Point of Rupture

By Timothy N. Cole

The Crowe family has inherited a rustic winery complete with a castle as their living quarters, but here; nothing is as it seems. They find themselves caught in the middle of a battle between poltergeists. The haunting is threatening to rip their already dysfunctional family apart. No one can be trusted, and alliances are proving to be fatal.
An evening is coming when their lives will erupt in terror and tragedy; all to ensure that this seasons vintage will be fermented in blood.
Trillions of souls have departed the plane of the living, all waiting for judgment day. What do you imagine that looks like?
- Vincent Wright

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524673093

Timothy N. Cole

Timothy Cole is a Pennsylvania native, who finds much of his inspiration in the rich history of the keystone state. His lifelong interest in science and psychology, as well as his study of both Eastern and Western philosophy, is also fused into his writing. Timothy attended Penn College of Williamsport for English and literature, and is a contributing writer for Webb Weekly Magazine.

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© 2017 Timothy N. Cole. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/16/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7310-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7309-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017902750

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.

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.

CONTENTS

Aumakua

Benandanti

Bridge Of Souls

Daimon

Caul

Ear Of Dionysius

Ekimmu

Fetch

Dallas, Texas

Jott

Fetish

Ikiryoh

Gris-Gris

Dallas, Texas

Retrocognition

Pretas

Syracuse, New York

Airi

Dallas, Texas

Apport

Churel

Stygian Springs

Animism

Afrit

Wild Hunt

Dybbuk

Periwinkle

Demon Queller

Rolang

Gashadokuro

Wellspring

Nightmarchers

Kyrie Eleison

Copper%20Dragons.jpgEvery%20Day%20For%20My%20Daughter.jpg

This book is dedicated to my wife, Judy. Thank you for your love, inspiration and devotion. And for launching this project with a simple phrase: This place is so ugly it has potential.

Special thanks to Daniel Woleslagle and the Bassler family at Williamsport Pattern Works for their assistance in this project.

AUMAKUA

T hey wanted a God-fearin’ meltdown. Half the congregation consisted of people who were waiting to witness the big fiasco, but the Reverend Lester Weimer was determined not to give those jackrabbits the satisfaction of that spectacle. He would remain steadfastly innocent until proven guilty. There was nothing yet to be substantiated in a court of law. In fact, he had some fire and brimstone of his own to cast down upon his detractors. You want retribution against me , he thought, well you will be the ones retrib uted.

Unfortunately for the Reverend Weimer, before he reaches the crescendo of the day’s divine diatribe many of the people within his church will be injured and two will die.

The pews were filled so much so that the attendees spewed into the aisles. Some were the regular faces; devotees who idolized the man and his powerful sermons. Some were reporters, law officers and thrill seeking gossipers. The walls of the church were absolutely bulging with the population of the little Arkansas town. Here in this majestic setting of one of the oldest and most ornate churches in the south, the crowd eyed his approach like jackals to a dying antelope; to witness the spectacle.

Witness the spires of the vaulted ceiling rising to glorious heights above the crowd. Witness the faces of the congregation lined with intense focus and with iridescent reflections of the stained-glass windows dowsed in morning light. And beneath each baited breath arose the murmur of an ancient desire for justice.

When the Reverend Weimer stepped to the pulpit, the energy in the building could be heard crackling within the silence. He stared gaunt-faced across the sea of inhumanity and used a boney-fingered hand to brush his curly brown locks off to the side of his head. He reached for the metal chalice he had placed on the edge of his podium and drank deep of the fruity liquid. It was the first Sunday of the month and the church recognized the day with a holy communion. However instead of the usual grape juice to represent the blood of Christ, the Reverend was enjoying a little Cabernet Sauvignon from the Spirits of the Lakes winery with his Eucharist. Nothing like a little liquid spine to steel his nerves and dampened the wings of the butterflies in his stomach.

Sin! He stepped back and let the word settle amidst the worshipers like the flip of a warm sheet on a cool night floating down upon a bed. HE that is WITHOUT sin among you, let him first cast a stone, sayeth our Lord Jesus Christ.

