Chains

By M. Todd

"Annihilation is upon you. The whirlwind you now find yourselves in is filled with agony and anguish. Look upon me and despair, for my design is vicious, my resolve is merciless, and your end will be horrendous!"

Within the folklore of the low countries in Europe there is an ancient nocturnal creature of nightmares, a trickster, a shapeshifting demon, merciless and horrifying, that torments its victims before killing them. This creature is still among us today, feeding on the fear of its prey.

Max is about to meet this creature and will be tested to the limits of his fear and his will to survive. There is no choice but to play at the monster's game, the consequences of which could mean the deaths of Max's mother, his girlfriend, his friends and the loss of his very soul.

Ursel has survived the horrors of WWII only to be deceived and deluded into entering into a pact with a demon, a pact that will give him riches and long life but will cost him everything he could ever love: his wife, his son and his grandson.

"Chains" is a thrilling horror novel that takes the reader on a journey to an unnamed northern Canadian town, to the cities of Belgium, to WWII Poland, to the South Manhattan Bowery in New York City, and to a place of dragons and demons.

This is a story about the links that bind us together, which are the indestructible and everlasting chains that connect our fates.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Mar 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228842415

M. Todd

Marc Todd is the writer and author of the thrilling horror novel "Chains." He was raised and still resides in the Niagara Region in southern Ontario, Canada. Twice a year, in early spring and fall, he and a varied collection of friends enjoy portaging the northern Canadian woods of Algonquin, Killarney, Temagami, and the French River.When Marc is not portaging; enjoying the starry night skies under his small one-person tent; reading; watching endless TV series and movies; working at his government job; spending time with his beautiful wife Sandra and their two daughters, Julianna and Kristina; napping with his cats, Lily and Misa; making craft beer in his garage; playing cards with friends and neighbours; listening to psychobilly heavy metal punk music; playing first-person-shooter video games; or hosting trivia nights, he has been known to write stories and poems in an attempt to capture the musings of his mind.

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Chains

Marc Todd

Chains

Copyright © 2021 by Marc Todd

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-4240-8 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-4239-2 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-4241-5 (eBook)

Marc Todd dedicates this book to his wife Sandra, and their daughters Julianna and Kristina.

Thank you Sandra for reading and re-reading and offering me suggestions. Thank you Julianna for your smile and your wicked sense of humour. Thank you Kristina for all of the art that is featured in this book, including the cover.

Happy the life, whose joy is shared

A small abode to call one’s own

Isn’t enough by itself, but paired

Is better found

Marc Todd

Dark as the starless night sky

Dark as the nightmare come true

The chained beast has taken me there

I escaped and have been set free

The beast is still out there

Ancient Babylonian text found carved in stone

in the Babil Governorate, Hillah c. 612 BC

Introducing Everil

New York City. July 6, 2012.

Everil Lievereux was having a great fucking time. He was standing in the East Village venue of Webber Hall’s VIP section, having a beer with his girlfriend while waiting for the punk band, the Neander Sex Slaves, to start their show. Everil was a party hard, die hard, New York Punk Rocker.

Approaching his fifty-seventh year of life, he had lived crudely, with ever a boorish and forceful presence, fueled by drugs, crime, and debauchery, all of it in the Bowery, in southern Manhattan. Everil was tall and muscular; his intimidating six-foot-six frame was often employed as a bouncer in the rougher neighbourhood bars. His maturity helped calm some of the younger roughnecks that he often worked with. He also had street cred by playing bass for several local punk rock bands and changed his appearance many times over the years to suit his mood. His current look included a short, red Mohawk and a large diamond stud in his nose. He wore dark-green camouflaged boots, tight-fitting black jeans, and a black t-shirt with colourful splashes and bright yellow lettering on the front that spelled out, Pablo Picasso is not an asshole!

There were about thirty people on the balcony where he stood, just outside the band’s dressing room. It was a little after 8 p.m. and the scene was wild and amped up. We’re in the Know was playing loudly through the speakers, with the quick staccato of the singer’s voice muffled by the raging of the electric guitar, bass, and drums.

The show was part of the 2012 CBGB festival, spanning multiple locations with over 300 bands and free concerts at Times Square and at Central Park Summerstage. The keynote address for the festival was given by Krist Novoselic, who had been Nirvana’s bassist.

Everil recalled last night’s festivities where he and his girlfriend, Sheila, listened to the band Agnostic Front. A No Moshing sign had been put up but was ignored by the fans, who catapulted their bodies off the stage, through the air, and into a crazed and riotous crowd. It had taken the couple most of the day to recover.

