Crone: A Scarlet St. James Novel

By Maria Mayer

In 1984, five Michigan youths opened a portal with intentions of toying with the dark side. The cold-hearted pack then terrorized, brutalized, and even sacrificed without conscience but ended up missing. Thirty years later, two more teens have disappeared, and Paranormal PI Scarlet St. James is called to investigate.

The town needs answers, and despite the local authorities best efforts, no evidence is forthcoming. To find the truth, Scarlet must work with her hunky ex, Sergeant Jack Hawk, and her current boyfriend, forensic biologist Dr. Stone Vargas. As the case picks up pace, so do Scarlets nightmares, in which she sees the face of a killer and feels the victims pain.

Scarlet comes from a line of seers, so to stop the wicked supernatural force in the darkness, she must use her faith, her powers, and her team to prepare for an inevitable showdown. A monster was set free all those years ago in the Michigan woods--and it will take all Scarlets strength to stop a bloodthirsty witch who waits to kill again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Nov 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781480824096

Maria Mayer

Maria Mayer is a Michigan native. She graduated with honors from Wayne State University’s Mortuary Science program and also earned a minor in biology and several associate degrees. She spent eleven years as a funeral director as well as assisting in autopsies.

Book preview

Crone

A Scarlet St. James Novel

In the town’s dark history lies a killer…

MARIA MAYER

43527.png

Copyright © 2015 Maria T. Mayer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-2408-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-2409-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015918221

Archway Publishing rev. date: 4/22/2016

Contents

Introduction

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

Prologue

THE DEVIL’S PACT

The Sins of the Past

Chapter 1 The Bitch is Back

Chapter 2 The Number of the Beast

Chapter 3 Fell on Black Days

Chapter 4 Hell Hath No Fury

Chapter 5 Came Back Haunted

Chapter 6 Cheat the Devil

Chapter 7 Ben The Pugsley Davis

Chapter 8 Wall of Voodoo

Chapter 9 Same Script, Different Cast: The Night Prowler

Chapter 10 The Gift – Curse

Chapter 11 More Human than Human

Chapter 12 Sweet Dreams, Baby

Chapter 13 …For if not that I have bad dreams… William Shakespeare

Chapter 14 Exiled on Main Street

Chapter 15 Puppies and Comfort Food

Chapter 16 Black Belt Jack

Chapter 17 Goats Head Soup

Chapter 18 Interview with the Grampire

Chapter 19 De’ja’ Vu Times Two

Chapter 20 Little Wing

Chapter 21 Talking Heads

Chapter 22 Chocolate Chips and Chachi

Chapter 23 Occam’s Razor

Chapter 24 Back in Black

Chapter 25 Chick Fight!

Chapter 26 The Beginning of the End

Chapter 27 Dead to Rights

Chapter 28 Misery Loves Company

Chapter 29 I Am Six

Chapter 30 A Bird in the Hand…

Chapter 31 Turn the Page

Chapter 33 Media Blitz

Chapter 34 The Camera Doesn’t Lie

Chapter 35 Big Mack Attack

Chapter 36 Stone Cold

Chapter 37 It’s Gonna be a Showdown

Chapter 38 The Phantom in the Park

Chapter 39 They Heyvan is Coming

Chapter 40 What Was and Was Not

Chapter 41 A Visionary’s Visions Are Scary

Chapter 42 Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground

Chapter 43 I’ve Just Seen a Face

Chapter 44 Take Me to Church

Epilogue

About the Author

INTRODUCTION

I’M GONNA KILL that motherfucker some day, know that? Trent warned, the familiar metallic taste of blood finally subsiding. Looking to his identical twin, he handed over an army surplus bandana dipped in the frigid stream to use as a compress. Increasingly proficient in their ability to leave on a dime, the boys were all set. Two canvass bags expertly packed with survival gear, food rations, and cigarettes were all the brothers needed to subsist through another weekend escape from their father.

Just after midnight, the two had crept out of their bedroom window and headed for their favorite hideaway, a secluded spot at Cripple Creek running adjacent to the town cemetery. Sticking together as always, they lay on their military green sleeping bags in the pitch black watching the Perseid meteor showers streak across the sky.