He brushed the back of his hand across his moistened lips then softened his gaze. As I was on my way to church this morning, I rode past your homestead, Tucker. Weimer pointed out into the crowd at Tucker Gavin, a member of his congregation for over fifteen years. I, ah, saw that fencepost we sured-up on your pig pen. It still looks strong.

And Mabel Benton, when I drove by your house I remembered how much fun we all had painting your front porch there awhile back. I didn’t think your yard would ever dry up after Jessica took the garden hose after all of us. A slight chuckle arose from the masses. Weimer overextended a broad smile until his eyes misted slightly.

Jordan, I was glad to see you back behind the wheel of your truck. I am real glad yer daddy let ya have the keys back. Ya know it took a lot of convincing Judge Ramer you would never drive that fast through a school zone again. Yes sir, a community under God is a family whose ties can never be broken. Praise the good Lord for getting us through.

A female voice in the back of the church gave a half-hearted, Amen.

Thank you, Sister Bethany. Weimer responded. Last night I was reading in Deuteronomy and I wanted to share Chapter 19, Verse 16 through 21; ‘if a false witness rise up against any man to testify against him that which is wrong;

Weimer’s mouth preached the gospel but his mind churned in anger; I touched no child.

’then both men, between whom the controversy is, shall stand before the Lord, before the priests and the judges, which shall be in those days;’

How dare they attach the word pedophile to my name!

’and the judges shall make diligent inquisition: and, behold, if the witness be a false witness, and hath testified falsely against his brother;’

How dare they track my website browsing? When in God’s great country did we lose our right to privacy?

’then shall ye do unto him, as he had thought to have done unto his brother: so shalt thou put the evil away among you. And those which remain shall hear, and fear, and shall henceforth commit no more any such evil among you. And thine eye shall not pity; but life shall go for life, eye for eye… A sudden flash made Weimer stubble back from the pulpit. He shook his head in confusion. Did he see a light or was it a face? It happened so quickly he couldn’t tell.

Now nearly stammering, …tooth for tooth…

This time the flash hit him full force, a physical blow that tightened Weimer’s chest. The face of a little boy; innocence buried beneath an unwarranted shame. Smooth cherubic skin lined with things a child should never know; never endure.

Weimer tried to raise his hands, but they were trembling like a poorly leveled washing machine. …hand for hand…

The next flash shook his frame until it felt like every organ in his body had been liquefied in a blender. Pain. Remorse. Loneliness. Vulnerability. Terror. Every child ever effected; every parent praying for a miracle. Lives ruined. Families displaced. He witnessed them all. Saw all of their faces. The price paid by the innocent. Some appeared as full grown wives and husbands forever a part of strained marriages where physical contact brought about feelings of pain, guilt and disgust. One child, two children flashed until dozens became thousands; thousands became millions - victims in a deplorable act beyond sensibility. Until Weimer’s gut physically twisted in a most unnatural way.

…foot for foot.’

The final flash was a young girl’s face but the eyes had gone cold black. Teeth gnashing, skin the color of ash grey; sunken until black veins protruded. Weimer could smell the dirt, the blood, the musty fumes of dampened tree roots and rot. The images entered his mind and wormed there way into his soul until an invisible fist struck his solar plexus. Weimer lurched forward over the pulpit as his mouth flung open wide in a violent retch to release the wine he had consumed.

The congregation sat stunned, frozen to their seats. No one moved toward the podium nor headed for the door.

Before Weimer’s body recoiled from the action it was thrown forward again, this time the purge came in the form of black-red blood. Weimer turned his pale face to the crowd in a wide-eyed gaze made twisted by the trickle of blood escaping between his lips and eyelids. The crowd gasped, but remained in their seats.

Then a noise came from Weimer’s neck that sounded like a cross between a crack and a gurgle, and his chin dropped to his chest. Blood began rushing from his lips, but not like he was under the strain of a vomit. It was as though the Heinz Corporation had shoved a fire hose up his ass and was pumping him so full of tomatoey goodness that ketchup was pouring from his mouth. The next heave brought up a blob that some say appeared to be his stomach and entrails.