A night to rememba! shouted Everil to the room, in his deep and raspy voice, and then downed the rest of his beer. His energy level had returned to full force. A few of his friends shouted in unison and Sheila, who was only 5’3, grabbed onto Everil’s arm and jumped up to give Everil a kiss. Sheila was in her mid-forties and had a petite physique, short, spiky blue hair, and a varying assortment of tattoos that went from her neck down to her feet.

The moment she landed back on the ground, the dressing room door burst open, and a crazed man wielding a large hunting knife ran into the VIP Balcony. He was shouting in garbled incoherence, something to the effect of, I’ll get my respect. You fuckers need to respect me. It told me that. It told me to get my respect back, you motherfuckers!

Everil turned in time to see two giant security guards yelling, Get his hands. He has a knife. Take him down.

The frenzied man ran headfirst into Everil, who took the hit but then spun around, holding the man by the waist and threw him to the floor. The security guards jumped on the man, who squirmed and continued to yell unintelligible jargon. Everil stomped down on the man’s leg and an audible crack of breaking bone echoed throughout the room. Two other men grabbed the man’s hands as he writhed in pain. Everil noticed that the knife was gone; it must have been lost in the scuffle. The man was rolled facedown on the floor and continued to wriggle and flail until Everil sat on the man’s back. It was only then, with the weight of nearly three hundred pounds of force, that the man’s fighting spirit was quashed.

The Neander Sex Slaves bass player stumbled out of the dressing room with a bloodied white bandage held to his chest and his arm bleeding from a severe cut. He was helped out by other members of the band, and some onlookers aided him to the exit.

Everil got off the man when the police finally arrived. Fucking cops, and he glowered at them as they walked into the room.

Show’s over, shouted one of the burly officers. Everyone outside. They lifted the man roughly onto a chair and handcuffed him to it.

Everil walked over to Sheila. Time to split, he said and together they headed down the stairs and out the exit, into the warm July night.

Outside, it was a mess of people leaving Webber Hall. Someone yelled, Concert’s cancelled. Everil took in the mass of angry punk rock hotheads going crazy all over the street. Let’s get out of here. Shit’s gonna hit the fan.

The two of them headed south on 3rd avenue, past 11th street and then left on 10th street. Music was coming from Abe Lebewohl Park and they headed in that direction. A small crowd of people were gathered around the little corner in front of St. Mark’s Church in-the-Bowery, and a local band was playing on the street, the classic, Mommy’s Little Monster by Social Distortion.

I love, love, love this song, shouted Sheila, and her body writhed seductively with the beat.

Just before the Stuyvesant Street turn off, on their left, next to the church, a large iron gate was open. A tall, lanky looking man with short, spiky blond hair and a deep scar on his left cheek was standing idly drinking a beer. A large, red cooler on wheels was by his feet. As they neared the man, who looked to be in his mid-thirties, he waved his open hand at them.

Hello there, my man. You looking for something to drink? If you need something, I’m selling it, he said with a slight German accent. He was wearing combat boots, dark pants held up by a silver chain as a belt, and a dark green-and-black camouflage combat jacket.

Everil had cocaine on him, but what he really wanted was another beer. He looked the guy up and down and determined he was harmless, and he didn’t look like a cop, so he walked over with Sheila following.

What-chou got?

I have a few cans in here, and the man nudged the cooler with his foot, or I can give you a six-pack.

How much for da six?

For you my man, ten bucks. It’s Heineken.

It was only about a dollar more than what it would cost at a store. Deal, he said emphatically.

Right through here. I have another cooler by the tree. The man passed through the gate and swerved his hand in an inviting gesture. If you two are looking for something else, I might have that too. Just name your poison. And he gave a wink.

The area beyond the gate was lit by a lamp pole and revealed a secluded garden full of trees and bushes and flowers. A few benches and some chairs could be seen in the shadows at the back. Cobbled beige bricks lined a winding path along the side of the building, and the church poked up through the thick green, its tall spire shooting straight up into the darkening sky. There was no one else inside.

You allowed in there? asked Everil as he walked past the man, with Sheila following behind him.

I do what I want, said the man, and slowly closed the iron gate.

A void opened and the monster passed through. From out of the human world and back into the world of monsters, demons, dragons, and all other creatures of dark intent, it appeared.

