desk.

I'll make sure to mention this issue, the senator says as he nervously averts his eyes.

Senator, Eddie says calmly. I don't want to come back here. Since I am here, I will give you one question, ask away.

Hesitantly, the senator fidgets, takes a deep breath, then rolls the words out as quickly as possible before he doesn't ask, Do you really live in hell? 

Clever, Eddie states. Two questions in one. Is there a hell, and what am I. For the first time, you put a smile on my face. This needs perspective, and may even answer a few questions for you. It's what I call the lowest common denominator. You, are a species of thing that exist on earth by default. Your existence is only designed to create ire, to pass time. It was eventually discovered that you were a source of amusement. We were actually testing a new liquid goo, and some of it spilled. Now you're standing in that exact spot. Showing my photogenic side might make you a little uncomfortable, so we'll avoid the small details. Stop worrying about the mark, senator; it doesn't wash off. I know you're trying to figure out a cure, but even praying isn't a cure for this.  I have a deed with your name on it,  at any time, down those heated steps. By the way, you have a Publisher's Clearing House letter in the family P.O. Box down below. Oh, I see... you thought children were exempt. What were your lessons in Sunday school senator? Geez, the state of education in this country, as Eddie shakes his head. "I bet they told you what it said; they always do. I know, after a mouth full, anybody would resent it; defiance. There are so many of you like that. Too bad, you missed the children section; Numbers 31:17, Ezekiel 18:10-13, Jeremiah 18:21, 19:9. What...when the earth was drowned, there were plenty of baby bodies in the water. The same for Sodom and Gomorrah? Does the book say they escaped through a back door before the cities were destroyed?

Your choice, as he wags his finger, became condemning and hereditary. Your wife and children are on our enemies list also. What senator? Didn't you know our enemies kept a list? They have very good assassins. Use these thoughts as inspiration in making future policies and decisions. We have granted you and your family safe passage when events take place, so consider yourself, blessed.

The third temple is under construction; life will, change. I hope you will attend the Red bull sacrifice, forgive the nuance, red heifer sacrifice. Not sure how you found one so unblemished, remarkable senator. The mini-computer/frequency chip will do the rest. It will keep death, away.  If need be, the consciousness can be slipped into a computer simulation, no different than what you're experiencing now. Even you senator, could be one of those magnificent gods with your own belief system, world, and people. Or, death will gorge by the billions, according to the other side. Revelations has its own author, and everyone is invited.

Not sure if I even understand why it has to be this way.  Only one belief gets to be right, and everybody else, kaput. What a price to pay for a misprint, huh senator... This can all be avoided with us in charge. We won't punish humanity for being, a misprint. Storytellers create history, not the other way around."

Thank you, is the sheepish response. 

Senator, think about this. The nature of man is sin. The nature of sin is man. If sin had a personality, a form, it would be man. The fruit of the tree only pulled out what was already in you. The Tree, of Good, and Evil, as Eddie gestures with a coin symbolizing something. There was a conversation with the Tree; it was not there by accident; it had a sanctuary there. Two paths, freedom of choice. We, offer all humanity a means of escape; the other path offers some of humanity a means of escape. We both offer, a one-world government. 

War, conflict, Armageddon, it's coming. But not because of some superficial notion of good battling evil; it comes from the complexities of freedom and personal choice. The gray area of free will. Think senator, why should one have the option of hell in the first place? To just burn and singe. To sit in the middle of the sun, feeling every nerve burn continuously. Blood boiling, flames instead of tears rolling down your cheeks as you cry fire from your eyes. Now imagine that never-ending, ever, just one long day of eternity. To rescue all the billions of souls right now at this very moment who are going through this exact process is what we are trying to do. You will be more of a hero than you can ever imagine. Should something so terrible even exist? How could one crime be worthy of an eternity? This is why we do what we do, why our efforts and yours are so significant. You can't even walk through hell without shitting fire. Have you ever had flames shooting out of your ass? Try it sometime and get back to me.