His narrow face, now sallow, seemed to have lost the ability to attach itself to his skull. Weimer’s skin began sagging forward as though his skull were glowing hot, causing his face to melt off. That is when the most bizarre incident occurred. It would be a moment that would remain in the town’s folklore for hundreds of years. Like a stunt straight out of a Johnny Knoxville show, the Reverend Lester Weimer’s pants burst into flames.

The entire congregation sat in utter disbelief. Hundreds of people crammed into the stone and stained–glass equivalent of a sardine can and no one moved toward the blood gushing leader of their church.

Finally someone shouted, Ebola! and the stampede commenced.

Hands, that once greeted the person seated next to them in a friendly ‘Peace Be with You’ handshake, now pushed the backs of the person in front of them. Brothers and sisters joined in heavenly fellowship knocked each other down and when the floor became paved in humanity, walked on each other’s heads. One reporter who had found his way out now pushed his way back in, this time with his video camera high above his head. There were lots of shouting but not one Amen. A church with the right leader can be a wonderful place, but oh how quickly it can go to Hell under the wrong guidance.

The ball of fire that was once Reverend Weimer now scorched the stage of the sanctuary. It was never determined if the frown upon the statue of Jesus was the sadness of watching His worshipers selfishly trip over their fellow man or if the plaster of the likeness of our Lord was in fact softened by the heat from Weimer’s burning body.

The reporter had just nestled his camera on his shoulder when one of the panic-stricken masses slammed into him, aptly sending he and his camera crashing out of a window featuring a colorful depiction of the battle between David and Goliath.

As the rush toward the exits continued, entire aisles became human Domino displays. A handful of agile people scaled over the seats. One large woman in a stunning wide-brimmed, straw hat used her purse like a windmill to clear her own path.

At last, the crowd began spilling into the parking area, one person suddenly realizing they had left behind a loved one during the mayhem. Some town folk ran to free themselves, others paired up to carry a fainted body to safety. There were sobs among the gossiping voices and prayers shouted to heaven asking for forgiveness.

And with dozens of the congregation injured and one lying dead just a few feet from the now smoldering skeleton of Lester Weimer; on this glorious sunny, Sunday morning the Reverend Weimer was retributed straight into purgatory.

BENANDANTI

S talking was the only fun he allowed himself. Beyond that, he did what was necessary. On this night, he could have been the shadow of a running ghost, with raven hair that glistened in the moist evening breeze; black t-shirt; black jeans; black combat boots; dark sunken eyes; black trench coat that billowed like wings as he moved through a suburban ether - the rest of him was pale. His only friend and confidante was the sheathed machete stitched inside the lining of his coat. It comforted him in a world of senseless violence. As he silently approached his destination, he dropped low beneath a line of shrubs and paused to assess the quiet house from across the street. A dim light glowed in the foyer, but beyond that the two story colonial structure was as dark as he appeared.

It was a home of success, a home manufactured by long hours of labor and sacrifice. He despised every brick and board. He hated the cheery green shutters; loathed the tall columned porch, and was absolutely sickened by the perfectly trimmed azalea bushes.

Winter was in the throes of death and faint sounds of life had begun to spoil the silence. The low streetlights cast wavy bursts on the dampened black macadam and the air carried the crisp scent of pine as most other forms of horticulture had yet to awaken from their dormancy.

It was nearing 3:00 a.m. They would be asleep; assuring that his entrance would not be met with resistance. He walked casually across the street as to not arouse suspicion then slipped along the side of the house in a low crouch. Wrapping his hands around the south post of the back porch, he walked up the column with less effort than some people cross a street, using the pull of his hands against the push of his legs, until he gripped the trim and pulled himself onto the roof. He scaled the graded shingles to the window near the back corner of the house. Pressing both hands against the glass, he applied just enough pressure to start the window opening without shattering it. At last, slipping the fingers of his right hand under the lower sash and with the silent agility of a panther he was inside.

He stepped; the floorboards creaked. He paused amidst a welcomed silence. Stepped again, and as he raised his foot from the creaky flooring it made a sound like the chirp of a bird. His body, cloaked in black, froze in the darkness; his pale face capturing enough light to appear as the apparition of a floating head separated from its body under a misfortune of circumstance. He held his breath. Silence. Darkness.