Another prize for my collection. A snag-toothed, malformed grin crossed over the monster’s jaws. A heavy, rusted chain was wound tightly in several loops around its neck. With outstretched, black, fibrous wings it glided down from the perpetually moonless night sky. The bright, piercing stars blazing above would be completely alien to any human astronomer. In its hairy arms, it carried the limp body of Everil Lievereux.

Home. Its black eyes scanning the desert wasteland below found the cave entrance to its den. Let’s see how fearless this one is.

Selecting its prey was sometimes a random affair. There were so many humans to choose from and so many terrible places to go where violence and savagery were common occurrences. The monster had certain tastes, however, in which bodies it chose to take back with it to its lair, to use as vessels. The fearless hero or anti-hero were its preference. It thrived on breaking the human spirit.

It landed with a muffled thump in the sand, its knees bending on impact. With unceremonious contempt, it dropped Everil’s unconscious body onto the floor entrance to the stone cave. Everywhere was darkness, lit only by the bright stars. The monster waved its hand before the cave and a dozen small fires flared up from holes strewn around the entrance. They burned green, blue, and orange, as though from some noxious gas.

Let’s see, let’s see. If a wolf could smile, this is what it would look like. It stood upright on its powerful back legs, its large, black, leathery wings flapping a few times to fan the fires. On the dirt floor, the unconscious Everil’s eyes were frantically moving side to side beneath their lids, as though captured in a deep and desperate nightmare.

Awake! It is time to meet me in my true form. Awake! its deep voice echoed loudly. Its wings flapped again, the unnatural fires burned higher, and the hot air blew on Everil’s body.

Everil opened his eyes. What the fuck? he growled. His head felt like it was about to explode. It was hard to breathe—the air was thinner somehow. He was looking down at sand, and his face contorted in confusion. A warm blast of air passed over him and he twisted around to see where it came from.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness that lay beyond the burning fires on the ground, but when they did, the shape of the monster standing in front of him refused to register in his mind. Slowly but unrelentingly, a deep, primordial fear gripped his heart. Everil grabbed his chest and closed his eyes again. The pain in his head was temporarily dwarfed by the pain in his chest.

Get up, said the monster in its deep, raspy voice.

Nooo, Everil croaked. This can’t be real. I’m having a heart attack. This is a bad trip, man.

This is real, and definitely a bad trip for you.

Everil opened his eyes again. The monster that stood before him was large and frightening, with its wolf-like head, bear-like claws, bat-like wings on a brown, hairy frame, and a long swishing tail.

Get up! it commanded.

Everil pulled himself up into a sitting position and looked around. He was in a darkened wasteland, with rocks and desert sand surrounding him for as far as his vision could go. The stars above were brighter and more numerous than he had ever seen. Behind him was the entrance to a dark cave that went downward into the earth. There were fires burning in different places around him, lit by little brushes surrounded by stones. The pain in his chest subsided as he gained control over his fear.

Where am I? he said, his voice cracking between words.

Welcome to hell, said the beast.

I don’t believe in hell. Everil closed his eyes again, trying to recall how he had come to be where he was. He remembered the CBGB festival and leaving Webber Hall after a man with a knife ran into him. He took that sucker down hard. He remembered walking down the street with Sheila and then seeing a blond man with the scar on his cheek, by an iron gate, selling beer. He remembered walking down a brick path and hearing Sheila scream. He remembered turning around just in time to see the man rip Sheila’s head from her body. He remembered black eyes, sharp teeth, and strong fingers gripping his neck. He remembered punching and kicking with all his strength, but then darkness had come and now here he was.

It doesn’t matter what you believe. Hell believes in you. And the monster laughed.

Everil opened his eyes and stared menacingly at the monster. What the fuck do you want from me?

I want it all, boy. I want everything you have. And I want you to make me fight you for it.

Everil looked behind him at the yawning dark cave entrance. His skin shivered at the thought of what lay inside. He was always a little bit crazy, and right now, he felt extremely crazy. If he was going to die, and this was how it was going to be, then bring it on.

You want me to fight you? he turned back toward the monster and asked.

Everil could see in the creature’s eyes that it was not used to being challenged. It appeared as if the monster sensed that the man was not as frightened as he should be. Everil learned long ago that the best way to beat a charging rabid dog was not to run, but instead, rush towards it with ferocious intent.

I’ll give you a head start. You run and I’ll chase. If you find a way out of the labyrinth of my lair, I may let you go free.

Everil slowly stood himself up. The pounding headache was the worst he’d ever felt.