"Correction, we’re gonna kill him, Trevor said softly. Not a hint of humor in his reply, he held the cold, wet rag over his swollen eye already turning an ugly shade of blue. What about mom?" He asked feeling the anger building in his brother.

"What about her? She never did a damn thing to stop him. We gotta do something, you know we do." Trent asserted. His battered face stern as he contemplated the various ways he could do it.

She deserves better, she didn’t choose this either you know. Four kids and no job, what’s she supposed to do? Man, all he cares about is booze and bank. Foul slut he’s screwing on the boat, we need to teach her a lesson.

Freakin’-A. We’ll get ‘em both and the money. Count on it. Trent said, voicing his murderous intentions aloud for the first time.

Was thinkin’ the same thing, bro; let’s do it. Trevor replied, reading his twin like a book. To seal the dark declaration each pricked a fingertip for the mixing of their blood. It was just the two of them as usual. Although the boys fought like typical siblings, they always had each other’s back.

Christ, Trevor! Did you shit yourself or what? Trent sneered, shoving his brother away from him.

Nugget, it wasn’t me. I swear it wasn’t! Trevor exclaimed punching his accuser in the arm. That’s God-flippin’ awful, whatever it is.

Yeah, maybe it’s The Swamp Thing, Trent retorted, returning an even harder punch. It was you, you shit yourself, he said walking over to a cluster of tall grass to relieve himself. Turning away from his brother, Trent now faced the very stretch of woods the neighborhood kids swore at knifepoint to be haunted.

Shut up! I said it wasn’t…whoa, did you see that? Trevor asked, flicking his cigarette butt into the water as he stood up. Staring at the heavy black streak that briefly blocked out the stars, he looked anxiously around uncertain as to what he had seen.

No. But something’s movin’ near the shitted up woods, something huge. Get my knife. Trent said slowly zipping his fatigues. The skin crawling feeling of being hunted putting him on full alert.

That was the summer of ’81, three years before the Voodoo Murders. The Smitty twins were only fourteen, but it was then the brothers began working in tandem in ways that would change their lives forever. The trickledown effects comparable to a snowball rolling downhill, gathering ice and debris along the way, gaining momentum it will demolish everything in its path only to fall apart in the end. On a cold downward spiral, devoid of emotion the snowball is unstoppable until it runs its unpredictable course. Nobody is born a monster, but given the right circumstances tumultuous teenage years can be the breeding grounds in forming one.

Killdeer Park, Michigan 1984

On the cusp of another temperate Michigan summer, the sleeping town’s budding youth were out carousing, causing as much trouble as possible. None however would come face-to-face with their own mortality in quite the same manner as the local rat pack wreaking havoc on anyone in their path. The predators soon become the prey setting into motion a series of supernatural events, bringing a handful of unwitting victims down with them. A fatal lesson in inhuman cruelty will trump an unhealthy preoccupation with evil.

Trekking silently along the familiar path the macabre group headed straight for the coveted spot in the dreary bone yard. Intent on executing a malicious, cold-hearted plan, they began digging. Unknown to the cemetery boys, there lurked one far more sinister than their seventeen years’ could imagine. Turning her shockingly repugnant face upward, the huntress cocked an ear to one side as senses razor sharp detect human voices. Ingesting the last of her snake familiar, the Crone slithered silently into the night to creep up on those invading her territory.

Thirty years to the day two more local boys are gone, vanished, disappeared from their safe suburban neighborhood. The devastation continues with no end to the body count in sight. Police on edge, the possibility of a lone serial killer loses ground with the town’s people who turn to the notorious legend long-since buried but not forgotten. Stories and personal accounts passed down over the years held merit with the frightened masses, telling of a vengeful, savage witch whose chilling screams still pierced the night.

Called in on the mysterious case is P.I. Scarlet St. James, who moonlights for the local police department, working alongside Sergeant Jack Hawkk and lead forensic biologist, Dr. Stone Vargas. The ad hoc team must pool their unique talents to uncover clues that lay hidden in the most unlikely of places. Fear consumes those bracing for a third wave of murder about to hit the City she still calls home. The Headstone Case will prove to be the most devastating of Scarlet’s career thus far, as what they are up against is as terrifying as she is deadly.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This book is for my gorgeous daughters, Rachel and Jennifer, and wonderful son-in-law Christopher. Rachel’s remarkable culinary skills and loving heart were the inspiration for the character of Carmen. With real life events loosely woven into the story where appropriate, Jennifer’s insightfulness and uncanny sixth sense from an early age on inspired the character of Olivia. Their honesty has kept me grounded and humbled throughout this entire process.