A door burst open and the subtle click of a light switch dowsed the room in artificial daylight. A deep voice growled in a near whisper, Audie! What the Hell are you doing?

Sorry, Dad, the fifteen-year-old Audie responded.

It’s a school night, his father rushed and grabbed the teen by the collar of his coat, lifting him onto the tips of his black, booted toes. I’m not going to keep up with this bullshit.

I woke up with a sore throat and was just going to walk to the convenience store for some cough drops.

Blake Crowe searched for honesty in his son’s eyes. Audie Crowe searched for any signs of humanity in the eyes of his father. The cut on the corner of Audie’s lip had just finished healing from his father’s last backhand. Fortunately, this time, his father’s temper cooled enough for him to lower Audie back down to his feet. There are lozenges in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Blake said, flatly. Get one, and then get back to bed.

As Audie watched his father turn and exit his room, he finally noticed his tormentor was fully clothed. Audie peeled off his coat and sat down on the edge of his bed to remove his boots. He walked into the bathroom down the hallway and locked the door behind him. Reaching behind his neck and finding the clasp of the chain, he freed the pewter pendant from his chest. The tiny sculpture spun on the chain in front of his face; the Archangel Michael holding his sword high, ready to strike at the heart of a cowering demon. The two ever frozen in a metallic pose of good versus evil and of the sometimes violent choices we are forced to make, in order to protect the ones we love. He laid the necklace on top of the medicine cabinet above the sink, then slid open the mirrored door. He pulled a tin of breath mints from his pants pocket and placed the tin inside the cabinet where he had found it before setting off on the night’s adventure. He started to close the cabinet then remembered his ruse. It would serve his story to pop a lozenge in his mouth before heading back to bed. He didn’t consider what he told his father to be a lie. It was protection; and maybe, one day, even survival.

Audie was convinced he was born a blank page. Slowly the description of his personality was written. The keys struck by his father, inked by the socially sinister and revised on occasion by a teacher who had as much right to contact with innocent children as a bull has managing a fine China emporium. His mother, whom he loved dearly, was not equipped to protect him. If she was, he was certain she would not hesitate to do so. And then there was his sister, Briar, who began to show signs at an early age of becoming one of the socially sinister. Now, at the not so tender age of ten, she seemed to have appointed herself the official director at the office of humiliation disbursement. She derived great pleasure informing her father of Audie’s every misstep. Who needs to worry about the monsters under your bed when you have monsters in your family?

Back down the hallway, hence he came, without his machete and without the sword welding Michael, Audie now walked without the aid of his guardians. The world had always been a dangerous place, but to Audie, humans were becoming more of a threat to each other with every passing year. Now, it seemed people walked around with no skin, and what remained were raw bundles of nerves that were oiled up with napalm and strapped with C-4 just waiting for that one wrong word or the next motor vehicle being driven by a dipstick to set us off; thus igniting everyone in our vicinity. Mankind had gone from depressed to stressed; and then to homicidal in less than a century.

As he lowered his head to the pillow, he heard the engine of his father’s car come to life and the crackling of the tires as they pulled out of the garage and faded down the street. Yeah, push me around for sneaking out. Audie whispered aloud. Where in the fuck are you going at three o’clock in the morning?

Audie awoke a few minutes before his alarm went off. He didn’t need much sleep. In fact, he often thought the doctor who delivered him slapped his butt then inserted an Eveready battery up his ass. …for dependable on-the-go power.

He tossed the covers aside, still dressed from his midnight jaunt, and slipped immediately into his boots. Walking into his sister’s bedroom, he flipped on the light. Get up. With that said, he walked down the hall to his parent’s bedroom. He quietly opened the door and peaked in on his mom before fully entering the room. She was sleeping soundly. For every moment of rest he didn’t need, his mother needed double. Her thick wavy black hair tossed about the pillow and a tiny line of drool etched her chin. She was the one who nurtured him. She was the only one in the world who cared. And for that she had earned his protection and a lifetime of dedication despite her ability to frustrate him at times. She was her own worst enemy, which also made her an enemy he couldn’t fight, and one from which she couldn’t be protected.