Bullshit. I know a bullshitter when I see one, and you are one bad motherfucking bullshitter.

The monster’s lips curled up, revealing large, yellowed, razor-sharp fangs.

Does it matter? it snarled.

Everil swung out his hand and threw the sandy dirt he had picked up from the ground before getting up, into the creature’s eyes. The monster jumped back with a growl. Everil turned and dashed into the mouth of the cave. He ran down the long slope into complete darkness. A cool breeze, coming up from somewhere down below, passed over him. He held out his hands in front of him, afraid he might crash into a rock wall. After a few minutes, a faint bluish light appeared down at the bottom and towards the left. He thought, If I could get to the light. If I could find a rock or a stick or something to fight with. A howl roared down from behind him, and he knew that the beast had begun the chase.

The bluish light grew brighter and revealed a tunnel that turned into the rock on his left. When he made it to the entrance, he ventured a glance up the slope and saw the darkened shape of the monstrous, wolf-like beast silhouetted by the light from the cave entrance above. It was halfway up and running at a fast pace towards him. Everil rushed into the lighted room and noticed that the blue light was coming from the rocks that gave off an eerie glow. This new tunnel suddenly opened into an enormous underground cavern.

The air had become dreadfully cold and the bluish light was much brighter. Everil ran a few paces in before realizing what he was seeing. It was a sight that made the blood in his veins turn frigid. Before him, strewn about throughout the cavern from ceiling to floor, placed within the bluish rocks, were hundreds, or thousands, of human bodies. Men and women, their faces contorted in masks of horror and pain, frozen like macabre cadavers in a monster’s freezer.

Everil heard the panting breath of death behind him as the scraping shuffle of clawed feet approached; he could feel the end drawing closer and closer. Everil turned and the beast stood looming before him.

Evil has come for you, spoke the monster.

I don’t believe in evil, said the punk rocker, with a defiant snarl.

Really? and then it smiled with its misshapen jaw, revealing gnarled and splintered fangs. I am evil. You should fear me, for I am a bringer of death and desolation upon the world.

16 Abhorrent things, demons, strange gods for whom they made sacrifice to. 17 Ancestors to our faith, from which fear was born.

2 Baruch, section 88

Part of the Syriac manuscripts

2nd century AD

Chapter I

The young man’s light-blue eyes darted all around the large, darkened room, his body shivering. Beads of sweat streamed out of his forehead and down his clean-shaven face, mixing with the tear streaks under his eyes, his breathing laboured.

He sat, alone and hunched up, on the floor, clutching a small, blood-soaked dishcloth with images of kittens on it. He spat a crimson spray, leaving a dribbling of blood from his lips to his chin. His dark-blue sweater was torn and dirty with mud. His left leg was bloodied as well, a long gash was torn into his wet jeans from thigh to ankle, and he was missing his left boot. A red sock was the only cover for his foot against the cold black-and-white vinyl-tiled floor.

Looking up, he worked to regain a normal breathing rhythm with loud, deep puffs of air blown out in a slower and slower, and quieter and quieter, pace. After a few minutes, his facial muscles relaxed, his large pupils shrank, and his shoulders slacked into a resting pose. His brow creased, as though deep in thought and then he spoke with a cracked, timid voice, I am Maximilian Rien Bakkers. You can call me Max.

He waited a moment for some sort of response but when none came, he continued, I need to tell someone, anyone, and since no one else is around I might as well tell you. God, I just don’t want to be alone anymore. But what can I say? How can I make it all make sense? It’s all so fucked up. His left eye began twitching, and he looked down at his broken body. He closed both eyes and took a deep breath.

You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here. Like, who is this crazy kid? and he smiled, revealing bloodied teeth. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m really not sure why I came here. I should have gone to the hospital or tried to find something that was open, but it’s the middle of the night and for some reason I don’t think it would have let me find anyone. I’m really sorry I had to break in here, and I’m really sorry for…for…what may be coming here to look for me. I guess I just wanted to…

A shrill, intermittent, electronic cry shattered the silence outside the building. Somewhere a car alarm had been triggered and Max’s eyes widened as he looked wildly around the room. Darkened cages held concealed creatures. The aisles that lined up before him were shadowed paths hemmed by tall shelving units that acted as confined barriers. A claustrophobic dread filled the room. After a while, the alarm stopped.