41669.jpg

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author wishes to thank the following people and institutions for their support, advice, and/or inspiration used in the compilation of this book:

Inspired authors Stephen King, Harper Lee, and Michael Slade; Detective Joe Mason, St. Clair Shores Police Department (Ret.), MI; Dr. G. Kucy, Pathologist, Henry Ford Macomb Hospital; Grounds keeping crew, Resurrection Cemetery, Clinton Township, MI; Criminal Justice graduate, Ray Matusko; and special friend and co-worker, Larry Jones. Special thanks also go to Zak Bagans of the Ghost Adventures Crew, Travel Channel, whose ardent passion for the paranormal reminds us that we all have a calling.

There are times when it takes more strength to let go than to hold on. Your heart will help you distinguish between the two. MTM

Losing motivation to write after composing a eulogy poem for my sister, Lisa Brown, once her tragic battle with brain cancer was lost, I resolved to tap into my favorite childhood memories for renewed inspiration. As little girls growing up and sharing a room, we would often stay up late on hot summer nights telling stories intended to scare the bejeezus out of each other. At times, we lay awake in absolute silence straining to hear the terrifying cackles of a legendary witch said to haunt the Elmira woods, secretly praying that we didn’t. I dedicate this book to those memories, and to her.

PROLOGUE

The sinful heart shall be scaled against a feather at the gates of Hell.

The story speaks to the power of fear as well as the consequences of obsession and vengeance. CRONE inspired by a decades-old Michigan urban legend, depicts the classic struggle between good and evil, right and wrong, proving once more how the indomitable human spirit can rely on the pillars of faith and family to triumph over adversity. Tapping into our deepest fears as humans, we’re reminded that we are not always safe in our own back yards, warning us that those who go looking for trouble will most likely find it.

For as long as Mankind has been around, so too has been the presence of evil. Not all cultures embrace the idea of the banished having preordained dominion over the Earth. Most, however, do acknowledge that ordinary men can create forces of great calamity and call it the work of the devil.

Ancient theologians and religious scholars alike have concluded there exists in nature a delicate balance between Heaven and Hell, a mere hairsbreadth separating them spiritually. For the forthright, await golden stairs to Heaven, and for the wicked actual portals to Hell in the form of massive caves with drops to nothingness in between the fissures. The locations remain obscure, complete with fiery depths surrounded by inhospitable terrain - beginning with Mount Ararat. According to occult-based organizations such as the Hellfire Club, portals can and have been opened in less dramatic locations through either deed or invitation.

During a dig in the Nag Hammadi Desert, Egypt circa 1978*, several six foot tall clay pots containing stacks of books written on ancient papyrus were carefully unearthed. Among the mysterious Coptic writings were scores of pages about Judas, naming him as the 13th demon specifically put in place to betray Jesus. All carbon-dated and tested for authenticity and geographic consistency; all documented as genuine artifact.

If God himself created the circumstances for the greatest betrayal in the history of Mankind at the gardens of Gethsemane, after the casting out of His most beautiful seraphim from Heaven, there too will always be struggles in our own daily lives. Some call it fate, others say pre-ordained destiny, and somewhere in the middle are those that dance with the devil. Maybe the old saying is true, that power in the wrong hands can be dangerous. Sometimes the Road to Perdition is exactly what grandma warned - a path of sin that leads nowhere.

THE DEVIL’S PACT

As is written, so too shall be

In binding pact that doeth decree

When cometh the year of three times ten

A Season mean to feed again

She with guile and fair of face

Shall be no more, with time erase

The soul to lose, and flesh to thee

When heeded not the taps of three

Let fear be deep and red blood rich

So sayeth the demon, agreed the Witch

Author M.T.M

Killdeer Park, Michigan 1984

THE BIG MITTEN, colder at times than a Tufted Puffin in Alaska and home to a rotting metropolis called Detroit. Outer suburbia refused to allow the Motor City’s crumbling economy and burned out crack houses with rats the size of your head to define them as a State. Running north, the picturesque setting along the saw tooth rocky shoreline of the Detroit River helped melt away the negative images surrounding Michigan’s famed crown jewel of crime. No longer a well-kept secret, summers in the surrounding suburbs could be quite remarkable, especially during a somewhat more innocent era.

