Hunters of Satan’s Monsters: “Legend of the Rolling Calf”

By Horace S. Mallette

It is a science fiction, supernatural thriller. It is about a man who, after living for forty years, realizes he is only ten years old—being that he was born on a leap day—and belongs to an order of supernatural beings who live for as long as three hundred years. These beings work alongside humankind and other hybrid beings in a secret organization that is set up worldwide to defend humanity from the various evils that traverse the earth. He is recruited and trained to use his special powers that start to manifest themselves on the eve of his fortieth (or tenth leap year) birthday. He loses his wife because of the organization’s secrecy policy and manipulation. He is brokenhearted and pressured to deal with the new revelation about himself and finds that he is falling in love with one of his own kind. They discover there could be treachery within the secret organization, but before they could disclose it, one of the organization locations where he is at is mysteriously teleported to another realm, where he and the team—which could include a traitor or traitors—goes head-on against demons and monsters.

Slated to be a five-part series of novellas
Hunters of Satan’s Monsters: Legend of the Rolling Calf—Book 1 of the novella series
Hunters of Satan’s Monsters: Rise of the Rolling Calf—Book 2 of the novella series
Hunters of Satan’s Monsters: Return of the Rolling Calf—Book 3 of the novella series
Hunters of Satan’s Monsters: Carnage of the Rolling Calf—Book 4 of the novella series
Hunters of Satan’s Monsters: Death of the Rolling Calf—Book 5 of the novella series

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781503514409

Horace S. Mallette

Born in April of 1969 in Kingston, Jamaica, Horace S. Mallette has been writing songs and poems since primary school for his friends and for personal use. A few of his poems have been published in the local newspaper the Sunday Gleaner under the moniker Kevin Garfield Brown (KGB), an alias he created while going to high school because of a fascination with world politics at the time. It is an interest he still holds. Horace, who has two teenage daughters, is trained in accounting and spent most of his work life in the local shipping industry. He enjoys spending time with his kids, gardening, and writing. As an author, he appreciates all genres of literature, and in this, his debut children's book, he is writing in one of his favorites.

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by Horace S. Mallette.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. [Biblica]

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 11/10/2014

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Contents

The Bible

Greek Mythology

It was the worst flight I had been on in recent years. I had always flown American Airlines but had opted to fly Caribbean Airlines on this occasion, for the first time. Just playing my part in supporting the regional carrier. It wasn’t so much about the onboard service, but more about what was happening outside the plane. The turbulence was bad—really, really bad. At times, it felt like giant arms were just holding the aircraft and shaking it like a handheld fan. Passengers were literally screaming and carrying on. Funny thing: the sky was all clear, and this was a morning flight, but flashes of lightning accompanied us for most of the journey.

Keep your seat belts fastened, the voice of one of the flight attendants came over the plane’s public address system.

Nevertheless, we all made it from Norman Manley International Airport in Kingston, Jamaica, to JFK International Airport in Queens, New York. The drive from JFK to the Milford Hotel in Manhattan seemed to be over in the blink of an eye. The hotel was roughly seventeen miles, or twenty-nine kilometers, from the airport. Whenever I was on my business trips to New York, I stayed at this hotel, but this was the first time I hired a car and driver. I had driven myself all those other occasions, making the journey in just under thirty-five minutes most times.

Remember to call the office to reconfirm your departure time for your next pick, the driver reminded me while he offloaded my luggage.

Thanks, will do, I acknowledged as I watched him assist the bellhop position the suitcases onto the trolley.

Good morning, Mr. Mellette, glad to have you back, the receptionist at the front desk greeted me.

Good morning. I am delighted to be back, I replied.

Checking in was a breeze. I was a repeat guest; all my information was already on the system. This was my home away from home. No sooner had I stepped into the lobby, I was standing in front of my room door on the seventh floor. I was only here for a couple days to sign off on two contracts and check out a few leads for a new business venture I was thinking of.

My wife, Mary, and I were partners in Real Rock Jamaica Ltd. We create, produce, market, and sell athletic and casual footwear, as well as sportswear. We were headquarters in Cross Roads, Kingston, Jamaica, and a major wholesaler and retailer—after visiting our plant in Kingston—wanted to be the exclusive distributor for our Rocker footwear and clothing apparels in North America. They had also convinced one of their partners from South America to also sign on for a sole distributorship in that region.