The young man placed both hands on the floor beside him and with a grunt of pain pushed himself up onto his feet. I need to keep calm. I need to find that place again. The place where it can’t hurt me anymore. I need to let go of my fear. I think I get it now. You’re probably wondering what’s going on and I wish I could tell you. I’m not looking for you to say anything. Shit, I’m not sure if you can even talk with any sense, but you can listen. Maybe that’s all I need right now. Someone to listen to me as I try to make sense of it all. God, I hope I can make it through the night. But then, that’s probably not going to happen. I think I’m at peace with that now.

Max pushed his fingers through his dirty-blond hair, scraping at his scalp, his hands then moving down the base of his neck, kneading his tense muscles.

It’s not easy, you know. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he said, a frustrated echo escaping his cracked lips. How much would you pay for your freedom? his eyes opened wide and he bit down on his lower lip. Freedom isn’t free you know. If you want to be free, you have to lose everything. Everything! he repeated the word with a loud shout.

You have to destroy yourself in order to find your true self. Whatever that is. He looked out into the shrouded gloom and then down at himself and smiled a crooked smile. He spat again on the floor, more blood than spit. He stared intently at the one he was addressing. To be wiped out completely. To become a blank slate, without any preconceptions, prejudices, inclinations, or any set of prior knowledge about anything at all. You have to be completely rid of all notions of truth or fact or certainty. But then, where would you be? What would you become? Could you even be alive? he asked, his voice stressed and cracked with both sincerity and concern. I’ve been there, I think, he concluded.

Max turned and looked towards the large window at the front of the room. It was dark outside as well as inside, and the only glow in the cavernously dark room was coming from the dim LED aquarium lights from the back wall. The bubbling of the aerators was loud in the silence but also soothing.

I hope that Emily is okay. God, I wish I could see her again. What I would give… And his words lost their way.

After a few moments, Max continued, Today is Saturday night, or Sunday morning, isn’t it? It feels like such a long time ago. But it was just on Friday, the day after Halloween. That’s when it all started. I’ll tell you all about it, but I have to get ready. It will be here soon, I know it. Max took a few steps towards the front window and then paused. I’ll fill you in as I get things set up. I have some ideas.

There was a loud thump at the window. Max opened his eyes. He was laying in his bed, in the world between sleep and wakefulness, his face buried deep in his pillow. He sat up quickly and looked at the time on his digital alarm clock: 9:13 a.m. What the hell was that? he asked to no one because no one else was in the room.

The light from the morning sun was peeking in through a thin crack between the dark-blue drapes of his bedroom window. Max rose out of bed and pulled the drapes open.

From the second story window of his apartment, he could see the near-empty parking lot, the old railroad tracks beyond, and even farther back, the edge of town and the forest front—half-naked trees standing with their leaves strewn down below them in a thick red, yellow, and orange blanket. The smallish Canadian northwestern town were Max lived had a population of just over 11,000 souls and he resided in the farthest northeastern section. He looked all around but he couldn’t find anything that would answer the question of what caused the noise that woke him. Bird? he thought.

It was Friday, and Max had slept in because he had the day off work. His job at Piquants, the local grocer’s, was enjoyable enough, but even more enjoyable was not working. He had been on shift since last Sunday and worked until closing on Thursday, which had been Halloween.

Max was not a fan of Halloween. It wasn’t that he was scared of it, it was more about the awful childhood memories of Halloween. His mother had been stuck in the traditions of her Dutch upbringing, and when all the other children were able to dress-up as cartoon or comic book characters, or action stars, or in any array of cool and imaginative costumes, his mother would force him to dress-up as a little king, with a red cape and a furry white crown. Instead of simply saying trick-or-treat for candy, she would make him sing short, silly songs at strangers’ doors. He could still see his neighbours’ awkward smiling faces after he had finished singing, and they had to say things like how cute and how adorable.

The very last time Max had gone out trick-or-treating had been when he was six years old. New neighbours had moved into a house down the street and they were very much into Halloween. On the front porch sat a full-sized scarecrow with a big bowl of chocolate bars on its lap. Little Max ran up the steps, his mother behind, trying to keep up. When Max reached for the candy in the bowl, the scarecrow jumped up and said, Booo! at which point Max fell backward in fright and proceeded to pee his pants. Halloween was a dreadful holiday and one that he quickly gave up.

Max walked out of his tiny bedroom, past the kitchenette, and into the bathroom for his morning ritual: pee, splash of water on face, quick brushing of teeth, and then more water on face. He stared at himself in the mirror with his striking light-blue eyes, moved his wet hand over his short, blond hair to smooth down his annoying cowlick, flashed a giant’s smile, showing