Summer 1984 was epic; the most exciting time in nearly twenty years. Avid fans stood in long lines for the Prince and Bruce Springsteen concerts, filling Tiger Stadium for every exciting game. Diehard and fair-weather fans alike caught a scorching case of Tiger fever as the Home team’s winning streak continued through the World Series, beating the Padres 4- 1 to clinch the title.

The urbane upper middle-class town rich in history and lifestyle had a comfortable charm, and the worriless feel of people lacking for little in life. Enjoying the simpler things as well, those who could afford to paid top dollar to bask in the glow of dawn’s pink fireball emerging on the eastern horizon from their kitchen nooks and patios. A lengthy stretch between the two notorious cases gave the community time to heal, never imagining the City would once again fall into terror’s darkest realm.

A sock hop- punk band generation apart, the older citizens of Killdeer Park were no strangers themselves to violence in a shocking stream of killings in 1954 that preceded the Voodoo Murders. Mutilated bodies were rare back then. Four in one month’s time the work of a goddamn psychopath. In both unsolved cases, the victims were young males whose torsos and severed heads turned up in and around the cemetery, the rest discarded in heavily wooded areas and open fields. The association lent to the name known thereafter as the Cemetery Slayings.

Officer Mark Longspur, lead investigator on the Voodoo case, felt the timing couldn’t be worse for his upwardly mobile career. Looking for a zip line to the future the top brass disagreed. Viewing the case as an opportunity to put their burgeoning precinct on the map, they pushed hard to use a new, groundbreaking technique still in its infancy called PCR (Polymerase Chain Reaction) for DNA testing. With no solid leads or persons of interest in custody, much was riding on the controversial findings; the pressure enormous for all concerned. Despite well-attended meetings and open lines of communication evidence collected at the respective sites either mysteriously disappeared or was temporarily misplaced, mislabeled, or deemed contaminated.

In time, the City bounced back from tragedy. Residents and guests alike once again reveled in the maritime atmosphere, enjoying a host of specialty shops and eateries in and around the Nautical Mile. Yummy Tummy’s ice cream parlor and bakery set the pace serving giant sprinkled cones and confections, while happy customers filled bags of penny candy at Sweet Dreams. Terns and Seagulls pestered the avid anglers casting for perch over the edge of the coast guard pier at their leisure.

Thirty years to the day, a third wave of murders delivered a knockout punch to the thriving town, ending Killdeer Park’s carefree way of life. All sense of security snatched from the arrogant clutches of those relying less on friendship over time and more on heavy bank accounts to get them through life’s challenges. Only memories remained of the last time they felt safe in their beds. The continuum of brutality hit home, as the bereaved buried their sons.

Children no longer left alone, the parks and playground sat unnaturally quiet even after school let out. Someone or something had taken lives of boys they all knew with a fury of rage and violence seen only once before, until now. Irrespective of the scandal and negativity surrounding some of the victims, one thing was certain, the monster was still out there… waiting to kill again.

THE SINS OF THE PAST

IN TOTAL DARKNESS ant colonies, slugs, and other insects scamper and slither about, crawling all over the helpless pledge as he lay frightened in the cold cemetery ground. Impossibly tight within the confines of the pine box, he is unable to move his chubby arms and legs more than a few inches. Broken skin pulsates beneath fresh sores infested with newly lain Warble and Flesh fly eggs, itching unbearably just out of reach. Unseen things bite into his salty flesh, drinking the remaining liquid from his eyes, nose, and the corners of his bloody mouth -invading every orifice. The shallow grave he willing entered as part of the initiation now his death chamber, as The Unholy 5 turn and walk away. Henri the Hendrix Anwar was the only one to look back.

CHAPTER 1

The Bitch is Back

Killdeer Park, Michigan Present day

SOMEWHERE DEEP IN the inhospitable woods the withered hag shuffled about the murky dwelling, impervious to her own gut wrenching stench. The knowing eyes of a rare two-headed snake familiar wrapped loosely around her neck cautiously watched her every move. Wading through the thick sludge as she chews, the Crone reached to snag another rotting strip of human flesh in final stages of decay. With the adoring tenderness of a new mother swaddling her son, blackened scaly hands gently stroke the familiar. She whispered words to reveal the hiding place of a small, jeweled chalice, the value of which is incalculable.