It wasn’t even 10:00 a.m. yet on this fine Friday morning, October 7, 2011. I settled in and was about to sit down and browse through the morning newspaper, then afterward make a few calls, when I heard a knock on my hotel-room door. I didn’t answer right away, in case someone had just hit the door accidentally. But the knocking repeated, louder this time—that was no accident. I went to the door and, standing behind the closed door, answered, Yes.

There was no response.

Who is it? I asked.

Still no answer. Just three faint, gentle taps: knock, knock, knock.

I unlocked the door quickly and threw it open. There was no one there.

I stepped out into the corridor, looked left then right—nothing, not a soul. I stood there a while wondering, What the hell, which prankster was that? I stepped back into the room and was about to close the door when I saw it, a letter-size brown envelope on the floor—half in the room, half in the hallway. Okay then, this was strange. I picked it up and closed the door behind me, checked the time, and headed for the phone.

This is strange, I said to myself.

I needed to call the front desk, ask them about the envelope and who may have dropped it off. I dialed zero while inspecting the envelope. It was addressed to me. My name, room number, floor number, hotel name, and address.

Hello, operator, front desk please.

I told the front desk what had transpired. They knew nothing of it. Nothing about the envelope, nothing about its delivery, or about the person and/or persons who dropped it off. No staff member was sent up to my floor since the bellhop took me to my room. They asked me the approximate time of the incident and promised to check the security footage for the floor and then call me back.

While I waited, I flipped the envelope over and over again in my hands then slowly tore one end open. It contained a single sheet of white letter-size paper folded in half. I opened it out.

There was nothing on it except for my name, Horatio Stephen Mellette, and what appeared to be some kind of website address: sptth://web.hsm*#*#@#*#*.pvt.1972. And in bold red capital letters: for your eyes only.

The phone rang; it startled me. I leaned over and picked it up.

Hello.

It was the front desk. They saw nothing in the security footage, just me in the corridor looking left then right. Before that, the bellhop and I were entering the hallway, then the room, and then the bellhop leaving the room and exiting the hallway. They asked if I wanted to view it for myself. I was about to say no when they told me a package had just arrived for me. I said sure, and I thought I would just use the opportunity to review the tapes and collect the package. Killing two birds with one stone.

I retrieved the paper I had taken from the envelope, looked at it once again, and shoved it into my pocket. That was some weird web address; this must be some kind of a prank. I exited the room and headed for the lobby on the ground floor. Maybe I should have taken the envelope with me, I wonder to myself. I turned around, headed back to my room, and retrieved the envelope.

Now for the front desk. The package waiting for me appeared to be a box. I wasn’t quite sure. I wouldn’t open it up until I was back in my room.

Who dropped it off? I asked.

No one knew; they all looked around at each other quizzically. One minute the spot where they noticed the package was empty, and another, the package was just sitting there. I showed them the envelope, and they hadn’t a clue.

This day was going to be one of those days, I thought to myself.

They took me to the security office to view the footage myself; it was just as they had said. I left the lobby after the manager greeted me at the security office and apologized for the breach, promising to look into it further. She seemed genuinely concerned and somewhat flustered, so the thought of the tape being doctored soon left my mind.

I headed back to my room; I was eager to open this parcel. I had to use the cross pendant on my chain to split the tape that sealed the package open. I was just too impatient to retrieve one of the utensils from the kitchenette. It was a box (a laptop box), and inside it was an actual laptop sealed in bubble wrap and other packaging materials. Why would anyone send or give me a laptop? The package, unlike the envelope, just had my name on it, the hotel’s name and address, and funny enough, today’s date October 7, 2011.

It was one exquisite and sophisticated laptop. I don’t recognize the brand: Xenocom Technology Enterprises—XTE 5050x. Its keyboard setup was similar to other laptops I have used, but once I hit the on switch, a digital stopwatch with a bomb and a burning fuse appeared on the screen with a seventeen-second countdown time as I was asked to enter my date of birth: dd/mm/yyyy.