Mom, it’s time to wake up, he whispered. As gentle as any spring breeze, he repeated the sentence slightly louder. She smacked her lips and swiped the drool away with the back of her hand, but never opened her eyes. He added a little shake of her body and repeated his tender alert. No response. He glanced back at the door as though he considered letting her sleep, but that would mean no ride to school, and she would miss work again. That would bring the wrath of his father. His father’s anger was rarely directed at his mother. His father seemed to blame everything that happened in the universe on Audie. If the moon collided with the sun he was certain his father’s parting words would be, ‘Audie, what the Hell did you do now?’ That frustration settled in the pit of his stomach and swelled into a ball of anger.

He yelled, Mom! Her eyes bolted open and then slowly closed again.

It’s time to wake up. We need to get to school and you need to get to work. Audie stormed from the room, headed down into the kitchen and slammed himself into a stool at the family’s breakfast bar. There he waited in silence until Briar tromped into the room.

You have enough makeup on to paint a carousel horse. Audie said.

Briar put on an excessively confused expression, What?

I said you wear too much makeup.

Briar cocked her generously pigmented head, So.

Audie raised his eyebrows, So.

So, maybe if you had some color, Briar said with a toss of her hair, your face wouldn’t look like a vampire’s butt. Oh, and your friend called…no wait, that didn’t happen – you don’t have none.

Don’t have ANY, a weary voice was followed by the shuffling of slippers. Anima Miriam Crowe entered the kitchen to referee the customary morning battle between her children. Known by her friends and family as Miriam, she was the daughter of teachers; her father taught English Composition at the local high school and her mother was a yoga instructor who operated her own studio until she was seventy-two. Miriam cast a scolding look at each child, And if a brother and sister don’t get along, then I’m pretty sure there’s no hope for Israel and the Palestinians.

Isn’t that a horse? Briar asked.

Audie rolled his eyes. That’s a palomino you idiot.

Audie, Miriam’s face tightened. If she doesn’t ask she will never learn.

Yeah and if we don’t get going, I will never get to school on time and I’ll get detention again. Audie added.

I know…I know. I need coffee. Like gallons of it. And if I’m going to be subjected to you two arguing for the whole drive, I need medicated. Miriam rubbed her stomach, This is going to be a rough day; I ache already. And I can’t shake this damn cold. She drew in a raspy breath and turned her gaze skyward in frustration. Audie, I forgot my inhaler upstairs can you get it for me?

Audie hesitated.

Miriam rubbed a palm through his hair and down his cheek. Briar eyed the gesture with tightened lips; a slight mist welled in her jade eyes before she turned her attention away.

Audie turned slowly and disappeared up the staircase. Miriam hollered in his wake, And can you bring me the breath mints. You know how much I hate the aftertaste from the inhaler.

Audie returned to the kitchen, dropped the mints and inhaler on the breakfast bar then scooped up his backpack and grabbed his computer tablet, I’ll be waiting in the van.

Miriam poured a cup of coffee. Don’t forget we have a family meeting tonight. Your dad has something he wants to talk to us about.

Is he gonna be home before I go to bed?Audie snapped.

I know your dad works a lot of hours, she ruffled Audie’s hair, but his job demands it. He has worked really hard to get us this house, in this neighborhood. Give him a little credit, Audie.

He wanted to ask his mom why dad left at three o’clock in the morning, why he had missed more of Audie’s birthdays than he attended, why he had ‘called it in’ one Christmas…literally. Instead he simply stated, What I’ll give him is until ten o’clock tonight and then I’m going to bed.

That’s all I’m asking. He will be here. Miriam announced.

Briar watched as Audie exited through the front door then turned to face her mom, Why do you put up with his shit?

Your brother has a lot on his mind, but he’s a good boy. Miriam grabbed her coffee and began shuffling out of the room. And don’t say shit.

BRIDGE OF SOULS

T oday, I want to talk to you about evil; about the devil; about demons and posses sion.

The crowd was hushed. The handsome man standing on the stage was an imposing figure in both presence and stature. Clean shaven head, piercing blue eyes and a muscular six-foot-three frame. Dressed immaculately in a blue suit, he looked like a lock to grace the next cover of GQ Magazine, except for the bright orange sneakers.