Anel nathrrrak, oothos bethuet, quono libidoth, she repeated hoarsely. Using an ancient language learned over the centuries, the third time spoken exposed her most clandestine prize.

"Vefat beslemek," she cooed, grey moisture sputtering through the air with each syllable. The Crone tightened her grip on the serpent balking at sensing its own impending doom. Craggy, puckering lips inappropriately kiss the intricately patterned Rattler, their tongues entangle despite the angry hisses spewed in protest. Regardless of its aversion to the ritual, the witch continued to speak to her familiar as she would a lover, smiling and nuzzling its muscular neck. Savoring the taste of slime and salty earth, she licked the heavy scales, chanting "Vefat, ilan zinetli qurban ipleme beslemek" (Arabic for Violent death for the beautiful snake sacrifice), before spitting three times into the chalice.

Without warning, the brutal sound of crunching bones preceded a sickening, blood spurting CHOMP! In one swift motion off comes a head with a vicious strike. Ragged flesh hangs from the vacant side of the serpent’s neck as the other head lunged in final effort to sink a fang into her dreadful face. The despicable one relished the bursting of his eyes, thick gelid fluid and the sweet taste of blood and brains now mingled with hers. Its tail whipped and rattled wildly not yet caught up with death.

After consuming the viper’s lifeblood in one satisfying gulp, the Crone unceremoniously twists the rattle, popping it off for later use. Her precious chalice stained deep red, was a coveted gift once belonging to Enoch, great grandfather to Noah. Stolen by the Devil himself, He presented it to her upon the birth of their son, an event witnessed by the most prominent of the dark underworld.

Dropping the weighty carcass into the kettle of boiling entrails, the witch snapped her head in the direction of male voices heard in the distance. Cocking an ear to one side, the ragged cloak fell away exposing the terrible face. Humans. She whispered almost gleefully, the unmistakable scent forcing a lopsided sneer to curl at the corner of her mouth. Streaks of red-black oozed thickly from her head, running out eyes the color of cobalt, dripping off the face she hadn’t looked upon in centuries.

Where Ezurra stood, fresh blood soaked the tattered cloak worn to conceal her eternal hideousness. Wringing her hands together, she snickered low at the memory of performing a very sinister, seldom attempted love spell, glamming into an extraordinary beauty to lure and deceive her dark Source. The witch thought of little else since the encounter. Consumed with her grotesque transformation, she waited for the right time hell bent on a second conjuring. As unheard of among the covens as it was insanely dangerous, for the Crone recalling the fiery touch of her striking man-beast was far too intoxicating to ignore, the consequences dire if she failed.

Exquisite in her own right before tangoing with the demon, Ezurra’s nearly perfect skin bore thick, welted scars where the hands of her lover touched. Nothing in the world of black magic existed to prepare her for the burning eyes like deep wells of nothingness that stared back as he stole her soul. Their perverted embrace left painful lacerations clawed into her during the sadistic encounter. In spite of the mordant feel of her body, the Crone was helpless to deny her fierce attraction to him. A dark yearning still coursed through her veins, seared into her flesh was the mark of the Beast.

The instant the demon realized the depth of deception from his most captivating witch he unleashed a fury so fierce her punishment was like no other. Deciding it had to be atrocious and lingering the demon turned her body into a stinking, hideous vessel, destined to grow worse with time. It was all Ezurra’s own doing, and the inevitable consequence of mingling with his unholy form. He may inflict eternal punishment, but there was one thing the demon could never take away – the fact that she had bested him birthing his immortal legacy three months later.

Ingesting the last of the familiar, Ezurra slithered silently into the night to creep up on those invading her territory.