We are offering you a world true to your nature. Why have that nature if you can't enjoy it? Everybody will be free in this society; that's all we ever wanted: a little leeway, a few perks. You and your kind are the lucky ones. We weren't allowed to have families, but we were given all the emotions and feelings. Can you imagine that senator? Fruit of a tree, fruit of a woman, seems we both fell; we both tasted forbidden fruit. This is the house that Nimrod built, and you are reliving that era. It can either be a place of unimaginable beauty at our hands or destruction by our enemies. I prefer lakes of milk and honey, thousands of different types of fruit in abundance, grand rivers and mountain's like you've never seen. Now you understand why you must stick with the agenda, get laws passed to close loopholes. The hard part is done: taking God out of schools, public and private areas, taking him out of the human mind and consciousness. It is time for a new concept, to incorporate man rights since the other alternative is no longer viable. No more inalienable rights; everything is a privilege. Man rights allow... for many things."

Eddie intends for them to take away that last vestige, to willingly push away the spirit of protection, only if they knew the real agenda. If the fallen can't be forgiven, humanity will not exist to be forgiven. So don't fret, senator, things are well in hand. Before he turns to leave, he turns to the senator one last time, Let's just say senator, that hell is a very warm place.

Chapter 3

THIS HOUSE IS A HAUNT with its own living, breathing personality. And one of these personalities is a particular room in the lower back level. It contains curious and undocumented things from a history somewhere, not of human origin. But there is that one thing, that horrible thing, that sits in the middle of the room, guarded by odd creatures, in different colors of personified death. One has to stop and think a mental prayer upon seeing it, and hope that the host does not have that type of cognitive hearing perception. There’s a distraction in the corner, a wicker man window. You can peer through the nightmare window and see the liquid crystal fall, and the tour guide will suggest it, but don’t; there are real nightmares out there, and the mind won’t accept it. In the middle of this strangeness sits a six-foot, triangle-shaped gleaming crystal, with an aqua colored eye on its three sides. It descended from the frightening upper level, that upstairs chamber where that dark symbiotic creature lives. The Eye allows prospects to be viewed all over the world and from other planets.

Staan, the boss, is talking: There, there, the object of my desire, pointing, said with a certain fierceness in his voice. I can only offer torment for a failure of this magnitude. Nothing must happen to him. Bent just slightly over the crystal as it glistens off his face. He puts his hands in his pocket to calm himself. His head moves just a bit around the crystal to get a clear view of the others. Staan is gifted with green eyes, to examine such as such, but it's a strange green, as if from the cosmos somewhere. A green he wasn't born with but picked up for some purpose. They're almost hypnotic if one stares too long. He has a strong proclivity for self-importance as he expresses this point with profound gravity. Do I need to repeat myself?

A disagreeable thought is hidden, any utterance muted, silence being part of wisdom. Simple head shakes no, and keep eye contact. Not a single strand of his reddish-brown hair is out of place, like the darker burgundy suit he's wearing. It’s a  man-of-war suit, gifted from his favorite tailor, someone who understands the delicacies of his nature. The finer things of earth are his, not the first fruits like he feels he deserves. He doesn't look imposing at all, about 6 feet in height and proportioned, almost as if he doesn't exist. To him, deception is a wonderful method of conversation and introduction. It is a skill that is necessary for said endeavors, towards certain people. They are watching Aris.

He almost reminds me of me, Staan says with a certain amount of pride as if he has a son. He doesn't gesticulate too much; his mannerisms are more refined, threatening with fewer syllables. His face is naturally structured for the more serious aspects of expression... like a long-lost twin. Staan’s pauses are slow and deliberate; this group of individuals being smart enough to know he's making a point to them concerning the aspects of behavior. He's got to be who we are looking for, but I stress, we must be sure; this is critical. That's why you must observe behavior, catch the nuances, and manipulate the circumstances. Tradition is important... you, never kill. That’s the purpose of the fan base; we must acquire the prize. Common murder needs implied consent, and what is implied consent? Staan looks over at them.

Sinful temptation into their life, they all no to say.

Good. Show them the deplorable creature that lives within. Then have them killed, Staan says. Our primary target is the soul. To get caught in the act of a sin is a terrible thing. You are who you are. Whether we locate another one of our own or destroy a human soul, it's a win-win scenario. When we find our main target, we can free the other group of our brothers.

Someone is coming from the shadows as they turn to see. Eddie has