The devil made me do it. I was possessed by a demon. These are all excuses intended to forgive an action committed by you that either injured yourself or others…or even sometimes both.

Behind the commanding figure was a large video screen showing the cover of a book entitled: Own It! Decisions that shape our lives by Bentley Stoneroad.

Evil is a conglomeration of perversions. I’m gonna say that again. Eee-vil is a conglomeration of perversions. In simpler terms, evil is a collection of impure thoughts and actions. Those little thoughts and actions we have that fly in the face of self-preservation and survival of our species. Now understand, I am not saying we created evil. I am here to tell you that evil itself is not an entity. It cannot be created. Instead, it is our impure thoughts and actions collectively that are evil. And as a result of that fact, we can eliminate evil by removing those thoughts and actions from our lives. And yes, in some cases, we may have to eliminate people from our society who cannot control, or refuse to control, their evil thoughts and actions. Guns don’t kill people, evil thoughts and actions kill people. Let me hear you, Texas! A thunderous applause erupted in the theater. Knowing the conservative views of his audience helped guide him in the good decision to make that statement. Good job, Bentley!

He paused to move from one side of the stage to other. The microphone hooked around his ear carried his voice throughout the theatre. His use of a wireless microphone was a statement to the world; he didn’t need to clutch on to something while on stage like a child holding a teddy bear at night, he controlled the crowd and had no fear of them.

The devil did not make you do it. You, he thrust a thick index finger toward the audience, made you do it, or more precisely, you allowed you to do it.

Murder, assault, theft, incest, rape and molestation could be eradicated from the world if we all accept the responsibility for our own actions without hiding behind an imaginary being that imposes its will upon you. I am here to tell you the devil does not exist! And demons only exist in the hearts of men. You are in control. You drive the car that is your body. You can either choose to perform an action or not. It is as simple as that. Yes or no. Do it or don’t do it. Either way - own it. Own your actions people. The minute you own your actions, you will begin to make better decisions for yourselves and others. Trust me on that.

He paced to the front of the stage with his head lowered and a thin smile on his lips. When he raised his well chiseled chin, his eyes twinkled as though they each possessed a galaxy of their own. How many among us today touched something they knew was hot? He raised his hand in silent instruction for the ‘yeas’ to single themselves out. Burns hurt like Hell, doesn’t it? Some in the audience nodded in total agreement. Did you say, ‘ouch that hurt’ and then immediately touch it again? A chuckle arouse in the crowd. I hope not. Of course, would it totally surprise you if some of us did? The chuckle escalated to laughter. For those of you who didn’t deliberately burn yourself again; good job! You made a very good decision. Say that to yourself. ‘I made a good decision.’ The audience followed his direction like an obedient flock guided by their shepherd. Feels good to say that, doesn’t it. Now I want everyone here to say, ‘Good job me! I made a good decision in coming here today.’

As the audience repeated the mantra, he laughed with a shake of his head, That was totally self-serving, on my part. He paused as he turned his gaze toward the ceiling. There is no such thing as good luck or bad luck. He returned his laser focus to his audience. What happens in our lives comes about from a decision or a series of decisions you, or someone who has a direct effect on your life, has made. To say your luck is bad or your luck is good, is taking free will out of the equation. To say your luck is bad is excusing yourself from the results of your poor decisions. To say your luck is good is a failure to give yourself the proper praise for making the correct decisions. And if we fail to praise ourselves for good decisions we are failing to reinforce that behavior so we can repeat it. So the next time you make a good decision, reward yourself. He shook his finger. And I don’t mean with an extravagant gift you have to remortgage your house to buy. Several chuckles arose from those who entertained that very thought. That would be a really bad decision to own. What I mean is…set aside a few hours to relax. Take a hot bath. Enjoy a glass of wine. Read a good book. He wanted to point at the image of his book on the screen behind him, but practiced restraint. Then he silently praised himself for the good decision. Good job, Bentley!

"Now I want to discuss what I call the REPS of decision making. When you go to the gym,