CHAPTER 2

The Number of the Beast

Part 1

Elmira Cemetery

Killdeer Park, Michigan

Monday June 18, 1984 2300 hours

IT HAD BEEN cold and rainy all day, the cloudy night promising more of the same. Wet leaves and other debris clung to the buildings, covering the groundskeeper’s shed. To passersby, the old local cemetery appeared dark and ominous locked behind the crumbling arched brick façade. Little did they know real evil lurked among the shadows. Beneath the leaning entrance sign bearing its name were two sinking wrought iron gates now dead bolted after sundown. Once Sam Sparrow completed his nightly walk through, it was usually deserted and deathly quiet, but not tonight. Desperate pounding and muffled cries for help waxed and waned until silence once more blanketed the cemetery.

Six teens entered through the back forty, only five walked out but not before executing a cold-blooded plan, malicious in intent. The pack, appropriately named the Unholy 5, was an ad hoc group formed by the worst youths to ever step foot in the halls of Our Lady of Misery High. The predators would soon become the prey after dabbling with a force of evil they knew little more than what the ancient book revealed.

Summer kick-off officially days away held a palpable excitement as the most eagerly anticipated season of the year. Tonight had been perfect for the ritual, still and quiet with an offshore breeze coming out of the east. This season was also the most challenging for the groundskeeper as evidenced by the heavy overgrowth of brine nettle and waist-high grasses choking the uncultivated section. Even the well-tended vital section needed extra attention coming off a particularly hostile spring.

Bordering the back forty was Main Street, which ran the entire length of the cemetery. On the opposite side near the entrance sat an incredible marble mausoleum used mainly for housing cremated remains and final prayers. T boning into Main Street was Union Row, a rarely used gravel road that once served as the only entrance to the boat town’s premier industrial building before closing its doors for good. An untreated, hand-made split rail fence erected years ago served as a border that separated the viable section from the back forty, giving the pack a perfect venue for their deviant behavior.

Parking Sven the Nazi Wulfe’s black and white ‘74 Plymouth Sedan behind the boarded up building, the cemetery boys piled out with the usual raucous. Jumping the low wooden fence, they trekked along the well-traveled route to the town’s own potter’s field, their only pledge in tow. Born to certain advantages the world was theirs for the taking, they had every reason to live. Any challenges along the way had bank accounts with many zeros with which to contend. Old money and old customs die equally hard as evidenced by the length of tattered yellow ribbon that still clung to the ragged bark. The silk memorial put in place thirty years prior as tribute now served to distinguish it from the other felled logs.

Trent the Razor Smitty reached blindly through slimy green log, cursing as he felt around for the ancient leather bound book shoved deeper than he recalled. Having been interested in voodoo and the occult at an early age, Henri Anwar smuggled the musty relic out of Louisiana. He’d boosted the demonic book from an old man who used it to do evil things back in New Orleans. The display of raw power it wielded would be a lesson learned for the Unholy 5 whose obsession leads them down a path to nowhere good.

What do we need this shittin’ piece of crap book for anyway? Don’t tell me, you heard a voice say Zhul. Razor jeered sarcastically handing the book over to his pack buddy, Henri the Hendrix Anwar. A complete skeptic before Hendrix entered the picture Trent was now given to mild curiosity. That was about to change.

"Shut up alreada. This isn’t Ghostbustas, docta Venkman, Henri retorted. Y’all be careful now, this book heya is sacred and vera powaful, he warned. Think ‘bout it, son. The ravenge we took on those did us wrong, things we asked fah showin’ up like rabbits from a hayat; that was all bullsheit y’all?" Hendrix asked defensively, looking from Trent to the others. His face shown a mix of fear that they’d come too far to stop and total disbelief that one could still be a skeptic after all they’d been through.

Gimme that fuckin’ hunk of rank paper, Trent said impatiently, grabbing the book back from the Hendrix. He stood mocking the Latin words and crude notations hand-written in the margins, rifling through the pages and pointing in jest to the illustrations. "’The bringer of evil, the hacker of souls, fooleth Him not, He always knows…crap, crap, crap!" He shouted, reading the inscribed words aloud using his best evil voice. "Fooleth? He knows…knows what? The devil looks like a freakin’ chick in this picture, look!" he said to the others, shoving the open book at them.

Pulling a knife from his front pocket, Razor felt the need to impress them. "How ’bout As a Man, Stinketh, he said, mocking the title of a popular J. Allen novel his unpopular literature teacher forced the class to read. Taketh that!" he howled, stabbing the book with undue force, ignorant to the consequences thereof.