I entered 29/02/1972. As soon as I had done that, the time fell to seven seconds and I was asked to place my left and right thumbs on the left and right biometric authentication readers. It took me two seconds to read the instructions and another three to locate the fingerprint thumb reader. I placed my thumbs on the reader, thinking as I was sweating bullets, Is this a real bomb? Then I saw a message appear on the screen:

Welcome, Horatio Stephen Mellette.

Please choose the Internet you want to surf -:

Regular

Or/

Reverse

I chose Reverse as I knew from my information-technology training that regular Internet addresses normally have the http:// or https:// in front of the website address, so reverse must be ptth:// or sptth://.

I then entered the full address I had on the paper in my pocket: sptth://web.hsm*#*#@#*#*.pvt.1972.

I was amazed at what I saw online (or was this underline).

Welcome to HSM—Hunters of Satan’s Monsters; this is your personalized homepage and website. Your only access is via this laptop you are using, your date of birth, and your thumbprints, so try not to lose any.

This is corny, I thought, while looking at my thumbs and rubbing them against my index fingers.

This must be some elaborate hoax. But why me? I thought. I continued reading.

This website and the machine you are using gives you access to what is called the Dark Internet, where secrets are still secrets, and other people’s business is not your business.

There is no e-mailing, no downloading or uploading, no chat rooms, no blogging, no social networking.

If you want to communicate, just enter your correspondent on the electronic whiteboard on the appropriate page then click

ENTER

. The information will not be sent, but will be embedded into the site where the authorized persons on the other end using the same link will view it and respond to you if needs be.

This was rich. This practical joker really went all out as none of this could be real, I was thinking. This had to be a game and a trick.

At the bottom of the home page was what appeared to be navigation tabs; but nothing was written on them, or at least not until the cursor arrow was over them. Then they revealed their content.

Tab 1—About the Chosen

Tab 2—List of Leap Years

Tab 3—List of Vernal Bissextile Equinox Luna Plena

Tab 4—Location of Attacks

Tab 5—Not Authorized

Tab 6—Not yet assigned

Tab 7—Whiteboard

I click on Tab 1—About the Chosen, and it opens a new window.

The Chosen, or Nephilim, were offspring of humans and angels as mentioned in Genesis 6. They were giants among men, possessing great wisdom and supernatural powers.

There were twelve sects of Nephilim: Agonman, Charere, Nago, Dooman, Simer, Ratanire, Zudah, Badeon, Molfen, Jolum, Dengel, and Amosin.

Revelation 21:14

¹⁴ The wall of the city had twelve foundations, and in them the names of the twelve apostles of the Lamb.

Revelation 22:2

² In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, there was the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.

This is foolishness, I thought, but the information was interesting and entertaining. The material I was looking at zeroed in on the sect called Dengel.

Evidently, the Dengels came about after a Minotaur (or Rolling Calf) mated with a human female, who was in the second month of her first trimester of pregnancy. She then became pregnant for the creature and was now carrying two fetuses. She gave birth to the offspring of the beast in nine days, and the human child was born premature at seven months. However, while they were still in her belly, their blood intermingled. And so the human child was not a true human, but a Nephilim of the sect Dengels. For the father of the Minotaur demon beast was Satan, the devil, a fallen angel.

This crap was starting to give me chills. Could it be real? I continued reading; curiosity got the better of me.

The first Dengel was female, and in seven years, she was like a mature woman. And she took unto herself a husband and became pregnant, giving birth on the twenty-ninth of February the following year—a leap year. The second Dengel was male, and seven years after his birth, before the second leap year of his life, the following symbol appeared on both his inner forearms-:

image001.jpg    image003.jpg    image005.jpg    image006.jpg

image008.jpg    image011.jpg    image012.jpg

The symbol stays on his arm for just about a year, and on the twenty-third of February during that leap year, the first mark disappeared. And with each passing day afterward, another marking in the sequence laid out above vanished. So by the twenty-ninth of February, both inner forearms were completely free of all seven markings. This was to happen every year before the leap year and clear up by the twenty-ninth of February in the leap year.

Shit, I say, talking to myself once more, instinctively looking at my forearms. Okay then.

This one strikes very close to home.