Nooo! Raza don’t do it! Henri shrieked, reaching to grab it back. His warning came too late. The demonic book crackled and sparked like a firecracker, sending a jolt of searing heat to the Razor’s hand in a brilliant white hot flash. Dropping to one knee, he cried out cradling his badly shaking hand. Trevor cursed a trail of expletives of his own at feeling the sympathy pain radiate simultaneously through his own hand.

The others watched in utter disbelief as the book flew like a fiery shot out of Trent’s hands across the open field, landing somewhere unseen. Afraid and wisely apprehensive Wulfe held his arms outstretched to stop the others from moving forward. Thinking it might not be safe to approach Razor who remained sitting hunched like a mutilated leper reeling from his wounds.

From a dark place within him came an eerily disconcerting laughter. It seemed disconnected and the last sound anyone expected to hear in that moment. Staring at their blood brother, the group took a giant step back. The unnatural laughter from Razor didn’t fit. Doubled up in hysterics, he turned his grinning face to them holding a beet red trembling palm. Etched into his flesh was an inverted pentacle bearing a crucifix with the number 6 in place of the corpus; the undeniable mark of the devil right out of the pages of the book. Remarkably and to everyone’s surprise, he was otherwise fine.

Addicted to more than booze and top grade hooch they were feeling just high enough to be terrified but mellow enough not to freak out. The vulgar rat pack’s desire for power from a force any sane person would fear actually increased tenfold. Silent contemplation snaked through the group as they returned to their secret spot, doing their best to contain a collective excitement at performing the supreme ritual.

In the section earmarked for the unnamed and un-baptized, the pentagram drawn in fresh animal blood remained undisturbed, encircled by a thick border of salt. Smack in the center was the demonic ritual book, sitting intact and open to a page they had never seen before. Hendrix quickly breached the circle to retrieve the relic, backing out slowly out so as not to break the lines. Taking a closer look, he was astonished at its perfect condition.

With a subtle exchange between Pyro and Razor, it was time to initiate the ritual. Ceremonial candles placed on four points of the pentagram representing the elements: earth, air, fire, and water jumped to life with a shooting flame. On the fifth was the pledge, a very wobbly nearly sauced Benny Davis wavering from a dour combination of fear and beer. The fear he was used to the beer he was not.

In addition to being younger, the pledge was different from those whose friendship and acceptance he so desperately desired. Beads of sweat gathered on his furrowed brows, in his corpulent gut roiled a nasty combination of alcohol and his mother’s chicken potpie. All hopes dashed that the pricks would go easy on him if he played along; at that point, Benny just wanted to survive the night. Inside, he marveled at the impetus that prompted him to want in on any of this, wrestling with the idea of backing out of his long awaited chance to be part of something cooler than the Chess Club. Benny knew in the recesses of his heart and soul that he would never belong, and so did the Unholy 5.

"Here jerk off, have another," Trevor insisted, shoving a can of cheap beer into the nervous teen’s hand. Silently flicking and re-testing the flame of his lighter, the Pyro’s heartless expression dared the pledge to refuse.

The shiny lighter was Trevor Smitty’s most prized possession, charmed from the clutches of one of their mother’s favorite drunken yacht club companions. He placed the lighter in his shirt pocket right under her nose, flashing a sexually charged, white-toothed smile as rubbed the inside of her thigh. 18 Karat gold with an embossed letter "L" on one side, the shiny object was the catalyst used to destroy many an object with one exciting roll of his thumb (including their father’s 60 foot Chris Craft). The Pyro demonstrated his gratitude, discreetly thanking the sensual Mrs. L during a handful of late night trysts on her husband’s docked Sea Ray. For reasons the disturbed youth would never understand, the carbon fumes and smell of burnt wood drew him in. Twisted passion quickly turned to obsession compelling him to revisit the smoldering remains to admire his handiwork, smiling as he watched his father’s boat go down in flames.

Now official blood brothers, the Unholy 5 had special plans for poor Benny. The night before, they had easily cut the dead bolt and crept through the cemetery gates carrying a stolen pine cremation box. It was a faster, easier route through the main area as opposed to pushing through waist high weeds and choking pickers close to the live-in groundskeeper’s house. Razor led them to an area in close proximity to their ritual site, pointing to a spot he seemed to know well. The earthy smell of worms and rotting funeral flowers clung to their hair and clothing long after they took turns digging.

Someone take this fucking thing. Goddamn blisters, they’re friggin’ bleeding now. The Nazi said angrily, throwing the wooden handled shovel to the ground before climbing out. After chugging another beer, he joined his friends on a nearby mound of grass. Screw ‘em he growled in his head. No one’s takin’ advantage of me!

That’s deep enough, boys. Don’t have to dig all the way Chink land, the Razor stated, lighting another cigarette as he took over for the Nazi.

Are you sure, doesn’t look like the box’ll fit in there. His brother challenged, wincing a little as Razor charged at him for not trusting his judgment.

It’s DEEP ENOUGH! He yelled, angered at something unknown to the others. If fear speaks loudest, then something definitely hit a nerve with Trent. Seeing the shadow of concern cross Trevor’s face raised suspicion with the others about the whole thing. The chosen spot was a little too convenient and considerably easier to dig than they’d anticipated, but hadn’t raised any real questions up to now. Looking to one another they shrugged off the moment, replacing the lid and flattening the small dirt mound before camouflaging the perimeter with long grass and other natural debris. Digging the grave was an integral part of the scheme, had to be done.

12 Midnight: The Death Chamber

Part 2

Struggling through the faded Latin passages, they chanted what could loosely be termed a summoning ritual in semi-drunken unison, the final words leaving them feeling empowered just as the pages promised.

Who’s goin’ first? Trent Smitty asked, smirking and snapping his butterfly blade open and closed. Motioning to his brother, the Pyro held a flame under the tip of the knife to sterilize it. Having no idea what new, twisted notion would become a requirement for membership, Nazi, Hendrix, and Goat stood alongside the pledge eyeing the Smitty twins with suspicion. On a whim of twin-tuition, the brothers decided that as an act of loyalty to the group they should all have skin carvings. Understandably, no one volunteered to go first.

You realize we outnumber you two, right? The Nazi bravely spoke up, becoming Trent’s equal in the exchange.

Looking to the others, the Razor persisted. Someone better get their chicken ass over here or the carving’s going on one of your fuckin’ foreheads! He barked impatiently, sitting cross-legged on his favorite crumbling boulder. In his mind, this was an act of allegiance solidifying them as a force to be reckoned with. Giving it another minute, he closed his eyes and flicked his knife to the ground, the way one would in the game of chicken. As luck would have it, the blade landed near the foot of none other than the Nazi.

What’s the big deal, Sven? It’s just a little cut, don’t piss yourself over it, the Pyro said sardonically. Wiping the dirt from the cutting edge, he handed the knife to Nazi obligating him to the task.

Cut me Mick, said the Razor mimicking Stallone in a mock ringside scene from the movie Rocky. Come on, cut me!

God you’re an asshole, Pyro snorted to his brother shaking his head in half-hearted embarrassment. Go on Wulfe. Don’t be such a Twinkie, he urged on his brother’s behalf, his tone more serious as he physically pushed Nazi forward with the bottom of his foot. The others stayed silent as the two members argued over what symbol would be the coolest to cut into Razor’s upper arm. Turning his own arm over to Trent in reciprocity was a given that pride would force Sven to submit.

Don’t y’all talk ‘bout ‘Twainkies’ in fronta big Ben nah. Ole chubby just mot try ‘n eat ya, the Hendrix ribbed pinching Benny’s love handles, lightening the mood in his signature way. Henri’s family originated from New Orleans where he first began experimenting with voodoo rituals and the occult as a child. Having always been fascinated with dark magic, Henri Anwar eagerly accepted his pack name.

Trent and Trevor were the first real friends he had since moving to Michigan following his parents divorce. A natural leader the fair haired, blue-eyed Henri noticed things happened when they chanted the words in Latin, some good some bad. That was all the encouragement he needed.

Listen, I get that you think we should all have a skin carving because you got…what you got. But this barbaric act is significant in what way now? asked the Nazi, more apprehensive about cutting into Razor’s upper arm than being cut. Trent had decent biceps and the Nazi knew it would hurt like hell if the knife went too deep, not to mention the fact that he was no artist. I mean, don’t you think you’ve had enough for one night, Raze? The question was rhetorical, asked in full anticipation of angry backlash from the brothers.

Look it up! The